Pound of Flesh

Pound of Flesh

Lolita Lopez

Published by Lolita Lopez

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Lolita Lopez

Lolita
Lopez.com

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Chapter One

Contrary to popular belief, rules were not
made to be broken. At least not in Max’s opinion. Rules for home.
Rules for work. Rules for play. Max thrived on the order and
certainty of his rules.

Violet, on the other hand, seemed to delight
in breaking the rules. His rules, specifically. Outside their home,
Violet was a model citizen without as much as a speeding ticket on
her record. Within these shared walls, it was a different story.
The mischievous little tart left wet towels on the bathroom floor
and refused to use a coaster. Her laundry rarely made it into the
proper hamper. She never rinsed the oatmeal out of her bowl before
tossing it carelessly into the dishwasher.

A gentle reminder never worked. No, a girl
like Violet required a firm yet loving hand.

For every wet ring on the coffee table or
dried bit of crusty oatmeal left in a bowl, Max doled out ten or
fifteen whacks, usually with his hand but sometimes with his belt
or a paddle. If he felt particularly generous, Max let her choose
the implement. She never shied away from a bit of pain and often
surprised him in her choice of makeshift paddle. Her creativity
knew no bounds.

A wide wooden spoon she’d plucked from the
countertop one lazy Saturday afternoon had lent a particularly
beautiful shade of pink to her bottom. Breath hitched with
excitement, she’d draped herself across his lap, fingertips
touching the tile, and presented her wiggling ass for punishment.
Her squeals of pain and moans of pleasure had sent him over the
edge. He’d gotten so hot he’d tossed aside the spoon and taken her
right there on the kitchen floor, one hand braced on the cabinet,
the other pressing her cheek to the cold tile as he drove deeper
and deeper into her juicy cunt.

That was the problem with a dirty girl like
Violet. She threatened his control, sent his lust into overdrive.
She knew exactly how to push his buttons and delighted in doing so
with playful smirks or rolled eyes. The perfect snotty remark
seemed always just there on the tip of her pink tongue, just
waiting for a chance to sting.

Of course, that rebellious streak, those
moments of outright defiance, were the things that made her so
perfect for him. There was never any doubt she enjoyed their kinky
games. With Violet, he felt safe indulging his darker tastes. She
encouraged his naughtier penchants with such enthusiasm. Violet
gave him exactly what he needed and received what she so
desperately wanted in return.

Dominance. Submission. Bondage. Pain.
Pleasure. And all of it tied up in the pretty little package that
was his
Violet. She was so startlingly good at being
such a very bad girl.

And this time she’d truly outdone
herself.

Before leaving on a three week training
exercise with the private military company he co-owned, Max had
left specific instructions for Violet. What she would wear. What
she would eat. When and how she would exercise. When and how she
could (or couldn’t) touch herself, pleasure herself. He’d even
provided laminated checklists for laundry, dishes and other
housekeeping routines.

To those outside their curious lifestyle
choice, such planning and structure probably seemed controlling,
perhaps even bordering on abusive. For Violet and Max, it was
something else entirely. He rarely went so far in their power
exchange. In all honesty, he found that kind of intense and
continuous control incredibly exhausting. He was perfectly content
to play the role of the Dom in the bedroom or playroom and leave
the mundane choices of everyday life to Violet.

But, when his job required a lengthy absence,
Violet craved his rules and regulations. She seemed to find the
checklists and schedules as comforting as a security blanket. As
her lover, her dominant, her husband, Max strove to provide Violet
with whatever she needed. If that meant picking out the perfect top
to go with that sexy as hell pinstripe pencil skirt and telling her
to eat grilled chicken with saffron rice for lunch, so be it.

While he’d been away, Max had kept in touch
via quick emails and a short phone call whenever possible. He’d
purposely not asked about Violet’s adherence to the rules. There
were Doms who would, of course, but Max wasn’t one of them. He’d
suspected—hoped, really—she’d broken some of the rules but didn’t
want confirmation. It was so much more fun to come home to the
unknown. Anticipation and uncertainty increased the excitement of
their games.

When he’d walked in the door, Max had been
met not by Violet’s smiling face as he’d expected, but the sight of
her keys, phone and purse haphazardly discarded on the entryway
console table. Upon further inspection of the house, he discovered
dirty dishes piled in the sink, chip and cookie crumbs littering
the couches and carpet, and half-full glasses of her favorite soda,
now flat, perched on end tables and bookcases. He found one of the
thrillers he’d ordered but not yet read open on the couch, the
spine cracked, pages dog-eared and smears of chocolate decorating
the margins. Those stacks of shiny discs on the DVD player, their
cases strewn carelessly about, were the last straw.

He marched upstairs in search of Violet and
found her in their master bedroom enjoying a cup of hot tea while
she waited for her newly painted toenails to dry. He was knocked
breathless at the sight of her nubile body adorned in a sheer
salmon pink g-string and matching babydoll trimmed with white
lace.

For a moment, his frustration vanished. Lust
took hold. All those lonely, long nights spent wanting her, needing
her, were suddenly just a memory. There she was, the very vixen
who’d haunted his dreams, just waiting to be taken. In a minute or
less, Max could have had her on her back, his stiff cock sunk deep
into her hot, wet sheath.

