Claimed by Her Web Master (Web Master #3)

BOOK: Claimed by Her Web Master (Web Master #3)
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Claimed by Her Web Master
Normandie Alleman
Edited by
Grace Bradley
Illustrated by
L.J. Anderson

C
opyright
© 2016 by Normandie Alleman

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents depicted here are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, business establishments, organizations, events, or locales are purely coincidental.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

1
Quentin


D
o
we have to talk about my mother—again?” I shifted in my seat, smoothing the creases of my pants.

I sat in a black leather chair across from my therapist, June Beckett, Psy.D. There was a conspicuously empty couch next to us. She always said, “Sit wherever you like,” but fuck if she was going to convince me to lie down on that couch.

I needed control.

Not that it had taken psychoanalysis for me to figure that out.

“As I’ve mentioned before, Quentin, our relationships with our mothers are important to how we relate to the world. This is the first relationship we experience, and in many ways the most important one we have in our lives.”

“Well, my mother is dead now. I’m not sure how much good it does talking about her.”

“It helps me understand you—knowing what things were like for you in the past when things were good, and also when things were not so good. What sort of relationship did your mother have with your son?”

Damn. So she’d gone from yanking off a bandage to picking at my wound. A burst of sweat escaped my pores. “What the fuck? Both of them are dead. You’re wasting my time dredging up the past like that.” This bitch was royally pissing me off.

Dr. Beckett held her hands up in surrender. “All right. What do
you
want to talk about?”

I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. “I want to know what I can do to get over my girlfriend who left me.”

The doc didn’t miss a beat. “What do
you
think you have to do?”

I hated how she fucking turned everything back on me. That shit was tired the
first
time she tried it. Now it was downright exhausting.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you,” I snipped.

She sat silently. I hated this technique too.

Why the fuck was I even here?

“I’m not sure what the point is to all this if you’re not going to give me any answers. I feel like I’m wasting my time.”

“Yet you’re back for the third week in a row.”

“I guess I keep hoping you’ll help me.”

“And what would that look like to you?”

“You giving me some advice, telling me how I can forget about Sophie.”

“Forget about her? Is that how you think you will get over her?”

I nodded.

“How did you get over the loss of your son? Did you forget about him?”

“Of course not.” More salt in the wound. I was starting to fantasize about punching her in the face, or at least pushing her down some stairs.

“So how did you cope with it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess you live with something long enough and the pain eventually lessens.”

“So it just fades …”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder if the reason you’re having trouble moving forward is because you blame yourself for the breakup.”

“I’m sure that’s part of it. It was my fault. If I would have never lied to her we’d probably still be together.” My girlfriend Sophie and I started off our relationship as online Dominant and submissive. I trained her over the Internet for the first few months we were together.

But after a while Sophie grew restless and wanted to meet in person. I was reticent but eventually agreed. It was then that our relationship really took off. She lives in Fort Worth, while I live in the Seattle area. The relationship was long distance, and most of it took place online with one of us traveling to see the other a couple of times a month.

Unfortunately, the closer we became, the more nervous I got.

You see, bad things tend to happen to the people around me. People who care about me. People I love.

My son died in a boating accident when he was six years old. I watched him bleed out with no way to stop it.

My mother died of cancer.

And my former submissive tried to kill herself when I broke things off with her. She’s now brain dead, basically a vegetable attached to a machine that keeps her alive.

I didn’t want any of these things to happen to Sophie. The more I cared about her, the more afraid I was that something bad would happen.

So, dickhead that I am, I decided that I needed to loosen the reins on her so she could find another Dom. As much as it pained me to imagine her being submissive to another Dom, I needed to prepare her to do just that.

My great plan, which completely blew up in my face, was to “share” her with another online Dom—a guy who wanted to be my apprentice. It took me a while and she resisted because it felt like she was cheating on me, but ultimately I convinced her to do it.

