Master of Two: Nascent Love (9 page)

Amiko was excited. I knew she loved having
her hair pulled, and she was wet; I could smell her arousal, clean
and gently musky. I briefly considered fucking her, but my cock and
I wanted her mouth more.

"Faster."

Her answer was to obey me, moving on me with
the speed I wanted. I pulled at her hair steadily and she moaned.
The vibration brought me to the brink. I balanced there for a long
moment, finally spilling in her mouth.

My girl swallowed and gently milked me with
her hand, until I had no more to spend.

I let go of her hair and leaned back in the
chair. "Well done, pet."

She smiled sweetly, proud of herself and
truly happy to give me pleasure. That's so important. If they're
not enjoying it on some level—even when I am rough with them—I
can't enjoy it either. I have meted out punishment as necessary,
but that's not my form of sadism. I like it during sex, for the
most part. Outside of that, I do what needs to be done, when it
needs to be done, and I get it over with as quickly as I can. If
either of my girls needed punishment often, they would not be part
of my household for long.

At my nod, Ami padded quickly into the house
and brought out a washcloth to clean me before I tucked myself back
in my shorts and zipped up.

That was a pleasant interlude. A nibble, as
it were, for both of us. We've had many such moments together and
with Renee.

Memories like that make me smile. My girls
are my lights in the darkness that is my sadism. They need it as
much as I do. Would I have chosen to be a man less inclined to give
pain with his pleasure? I don't think so. It's a facet of me.
Giving that up would be tearing out a little piece of my soul and
blowing it into the wind like a dandelion's seeds. What else would
I lose, if I lost that? What parts of me are attached to that
side?

My girls care for me the way I am. They take
pleasure in serving me. I don't give a damn what others might think
of our relationship. I'm an aggressive man, a disciplined man, and,
as it happens, a sexual sadist. I learned a long time ago not to
fight myself, but to keep my boxing in the ring where it
belongs.

Unpredictable

It was too-fuckin'-early-o'clock, but Ross
Adler had to get out of bed and get to work on a stakeout. Being a
private investigator was nothing like the adventure and glamour of
"Magnum, PI" or "Rockford Files." It was about having a telephoto
lens to take pictures of cheating husbands and wives, poring over
public records trying to find people's former high school
sweethearts, and pawing through garbage cans for kiddie porn and
damning financial records. He knew the job was going to be a
pain-in-the-ass when he decided to go into it, but it happened to
be a very lucrative vocation if you were careful which clients you
took on, and if you were good at getting results. That didn't make
it less of a pain, just more of a self-induced one. He could live
with that; his Swiss bank account was proof.

Ross didn't like being led around by anyone
or anything. He'd had enough of that when he was in the Marines.
There was always some snot-nosed captain who had some unrealistic
expectation for his special ops unit. By the time Ross made
twenty-five years in SOP and had reached the highest rank he
thought he could achieve in the non-commissioned corps, he'd had
enough. His recon and infiltration skills had been very useful when
he chose to take mercenary work all over the Middle East after
leaving the service, so he couldn't knock those long and colorful
years in the military.

But, at the same time, he had nightmares
still, even after five years out of the military. He'd done some
things as a Marine that would make the average person run screaming
from the room. They were necessary things and he'd loved it at the
time. It was exciting, dangerous and, for some of his fellow unit
soldiers, lethal. The nightmares, though, he could happily do
without.

Before waking, he often dreamed about the
hostages they'd covertly released. Sometimes those people were in
very bad shape. They were broken and embarrassingly grateful for
being released from hell. The truth was, he didn't give a fuck for
the victims. Ross was doing his job and wouldn't allow himself to
get emotionally attached to anyone. With attachment, there was a
long list of dangers and intelligence compromises. He didn't want
to go there.

It was hard, sometimes, though. There'd been
one young woman they'd rescued who had been naked and screaming
when they'd grabbed her and took her to safety. He'd given her his
flak jacket and never got it back. Like it mattered. He scoffed at
the idea. The woman, and her hysterical screaming, the way she'd
fought them as though they were also her kidnappers…she lingered in
his subconscious. There had been the rescue op and that was all. He
didn't care what happened to her—didn't want to know, in fact.

