The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (16 page)

Shit, here it comes.
Keeping his face neutral and trying very hard not to assume the worst, Owen allowed Sylvie to pull him down beside her. His anxiety eased a little as she reached for his hand, clasping it between both of hers.

“Something happened this morning, Owen, after you left.”

“Is everything okay? Are we okay?” Owen found himself blurting.

Smiling, Sylvie nodded, squeezing his hand. “Yes, yes, we are okay. I’m sorry if these dramatics made you think otherwise.” She took a breath and Owen realized whatever she had to say wasn’t easy for her. He stopped focusing on his own anxiety.

“What is it, Sylvie? You can tell me anything.”

She nodded, the smile sliding away. Letting his hand go, she turned to face him. “Last night you told me about your failed marriage—a marriage, you said, to the wrong woman.”

Owen nodded, wondering where this was leading. Sylvie continued, “I too have a failed relationship. Seven years ago I came to this country with my lover, Jacques Gaston. He had business in New York and I followed him here. We sometimes talked of marrying, but neither of us felt the need of a piece of paper. Our love, as Jacques used to say, was enough.

“Except that, apparently, that wasn’t true, at least not for him. One day about three years ago he just—disappeared. He left a note, said he’d found someone new, and that was that. I never heard from him again.”

“Holy shit. That’s really low,” Owen said. This was the guy she used to take to the clubs, he realized, recalling Master H.’s remark:
People still talk about your last scene with that gorgeous French boy you used to have in tow.

Sylvie was staring down at ground. Owen put a finger beneath her chin, gently lifting her face. She had tears in her eyes and something caught in his heart. “What a bastard,” he said fervently, imagining what it must have felt like to come home to such a note. “More to the point, what a fool.” He reached out, stroking Sylvie’s cheek, hating that man who had caused her such pain.

She smiled, shaking her head. “It took me a long time to get over him,” she admitted. “I kept myself aloof, I realize now, shutting myself off to any potential for something new. I guess deep in my heart I was always thinking he would come back one day, and maybe we could start over.”

She reached again for Owen’s hand. “Until I met you.”

Owen felt the tension ease away until he looked into her eyes, which still seemed troubled. Then he remembered how she’d started the conversation.
Something happened this morning, after you left,
and all at once he knew.

“He’s back, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.

Sylvie nodded. “He showed up this morning out of the blue, with flowers and jewelry, full of apologies, ready to step back into my life.”

“And…?” Owen felt the world shifting beneath him as the first real joy he’d had in his life was threatening to slip away. It took all his self-control not to scream.

“I sent him away, of course. He asked if I could ever forgive him, and I said no.”

“Wait…what?” The shifting terrain had righted itself somewhat, but Owen remained shaken. “You sent him away?” he repeated stupidly.

Sylvie nodded emphatically. “I did.”

Owen laughed with relief. “So…that’s a good thing, right?”

Sylvie grinned, and he felt her relief as well. “A very good thing. I wanted to tell you, because I want no secrets between us, Owen. Jacques was clearly keeping quite a few during our relationship, and, as much as it would be easy to blame it all on him, these things never happen in a vacuum. Somewhere along the way, Jacques and I stopped communicating. He wasn’t getting what he needed from me, from the relationship, that much is clear. I let him slip away. I don’t want that to happen to us, Owen. Whatever happens between us, I want us to be open every step of the way. It’s only on that foundation of trust and honesty that we have a chance.”

Now it was she who took Owen’s face in her hands, as she stared into his eyes. “And I want that chance, Owen. I want it with you.”

~*~

As the weeks went by, Sylvie and Owen’s D/s relationship deepened and evolved along with their love. When Owen arrived at her place at the end of the day, he would buzz the intercom to let her know he was there, and then let himself in. Because of their busy schedules, it had been a few days since they’d been together, and Sylvie was eager to see him again.

She put aside the book she’d been reading when the intercom buzzed and hurried to the living room to await his arrival. A few moments later came the knock on her third floor door. Sylvie opened it and stepped back, watching with silent satisfaction as Owen stripped and draped himself, naked, over the low satin-covered stool, as he did now each time he came to her.

