Meeting Her Master (3 page)

“More,” she pleaded. “This is amazing…”

Dahlia expelled another moan as a flurry of tiny, focused bites devoured her flesh in a whirlwind of pleasure. Blake awakened her senses with occasional true blows that she heard before feeling, but he made it impossible to anticipate when one of these would arrive. Dahlia found herself begging for more. Blake happily obliged, and delivered a true stroke against her sweet spot. Dahlia cried out, lifting onto her toes, but kept her back fully arched. Blake flicked the cane repeatedly over the lengths of her legs, increasing the intensity as he crossed her buttocks and upper thighs. His rhythm was untiring and steady, and Dahlia began to sway weakly as her body released itself to his control.

She screamed out as she came violently, the orgasm rattling her senses as her body seized, drinking in the sensation. Blake lightened the tapping, alternating it with smooth strokes of the instrument until Dahlia finally slumped in her restraints.

He pulled a straight-backed chair in front of the stocks before unlatching the boards. Blake caught the young woman before she slid to the ground and carried her to the chair where he deposited her across his strong, muscular lap. His hand grazed over the hot, streaked flesh of her bottom, fingering the lovely welts left by the harder rattan strokes. Her steady breathing soon told him that she had fallen asleep.

“I
’
ll be damned…” he chuckled. “I think I found me a diamond in the rough…”

Chapter Two

The next morning, Dahlia wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, her back aching from bending over the deep sink since 5:30 AM. Mrs. Alonso had entered her tiny room without so much as knocking, ordered her into the unsightly gray bag that she called a uniform, and set her to work washing pots. Pots, of all things! And the uniform! Could it be any uglier or more uncomfortable with its scratchy, starched linen collar and knee-length skirt? The only sense to it was the white sneakers and ankle socks.

Dahlia made her opinion well known regarding the wake-up call, the clothing, and the chore. She heard the older woman mumble something about her needing to learn about humility, but that lesson was the farthest from Dahlia
’
s mind. She wanted more of what Blake had tantalized her with and if scrubbing pots earned her another session with the master of the house, then that was what she would do.

The clock struck eight and, for once, Dahlia was grateful to get ready for school. She quickly changed into her jeans, grabbed her backpack, and ran outside to where Blake waited in his large, white F-250 pickup.

“You are on time! Good girl. How did your chores go this morning?”

“They are ridiculous and that Alonso woman is a bitch. Look at my hands!” Dahlia complained, displaying red hands that were raw from the hot water and soap.

“Hmmm,” Blake turned them over to study the irritated knuckles, “they look better than I thought they would since they had never seen a day
’
s work.”

“I can do better things than scrub your stupid pots. And if that woman continues to badger me, I might deck her. Just saying…”

“I am not worried about Giada taking care of herself. She is very capable. What I am concerned about is your attitude,” Blake remarked. “Buckle your seatbelt.”

“My attitude? That woman acts like she owns the place. I can
’
t believe that you allow a servant to have so much power.”

“It is my home, my business, and my decision. I believe in rewarding loyal employees with special privileges. She has earned the place in this house as my steward and acts in my stead when I am not available. She has been instructed about your, uh, preferences. So do not attempt to provoke her to strap you,” he warned.

“Strap me? I will not tolerate any woman laying a finger on me!” Dahlia snapped. “I forbid it!”

“Really? So your fantasies do not project toward women dominating you? Interesting.”

“I am not a lesbian, so…”

“So what? This has nothing to do with your sexual preference. I own male slaves and I am not gay. Several members of my staff engage in both homosexual and bisexual activities and know I fully support them. As long as they abide by the rules I set for their safety, they are permitted to entertain themselves however they desire.”

“What do you get out of this arrangement? It makes no sense.” Dahlia shook her head.

“Loyalty. Trust. Freedom. Since all of my staff are involved in dungeon lifestyle, there is no fear of any of them exposing me or the others to a very judgmental, uneducated community.”

