The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (9 page)

She held up the cane, which had a black suede leather handle. Owen drew in a quick breath as she flicked the cane through the air, creating a whippy, whooshing sound that made him wince. “I want you to feel every stroke. I will bind your wrists to help you keep still, but your hands will be free. If it gets to be too much, you only need to flex your fingers, like this.” She demonstrated, making fists of her hands and then opening them and wiggling her fingers.

“Yes, Mistress,” Owen whispered, a tremor moving through his body. During the initial interview Isabel had quizzed him at some length about canes, and he’d admitted he was fascinated by the long, cruel welts a cane could raise, but had never experienced its cut firsthand.

That was about to change.

Owen allowed himself to be led to the spanking horse, which looked like a very narrow, short picnic table with thick leather padding on the benches and tabletop. The plug felt snug and full inside his ass as he walked.

Mistress Sylvie opened her hand, revealing a pair of small, bright orange cylinders. “These are ear plugs. Press them snugly against your ears. Then I’m going to place the hood over your head and secure you to the bench. Remember, if at any time the sensations become too much, or you need me to stop for any reason, just flex your fingers. I will be watching. I will take care of you, Owen, and guide you through the process.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Owen took the plugs, which were soft and spongy between his fingers, and pressed them into place. He could hear the thumping pulse of his rapidly beating heart, crashing like ocean waves against his eardrums. A press of her hand against his shoulder made him kneel in front of her. He closed his eyes as she fitted the hood over his head, tugging it into place so he could breathe through the hole in the leather. He felt rather than heard the metallic sound as the zipper teeth interlocked along either side of his face. The hood fit snugly, contouring along his jaw, sealing his mouth and pressing against his closed eyelids.

The smell of the leather was rich in his nostrils, heightened perhaps by the fact he could neither see nor hear. He felt Mistress Sylvie’s hands encircling his, and he gripped them back, allowing himself to be pulled upright. She guided him over the narrow tabletop of the spanking horse, where he rested his torso against smooth leather, his shins balanced along the benches on either side, his plugged ass thrust out. Mistress Sylvie pulled his arms down so they were resting against the padded benches from elbow to wrist. Finally she clipped the cuffs to the eyebolts set into the bench for the purpose.

Nothing happened for several long seconds. Owen focused on the sound of his blood rushing through his ears, and the thud of his heart against leather. He was keenly aware of his splayed ass, the ring of black rubber exposed between spread cheeks. He felt extremely vulnerable, but at the same time, he felt a deep, abiding comfort that calmed him. He realized this comfort stemmed from being bound as he was. He was gagged and blindfolded by the soft, fragrant leather, and securely tethered to the spanking horse, completely available to Mistress Sylvie for whatever she chose to do to him.

How had he gone thirty-nine years without experiencing this, except in his fantasies?

He jerked when he felt something moving over his ass and lower back, anticipating the sudden strike of the cane. But instead he realized it was her hands, sure and strong, moving in circles over his skin, easing the tension from his muscles. He could hear her murmur through the muffle of the plugs and leather, but he couldn’t catch any words.

After a few minutes, her soothing hands were replaced by the light tapping of what he knew must be the cane. It was beginning! His first caning. He fervently hoped her trust in his worthiness wasn’t misplaced, and that he’d manage to handle the caning without wimping out and giving her the hand signal to stop. He vowed to himself that he would see it through, no matter what. He desperately wanted to make Mistress Sylvie proud.

His mind quieted as the steady, warming tap of the cane gave way to a firmer stroke, moving like electric currents over his ass and the backs of his thighs. His skin felt hot, but pleasantly so, the sting of the cane creating a sweet fire in his belly and sending the blood pulsing hard into his cock and balls.

When the first real stroke hit, it moved like a line of fire over his left cheek and Owen grunted against the confines of the leather hood. When the second searing stroke landed, he gripped the sides of the spanking horse hard with his knees.

For a while the cane moved rapidly over his ass and thighs, its bite less fierce, though each stinging stroke still sent a jolt of fire over his nerve endings. Then came another hard stroke, and then another.  Owen’s hands beneath the leather cuffs were clenched into fists and. He could feel the sweat breaking on his scalp and upper lip beneath the hood.