Sylvie chose a short-handled single tail from the sideboard and approached him. She knelt beside him, leaning over to kiss his neck, loving his scent, like fresh cedar and soap with hint of masculine sweat.

She stroked his back with one hand, her cunt moistening and nipples hardening as she gripped the whip in the other. “Are you ready for your mark?” she asked, in what had become a ritual for them.

“Yes, Mistress.”

With a flick of her wrist, Sylvie brought the lash down hard across both cheeks, the whistle of leather quickly followed by Owen’s sharp intake of breath as the pain moved through his body. A single lovely red line formed against his skin.

When he pulled himself upright, Owen’s cock was hard as steel and pointing directly at her. “Thank you, Mistress,” he said softly, his eyes bright.

“You are most welcome, my slave.” With a laugh, Sylvie curled her fingers around his hot, throbbing shaft and led Owen into the bedroom. Pushing him down onto the mattress, she straddled him, sinking herself onto his hard cock with a moan of pleasure. Owen reached for her breasts, his fingers rolling her erect nipples as she undulated on him.

“You will not come,” she informed him. “Not until I tell you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Owen breathed, biting his lower lip in that sweet way he had when he was trying to control himself. Reaching back, Sylvie gripped his balls in her hand and gently squeezed as she rode him. She rubbed her clit against his pubic bone, watching with sadistic satisfaction as he began to tremble in his effort to control his orgasm.

Reaching out, she slapped his cheek, drawing a deep, guttural groan of passion and pain from his lips. She slapped the other cheek, her eyes on his, which glittered fever-bright. Sylvie felt the rolling rise of a climax moving through her. She slapped him again as her body began to shudder. Gripping his throat, she forced his head up and back. With a cry, she jerked hard, riding his cock to an intense release.

When she came to herself, she looked down at Owen, who was regarding her with blazing eyes. Both cheeks were red from where she’d struck him, and she could feel his cock, still pulsing and hard inside her. Slowly she lifted herself from him and knelt beside him on the bed.

“Grip the bars,” she ordered. “Don’t let go.”

Owen reached back and gripped the iron bars of the headboard. Sylvie stroked his underarms, drawing her fingers down his sides. Owen was ticklish and it was difficult for him to maintain this position when she teased him like this. She glanced at his face. His eyes were closed, his lips pressed in a thin line.

Sylvie ran her fingertips lightly over his skin, watching as Owen’s knuckles tightened their grip. She reached for his shaft, which was slick with her juices. Lowering her mouth over the head, she circled it teasingly with her tongue.

“If I let you come, I’m going to have to punish you afterwards. You understand that, don’t you, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Owen breathed, his cock pulsing beneath her fingers. He groaned when she lowered her mouth again. She suckled and licked, loving the taste of him and the silky feel of his skin beneath her tongue.

“Please, Mistress, may I come?” he cried after only a few minutes of attention. “Please!” He was breathing hard, his skin hot to the touch, his eyes squeezed closed.

He was still gripping the bars, which pleased her. “Yes, slave. You may come.” She lowered her head again, while holding the base of his shaft and massaging upward.

With a cry, Owen lifted his hips, thrusting his cock deeper into Sylvie’s throat as he released his seed in several hot spurts. Sylvie kept him in her mouth until he sagged back against the mattress. Only then did she let him go.

Leaning close, she murmured, “And now I’ll cane you to remind you that with the pleasure comes the pain.”

Chapter 12

“I’m so glad you could meet for lunch. I know how busy you are.” Harry Bernstein, aka Master H., smiled warmly at Sylvie. They’d just placed their orders at the upscale Japanese restaurant to which Harry had invited her.

She’d been intrigued by his phone call the day before, in which he said he had an offer for her, one too big to discuss over the phone. Harry had always been given to creating mysteries and heightening expectations, but he delivered on those expectations. This was one reason why his BDSM club had been so successful and remained so in demand, years after others had come and gone.

