Beg Me (7 page)

I was on all fours like a dog, my vulva facing out, and a shudder ran through me as I wondered what I was supposed to do next, what was going to happen, and as my mouth opened to speak—

“Not one word,” he growled.

We had kissed a little. He had fondled me, but that was it, and now I was suddenly on display, at his command, praying like hell that his clerk didn’t walk through the door and see me like this, and then I felt his finger stroking my labia.

My juices started. I remember breathing his name, but he ignored me, his finger making the shallowest entry into my vagina, prompting me to moan.

He took his hand away.

“Go and get dressed,” he said. “No, no—do it here where I can see you. Aw, shit, no. I can see I’ve got to teach you everything. We’ll go over that later. You understand me?”

“Okay.”

“Say, ‘yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wipe that smile off your face. You want to have your pussy in the display window in the store? I can make you do it—”

“Oh, no, you won’t.”

“Then we’re done here—”

“Okay, okay—”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir!” I felt like I was going to sexual boot camp or something. I didn’t have a clue.

“Listen, I help you with this,” he said, “and you’ve got to do something for me.”

“If I can.”

He looked down at the floor a moment, weighing his request. “You solve murders. That’s what they pay you for, right?”

“Sometimes,” I said carefully. “Most of the time I get lucky, Oliver. It’s not always murder. It’s theft sometimes, extortion. It turns into murder more times than I’d like.”

“My father was murdered. They never found out who did it. If you want to call it the price of my help, okay, that’s it.”

I was still naked. “You mind if I get my clothes on before I answer?”

He smiled. I walked over to him, and we kissed again, long and hard. Suddenly, he pulled back. I didn’t understand what was wrong. It was like he was fighting his own impulses.

“I can look into your father’s murder,” I said, “but I don’t know if I’ll find anything.”

“I’m not talking about reading a file, Teresa. I need a real investigator, you know?”

I dressed in record time. “Okay, tell me when it happened. What’s the background?”

“Later,” he said. “I just want a sincere commitment right now. Halfway through your training, I’ll let you go check into it, and when you find results, you’ll come back here and I’ll finish working with you for what you need with the group—the cult. I have to admit it to myself: They are a cult.”

“But your father’s murder: You expect me to give you a blind answer? I don’t even know what’s involved—”

“
Later.
I’m going to ask things of you that are a lot tougher than that.”

I relented, nodding. Perhaps it wasn’t so much to ask. Perhaps it could be quickly wrapped up. For now, it was good enough to convey to him that I would try. He had given me a name, and that was progress.

The Sarcophacan Temple of Nubian Princes. And a guy named Isaac.

“Okay, okay. What time do you want me to come over tomorrow?”

He looked at me as if I was being foolish. “You’re not taking a Learning Annex class. This is all the way. Go and get your things from the hotel. You’re staying here—for the week.”

I looked around, not understanding what on earth he could mean. We were in a bookshop. Where was I going to sleep?

“What do you mean
here
?”

“Basement,” he said.

It turned out to be a basement, all right. It was his personal dungeon, back behind the shop’s stockroom.

3

S
uspended, naked, hanging like a child’s mobile four feet above the ground, wrists and ankles in leather cuffs. Not enough slack that I could bring my hands together to effect an escape, and that’s not what I was after anyway. I was here for insight. I pulled, and there was slack in the ropes, but it just meant I flailed about and bobbed and swayed like a fish on a hook. He left me like that for hours at a time. At first I thought: This is bloody dull. And then he got down to it.

He came in and slowly undressed. I watched the unveiling of firm pecs and a six-pack of hard brown muscle, and it was clear that whatever ordeal he had been through with this group, it had confirmed him as a fanatic in the gym. When he pulled down his pants, he took his underwear with them, and he was already hard. Seven inches of thick cock, and if you’re one of those who think penises have their own personalities, then his was a dick that was rude and angry and insistent, a dark brown pole, his large testicles with their skin taut like folds over large eggs. The head of his penis was a red bulb, and I swore I could see a bead of semen glistening there. He was close to coming just thinking about me, up in his shop. Now he moved toward me with his erection like it was to be a punishment.

And I was completely vulnerable.

His fingertips touched my pussy, and he said in a harsh voice, “You should be wetter for me.”

“I’m plenty wet,” I said.

There was a kind of harness to cradle my neck and my head, but I was hung in an almost fully horizontal position. I could see him when he walked in but not anymore, not when he stood in front of my open legs.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “You speak when you’re spoken to.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

I felt a slap across my buttocks.

And I burst out laughing. It was an involuntary response. I felt ridiculous. Too conscious that I was playing a role, that I—

Crack.

I writhed in sudden pain and cried out.