“What if they do?”

“Then I cross that bridge when I come to it,” Blake answered. “I have the money and the means to ensure silence, but it has never been an issue. Here we are. One of us will be by to pick you up at six. Be out here waiting, please.”

Dahlia watched as the truck took off down the road before she turned away from the main campus and headed toward the dorms where a friend kept a room.
She had better things to do that day, and they did not include attending class.
Using the key borrowed from the room
’
s occupant, she unlocked the door and made herself comfortable as she kicked back in the beanbag chair, surrounded by a cloud of smoke as she puffed away on a blunt. She threw her bare feet in the air as she lounged back, her eyes closed as she recalled the events from the night before. She reached her hand under the waistband of her jeans as she took another deep draw of the drug.

Her hand found her moistened slit, her body craving attention. She imagined Blake
’
s thick fingers sliding along the edge of her velvety mons, cupping and probing the recesses of her body, and the sight of his mouth as he licked her juices from his fingers. She ran her hand across her slickness and inserted three fingers deep inside, rubbing them against the soft, silky walls of her pussy. Dahlia purred as she started to pump her fingers within, pretending that they were Blake
’
s rigid cock. But it was not enough. She paused to glance around the room for something to raise her sensual awareness. A thought struck her mind and she went into the bathroom where her friend had strung up a small clothesline to hang her delicates. With a broad grin, Dahlia removed the clothespins from the line and returned to her place on the beanbag chair.

She stripped completely and leaned back, jutting her breasts toward the ceiling as she resumed where she had left off. As her right hand played a sensual dance over her throbbing clit, she opened a clothespin and clamped it over her left nipple.

The pain shot through her like a bullet! And what glorious pain it was! She caught her breath, absorbing the sensation, and then applied a second clothespin to her right nipple. She gasped, arching her back as the device bite into her. She panted as she froze, giving her body time to comprehend the beautiful agony that she had bestowed upon it. Her breasts throbbed as she flicked the clothespins, renewing the shocking sensation to her tortured nipples.

The next clothespin snapped over her clit, and Dahlia groaned aloud as she convulsed against the pain. Would Blake know how to use these simple devices of luxurious torture? If not, Dahlia was determined to teach him. She pressed her eyelids closed and played back her favorite fantasy.

She was bent over a rounded bench that was mounted on a flat table. With her knees spread wide apart and strapped in place, and her ankles secured to hooks on the table
’
s edge, she had no means to protect her fully exposed pussy and outstretched bottom-hole. Her bound wrists were tied to a post in front of her, forcing her ample breasts to dangle helplessly. Her faceless tormentor refused to blindfold her, wanting her to see and anticipate every move he made. Nor was she gagged, for he loved to hear her beg and scream. He knew, as did she, that her pleading was to urge him to continue and her cries were ones of delight. Even her tears, when shed, signaled her satisfaction.

A crowd of strangers stood around her, watching and waiting in eager anticipation to see what the master would impose upon her body. A hush fell as he approached her, a handful of alligator clips in his palm. He laid them on the table next to several long, menacing piercing needles, alcohol wipes, and a large, foreboding metal Wartenberg wheel. In her mind
’
s eye, Dahlia shivered with excitement as he uncoiled a long horsewhip that he had hanging on his hip.

Her fingers delved deeper within her body as she replayed this fantasy, made so incredibly real by the marijuana.

He cracked the whip against the wall, the snap reverberating through the room. The crowd murmured in excitement as he lifted it and aimed carefully. Dahlia screeched as the braided leather etched a welt across the backs of her thighs. She felt his warm hand run across the mark and slink up between her ass cheeks.

The whip slashed against her again, this time between her shoulder blades. It bit into her flesh, the pain bright and vivid just before it toned down to a sweet throb. A third lash fell, etching into her buttocks. The master paused, picking up the alligator clips and walking to stand before her. Dahlia watched eagerly as he opened the first one, testing its quality. She had refused a safeword. She always did in her fantasies. There was no need for one, anyway. Nothing he could do would ever be enough to make her want to quit the scene.