Sylvie sipped her sake and reached for another piece of sushi, wondering when Harry would bring up the offer “too big to discuss over the phone”.  It wasn’t until the waitress had cleared their plates and brought another bottle of sake that Harry got to the point. “Now, the reason for this visit, my dear, aside from the pleasure of your company.” He smiled and she smiled back, waiting. “I’m delighted you have come out of hiding at last. You wouldn’t believe all the comments I got after your scene at the club. People have asked repeatedly when you’re coming back. You have a dozen volunteers all ready and waiting.” He laughed. “You have a knack,” he went on. “You know how to engage your audience. Not only that—your reputation precedes you. You’re widely regarded in the BDSM community as one of the best pro Dommes out there.”

“Thank you,” Sylvie said, not quite sure where this was going. “Though I have to say, lately I’m growing a bit tired of the pressures of the business. I’ve been handing more and more of it over to my assistant, Isabel. She’s quite accomplished in her own right.”

“Perfect!” Harry exclaimed. “That dovetails beautifully with my proposal. I’ve been thinking for some time about opening another club. One with more of a het bent than
Chains
. The thing is, I can’t do it all, and my heart and time still belong to
Chains
. But you know what a control freak I am. I don’t want just anyone running my new club. I want someone with experience. Someone who understands the hetero mindset. Someone who is well-connected with people who would want to frequent the club. Someone who shares my passion for all things BDSM. In a word, darling,
you
.”

“Me?” Sylvie echoed, surprised.

“Yes. You’d be perfect. You’re beautiful, accomplished, sophisticated. People love your accent.” He laughed. “Seriously, though, I would give you all the support you need—waitstaff, all the latest toys, whatever you want. You would be the creative force, and of course the Mistress of Ceremonies, running the demonstrations, shaping the atmosphere and nuance of the place with your woman’s touch and European sensibilities. I’ll make you a partner with a fifty percent stake in the business. I put up the cash—you put up your time and expertise.”

Sylvie had no idea how much money Harry’s club generated, but she knew a venture of this nature would take a lot of time and a huge commitment, especially at first. At the same time, she recognized this might be the perfect venue for her—a way to ease herself out of the pro Domme business, but continue to earn a living.  Still, it was so sudden, and the commitment was one that, if she made it, she knew she wouldn’t take lightly.

“I’m honored, Harry.  It sounds like an ambitious venture. I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes!” Harry boomed.

Sylvie thought of Owen. He worked during the week, often spending as much as sixty hours in his role as partner of his architecture firm. A club like this would require her presence at night and on the weekends. When would they see each other? How would it affect their relationship?

When she didn’t reply right away, Harry shrugged, offering a sheepish grin. “Mark warned me not to come on too strong. I guess I don’t know any other way.” Harry reached into his jacket and extracted a thick envelope. “Here are the details of the proposal. I’m open to any and all input from you. This includes a general outline of my ideas, some possible locations for the venue, and some rough numbers regarding cost and projected revenues. There is also some balance sheet and revenue information for
Chains
, just to give you an idea of what this sort of venture can generate.” He pushed the envelope toward her. “Look it over. Take your time. Talk it over with your financial advisor. Sleep on it a few days and then let me know. Is it a deal?”

Sylvie smiled, placing her hand over the envelope. “Deal.”

Sylvie’s smart phone whistled softly, indicating she had a text. Putting down her novel, she reached for the phone, noticing the time—a little after midnight.

Sorry it’s so late. Hope I’m not waking you. The meeting went waaaaaay longer than I’d hoped. Exhausted. Can I see you tomorrow night?

It was from Owen. That afternoon when he’d called, he’d said he hoped to be done with his meeting by eight that evening. She’d saved him some dinner in case he came by, barely admitting to herself how disappointed she was when he’d called around eight-thirty, still stuck in a what he had called, “the meeting from hell.”

Now Sylvie texted back:
I have appointments until nine pm tomorrow. Meet for a late dinner?

Great. We’ll coordinate tomorrow. I’ll have my people call your people.

Sylvie laughed and then sighed. Between the two of them, they were always juggling schedules. If she did take Harry up on his offer, something would have to give. As if reading her mind from afar, Owen texted:
How did the lunch go with Master H. today? What was his big news?