In reality she wasn’t cheating on me because there wasn’t really another Dom. It was me all along, pretending to be “BA.” This played out over several months, and I thought she was becoming somewhat attached to “him,” but then she requested that we all meet—me, BA, and her—and have a session, and the shit hit the fan.

She wanted to experience being dominated by both of us at the same time. I felt sorry for her, but I clearly couldn’t give her what she wanted so I came clean and told her BA was me all along and that I’d basically catfished her.

That
was why she broke up with me, and I have no one to blame but myself.

I betrayed her trust, lied to her, tricked her—however you want to put it. I fucked up.

“How does that make you feel?” Dr. Beckett was saying. “That the breakup was your fault?”

“Like shit.”

“I think you’re doing the right thing by being here, Quentin. When relationships end, one of the best things we can do is to take stock of what went wrong, what we did that was good, and what we did that was counterproductive.”

I nodded. She had a point there, which was probably why I kept coming back to therapy.

“While I’m working on all that, what do you recommend I do to get some goddamned sleep?”

“Let’s try some over-the-counter remedies … I’ll write down some things that seem to help most people. If these don’t work we can get you an appointment with a psychiatrist for a prescription. But try these first. It will save you from having to go to more doctors.” She wrote something down on a notepad, pulled off the top sheet and handed it to me.

Halle-fucking-lu-ya. The last thing I wanted was to have to visit
another
doctor.

2
Quentin

I
am
the sort of man who needs sex.

Lots of it.

I can provide the completion for myself, but I require a submissive on the other end of my interactions.

Someone I can use and abuse. Someone who craves that type of play as much as I do.

Now that Sophie was no longer available, I needed someone else.

I still loved Sophie, and ten minutes did not go by without me thinking of her and how much I missed her and our play. I’d trained her to be the most delicious submissive.

Perhaps that was being too self-congratulatory. Sophie had been born delicious—I’d only molded her into a submissive who could please me entirely. Molded her into a woman who fulfilled me on every level—spiritually, physically, sexually. Even intellectually. She was an incredible woman, which was why filling the hole she’d left in my life felt impossible.

But I had to find an outlet for my sexuality. Not because I didn’t love her, but because my dick needed the attention.

I started by browsing the kinky sites where I’d found online submissives in the past. I had zero interest in finding a local sub. The last thing I needed was the kind of drama that could arise when a rejected submissive knew where you lived. No, I was staying online for this endeavor.

The more I searched, the more I found the same problem cropping up with every woman I came across—she wasn’t Sophie.

This one looked kinda like Sophie, except her mouth was too big, or her breasts weren’t the right size. That one was beautiful, except I could tell by her bio she didn’t have Sophie’s sensitivity or refinement. The more I looked, the more turned off I became.

Frustrated, I closed my laptop, turned off the lights, and jacked off to one of my previous sessions with Sophie. Once I’d asked her if she minded if I recorded our play and she’d agreed. It wasn’t something we made a habit of, and it was only her voice, but I knew what she looked like and it didn’t take much to close my eyes and conjure her. I imagined her lying on the bed beside me, skin glowing, eyes half shut with lust, her breath growing deeper as she fell under my spell. In my mind I watched her follow my directions as I told her to spank that ass, fuck that pussy. I knew how sweet that little cunt of hers tasted when I asked her to lick her juices from her fingers. How tender and voluptuous those breasts were and the face she would make when they began to ache after I told her to jam those forks in and twist.

It made me so fucking hard.

Got me off.

Spent, I finally fell asleep under a dark cloud, dreaming of the girl I’d foolishly driven away.

In the middle of the night I woke up sweating. I think I’d been calling her name. I got up to pee and get a glass of water. By the time I was finished with that I was wide awake. If my recent experience repeated, I was destined to be up all night.

Fuck that
, I thought and took an over-the-counter sleeping pill.

* * *

T
he next day
I was groggy until well after lunch. All day I tried to work, but my efforts proved worthless. I’d only written half a page of music when the phone rang.