Whatever just spanked my buttocks wasn’t his hand. I couldn’t see, just feel the aftershock of searing heat and mild pain expanding over my ass.
That
blow wasn’t playful. It wasn’t the clap your mummy gave you when you were bad. It was sharp, precise, deliberate, came from some kind of paddle. It stung like hell.

“You respond to me with conviction,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t need it loud. Just sincere. Like you mean it. I won’t call you ‘bitch’ or childish, stupid names. That’s amateur-hour BS. But you will submit, do you understand? Until your training’s complete, you belong to me. Is that clear?”

I hesitated.
Belong
to someone. Like property. Like a
slave.
And my hackles instantly rose at that one.

“I guess I better unlock you,” he said. “You can’t do this.”

“
No!
Wait—”

Dammit, I needed to know about this stuff to get in, and that meant trusting him, and—

“You belong to me.”

Stop thinking.

“I belong to you.”

“Again.”

“I belong to you.”

And part of me wanted to know, wanted to
feel.

He slapped my ass again hard with the paddle.
Ohhhh,
God. My first instinct was to yank and pull at my bonds, wanting to break out and knock his head off.

“You’re resisting,” he said.

“It hurts!”

But nothing close to my threshold.

“’Course it hurts!” he laughed. “You want down?”

I gritted my teeth. “No.”

“No, what?”

“No,
sir.
”

“You little—” I thought he lost his temper for a moment, but he said it so calmly. Another slap, and
shit,
it stung. My buttocks were on fire. But there was also a rising pleasurable warmth.

“You belong to me. Say it.”

“I belong to you!”

“You’re my slave,” he said. Asking me to recite.

“Yes.”

Suddenly he came around to where I could see him, and he took two fingers and pinched my nipple. At first it was pleasant, and then his palm squeezed a handful of my breast, hard. It hurt.

“Say it,” he said. “You want down?”

“No!”

“Then say it—”

“I’m your slave—”

“Ask me to fuck you.”

A moment’s hesitation.

“Aaagghhhh!”

I shook, the chains rattling, with the blow.

“Make yourself come,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Orgasm’s mental,” he said quickly. “Make yourself come! Right now!”

“I can’t—I—I—”

Another slap of the paddle, and as tears ran down my cheeks and I tasted salt in the corners of my mouth, I realized that I
wanted
to come. I was aroused by what was happening to me, but I couldn’t intellectualize it. It was raw and primitive, and I heard the slurp of my pussy with my juices, and I’m hanging here, I thought, vulnerable, completely vulnerable. A distant echo of familiar pleasure, and I needed him inside me—

He knew it too.

I felt the head of his cock penetrate me. As I moaned with the satisfying increasing fullness of him, he sunk his nails into my thighs, which didn’t hurt as much as the paddle but did…something…I was feeling too much as he thrust inside me. My ass ached at the same time, my breast smarting and a mild bruise already blooming.

I felt him swell as he was about to orgasm, and then at the last second he pulled out of me, and a stream of sticky, hot spunk flew across my belly and hit the underside of my breasts.

If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn he knew I was riding the crest up to my own climax, that he had deliberately cheated me of it. But so few guys had a clue as to what you felt at the time that I thought I was imagining things.

You couldn’t call what he did making love or even having sex. He fucked me. He didn’t even fuck me like an animal in a “take me, you beast” sense. It felt intimate and twisted, his hands caressing me as he thrust away, exploring my body and kissing my breasts with almost a worshipful fervor, and then when he spilled all over me, I could sense it was deliberate.

Then he left me like that, without a word, leaving me to hang there with the scent of our mixed smells in my nostrils and his spunk drying on my skin, cooling like a brand. I could smell my own perspiration. My ass hurt. My breast hurt. I felt dirty and forgotten.

I came in the privacy of the dungeon, chains rattling as my body quivered.

When he returned half an hour later, he still didn’t say a thing to me but had a wet cloth and a bucket of water mixed with some aloe soap. He washed my pussy.

“Hey, what about the rest of me?” I whispered.

“You don’t have permission to talk,” he snapped.

And without warning, with sudden, terrifying force, he slapped my ass with his open hand.

It wasn’t hard, but since I was already sore—

I’ve been accidentally punched in the dojo. I’ve been kicked when I train. I’ve fought with guys who didn’t go by gentlemanly rules at all. But there is something so raw that brings you right back to the very core of your own emotional development to have a strike on your ass like that. Worse than the paddle.

It was meant to cause pain, but even more to focus my attention. He did it expertly, in a way that left only the afterburner heat and memory of pain but no lasting bruise.

I felt him come on me again. I didn’t even hear or sense that he had jerked off, and he hadn’t been rubbing against me. I don’t know how he did it, but out of my peripheral vision, his cock had stiffened to its impressive ultimate length, and I received another shower of cum over my breasts and near my ribs. For a moment I only had the sensation of the sticky warm liquid on me, drying, staining me again, hardening.

