Plaything: Volume One (6 page)

We caught our breath slowly, and he kissed my forehead before he pulled out. He’d come inside me, and it felt nice. I felt marked by him, owned, and it didn’t feel degrading like with Alistair. It felt so different.

“Are you ok?” he asked.

My heart slowed, and the endorphin rush spiked then faded, leaving me floating, unanchored. I felt something break in me, some tiny part I didn’t recognize. The tears that spilled from my eyes weren’t the hysterical, lonely ones that filled my nights. These were quiet tears, cleansing tears. Tears that promised just a sliver of acceptance. I felt both happy and sad at the same time.

“Talk to me, Amy,” Robert said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He propped himself up on an elbow, eyes on mine, and his fingers took my wrist, a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t know,” I breathed. “I don’t know how I feel.”

“This is much quicker than I’d have chosen to do things, but that is out of my hands, I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just everything.”

“I can only imagine how hard this situation must be for you.”

“You’re making it easier.” I managed a smile. “Please don’t leave me until I’m ready. Please don’t let me down, Robert. I’ll never cope with that life unless you make a submissive out of me.”

“I’m going to do my best,” he said. His brows were heavy, but his eyes were kind. “I can promise you that, Amy. Just promise you’ll do your best for me, too. We’ll work it out between us.”

I hoped so. I really hoped so.

I felt a strange craving for intimacy, for the warmth of his embrace, but if
he
felt that he didn’t respond. He raised himself from the bed with an unreadable expression, and got himself dressed. I watched his every move, learning him, learning his body. The more I studied him the less I saw the family resemblance. Robert had none of Alistair’s flaws; not the meanness in his eyes, or the cruelty in his touch. He was more attractive, sharper, wiser… qualities that no doubt would have driven his younger brother green-eyed with jealousy.

Of course it drove Alistair green-eyed with jealousy. Their relationship was a festering pile of animosity, stewed to boiling point through a long line of sibling rivalry. It made perfect sense. That tension in the library, the hate in Alistair’s eyes, the hate in Robert’s, too… Yes, there had been hate there. Hate I hadn’t seen from him since.

My own family life had left a lot to be desired, so much so that I now had nobody to even call my own. It was better that way, even the lonely years I’d spent wandering as a lost sheep, searching for something, anything. I’d found that solace in men, in sex, in crazy adventures, but it was always short-lived. At least for me the painful, septic family ties were gone, burned. For Robert they were still alive, binding him tight to this place, his fortunes tied up with the people he looked upon with nothing but disdain. It must have been something pretty bad that dragged him back into this place. He’d told me enough to know it was serious. Had they really that much control over him? Enough that he was holed up with me on a ridiculous mission to tame me for some foreign bigwig in the old family home. Questions danced on my tongue, but I quietened them. Now wasn’t the time. I wasn’t certain there would ever be one. Robert didn’t look quite the type to be sharing secrets over a campfire, somehow.

I pondered the man some more as he buttoned his shirt. He had the calm composure of a man who is used to getting what he wants, a man who works hard, knows his own strengths and knows his own weaknesses even more.

Alistair had none of Robert’s composure. He was erratic and brash, nothing short of a show off. A spoiled, mean, sadistic sonofabitch. That vile shit of a father must have been beside himself when Robert flew the nest; chancing his fortune and empire on the wrong son.

I was a pawn in a much bigger game. A family game. This was about more than a sale gone wrong, this was something else altogether. The thought gave me the shivers. I brushed it aside for my own ailing sanity.

“What now?” I asked. “Are you leaving?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m not leaving you here. I don’t trust my brother.”

“You’re staying?” My eyes flew wide. “Here, I mean?”

“The day is young and we have work to do, but once evening comes I won’t be sharing a bed with you,” he said. “Unless…” His worlds trailed to nothing as he thought better of it. His next statement was entirely more resolute. “I won’t be sharing a bed with you, Amy. This will be your room.”

“And where will you be sleeping?”

“That’s my concern,” he said. “You concentrate on heeding my words, and I’ll concentrate on the finer details of our accommodation.”