Slowly, he eased the teeth of the metal clamp around her dangling nipple and carefully released it. He gauged her response by her moans and the way she presented her body to him. In this fantasy, words were not needed. He knew everything about her, what she wanted, and how much she needed. He clamped the other nipple, pausing to listen to her moan. He then systemically began to tighten the little thumbscrews that were set in the clamps. Tighter and tighter until her nipples began to turn a lovely shade of purple and tears ran down her face. Satisfied, he attached two tiny chains to the clamps and secured them upon the flat surface, ensuring that any move she made would be felt instantly.

He lifted a thick mahogany paddle off of the wall rack and ran his hand down the flat side. The holes drilled into the wood held smooth edges but still, he always checked for splinters or cracks. He wanted to give her pain, not cause her harm. She loved him for that.

He caressed her bottom with the paddle, preparing her for the swing. He would not restrain himself as he did in her other fantasies. This time he would let it fall with full force. THWACK! White heat flashed over her body. Searing pain from both the paddle
’
s impact and the abrupt tugging of the clamps attached to her breasts stole her voice. The tension to her breasts was released as she pressed her chest down. This movement also forced her bottom higher, poising for the next stroke. Dahlia envisaged crying out had this event occurred in real life, but this was
no more than fantasy. She enjoyed the release of a good scream, though, and did so in her dream-state.

The horrid paddle splatted relentlessly against her bottom six more times successively, causing Dahlia to writhe with anguish and desire. She jutted her bottom into the air as high as she was able, offering it as a sacrifice to the S&M gods. Her tormentor laughed, liberally applying a sort of proverbial goo along the soft crease between her cheeks, occasionally jutting a finger into the winking rosebud. Her groan demanded action and, without delay, he placed the swollen purple head of his manhood to kiss her nether parts and effortlessly plunged his heavy cock into her waiting ass.

He pumped her vigorously and without restraint, watching as her body smoothly swallowed his shaft. His fingers dug solidly into her hips, the tips leaving dark bruises as he neared his release. He smacked the back of her thigh with his hand, forcing her to lift her bottom higher for deeper penetration.

“
Come for me, slut!
” he ordered.

Dahlia opened her eyes, her hand stilled.
Slut
? Never!
No man, not even in her fantasies, was permitted to degrade her in that manner. Anger surged through her as she was jarred back into the real world, her drug-induced stupor nullified by the onslaught of emotions. She remembered Blake
’
s words about personal limits… That would always be one of hers. For her, words still hurt too deeply.

Dahlia held her head in her hands, shaking off the waves of dizziness as she came down from her short-lived high. She glanced up at the clock with a frown, dismayed to see that only one hour had passed. She kicked the beanbag chair out of the way and then cursed aloud as she jammed her little toe against the frame of the bed.

“Fuck!” she snarled as she grabbed the offended digit. She limped across the small room and pulled her phone out from her purse. “Ginger, can you come pick me up? I
’
m at the dorm and slammed my toe pretty bad.”

“On my way, chickie. Got some grass?”

“Yeah, I
’
ll give you some. I also gotta tell you about the shit my dad pulled on me.”

“Worse than when he cancelled your Amex?”

“
Far worse. Hurry up.
”

Ginger pulled her candy-apple red Ferrari into the parking lot just as Dahlia limped outside. She greeted her friend with a deep kiss on the lips, grabbing the back of her hair to keep her in place.

“Do you know what I want more than a joint?”
Ginger asked huskily.

Dahlia grinned. “What you always want. A piece of me. You got it, girlfriend.”

“You really need to stop playing hard to get, D,” Ginger laughed, pressing her foot on the gas and screeching out of the parking lot.

“Are you implying that I
’
m an easy lay?” Dahlia snickered, spreading her knees as Ginger
’
s right hand seductively rubbed her thigh.