The image of my assistant Kate popped onto the screen, and I answered it.

“Hey, I’ve booked you on this guy Larry Dean’s podcast.”

“Really? A podcast?” That sounded lame.

“What’s your problem? If you want to stay hot you’ve got to pimp yourself out on occasion. You don’t get to sit over in your ivory tower writing music all day, and you’ve barely done anything since winning your Oscar.”

If she only knew. I’d done a lot of shit—been discovered for catfishing my girlfriend. Been dumped. Fallen the fuck apart …

“Key word Oscar. Isn’t that enough to get more work?” I didn’t need her needling me today.

“Not really. Fame and success are some fickle mistresses. Sorry.”

More fickle women. Just what I needed.

Not in the mood for an argument, I responded, “Fine. Give me the details.”

When Kate hung up she sent me the Internet address for Larry Dean, who was apparently the guru on musical talent and current events. How was I supposed to know that? I spent my time composing music. Usually.

I spent the rest of the day listening to hour after hour of the guy’s podcasts. They were actually quite interesting. I told myself it was “research,” but really it was just procrastination.

That night, I took a break from listening to make myself a sandwich. While I was cutting up a tomato I had a revelation—I should do a Dom podcast!

For the first time since Sophie had gotten on that plane and flown back to Fort Worth and out of my life I felt some excitement.

The ideas started to roll in—my audience would be submissives or even wannabe subs—it didn’t matter to me. I would dominate them with my words. My voice. And they would send me descriptions of how they played with themselves as they listened. It wouldn’t be as intense or interesting as a live interaction of course, but it would also require less emotional energy from me.

I fucking loved the idea.

I’d have those bitches’ pussies quivering from Saskatchewan to Rio.

The concept energized me, and that night when I couldn’t sleep it was because I was too busy researching the equipment I would need. Fortunately, I already had access to everything. Recording music was a huge part of my life, so I already had a studio I frequently used. Now I just needed a script.

That shouldn’t be too difficult. It was the sort of thing I did every play session with Sophie. Just to get started I could recycle some old ideas. And as I got rolling with more shows, my creativity would start to flow and the new ideas would come. I spent the entire night making notes for what I thought would be a solid introductory episode. I’d worry about distribution later. The product was the most important thing now.

This first episode would be sort of a compilation—”MC’s” greatest hits. The whole concept of reaching a wider audience puffed up my recently deflated ego. Plus it would preclude the drama of a one-on-one session. I would ask my listeners to tell me about their experiences. That would be enough of a turn on.

As for my listeners, I would explain that I wouldn’t be able to have a one-on-one connection with them all. However, I knew from experience I’d have to warn them not to expect a response. Make sure they had no expectations of me personally meeting their needs. All I could give them was my voice once a week. If they didn’t like it they could choose not to listen. But if they wanted what I had to offer they could replay my podcast or wait for the next session.

It would be perfect. Especially for those who loved to chase an unavailable man. For some reason the world was full of women like that. There were almost as many of those as women who loved to be treated like crap. Why women dropped their panties so quickly for “bad boys” I’d never understand. But I sure as hell took advantage of it.

To prepare for my first podcast, I spent hours making notes. I’d have to be flexible with what my listeners had on hand to punish themselves with. It made my cock hard to think about dozens of women spanking, slapping, fucking themselves to my voice, carrying out my instructions.

In the end I settled on a wooden spoon and a spatula. Most women should already have these things in their kitchens. And if they didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt them to stock them. I never claimed to be a serious chef but I knew how to use both of them—in the kitchen as well as the bedroom.

They would also need nipple clamps. Or clothespins. Any woman with an interest in kink should have something suitable on hand for torturing her nipples.

I toned the language down a notch compared to that which I used with Sophie because I wanted to reach a broader audience. Then I rethought that. Maybe I would work up to the more crass language as I went—a little more with each episode.

