A Very Personal Trainer (8 page)

I said something that, muffled by the crop and my extreme closeness to the edge, I hoped was intelligible as,

"Please, Sir, may I come?"

He had mercy on me, said a gruff, "You may," then fucked me relentlessly through my orgasm, which was a long, overwhelming journey into the very core of me.

My teeth ground and chewed on the whip and my hands twisted and chafed against the restraining belt. I sobbed and crumpled, waiting now for him to finish, which he did very soon afterwards.

Although I wished I could see his face, it was satisfying and moving to hear the high, throaty sounds that were wrenched from him—a moment of vulnerability at last.

I felt him withdraw, but I maintained my face-down position on the mattress, unable to move until I heard his voice giving permission. The mattress sloped me to the left and I knew he'd sat down beside me. I sensed him unfurl his long body beside me, then his hand was on my neck, ruffling the damp strands of hair there.

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He said, "Come and lie down."

Slightly stiff, I managed to haul myself fully onto the bed, flopping down on my side, gathered against him by one long arm. Now I was in my deepest, neediest dreams, exhausted and needing comfort, taking it from the man who had just whipped and fucked me.

"I should untie you," he said, yawning, and he reached around to loosen the belt from my wrists. "Much as I like you like that. Where's the crop?"

I realised I was lying on it. I felt its curved edge making a ridge in my hip.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "Oh God. Nothing matters any more. Just this."

The words seemed to come from somewhere way down deep inside him. He sounded more than exhausted—he sounded weary, as if surrendering to a higher power after years of struggle.

"Just this," I whispered, kissing the lobe of his ear.

I wasn't consciously waiting for him to give me answers, but he seemed to know I needed them, at a deeper level.

He turned and kissed me, full and long, on the lips, then he stroked my hair from my face and said, "You know things are not perfect in my life, don't you?"

"I've had...an inkling." I didn't dare ask. I wasn't sure I wanted the answer. I just wanted the one answer that said, "I want you, regardless." If I didn't get that, I wasn't sure how I would face tomorrow.

"I can't tell you much. I once had a different name and a different life, in a different country. I lost control of my 73

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financial affairs and got involved with some dangerous people. This is why I think it's important to be on top of your affairs."

"Oh. I think I understand." I widened my eyes. I didn't say the words, 'Witness Protection,' but my eyes flashed the signal, and his seemed to respond in the affirmative. "I won't ask, I promise."

"The less you know, the better. I want to protect you and, if I'm honest, the best way I can do that is by letting you go.

But I don't think I can. I'm not as strong as I make out sometimes."

"Is there a serious risk?"

"I hope not. There shouldn't be. I just have to be cautious.

The really dangerous people are behind bars now, probably forever. I'm going to give you the chance, right now, to walk away, if you feel you can't..."

His voice trailed off, sounding hopeless. I had never felt so much love, so much desire to make everything right.

"I'm not going to walk away," I told him. "What, after all that effort I made to stalk you? I'm staying. If you'll have me?"

"Oh, I'll have you," he said. He kissed the top of my head.

"Thanks," he said. "You're a glutton for punishment, obviously."

"Ahem. That's why I'm here, remember?"

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Complex arrangements of suitable chastisements and their relative misbehaviours were described in each rectangle of the document. For simple oversights and memory lapses, I've found myself over Dexter's lap for a hand spanking, whereas deliberate disobedience or dishonesty has merited a trip to the Dreaded Cupboard for a cane or a whip. For added salutory effect, Dexter has used butt plugs, nipple clamps, vibrators or good old-fashioned home-made techniques to devastating effect. But, on the closure of the spreadsheet and the learning of the lesson, I was rewarded with treats behind the bedroom door.

One night, shortly after I moved in, portrayed a good example of our rituals and routines. Dexter arrived home from work, ejected me from the computer chair where I was working—naked, as was our house rule—bent me backwards for a breath-stealing kiss, then spoke the fatal words, "Open the spreadsheet, Lara."

This phrase always induced the Pavlovian shaking of the hands, and my fingers trembled on the keys, my mind racing through a speedy recap of all the ways in which I had failed to achieve perfection over the last few days.

On this occasion, there was a clutch of Latenesses for Meetings, a Failure to Charge the Mobile Phone, and a shamefully long list of Wasting Work Time on the Internet.

Dexter breathed down my neck behind me, his hands on the chair back, his tuts travelling directly into my ear.

"It doesn't look good for you, Lara," he said. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm very sorry, Sir. I will try harder, I promise."

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"We'll make sure of that, shall we? Fetch the cuffs, the bench and the crop, please. Oh, and the large vibrator, I think."