The lusty vision quickly disappeared as his
gaze fell on a pile of unfolded and wrinkled laundry. The bleached
spots on his favorite jeans had him gritting his teeth. Violet
offered him a smug little smile, her bright eyes daring him to lose
his cool. Another one of her games, it seemed. She wanted a rise
out of him, a rise he was more than willing to provide.

Oh, yes. She was going to get what she
wanted. Whether she would like what she was about to get remained
to be seen.

With a single snap of his fingers and a quiet
command, Violet was on the floor in the submissive position he
liked best. Knees wide, palms up, her chin at just the right angle.
With her eyes downcast, she embodied the role of supplicant so
perfectly. Her full breasts heaved with every excited breath. A
blush of arousal colored her skin.

He walked a slow circle around her, studying,
scrutinizing. He ached to touch her, to sweep his rough palm over
her supple skin. She would melt into him and beg him for a kiss, a
spanking, a stern word, anything.

But he couldn’t relent. Not so quickly.
Violet had deliberately broken his rules. She had to be punished.
She
wanted
to be
punished.

He wouldn’t disappoint.

Max took a fistful of hair and yanked her
head back hard but not enough to injure. That was the delicate line
a dominant walked. There had to be pain, a little bruising perhaps,
but never real injury. At least not in their relationship. For
others, the boundaries weren’t so black and white. For Max and
Violet, the hard lines were never crossed.

Violet’s eyes flashed with excitement. She’d
always had a rather perverse fondness for his rough treatment. A
quiver of heat penetrated his belly. Lascivious thoughts filled his
head. The options were limitless.

“I want you downstairs, naked and kneeling
next to the spanking horse.” He delivered the order decisively.

Her breathless reply followed swiftly. “Yes,
sir.”

There was the slightest tremble in her voice,
her body vibrating with the thrill of the unknown. She rose quickly
and dashed out of the room. At the doorway, she dared one fleeting
glance over her shoulder. There was no mistaking the mischievous
smile curving her lips. Just as quickly, the smirk vanished and she
disappeared around the corner.

Max could only shake his head in amusement.
Sometimes he wondered just what, exactly, made Violet the way she
was. What made her crave domination and pain? What spurred her
toward such sweet submission? For that matter, what made him want
to take control, to dominate his lover? Where had the undeniable
urge to bind and beat and torture (albeit sensually) come from?

He doubted they’d ever find the answers to
those questions. His childhood, like Violet’s, had been rather
idyllic. There had been no violence or shame or any other oddness
that might have predisposed him to darker sexual penchants. Not
that he put much stock in pop psychology’s view of BDSM and its
possible childhood triggers. Max, like many others in the
lifestyle, reasoned he was born this way. He was simply wired to
find pleasure differently than most.

Max took his time upstairs, changing out of
his wrinkled clothes and into more comfortable jeans and a t-shirt,
rather than following close on Violet’s heels. He wanted her to
wait, to let her imagination run wild as she envisioned all kinds
of punishments. The spanking horse had been placed strategically in
their playroom. She would have a perfect view of their wall of
pain, as they laughingly called it. Straps, floggers, crops,
slappers, paddles, canes and switches all hung in their proper
places.

Knowing Violet, she was probably dripping wet
with anticipation by now. Nothing made her hotter than the thought
of the painful kiss of leather against her bare ass.

He made his way downstairs and through the
living room, his bare feet silent against the carpet. He paused in
the doorway of the kitchen and shook his head at the mess. In the
morning, Max would set Violet to work cleaning the house from top
to bottom. She’d be naked of course. Maybe he’d add another layer
of punishment and wedge a butt plug between her cheeks.

Scrubbing the floor, naked on all fours with
a silicone phallus stretching her ass wide open, would teach her a
good lesson about cleanliness and rules.

Max opened the fridge in search of something
cold to drink and smiled. There, on the top shelf, sat a pitcher of
freshly brewed tea. He had no doubt it was mixed as precisely as he
liked it, with a little bit of sweetened lemonade to flavor the
orange pekoe tea. Just another simple reminder of Violet’s love for
him.

She’d engineered a slovenly scene sure to
earn her the ass whooping of a lifetime but had still taken the
time to mix up his favorite concoction. It was a small thing,
really, but it spoke volumes about Violet.

He grabbed the pitcher and filled a glass
with ice before sloshing the cold tea over the frozen cubes. The
pitcher went back in the fridge. Glass in hand, Max crossed the
kitchen to the basement door. The hinges squeaked as he drew the
door open. He winced at the grating noise and made a mental note to
give the hinges a shot of lubricant. His footsteps were silent as
he descended the carpeted stairs to the fully finished
basement.

Unlike a lot of playrooms, this one had been
decorated in muted earth tones. There were no red velvet drapes or
wrought iron sconces or exposed stone walls. Max had never been
fond of the dungeon look. He had friends who enjoyed that kind of
ambience but he’d always found it rather distracting. Luckily
Violet shared his appreciation for the calm décor. She’d happily
selected the brown leather sofa and wide, low chair along with
complementing lamps, end tables and framed erotic art in sepia and
black and white.

Reinforced suspension hooks hung from the
ceiling. An assortment of ropes, D-rings, spreader bars, scissors
and other necessities for Shibari-style rope bondage were hidden
away in an armoire. The lower drawers held an assortment of gags,
blindfolds, cuffs, dildos, vibrators, condoms, gloves, lubricants,
wet wipes and hand towels. He and Violet were past the condom stage
in their relationship but it never hurt to be prepared for
get-togethers with like-minded friends.