Master class, p.4
Master Class, page 4
I gather my courage and stand my ground. “No,” I say. “No, that isn’t going to work this time. I’ve done every single thing you’ve ever said, since I was a baby up until right now. I’ve done it without question or complaint, and I’ve done it—all of it—excellently. I’ve earned a little goodwill, and now I’m spending it, because I want answers. Is Master’s agency running the show or not?”
This time, when his secretary peeks her head into the room, presumably to ask why he didn’t pick up the phone, he waves her away. “Hold everything until I tell you otherwise,” he says, and she scurries off to rearrange his life for him.
Good.
“Your husband decided to take a more active role than your Master weeks ago,” he says.
My heart sinks. If Master is just a glorified courier now, there’s no excuse for me to see him or talk to him. Hiding what we’re doing will be even more complicated and difficult. But also…why would the Client have done that? Didn’t I tell him I was happy with Master, that a change would be difficult for me?
“Oh,” is all I say.
“Then I hired him myself,” Daddy says.
Jesus. No wonder I’m confused. “What? Why?”
“I’m fine with your future husband running the training the way he wants, but you’re still mine,” he says. “I’m still responsible for you, and I want you in strong hands. Until you’re married and ties are cut, I need you to be watched, and there’s no one better. This is his area of expertise, not your husband’s. Now, can I get back to work?”
I nod silently and get up, slipping out of his office like a shadow. This changes everything.
Which means I’m not at all sure what’s supposed to happen next.
Questions follow me as I walk back down the long brick path from the main house to my cottage. It’s a beautiful fall day, sunlight crisp through the turning leaves, but all I can focus on is the questions swirling in my head. How can this be happening? Is that how Malcolm knew where I was last night? Did Daddy give him some way to…track me?
Has Malcolm been lying to me?
I let myself into the house and flop down on the sofa in the living room, feeling more than a little bit like a fainting Victorian heroine from a book. But a fainting Victorian heroine would never have to ask herself what I do now: Is this whole relationship lately—everything that happened in Arcadia, and in the park and his office—just a ruse Malcolm designed so that he could have an excuse to keep tabs on me for Daddy?
I turn over onto my stomach and bury my face in the soft velvet, letting out a groan that no one can hear. Because if there are no feelings, then…so what? Isn’t that what we explicitly agreed to? The point was just supposed to be sex, pure and simple.
He said he wanted to own me. Possession isn’t a feeling. And maybe all of it was him just saying what he needed to say so that he could do his job.
His job, which matters to him more than anyone or anything ever can or will.
I have no feelings for him, because that was the agreement, and I’m sticking to it. But if I did, they would be tender and bruised.
Being alone with this feeling is intolerable; I’m tormented, and I need someone to take my mind off of it. Before I can overthink it, I get up again and head over to Jane’s cottage, hoping she’s up for some mindless TV-watching.
When I get there, though, Jane is beaming, and the contrast of her glowing happiness to my thundercloud aura of misery is palpable. She’s so excited that she doesn’t even notice how dreary I am, just grabs my hands and pulls me into a hug the second I step over the threshold.
“I was just about to call you!” she exclaims. “But you showed up, and that’s even more perfect. Oh, Juliette! I have the best news.”
She twirls me around the room, and I let her, my body like a ragdoll in her arms. She leans in close and presses her cheek to mine; the satin of her skin is a brief comfort before she whispers, “Bruce asked me to marry him,” and then pulls away, regarding me with an expression of astonished delight.
I try to arrange my features into a passable smile. I am happy for her. She deserves to have every single thing she’s ever wanted.
I want to be happy for my friend. I want it so badly, and I’m in charge of my emotions. If I want to share in her good news, I can. I decide how I feel. It only takes a moment for her delight to wash away my cranky doubt. I am truly happy for her.
“Isn’t that wonderful?” she says. “He wants to move off the compound together, and of course I can’t until you’re married, but I figured, your wedding isn’t far off, and then…then our lives will start.” She pulls me into another hug, and I bury my face in her shoulder.
“Our lives are finally starting,” she says. “I can’t believe we’re both going to be married women so soon!”
7
Jane’s optimism rattles me; it’s so unsettling to think that we’re living in different realities, in certain ways. All she sees is my future laid out before me, as clear as it’s ever been, progressing in a straight line. And it is, I remind myself. She’s not wrong. She just can’t see all the details, the one slight detour I’m planning to take before I turn back onto the main road and commit myself to the Client forever.
He calls me before I go to bed that night. I try to tell myself it’s a good opportunity to get back on track. And his voice in my ears is still gorgeous, a slick masculine purr that rumbles something low in my belly. “Hello, pet,” he says. “You were gorgeous for me last night. Ready for the next size up?”
“Of course,” I say automatically, one hand reaching out to root through the box on my nightstand for rod #3. When my fingers close around what I think must be the one, though, I’m surprised—so surprised that I have to look over and check to see that I’m not making a mistake. But I’m not.
Where the difference between rods #1 and #2 wasn’t crazy, this feels…massive, like a larger, faster step than I would have expected. I cradle the cold silver in my palms and realize I’m chewing nervously on my lower lip.
