Master class, p.3
Master Class, page 3
Malcolm taught me that.
As if conjured by the thought, my phone vibrates, and when I glance over, I see Malcolm’s face on its screen, requesting a video call. I grab the phone off the stool where I left it and put it on the floor in front of me, hovering over it so that when I answer his FaceTime, it looks like I’m sitting astride him, naked, skin sheened lightly with sweat. I do stroke six while his face resolves on the screen, and the sight of him does more for me than any toy ever will. Keeping track of where I’m at during this conversation is going to be… interesting.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Getting assfucked by the wall.”
“Let me see.”
I hold the phone over my shoulder, letting him see how the rod penetrates me and then I slide off of it again.
When I bring him back to where I can see him, his face is tight with irritation. “No,” he says. “Wrong. God. The Client…why does he think he can tell me how to do the job he asked for me, specifically, to do? This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. This is… Jesus. No.”
I try to keep track of my strokes while he talks—that was, uh, seven, and then eight, and nine, and nine—and wait, that was nine twice, wasn’t it. So now ten? Or eleven?
“I’m losing count,” I tell him. “I need to do twenty every day. To loosen me up.”
“Losing count,” he says. He’s disgusted with something, and I hope it’s not me. “You should be,” he continues. “Sex isn’t about counting. The Client thinks he knows things. He thinks he’s qualified to guide you through this. But he doesn’t, and he can’t see that he doesn’t, and he’s ruining everything. You need better instruction, better care than this.”
I’ve never seen Malcolm so worked up about anything, and I have to admit it’s doing it for me—the flush rising in his cheeks is in direct contrast with the precision and control of his tightly buttoned collar, his perfectly tied tie.
I could probably get off this way, just talking to him, but something is clearly wrong, so I slide off the rod entirely, settling back on my feet and holding the phone out in front of me. Now that I can concentrate on him, I try to catch any details that will tell me about his life—where he is, who he’s with, what he’s doing—but all I see is his dark suit and a plain white wall behind him. No clues, as usual.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t hate it.” But his face stays dark, and panic starts to flutter in my chest. Is he going to tell the Client I complained about his methods? Is he going to make this into a bigger issue than it should be? I was ready to keep doing the lesson. I only complained because…well. Because I wanted Malcolm to make the lesson more fun. “Don’t tell him I didn’t like it. Please.”
Malcolm shakes his head, like the thought never even occurred to him. “I own that ass, and he needs to treat it better,” he says. “It’s too late for today, but—when is the next time you’re working on it?”
“Tomorrow night, I guess.”
“I’ll see you then,” he says, hanging up before I can get another word in.
5
When I wake in the morning, there’s an envelope that’s been slipped under my front door. The enclosed note gives me a time and a residential address in one of the nicer neighborhoods in town, not far from where I picked up the rods yesterday. It’s signed, simply, M.
As I’m wondering where he’s sending me, and what will happen while I’m there, the earpiece on my bedside table emits a small beep, alerting me that it’s on again. I slip it in just in time to hear the Client asking, “How did your first lessons go?”
“Fine,” I say. And it did go fine, and that would be all I had to say, but I can’t help remembering Malcolm’s reaction—the way his eyes blazed cold, and how furious he looked, that the Client was intruding on his territory. That memory makes me wonder how Malcolm would have arranged the lesson if he could have. How much better it could have felt.
“Did you come?” the Client asks.
I debate for a moment between lying and being honest. Does he want me to say that I loved it, that I loved everything he plans for me? Or am I allowed to admit that it felt like a doctor’s exam, not a sensual experience?
Well, he just arranged a long vacation so that I could learn how to ask for what I want, so he’s going to hear the truth about it. “It wasn’t…very sexy,” I say.
“Good,” he says. He sounds satisfied, almost triumphant. “On our wedding night, when I fuck your ass, it’ll be the first time it feels good. Physical penetration is just an act; it doesn’t have to mean anything. But that pleasure, that orgasm: those are mine.”