Words of doom, they were enough to line any heart with lead. So why did they make mine leap? I had to hide the spring in my step en route to the Dreaded Cupboard and conceal my flushed face and sparkling eyes behind my hair while I dragged the specially constructed whipping bench into the room. It had a padded step for my knees and a handy rope-tie feature on the corners so my ankles could be fastened with my legs spread apart. Leather cushioning also protected my stomach from too much discomfort. Too bad Dexter didn't extend the same tender care to my bottom.

Once I was bent and tied in position, Dexter cuffed my wrists behind my back, leaving me helpless, my bare breasts squashed against the cold leather upholstery of the bench.

Now all I had to do was wait.

It sounded simple. Just bent there, waiting, with no need to perform any further task. But for me, the waiting was the hardest part of the whole ritual, worse by far than the slashes of hot pain across my rear.

Sometimes he made me wait for an hour or more, while he sat at the computer and worked, or made dinner preparations in the kitchen. This, he said, was because I needed time to reflect on my misdeeds and consider my position. It's quite a position to consider, bent and spread and naked, posed for a good, hard whipping. On that night, I had to think about my Perpetual Lateness, and how it affected other people and how it was a sign of my disrespect for myself, and the world in 76

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general. I was getting better, I really was, but I was still far from good enough. I thought about it. I thought about it for a few minutes, then I started to think about the cool air on my exposed bottom and sex, and the slow, inevitable dampening between my thighs, and the crushed sensation of my breasts.

This had me thinking about the aftermath of my punishment, and wondering how he would take me. Mouth? Pussy? Arse? I thought probably the latter. I'd learnt that it's a firm favourite of his, and I no longer flinched when my sore, hot bottom was dripped with lube and readied for a corrective reaming.

So by the time he came back into the room, I was wet and churned up with lust, a fearful flicker at the pit of my stomach keeping me from out and out carnal frenzy.

He prowled around behind me, picking up the crop and slapping it into his hand because he loved the way I tried to jump in my bonds when I heard that fearsome crack. I wanted to ask him, "How many?" but of course, I wasn't permitted to speak. When he was in a kind mood, he'd tell me in advance, but on that night he wasn't in a kind mood, so I had to breathe and clench and moan through every hard, loud swipe, having no idea how many more I would have to endure.

"Thirty-four," he said at the end, running the tip of the whip along each throbbing welt.

It seemed a rather random number, and he knew I would be wondering, so he was good enough to explain.

"The number of minutes you have kept me waiting in the last four days since our last session."

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It seemed fair enough, though fairness was usually the last thing on Dexter's mind.

"I'm going to get the
arnica
. Those are going to bruise," he said.

His hands soothed and kneaded my punished cheeks, working the remedy deep into my skin, transferring the flaming heat from my bottom to my already-quite-hot-enough-thank-you pussy. His thumbs travelled the ridges and slid into the crack, stopping to give my arsehole a little nudge—a foretaste of pleasures to come that made me shudder.

I released a helpless little, "Oh!"

Then his fingers were underneath, testing me for wetness, though it hardly seemed worth bothering—he knew perfectly well the effect his treatment had on me, and today was no exception to that rule.

"Such a slut," he said, his voice triumphant, approving.

"You really need this, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir."

No gag today—it was sometimes a sign that he meant to use my mouth, though not always.

"Where do you want it, Lara?"

Oh, he was going to make me choose. I always found that part so embarrassing, but I suppose that was why he did it.

"Where do you want my cock?" he elucidated.

"My...uh...I would like to be buggered, please, Sir."

"Oh, that's a good answer. Explain it in a little more detail for me."

I clenched my teeth. He is so very, wonderfully cruel.

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"I want to be fucked up the arse, Sir."

"Do you? And why is that?"

"Because I'm a dirty slut who loves the feel of your hard cock inside my bum, Sir."

"Oh yes. That will do. That will do nicely."

The lube was applied and massaged in, my hips were gripped, my ring of muscle coaxed into relaxation. A large vibrator appeared unexpectedly between my pussy lips and was eased up inside my front passage, then I braced myself for the push, the forward thrust, the momentary pain and the deep satisfaction of double fullness.

I struggled against my bonds while he took his pleasure, not because I wanted to burst out of them but because the feeling of being restrained thrilled me. Here I lay, sore, whipped, bound, used, fucked and I loved every moment of it. Loved the man who treated me so, loved my life and myself at last.

I hadn't had a parking fine in months and months, and work really took off once I lost my reputation for being unreliable. I had to give Dexter credit for saving me. But he would also say that I'd done the same for him. We were more than a couple now—we were a partnership. We were an organisation.

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About the Author

* * * *

Email: [email protected].

Justine loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at www.total-e-bound.com.

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Honeytrapped

Competitive Nature

Mi Amore: Sempre

Seeing Stars: The Sevarian Way

Master Me: A Very Personal Trainer

[Back to Table of Contents]

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A Very Personal Trainer

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