I hadn’t even noticed the dildo he’d brought in.

I knew he was watching and listening with a surgeon’s attention to the sound of my breath, the reactions of my skin, my nipples, and I don’t know why, but suddenly my muscles rebelled in spasms, shaking uncontrollably as I tried in vain to break loose. It was like I needed to playact escape to heighten my own pleasure, to feel the restraint of my bonds. He patiently worked the dildo to make me come three times in succession until I asked him to stop.

“Beg me,” he whispered.

And made me come all over again.

Then he bathed me with tender care.

With my wrists still bound, he made me squat over a makeshift bedpan and pee in front of him.

It wasn’t humiliating, but it strips you to the core to have one of the ultimate privacies quietly taken away. He wiped me with tissue, removed the pan, and washed his hands in the nearby basin. Came back and kissed me like a child. And I did cry, broken.

He let me down out of my bonds and made me stay in a small cage. I couldn’t stand up—forced to move around on my hands and knees. There was a toilet but no privacy. A futon on a low wooden pallet.

On the third day, he unlocked the cage and beckoned me out, and then he told me to bend over a desk where yet more piled, dusty book remainders were stacked. As he started to spank me, I felt my mound against the desk, and as the heat rose in my buttocks, I shuddered from an overpowering orgasm. “Aaaahhh…Aaaahhh…” My wrist unconsciously slipped behind my back, a primal desire to be restrained. I sobbed as I came. And I understood.

Wave after wave of cathartic ecstasy. As his hand slapped my buttocks and my juices flowed.

“Make yourself come,” he ordered. “Touch yourself.”

I started to play with my clit. I whined and keened with release, and suddenly his strong hands locked me into a new set of small leather cuffs. Face against the wall, leaning over the desk, his angry red cock slipped into me so easily. I felt his teeth gnaw on my shoulder blade as he shoved his rod in, and he stayed, and my pussy muscles contracted hard around his fullness and pulsed, and I moaned as if I were reciting an unintelligible prayer.

“Ohhhh…Fuck, fuck,” I said after a moment.

Still in me. So hard.

And I understood.

You think submissive means passive. No. No, bullshit, wrong, bloody nonsense. I
gave
my power to him. I let him have it, mine to give. And I was so sick of running around, hustling for work, drumming up business, having to go out and investigate, taking names and kicking ass, tired of strategizing and planning for my daily bread, being Strong Teresa. Someone else take care of me for once. Someone else. Make the decisions. Care for me. Fill me. Oh, God, fill me.

Hot down here. Sweating, our bodies slipping and sliding, the feel of him against the cheeks of my ass, his cock still so hard, and my wrists in these cuffs. Controlling. Deciding. I could feel the pulse in the hard spear of him, and it’s like he was inside me but enveloping me, and I can let go, I can let it all go now. He grunted as his climax started, and I felt another one of my own.

We stayed like that for a full two minutes.

I went back into that cage willingly. I looked forward to him bathing me from then on. Every experience, from him hand-feeding me through the bars of the cage to the way he tenderly closed the cuffs on my wrists to suspend me again, each and every one charged with erotic nuance.

When I heard the door to the basement open, I knelt in readiness for him.

I crawled out when he called me.

I caressed and played with the fuzz of his pubic hair and sucked him into my mouth, living for the knowledge that he would swell to the laps of my tongue.

I didn’t need to do anything but obey. It was all up to him.

Yes, I understood. And I was now in a constant state of arousal.

Fuck me, I bleated far too often.

“Beg me.”

“Congratulations,” he said after ten days. “You’re halfway through your training.”

I sat there, shocked for a moment. It felt like I had been down in that basement for ages.

“What do we say?”

“Thank you, sir.” My response was instant.

“I bought you a present,” he said.

It was a beautiful red dress, a little cocktail number, the kind I always loved. I gushed my thanks, and it was like a stranger inhabiting my body. We went to dinner (I wore my new dress) and then came back to his bookshop, which surprised me, as I’d expected him to take me home to his apartment. I had got it into my head that I had “graduated” to a new level of trust and intimacy with him. Wrong.

From out of nowhere he produced a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He poured us drinks, and I decided to press my luck.

“You going to tell me now about this…Sarcophacan Temple of Nubian Princes?”

“About them,” he said, his face pensive. “If I help you get in, they’re gonna want you to take some tests at a private clinic. They’re promiscuous but only within the group. So they, like, regularly check for AIDS and for other STDs.”

I nodded. I could have told him this was a more familiar situation for me on a case than he could have imagined.

“What the hell is a ‘sarcophacan temple,’ for instance?”

His eyes fell to the floor a moment, a smile playing on his lips, and then he chuckled. “Well, you know there’s no such word, right?”

“Yeah, I guessed as much,” I said. “What’s the joke?”