So, there is a reason it’s so clinical. At least I know that now.
Though the knowledge doesn’t make the rest of the training feel any more appealing.
“Tonight, I want you to do your training at The Cuffing Club,” the Client continues. “There are people I want to show you off to.”
I glow with satisfaction for a moment—I like the idea that I’m worth showing off, and this sounds like it’ll be way more fun than taking the second rod into the bathroom for another soulless session—but then I remember Malcolm’s note. Shit. I’m supposed to meet up with him at the address he gave. Now I can’t go, but, per his rules, I also can’t contact him.
“Be at the back door at nine tonight,” the Client says. “I’m sending you something to wear. Bring your toys and have your earpiece in. I’ll be listening.”
Then the line between us goes dead. That’s it.
Shit. Unless I can figure out how to be in two places at once, I’m screwed.
I pick up my phone and open Malcolm’s contact. My finger hovers over the call button while I debate what I’m supposed to do next. He really, really did say I shouldn’t call him. There were no exceptions. And anyway, he’s the one who made a rule. Can he be mad if I follow it?
He might be, but I don’t see a way out of this, other than to just…not show with Malcolm tonight, and then explain what happened whenever he contacts me next. That’s fine. It’s not a breach of contract; in fact, it’s the opposite. Disobeying the Client risks revealing our secret, and there are no feelings between us anyway, so he might chafe a little at being disobeyed, but he can’t be hurt when I have other things demanding my attention instead of him.
This time, when I arrive at The Cuffing Club, I don’t enter through the front door; my car drops me off at the back entrance, where I’m escorted down a long brick-walled hallway by a disinterested security guard. The pearl-colored silk teddy the Client sent me whispers against my legs as I walk, fluttering around my body and rendering me a series of shadows and shapes, curves and colors. I’m carrying the box of rods with me, its black matte surface resting between my slick palms.
The Client is in my ear the whole time. “You look amazing,” he says. “You’re going to blow their minds. If I was that guard, I’d try to get a taste of you for myself—but he knows it’s not worth his job to even think about it. You’re a prize beyond rubies. You were made for cock. My cock.”
At the end of the hallway, the guard opens a door and I walk through into a small, luxurious room. It’s a private movie theater, set with red velvet seats and polished oak accents, brass sconces gleaming on the walls. It could seat twenty or thirty, I think, but tonight the screen has been rolled up, and only the first two rows are filled.
“Get on stage,” the Client instructs in my ear, so I do. “Put the box on the table.”
I count six, no, eight men as I walk down the steps and take my place on stage. It’s just me and a wooden table up here, in the spotlight.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “You look stunning.”
I look out over the seats, and from what I can see, the men in them are just watching me—not talking, not looking at their phones. Just… watching. The spotlight on me makes their features hard to make out, so I can’t tell much else about them. They’re just broad-shouldered shadows, and their presence unnerves and excites me in equal measure.
“Take off everything but the shoes,” the Client instructs.
Okay. No problem. I pull the straps of the teddy off my shoulders, and the fabric slips off my body, pooling gracefully around my feet. I step out of it before unhooking my bra, baring my breasts and their hard nipples to the assembled men. Last of all is my panties. I wonder if they can see how wet I am already.
“Get out the next size rod,” the Client says. “Put it up on the floor.”
I’m glad I practiced this alone last night so it’s easy to do: attaching the suction cup to the floor, and the rod to the suction cup. The audience stays quiet while I do this, and their stoic shadowiness is starting to unnerve me. Are they going to be like this the entire time? It’s kind of hot, but it’s kind of weird, too.
One of the men in the second row stands up. “Grab your ankles, babycakes,” he says. His voice is deep and rough, a basso I feel in my chest.
“Go on,” the Client says. “Do what he tells you.”
I turn so that my ass is facing the audience and bend at the waist to lay my hands on my ankles like a good ballerina. I’m getting wet already, my body just starting to warm up to the situation, and I know they can see everything.