“Ok,” I shrugged.

He walked around the bed until he was stood before me, and his presence made me tingle. The mood had changed and he was so coolly composed, as if the past few hours had never happened. “In this place you have only one thing to worry about.” His voice was commanding, powerful. “You worry about my words, my instruction, my pleasure. You worry about me. That’s the only thing you worry about.”

“Yes,” I said. “Ok.”

“Yes what?”

Memories of the moment flooded back, the way it had come so easily to me… “Yes, sir.”

“That’s good,” he said. “From now on you will refer to me only as sir, and you will come to enjoy it. You may even come to need it. That’s our desired result, Amy.”

I took a breath. “I hope so, sir, for my own sake.”

“Indeed,” he smiled, sadly. He held out a hand, and I took it without hesitation, rising to my feet and standing before him without the frazzle of nerves I’d experienced earlier. “You must be hungry, let’s eat. I’ll get you some clothes and we’ll begin the next stage of your instruction.”

Food sounded good, so did clothes. I smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “We’ve got a long way to go; you may not be feeling so grateful later.”

I followed him into the entrance room, and awaited my next instruction.

Chapter Four

Robert

There was a hamper on the kitchen counter that had been delivered by a servant to the bungalow before Amy’s arrival. I set it on the small table and unpacked the contents. It was a collection of breads and cheeses – the kind of simple foods that lovers might pack for a picnic. I laid everything out on the tabletop, set the hamper aside, and then gestured for Amy to sit across from me.

I have no love of food. I eat because I have to.

But I enjoy dining. I conduct all my business dealings at restaurants because to sit across from a corporate rival is like sitting across the chessboard from another Grandmaster. The pleasure for me is in the battle of wills. The food itself is incidental.

Amy scraped back her chair, clawed a tangle of hair away from her face, and sat like a beautiful bird alighting. She was dressed in just panties and a t-shirt. She sat with her shoulders back, and there was a satisfied little thrust to the way she held her chin – something close to confidence, almost.

“You did not bring me pleasure,” I said quietly, and saw a flicker of confusion pass behind her eyes like a sudden dark shadow. “I took my pleasure from you… remember that.” There was the slightest flinch in Amy’s expression: a flinch of offense.

Good.

She pursed her lips and made her eyes wide and artless. “What do you mean?” she asked with delicate politeness, but I sensed the trace of venom in her tone.

I broke a piece of bread and set it onto a plate, taking my time. “I mean what I said,” the battle began with this simple opening gambit designed to keep her off balance. “You did nothing with your body to give me pleasure. You responded to my movements. You initiated nothing. You were compliant… in the way that any passive woman would be.”

Amy’s expression darkened, and I could sense the angry retort sting her lips. She sat back, her face making all kinds of expressions, and then she gave a petulant huff.

“I was being submissive,” she said. “That’s what you’re training me to be, right?”

I inclined my head, but I did not agree.

There was a block of cheese on the table. I took a long silent moment to cut it into several slices. When I was ready, I sat back in the chair and folded my arms across my chest. I gave Amy a bemused look.

“What do you think submission really is, Amy?”

She frowned. It was the most obvious of questions, and yet it seemed as though the answer left her utterly bewildered. The expression on her face became irritated. “Submission is surrendering,” she said at last. “It’s letting someone else do what they want with your mind and your body. Submission is giving yourself to another person.”

I said nothing. My smile widened but there was no humour in the expression. My eyes stayed cold and hard.

“How?”

“What?”

“How?” I asked again, patiently. “How do you do all those things that you believe are the cornerstones of submission?”

Amy shook her head irritably. Her hair swished across her shoulders. “You just do,” she said, the words now laced with her rising temper. “You go cold, dead. You shut down and feel nothing. It’s easier that way.”

I pushed myself away from the table so the noise of the chair scraping against the slate floor tiles was like a sharp loud scream.

“No!” I said. “You don’t do that at all, Amy. In fact,” I put my hands on my hips and stood over her, deliberately imposing, “In fact, you do the exact opposite.”