I can’t, I can’t, oh fuck, oh god, I can’t do this. I can’t…

The words ran like a loop through his fevered brain as the cane came relentlessly down on his abraded, stinging skin. Owen realized his body was shaking, and the leather beneath his torso was slick with his sweat.

Let go, Owen. Let go.

Though he knew he couldn’t actually be hearing Mistress Sylvie’s voice, it was as if she’d spoken in his head—the words clear and ringing in her sweetly accented voice. The cane hurt just as much as it had a moment before, but his body was no longer shaking, and his hands were no longer so tightly clenched. With an act of will, he forced his fingers to relax, and let himself ease against the spanking bench, surrendering his tight grip on what was happening.

Several more whipping strokes of rattan flattened him against the bench. Owen’s chest was heaving, his heart thudding, his ass stinging, his cock near to bursting. The intensity of the caning slowly eased, lighter and lighter until it was again just a whispering stroke against now very tender skin. And then the tapping was replaced again by cool, strong fingers that glided lightly over Owen’s ass and thighs.

I did it,
he thought with a mental whoop of joy.
I made it!
His heart felt light inside his body, as if filled with helium. His cock ached, and he knew if she so much as touched it, he would shoot his load.

He jerked against the padded spanking horse when he felt the tug of the butt plug against his ass. The ring of muscles that had initially resisted the penetration by the rubber plug now clung just as tightly to keep it in. There was a flash of pain as the flared base of the plug was forced from his ass but the plug slid easily away after that.

Owen felt his cuffs being released from the clips and then removed altogether. Mistress Sylvie helped him from the spanking horse and pressed his shoulder gently until he sank to his knees. She unzipped the hood and pulled it free from Owen’s head. He pulled the earplugs from his ears and shook his sweat-dampened hair from his face. His ass and thighs burned, but he forgot the pain as he stared up into Mistress Sylvie’s face.

She was smiling like an angel, her eyes sparkling. “You did so well, Owen, especially for your first time. Come and see how beautiful your marks are.” She held out her hand, and again Owen allowed himself to be pulled upright in her surprisingly strong grip.

She led him to a full-length mirror that was affixed to the wall beside the whip rack and directed him to turn around so his back was to the mirror. He twisted around to see and stared, fascinated, at the criss-cross of long welted lines of red on his ass and thighs. Reaching back, he touched one of the raised welts, surprised at how hot his skin was.

“Those will be with you for a few days,” Mistress Sylvie said. “Marks of courage. You have made me proud.” Owen could see the image of Mistress Sylvie in the mirror, standing just behind him. There was a tenderness in her face that momentarily took his breath away.

Yet when he turned around to face her, the look was gone, replaced by a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes, which, to Owen’s shocked surprise, were filled with tears. “You may dress,” she said quickly, turning away. “The session is over. Isabel will see you out.”

Before Owen could even thank her for the amazing session, Mistress Sylvie fled from the room. Thoughtfully, Owen moved toward the pile of his clothing and dressed.

“What the hell,” he said aloud to the empty room, “just happened?”

Chapter 7

Sylvie looked up from the letter she was writing, recognizing the ring of her business phone. Though she always brought it up with her to her apartment after hours, Sylvie almost never picked up the business line. She usually left that to Isabel, who checked the messages and handled appointment scheduling, only troubling Sylvie with calls she couldn’t handle herself. Sylvie liked to keep the phone nearby just the same, to keep tabs on the business.

“What am I going to do about him?” Sylvie said aloud in her native French. She shook her head, telling herself not to go there. He was a client, end of discussion. The fact that he was a true submissive who responded with great intensity of feeling and passion to what she gave him—well, so much the better. Most of her clients were just horny, lonely men looking for a cheap thrill. Sylvie did her job, satisfying their masochistic needs and taking control for the brief time they were in her dungeon, but usually she forgot about them the instant they walked out of the room.

Not so Owen.