There were lots of women in those days,
women who didn't mind that he was a one-night-stand-only man. They
wanted his dick and he wanted their pussy and that was all there
was to it. That was the way it was supposed to be. The only women
he chose to be around more often than that were special women.
Women who didn't mind that he had to be in charge of their
relationship, who were eager to be humbled and kept poised on the
edge. They stayed in line because they didn't know how to predict
him. He liked it that way.

Predictability got you killed, and Ross was
far from being through.

His father taught him well, in that regard.
He had learned to be wary, to be unpredictable, and immune to
wiles. A woman's guile had to be ruthlessly suppressed, or a man
was sure to be pussy-whipped before he knew it.

It reminded him of his father's comments
upon hearing that he'd taken a woman into his household. "Goddamn!
Thought I taught you better, pecker-head. She'll be expecting
diamond rings and expensive shoes next. You ain't got the sense God
gave a slab of steak."

Ross hated that he looked like his father
more and more as he got older. Ross' brown hair was a lot longer
and he was taller, but when he looked in the mirror, the same brown
eyes stared back at him. It was bad enough that he was named after
the man.

He decided to tell his father the truth.
"She's one of a set, Dad," he responded. "The second one will be
moving in next week."

"Set?"

"Yeah. Claire's best friend Sandie. I can
afford 'em and I'm tired of having to search out pussy when I want
it."

His father's response was lukewarm, but he
did back down a step. "What do you need a fuckin' harem for?"

Ross raised his dark eyebrows and
smirked.

"Yeah, well, sex ain't everything," Ross Sr.
muttered. "Don't let 'em gang up on you, boy."

"No, sir. That's not my way."

"Hmph. Don't you go forgettin' about how
Maggie connived to freeload on you."

Ross was sick and tired of having his father
remind him of his not-so-brilliant, albeit brief, relationship with
Maggie Spitzer. She'd told him she was on the pill, but somehow got
pregnant anyway. Now he was saddled with a son who sucked down
resources through his mother.

She'd been a good lay, full of fire and
conceit. Ross had enjoyed her lithe body and the quiver of her lips
when he caused her pain during sex. Her pussy had been warm and
tight. He thought that the only marks he'd leave on her were from
his bamboo cane, but he'd fucked her without a condom—they were
both drunk at the time—and now he was paying the price for that
error. Child support payments flowed out like sap from a maple
tree.

He wasn't so self-deceptive that he didn't
inwardly acknowledge that he was proud of his son. They didn't
spend much time together—Ross often had to go out of state to do
his work—but the boy was a secret pleasure. He'd still been in the
corps when Marcus had been born, but Ross had kept tabs on him. He
needed to make sure Maggie wasn't being the slut he knew she could
be. That would be bad for the boy. Ross knew personally exactly how
influential a mother could be on her son, both a good influence and
a bad one. His mother had been an alcoholic gifted with a way of
turning off the world. Ross had often felt invisible. Now, he
realized that ignoring him was better for him. He'd gotten
stronger.

As a kid, he'd resented that she didn't come
to his defense when his father got drunk and backhanded his son.
But it hadn't mattered in the long run. There had come a day when
Ross was bigger than his father, and could backhand in return. His
father remained a thorn in his paw, but now he was so old that he
was ineffectual. He didn't miss his mother. She was dead and there
was nothing particularly special about her to remember fondly.

Ross' sisters had gotten away as soon as
they could, and although they'd all banded together when their
parents were at their worst, he now had no contact with Gwen and
Leila. They had lives to live. He didn't care if he was included or
not. They'd be a pain in the ass to deal with so things were better
the way they were.

Yeah, things were better.