“It’s…really big,” I say stupidly into the Client’s silence.
“It is,” he says, but he sounds amused with me, and pleased. “After the way you performed last night, I know you’ll be able to take it beautifully. You need more than some slender little thing to fill you up, Juliette. You and your hungry little holes.”
I let his words shiver across my skin as I go into the bathroom and suction cup the rod to the wall, just like I did with the first one. Then I wait for instructions.
“You might want to play with yourself first,” the Client muses. “Suck on your fingers, get them wet. Touch yourself for me. Where no one ever touches you. Where no one will touch you but me.”
I suck two fingers into my mouth, getting them slick before I start to probe the tender skin between my cheeks. I’m still a little loose from fucking the rod on stage yesterday, and one goes in easier than I would have thought, knuckle slipping past my rim with no resistance.
“How does it feel?” he asks.
He liked it when I was honest last time. “Okay,” I say. “Wet.”
“Someday I’ll fuck your mouth while you prepare your ass for me,” he says. “For today, though, you’ll just have to dream about it.”
I can’t, though. I’ve never met the Client, and I know if I let myself fantasize, it will be about Master. About his cock in my mouth, in my pussy, splitting me open and filling me up everywhere I need it. And it feels too disloyal to think about him with my future husband in my ears. I already came for him the first time I did this kind of homework assignment. I need to make sure I understand the difference between the sex I crave with Master, and the rest of my life with my husband.
So instead I rock back and forth on my fingers, slipping in the second along with the first, until the Client says, “That’s enough. Take the rod now.”
“Are you sure? I might need to…”
He laughs. “Juliette,” he says. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it when it hurts a little.”
Shame flushes through me, so hot and searing that it’s edged with arousal, too.
That deflates, though, when I back on my hands and knees, feeling like a toddler, and slide the rod slowly into my ass.
The first breach is manageable, but it thickens as I go, and I have to pause for a moment to collect myself, to catch my breath.
“How are you doing?” the Client asks. “Maybe next time I’ll have you send me a video so I can watch you getting yourself ready for me, like the obedient little slut you are.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him again. “It’s intense.”
“Fuck it now, and get used to it.” His voice is stern and commanding. “Because once we’re married, I’m going to take you whether you’re ready or not.”
A jolt of adrenaline runs through me at the idea—of him just fucking inside of me, making my body accept him, no matter what my mind has to say about it. It’s hot enough to push me the final few inches, so that the rod is fully inside of me, stretching me forcefully. I feel wide open and weirdly full.
“They’re only going to get bigger,” the Client promises. “So don’t slack off, Juliette.”
There’s a click that tells me he’s off the line, but I stay where I am, starting to move slowly, working myself back and forth along the rod until the sensation goes from uncomfortable to intense, but not bad. I’m glad he didn’t ask me to touch myself, I think; to pretend this was sexy, instead of what it is, which is…mostly strange. His voice is hot, and so is the way he tells me what to do, but I can’t get past how clinical it is, and how detached I feel from the whole experience.
I remember Malcolm telling me that this wasn’t the right way to do it; how irritated he seemed by the Client’s methods for this part of my sexual education. How would he do it instead, I wonder?
I picture him in the room with me, just watching me do exactly what I’m doing now. But he wouldn’t have me fuck the wall, I think. It’s embarrassing but it’s not…vulnerable enough. He’d have me in bed with my legs spread for him, so he could see my pussy on display, clenching around nothing, wet for him even though he didn’t want to use it. Maybe he would lean over and spit between my legs, give me his drool and nothing else. It would be slick inside of me but it wouldn’t be enough. I would ask him for more. And maybe he would—
I’ve picked up a rhythm, I realize, my cunt starting to pulse as I imagine the way Malcolm would teach me this, if he were allowed to. The way he could make me want it, because he can make me want anything, seemingly without even trying.
But the echo of the Client’s voice is still in my ears, and so is his earpiece.
I pull off the rod, frowning at the soft squelching sound my body makes when I do it. I have to keep myself together. I can’t let the fantasy run away with me.
I stand up, ignoring the pulsing between my legs. Now that I’ve thought of Master, I want to come, but I don’t let myself.
That’s enough of this lesson for one night.
I stay wired, though. The arousal I courted earlier burns low and hot in my belly as I twist restlessly in my sheets and try and try and try to fall asleep. So when Malcolm whips the sheets off of me at some pitch-black early morning hour, for a moment, I think I’m dreaming.
When I realize I’m not, I’m pissed. I sit up, trying to smooth my hair and wrangle my temper. “What the fuck, Malcolm?”
He’s implacable. “That kind of language is going to get you punished, hummingbird,” he says, his eyes raking over my legs, my shoulders, the outlines of my nipples: all of the sleep-warmed skin bared by my tiny chemise and sleep shorts. “I should already punish you for not showing up at my door.”
“Yeah—and what was hummingbird about? At The Cuffing Club theater?” I spit back. We’re not playing his game anymore, and I can dish it just as well as I take it.
“Could you have held it without permission?”
I respond without thinking about it. “What’s the difference to you?”