The guy strides out from the seats and comes to stand behind me. All I can see are his shoes, black leather and shining in the light. What’s about to happen? Is he going to fuck me in the ass after all of this?
He doesn’t pull his cock out, though. Instead, there’s a couple of sounds I can’t identify, and then something cool and wet on my ass. Lube, I think, as he spreads it around, barely slipping his fingers inside of my anus, teasing me with pressure and then taking it away. I’m just starting to get into it, my body feeling slick and hot and needy, when he slips those fingers down my crack and then into my cunt.
I can’t help it; I let out a surprised little cry. “Oh!”
The Client’s tone over the earpiece is serious, severe. “Beg for more.”
“Please, sir. Give me more.” My voice feels so loud in the quiet room, but it does the trick: the guy reaches between my legs and flicks my clit.
“Jesus,” he says. “It’s pierced.” He tugs on it, and I barely keep my hips from rocking into the pressure. “What a fucking whore, man. Look at her.”
His words feel like one of Master’s spanks, stinging and arousing, making all of my blood rush to the surface of my skin. He keeps touching me, stroking my pussy, thumbing my clit, rubbing me everywhere, until I let out another needy little cry.
“Beg him to fuck you,” the Client says.
“I am a whore. Please fuck me. I need to come.” And I do want to. I want to so badly, except I know that—
“Bet you do,” the guy says, punctuating his words with an actual slap for good measure. “But nah.”
Then he stops touching me entirely, walking away to retake his seat in the audience. They laugh and clap, pleased by his performance, and I can see him waving to them as he goes up the aisle.
I don’t know what to do next, but the Client does. “Good,” he says. “Now crouch down. Let them all see your cunt.” I do, squatting with my legs spread, my wet little pussy more on display than ever, clint ring glinting in the lights. “Perfect, you’re a perfect fucking whore,” he says. “Now lower yourself onto the rod. Fuck your ass with it. Let them see how well you take it.”
I do as he instructs, and the metal is still cold against my skin, but I want to be filled up so badly, and it feels good to have any pressure, anything to clench against and rock back and forth on.
As I start to fuck myself, the audience rises. They filter onto the stage, surrounding me, a looming mass of men. A forest of legs. One by one, they unzip their pants, take their cocks out, and start jerking off, stroking themselves as they watch me move. I can smell them but not taste them, hear them but not feel them, and the friction of that is driving me crazy, along with the pressure in my ass, the orgasm building, building along my spine.
For a while, all I can hear is the panting of my own breath and the slick sounds of fists on cocks, the occasional animal grunt of satisfaction.
“Fuck,” one of them says, and then he’s coming, spending his load on my collarbones so that it drips down my tits, hot and wet and nasty. The next one aims more carefully for my face, and the next is on my belly, and after that I lose track; it’s just the sound of men relieving themselves, groaning in their pleasure, as mine grows more wild and inescapable inside of me.
Eventually they’ve all come except one man. He’s the guy who lubed me, the only one who’s touched me directly tonight. He kneels down in front of me and keeps jerking off with one hand while he reaches out to flick my clit with the other. The pressure is delicious, consuming, tinged with pain and exactly what I need, and it feels so good I start to panic.
“Faster,” the Client says in my ear. His voice is commanding now, bending me like a bow. “Show me how you’ll come when I’m fucking your ass.” I up my tempo, my hips snapping up and down, the man’s fingers fast on my clit, and here it is. The problem. The insoluble problem I’ve made for myself.
I promised Malcolm I wouldn’t come without his permission. But the Client won’t be satisfied if I don’t, and I certainly can’t explain the rule, and also, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to hold back. My body is turning animal, now, following instinct; I can feel the primal force of need asserting itself, slowly but very, very surely.
Everything is hot and slick and pressure and friction; my ass is full and my clit fucking aches and I’m throbbing everywhere, my whole body pulsing, pulsing, begging for release. I said I was begging earlier, but this is the real thing: utterly desperate, utterly degraded.