The harsh sound of my voice made Amy flinch and cower. It was time for check-mate.

“What… but I don’t understand,” she flustered.

My eyes bored into her, the force of my gaze pinned her to the chair as if she were transfixed.

“To understand submission you need knowledge,” I said with all the conviction of my belief. “And to become submissive – truly submissive – you need passion. You need to
feel
submission, Amy,” I thumped my chest dramatically and she flinched again. “It has to be something within you, something real that you feel. It has to be a
part
of you… because submission is a personal thing. It’s private. You can only submit to someone once you truly are submissive. It has to be as much a part of you as love, fear, sadness and joy.”

Amy was frowning, but no longer was her expression tinted with frustration. There was some deeper understanding taking place – some slow spark of realization, perhaps. She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and looked up into my face with wide child-like eyes.

“But knowledge…? You said to understand submission I need knowledge? What does that mean?”

I rubbed my chin. The scent of Amy’s arousal was still a lingering perfume on my fingers. I inhaled her scent as I drew a deep breath.

I held out my hands in a gesture as if I were presenting her with the gift of wisdom.

“Can you speak Spanish?” I asked, apparently changing the subject in an instant.

“No.”

“Not a word?”

Amy shook her head. The frown of her expression became clouded with confusion once more.

“Then if I speak to you in Spanish, you would not understand anything I said, right?”

“Right, pretty much.”

“But if I told you a single Spanish word, and then used it in a sentence, you would recognize that word when I said it, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“And so if I give you the knowledge of a single word, you suddenly would understand something of Spanish.”

“Yes…” Amy’s voice changed. Her tone became dawning understanding.

“So if I give you knowledge about s
ubmission
– real information about what it means to submit, and how you can submit without surrendering your soul –  you are suddenly gifted knowledge that you can recognize… and use…”

“…To become a better submissive,” Amy finished my sentence.

I thrust a finger at her, satisfied that I had made my point “Correct!”

I said it with a smile.

* * *

“Submission is not a series of actions, or reactions,” I explained to Amy with the patient care of a teacher talking to a student. “Submission is much more than physical surrender. It starts in your heart and soul, Amy – it is a profound sense of need that you should feel. And if you aren’t feeling it… you cannot ever surrender and embrace your own sense of satisfaction.”

Amy tilted her head as if the words were somehow foreign to her. “I’m not new to this stuff,” she said in pointed defiance.

I nodded. “I know. You told me enough of your past. But never once did you talk about how those pain sessions
felt
. Not once did you tell me how those moments made you
feel
… and I doubt you ever felt anything – apart from humiliated.”

Amy was becoming irritated. She took my comments as a criticism. She propped her hand on a hip and shifted her weight onto one leg. She lifted her chin and there was a spark of anger in her eyes.

“You don’t know me,” she said through clenched teeth.

I arched an eyebrow, and then thrust my hands deep into my pockets, holding her gaze with a steady, unfaltering look.

“I know you,” I countered. “I know that you have used pain like a drug. You used those sensations to mask your true feelings. You used the pain to numb your senses to enable you to submit. But that’s not submission. You might as well pop a handful of pills before you spread your legs,” I growled harshly.

Amy said nothing. The sudden tension in the room crackled and sparked. She held my gaze for a long moment, and then her eyes flickered. She glanced down at her feet, and there was something hollow and fragile in the way her posture altered.

I went to her and put my hands on her shoulders. I could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. She was trembling. I applied a little pressure, and she slowly sank to her knees before me.

“Submission starts in your heart…” I said again. This time my voice was soft and conciliatory, and compassionate. “You need to reach deep down inside yourself and discover that part of your soul that craves surrender. It cannot be forced. It cannot be beaten into you. It cannot be manufactured or simulated. It must be real.”

I slowly drew down the zipper of my pants and unbuckled my belt. I was hard. Amy reached tentatively for the length of my cock and wrapped her fingers lightly around the thickness of me.