He gave the woman next to him a shove to
wake her up, and rolled her onto her back. Claire came slowly awake
as Ross pulled at her nipples and hardened them up. He pinched just
hard enough to make her moan with pain and then he positioned
himself between her legs and pinched hard enough to draw a gasp
from her. Her thighs were slender, the skin soft. He liked that
about Claire; she had a beautiful body. Her dark hair was long and
thick, and her blue eyes were big, sometimes bright with the
glimmer of tears. He slapped her inner thighs as she lay there,
waking up. Her hands fluttered toward his as he spanked and he
slapped them away.

"Wake the fuck up, Claire."

"Okay. Okay, I'm awake, sir."

He slid his cock over her gash and barked at
her. "Not enjoying yourself?" He smacked her inner thighs a few
more times. Although he couldn't see the color in the dim light, he
knew her legs would be red. Ross could feel the heat under his
palms.

Claire moaned and reached for him. Ross'
answer was to take her small wrists in one of his hands and press
them up over her head as he loomed over her, rubbing his cock on
her pussy. "Don't fight it, Claire," he told her. "You like it
rough."

She stiffened as he bit one of her nipples,
but her moan was more pleasure than pain now, and she wrapped her
legs around his waist. He jabbed into her hard and her hips rose to
meet the thrust.

"Yes…" she said thickly.

Ross gripped her wrists harder and pumped
his hips, fucking her the way he liked it. He didn't care if she
got off, as long as he did. Generally, the fact that he didn't care
seemed to make Claire all the more wet and likely to orgasm. But
she knew he was doing her a favor if he allowed her to come. He
made sure she knew.

There was no fear of pregnancy with his
girls. Ross watched them take their pills every day. He wasn't
going to make the same mistake twice.

His rhythm increased along with her moans
beneath him. The feel of her tight pussy was sweet…so sweet. Claire
could be a bitch sometimes, but usually she was accommodating, and
when she wasn't, he got out his cane and made sure she was better
behaved for a while.

His other girl, Sandie, was likely sleeping
soundly in the room next door. It had been Claire's turn to warm
his bed. It would have been nice, at that moment, to have Sandie
with them, massaging his balls as he fucked her friend. But some
things were too much trouble to orchestrate at five in the morning,
when what you wanted was a quick fuck before heading to the
shower.

Claire was moaning and bucking, sucking him
into her body with her warm, wet pussy. "No coming, Claire. I'll
shove a butt plug up your ass for the day if you get off," he told
her, just to torment her. He knew she hated that.

"No, no, please," she said, her voice rising
at the end of her plea. "Please..."

He nuzzled her neck and enjoyed the floral
fragrance of her hair. Ross knew the roughness of his overnight
beard and his thick moustache would chafe her soft skin, but he
also knew she enjoyed the sensation. Pushing her toward the edge of
her obedience was a pleasure for him. A part of him wanted her to
come, just so he could punish her later, but another part wanted
her to obey him and be unfulfilled after their encounter. He might,
if she was well-behaved, allow her to orgasm later in the day.

The idea of having her getting off with
Sandie's face in her fragrant cunt sounded kind of appealing. But
his own climax was getting closer, so he let himself concentrate on
that as he pummeled Claire's pussy.

She was struggling beneath him. He knew she
was fighting her urges. Her efforts to please him made him happy.
Claire was there to please him, or she could get the fuck out. He
kept her and Sandie in style because he it was easier to share his
largess with them than to withhold it on a case-by-case basis. But
they paid for the good living with obedience and service. Service
like what he was wresting from Claire right now.

His orgasm neared and his mind clouded as
his entire body focused on his prick and her pussy and nothing else
for a few moments. This last minute or two of sex was the only time
he let his guard down.

And then it was upon him. He slammed his
hips against her and Claire squeezed him with both legs and sheath.
His world disintegrated for a moment, and then organized itself,
leaving him panting but with a more clear mind.

He let himself rest on her body for a few
heartbeats, finally releasing her wrists. He knew she’d probably
have some bruises on her wrists, and the thought only pleased him
more. Claire stroked his back, his biceps, as she held him close.
Her murmurs were like purring from a cat; they were soothing after
his trip into dangerous release and back again.