“Go ahead, hummingbird,” the guy touching my clit says, so quiet only I can hear it, and my world starts to tear at the seams. “Show us.”
I am a hummingbird: tiny heart beating millions of times per minute, body fluttering as I shout and come and shake, tears tracking down my cheeks when I let myself go at last.
6
That night, and the next morning, into the afternoon, I hear nothing from Malcolm. Nothing from his office, either. He must have figured out what was happening, and he must have forgiven me at least a little, since he planted that guy in the audience to give me permission to come. But how did he know? And what does this mean for what happens next between us?
I can barely eat my lunch, even though the Niçoise salad is one of my favorites, and I know Jane is suspicious. So when we’re done, I sneak off and call the agency. I can’t live with this uncertainty. I have to just… I have to know something. Even if I get in trouble for asking.
The receptionist says Master isn’t in, but she transfers me anyway, to the woman I spoke to at the beginning of my training with Antoine. The one who told me he was all right once you understood his methods.
I’m hoping she has more advice or insight or something for me today.
“Hello, Ms. Newmont,” she says when she picks up. “I’m surprised to hear from you. How can we help?”
Surprised? This isn’t the first time I’ve contacted them and it likely won’t be the last, but whatever. She can be shady with me if she wants. “I’m calling for Master,” I tell her. I’m hoping that I can tell her some fib that will convince her to help me, but instead she cuts me off, saying, “He only takes calls from students of active clients.”
But that—does that mean—I don’t understand.
I thank her on autopilot, tell her I get it even though I don’t, and get off the phone as quickly as possible. Then I put the earpiece in, but once again, it’s silent, and no amount of waiting or tapping or frantic glaring will make the Client’s voice appear from it.
Which means that, even though it’s also kind of a bad idea, I have to go talk to Daddy.
I find him in his office, installed behind his wide wooden desk, sitting in a chair that looks more like a throne than a business accessory. One of my earliest lessons was to never, ever, for any reason, bother my father while he was working, but right now, I don’t care. Something is going on that I don’t know about, that involves my life and my future, and I need answers urgently. He’s had twenty-one years of my cooperation and patience; today, he gets a taste of my temper.
He glances up when I come in and frowns, shakes his head, assuming that I’ll come back when it’s convenient for him. Instead, I walk deliberately over to one of the chairs facing his desk and take a seat, crossing my legs delicately at the ankles. I will not be put off.
He shakes his head again, and I shake my head back at him.
He’s on a call, but he must be muted, because he’s typing away on his computer at the same time. After a few minutes, his secretary comes in and hands him a sheaf of papers to sign; she can’t hide her puzzled reaction to seeing me here during business hours, but doesn’t say anything. Finally, Daddy leans over and unmutes himself on the call. “I have to hop off,” he says. “Tell Andre to send me the details as soon as they’re finalized.”
Then, to me, he says, “It has to wait.”
“It can’t.”
“Juliette, can’t you see I’m—” As if to underscore his point, his phone rings again.
“I don’t care,” I say. “I need to talk to you. Now.”
He looks at me. Looks at the ringing phone.
I’ve never asserted myself with my father like this; I can’t remember the last time I disobeyed him, let alone argued that I was right to do it. I feel a small flicker of triumph as he reaches over and silences the call.
“Two minutes,” he says. “Today really isn’t the day for this.”
“It has to be,” I tell him. “Because today is the day I called Master’s office and found out I’m not a student there anymore. What happened? Was anyone ever going to tell me?”
Any interest he has in appeasing me disappears. “That’s none of your business,” he says, tone clipped. “You do what I tell you to do, go where I tell you to go, and learn from who I tell you to learn from. In time, you will do those things for your husband, but as of right now, I am in charge of your life and your lessons, and that’s all you need to know. You’ve already delayed me enough for one day. Go.”