In the few weeks since she’d accepted him as a client, each session had been more intense and involved than the last. It was becoming increasingly difficult to separate her feelings from the job. He was affecting her ability to be neutral and professional. He was tangling her emotions in a way that just wouldn’t do.

Maybe it’s time to end this
.

Yet the thought of never seeing him again…

Sylvie’s personal cell phone began to play
Blue Moon
, the special ring from the one person she realized she needed to talk to at precisely that moment. “Chloé, how did you know I needed you?”

Chloé laughed. “Don’t I always? It’s him again, isn’t it? The man I dreamed of. But what is wrong? I am feeling sadness, instead of the joy that should come with meeting a new love.”

“You’ve got it all wrong this time, my dear friend. There is no lover.”

“You are sure? I feel this so strongly, Sylvie. There is a man. I haven’t been this sure since… Oh, I’m sorry,
chérie
.” 

“Since Jacques. Go ahead, it’s okay, you can say his name. I actually go whole days now, even longer, where he never even crosses my mind.” Sylvie realized with surprise as she said this that it was true. She’d barely thought about the man she’d considered the love of her life for—for how long now? At least a few weeks!

When he’d left her after eight years together, with just a note telling her he had met someone new, Sylvie had felt as if a piece of her had been ripped away, leaving her ragged and bleeding, certain she would never heal.

During that horrible first month she’d barely been able to leave the house, or eat or even bathe. Many long phone calls from dear Chloé had gotten her through, making her realize life would, indeed, go on, with or without Jacques Gaston. Sylvie had begun to put one foot in front of the other once again, working on building the pro Domme practice, which until that point had been more of a hobby than a career.

She’d torn the twenty-thousand dollar check the independently wealthy Jacques had left along with his farewell note into tiny pieces, nurturing the righteous rage she’d felt that he thought he could replace their love with money. But, though scar tissue slowly formed over the wound of her loss, the pain remained, a quiet, empty ache inside a heart she’d imagined shattered beyond repair. She would not, she had thought, ever love again.

“Tell me about the new man.”

“Chloé!” Sylvie laughed in exasperation. “I said there’s no one! Do you think I would keep this from you? I’m a little conflicted, that’s all. I have to make a decision.”

“Tell me.”

“There is a man—”

“
Voilà!
I told you! There is a man. I knew it.”

Sylvie laughed again in spite of herself. “Well, yes, okay, he
is
a man. I’ll concede that. But he’s a client, not a lover.”

“What’s his name?” Chloé interrupted.

“What does it matter? He’s just a client,” Sylvie retorted, aware she sounded defensive.

“Okay,” Chloé said slowly. “Tell me about this
client
. What is the decision you have to make? And why is it making you so sad?”

“I’m not sad! Who said I was sad?”

“Sylvie,” Chloé said gently, “it’s me. You don’t have to be strong with me,
chère
. I’m your safe place, remember?”

Tears sprang to Sylvie’s eyes and she longed suddenly for Chloé’s warm, strong embrace. She wanted to sit at the big table in Chloé’s cluttered kitchen, which always smelled of freshly baking bread, and drink a cup of dark, sweet coffee while she told her best friend everything.

“His name is Owen,” she admitted. “And he is starting to matter too much.”

~*~

Early the next morning while Sylvie was paying bills on her computer, the business phone rang. She glanced at it with mild curiosity, with no intention of picking it up. Her heart stopped for a second as she read the name scrolling across the screen:
Owen McCarthy
.

Chloé had commiserated with Sylvie about the blurring of boundaries between work and pleasure, but she hadn't understood the problem. “I get it that you can’t mix the two, but the solution is clear, Sylvie. End the professional connection. Ask him out!”

Chloé made it sound so simple, but she didn’t understand the ramifications. Clients were, by definition, off limits for Sylvie. If she got the reputation for crossing that line she would lose all legitimacy within the field. She’d already nearly blown it with that stupid kiss! Fortunately Owen was novice enough, or maybe just enough of a gentleman, not to push his advantage. He didn’t want a fulltime dominant lover, that much was certain. If he had, he would have found one rather than seeking out professional services in a carefully controlled environment.