As I wrote the script, my first roadblock came when, no matter how hard I racked my brain, I couldn’t remember what play sessions had been like with any submissive other than Sophie. Hell, I’d had dozens of them, but that woman apparently erased my memory of the ones who came before her.

Sophie had been such a princess. She’d been so pristine, that at the beginning, I could tell my graphic language was going to shock her, and I played it for all it was worth. A jilted kindergarten teacher, she’d been looking for something different than her upscale vanilla life, and I gave it to her in spades. My hand drifted lower, and I couldn’t help but stroke my cock, thinking about what it had been like dominating her.

Her little squeals over the phone—that’s what first enamored me. Or maybe it was the schoolteacher persona. What can I say? Corrupting a sexy librarian was one of my earliest fantasies. Getting a prim and proper female to take off her glasses, let down her hair, and get on her knees to suck my cock … that one was gold. And precious little Sophie had played right into that perversion. Making a “good girl” do filthy things—that was my biggest kink. Turned out it was hers too.

But instead of channeling my play with Sophie, I improvised—did my best to think “new” and “fresh.” How would I handle meeting a brand-new submissive? That was the podcast I intended to create. The one that would mimic a meeting with me and a new submissive—my listeners.

When I finished my script, I actually slept a full night’s sleep. Something I hadn’t done since Sophie left me last month.

The next day I awoke refreshed. The sun was shining, birds chirped, and I felt like I had the wind at my back. On the way into the studio I picked up the largest specialty coffee they made, and when I got there I told the girl up front I was not to be disturbed. After making my way into the recording booth, I posted a “Do Not Disturb” outside and got to work.

T
he description
I would use to describe the first episode of my podcast would say:

I
’m
a Dominant who enjoys abusing willing little subsluts.

If you want to play with me, here are the instructions you must follow:

F
irst
, get nice and aroused. Use your fantasies, porn, whatever turns you on, but I want you nice and wet before you click play.

Second, here are the things you’ll need to have with you: Nipple clamps or clothespins, blindfold, headphones, wooden spoon, and a spatula.

Third, follow my directions. You may not come until I tell you to.

Finally, if you come before I command you to, you must stop and begin again.

Understand?

I
turned
on the mic and began to speak.

H
ello
, dirty girl. I expect you to have read the directions and followed them so you are nice and ready for me.

Did you follow those instructions?

Yes? Good girl.

Are you naked?

The first thing we need to do is make sure you’re undressed. There should be no clothing between me and your body. I need to be able to examine every inch of you if I choose. So if you have clothes on—take them off.

Are you naked now?

Good girl.

When I ask you a question you will need to respond aloud, addressing me with, “Yes, Sir.”

Understand?

Good girl.

Now that you’re naked I want you to lie down on your bed. Relax.

Now put the headphones on your ears. I don’t want you to be able to hear anything other than my voice. Understand?

Good. Place the headphones over your ears.

I’ll wait.

Good. You have them on. I don’t want anything to come between my voice and your ears. I’m going to be speaking directly into them and I want you to feel the vibration of my voice.

Are you wet?

I want you to take your fingers and feel between your legs, and tell me—is that pussy wet?

It better be wet for me. If not you’re not following instructions. If that pussy’s not wet you need to stop and start over.

Oh, you are wet?

Good girl.

Now I want you to use your spatula, and I want you to roll over onto your stomach and spank that ass.

That’s it. Spank it.

Harder.

Again.

Harder, and I want you to count backward from ten.

I’ll count with you—ten.

Louder. I want to hear it.

Harder.

Six. Your cheeks are warming up now, aren’t they?

Harder!

Four. Yes, I know your ass is turning red now. That’s just the way I like it.

Two. One more. Make it count.

Good girl. Now run that hand over your aching bottom. Soothe that punished skin with your hands. You can imagine it’s my hand caressing you. Making you feel better.

Next I want you to put those nipple clamps on. First the left one.

I know it pinches.

Then the right. Ah-ah-ah! Don’t flinch.

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