“Close your eyes,” I said. Her fingers had begun to move, as if of their own volition, the flutter of her touch practiced and skilled. I felt myself pulse and thicken.

Amy closed her eyes. I heard her take a deep breath. She seemed to shudder as she exhaled again.

“What’s your favourite song?” I asked kindly.

Amy still had her eyes closed. Her lips were parted.

“
Lost in Love
by Air Supply,” she admitted guiltily. “Do you know it? It’s a cheesy old romantic ballad from the 80’s.”

“I know it,” I nodded. I traced my fingers gently through her hair in a comforting caress. “Play the song in your head right now, because submission is like music, Amy. You’ve spent your adult life trying to surrender to the sounds of heavy metal,” I painted a picture with an analogy. “But you have to
feel
the music before you can dance. It has to take over your body – and you can’t dance until the music starts. Use your song to connect your feelings to your actions… and then go with what you feel. Let the music and the emotion move your body.”

Amy nodded slowly and then the tension seemed to melt from her. The rigid set of her shoulders softened and the touch of her fingers became almost ethereal so that I could feel nothing but the tips of her fingers. I waited.

I could hear the soft sounds of the outside world – the call of birds in the garden and the distant muted rumble of a lawnmower somewhere far away. Outside the world was going about its business… and inside – inside the walls of this little bungalow – one young woman’s world was about to change forever.

I waited for over a minute. In some intangible way, Amy’s posture seemed to alter. It was nothing physical I could describe. Instead it seemed to come from within her. She swayed slowly on her knees and her breathing became deep and rhythmic. Then she tightened the grip of her fingers around my shaft and opened her mouth wide…

I felt myself tense, heard the sharp hiss of my own breath, as Amy’s lips wrapped themselves around the head of my cock and began to apply soft pressure. I screwed my eyes shut and gave myself over to the tingle of sensations. My fingers formed fists in her hair and I felt my back arch, tense as a drawn bow.

With infinite slowness, Amy took the length of me down her throat, her tongue fluttering along the underside of my shaft, the feel of her warm wet mouth a beautifully erotic sensation. I could hear the sounds of her – a gentle, willing moan in the back of her throat that was a sound like pure satisfaction.

I realised with a start that I had been holding my breath. I let out a ragged gasp. “Good girl,” I said tightly.

Amy seemed not to hear. It was as if she had drifted away into another world. Her mouth moved instinctively, the grip of her lips like magical fingers that kneaded and relaxed in time with the throb and pulse of my cock. I felt the graze of her teeth and it was like a sensual taunt. I felt the heat of her breath and the delicious moistness of her tongue as it lavished the clenching length of me. In a magical moment of eroticism, Amy’s mouth had become something utterly sexual – the demand of her irresistible.

I felt myself beginning to thrill. I felt myself become impossibly hard so that the line between pleasure and erotic pain seemed to waver and then blur. My fingers became demanding, my grip within the tresses of her hair like twin clamps. Amy seemed not to notice. She seemed oblivious of my own need, and yet for that very reason, the ministrations of her mouth seemed so perfectly matched to what I needed.

This was something quite extraordinary for it crossed the line beyond simple desire and became something much more powerful, much more urgent.

I reached the point where she had made me
need
a release; she’d driven me to the edge of a precipice that I could only recall ever being drawn towards a handful of other times in my life.

I threw back my head and the growl in the back of my throat was primal, torn from my throat like an exhalation of triumph.

Then everything went dark for an instant and the world seemed to tilt off its axis so that I physically felt myself sway. I was gasping for breath, air sawing across my throat. My chest heaved like a bellows and my legs felt as though I had run a very long way. I felt myself slide from the grip of Amy’s lips and I slumped with my back against the wall. I was shaking my head in slow wonder.

Amy stared up at me, her expression tranquil, and perhaps a little surprised. Her hands were resting in her lap. Her lips were puffy, glistening. Through the clinging fabric of her t-shirt I could see the hard jut of her nipples. She was aroused.

“That… was quite extraordinary,” I admitted, looking into her face as though I was seeing her for the very first time.