He’s done with verbal sparring, though. Instead of answering my question, he shoves me back onto the bed and tugs my legs apart, rough and careless. Then he runs a hand up the inside of my thigh, barely brushing the warm wet of my seam before he pushes my tank top up to expose my tits. He pinches each nipple, watches them get pinker and harder for him, and sticks the fingers of his other hand in my mouth. He tastes like salt, like skin, like victory ribboned in defeat.
My heart is fluttering in my chest, and I remember why he called me Hummingbird in the first place: how I always feel like I’m going to thrum apart when he puts his hands on me.
He looks down at me seriously, frowning, and pulls his hand out of my mouth. He smacks the side of my ass and says, “Turn over,” in a tone that makes me shiver.
“Wait…are you going to—”
“I own you,” he says. “What part of ‘turn over and show me your ass’ don’t you understand?”
I get on all fours, expecting a spank—craving it, even—but it doesn’t come. He pulls my shorts down around my knees and then doesn’t touch me for a few moments. I wait on my hands and knees, ass in the air, feeling exposed and debased.
“I understand,” I promise him, but he just pulls my hair in response, yanking my head back so quickly I gasp.
“I’m not sure you do.”
“Why don’t you remind me, then?” It’s dangerous, daring a man like Malcolm, but for once, my provocation gets me what I want. “Fuck some sense into me, maybe.”
“Oh, you’re getting fucked.”
One hand still threaded through my hair, he reaches over to the wooden box on my bedside table, flips it open, and dumps everything out onto the bed next to me. The false bottom tumbles out, the biggest rod coming out with it. He picks it up, and even in his hands, so big and competent, it looks huge. From the way he’s looking at it and looking at me, I can tell what he’s thinking, and it’s not going to happen. I just…I can’t. The rod I took earlier tonight already felt massive, and it took me a few minutes to figure out how to relax enough to get it inside. This is way bigger. This is definitely not happening.
“It’s too big,” I tell him.
“Is it? Open your mouth.”
I do, and he slides it in, the metal a cold shock against my heated tongue.
“Is my cock bigger?” he asks.
I nod, because it is, and we both know it—this is very, very big, but his cock is fucking huge.
As if to prove it, he pulls the rod out again, and then presses me flat against the bed. He unzips his pants, pulls himself out and presses his dick inside of my pussy, every single inch so good that all I can do is lie there and take it. This is the first time he’s fucked me since he took my virginity in his office, and it’s exactly the same and completely different. I know enough now to know that no one else is as big as him. No one else fills me up the way he does. No one else makes my cunt wet and my mouth water quite the way he does when he starts to fuck me, rhythmic and brutal, so that I have to bury my face in the sheets to hide the noises I’m making.
“Every part of your body is built for my cock,” he says, riding me still, one hand pressed against my shoulder blade, the other steady and tight on my hip. “Your mouth can take me. Your cunt can take me. So if your ass can take me, it can take this.”
Next thing I know, my hips are in the air again, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him pick up the rod from where he dropped it in the sheets.
“My ass can’t fit you,” I say. I know he’s not going to hurt me—I trust him with my life. But also, I’m nervous, my body pumping with adrenaline and desire and nerves.
“Not yet. But it will.” He finds the lube that was in the box, and I hear the sound of it, slick behind me, and then two of his fingers are pushing into my hole, just at the edge of what I can take. He works me slowly, in and out, getting me used to the feeling. Are his fingers bigger than the rod was? I can’t tell. I’m too overwhelmed. Everything feels hot and shocking and too much and not enough. Why do his hands feel so different than mine did when I opened myself for the Client earlier?
Then Malcolm’s cock starts moving inside of my cunt again, the two pressures working in counterpoint to one another, and I can’t wonder anything. I start to lose track of what he’s doing; all I know is that it feels so fucking good.
“That’s right,” he says, his voice rough but coaxing, threaded with the barest promise of need. The sound wraps itself around me like silk. “Your ass was made for me.” That’s when I feel something bigger than his fingers, more solid, slipping inside of my ass, taking their place. “You have it,” he promises. “You have this whole thing. Fuck it.” I flex and squirm, and he just fucks me harder, his cock still moving slowly inside of me as he pushes the rod in and in and in. “That’s right,” he says. “That’s it.”
I’m panting, now, gasping, reeling. All I know is that I’m the object of all of his attention, his instrument. He fucks my pussy and he fucks my ass, and there are universes of sensation inside of my body, stars exploding, galaxies being born, in the pleasure and pain and sheer stunning overwhelm of each gorgeous thrust. It’s so much easier to take something this size when I want it—when I need it the way Malcolm makes me need everything he gives me.
“When you take my cock,” he says, “it’ll be even better.”
The silver rod bottoms out, sitting perfectly, and now when he fucks me his hips push it in and out, so that he’s in control of every part of me, taking me apart from back to front, inside and out. He reaches around and starts rubbing my clit, fingers strong and sure against that aching little nub, and my body explodes like a bomb: total, certain, without any warning. One minute I’m strung out on what he’s doing and the next I’m in the stars somewhere, naked against the black velvet curtain of the sky, sobbing out my release.
