Interview with a Master (15 page)

“I laid her out on
the table on her back and moved her body so that her hips were resting on the edge. I held her legs apart and raised them high. Her pussy was wide open and exposed to me, glistening with the damp juices of sex.

“
I was already hardening again. I stepped up to the edge of the table and rested my cock against the lips of her pussy. Sherry’s legs were against my chest, her tiny heels pressed against my shoulders. I eased myself inside her and felt the tight grip of her body like an involuntary reflex. I held myself still and Sherry’s muscles pulsed and sent quivering vibrations down the length of my shaft.

“She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes. I could see a frown of concentration on her face. She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth, as though she were riding the gentle swells of sensation.

“‘Fuck me,” I said. ‘Use your muscles to fuck your Master.’

“Sherry screwed her eyes tight and began to make little sobbing sounds of effort. I felt
the muscles within her clench, and the grip around the swelling head of my cock was tight and firm. It lasted for just a few seconds and then released. I heard Sherry give a little gasp as though she had been holding her breath.

“‘Again!’ I barked at her. I closed my own eyes and concentrated on the feel of
her clenching pussy – the way her inner body seized tight. With each new command, I felt myself hardening inside her. A dozen times I ordered her to milk my cock with her muscles. Sherry began to sweat. A glossy sheen of perspiration spread across her breasts, and she began to pant as if she had run up a hill. The muscles in her neck strained, and she turned her head from one side to the other. I reached down and rubbed the nub of her clit with my thumb and she flinched with the tiny shock of it. Her whole sex throbbed, and a sudden groan of desire was wrenched from her throat. Her eyes came open, but her expression was dull and dream-like. I told her to pleasure herself while I fucked her, and her hands went between her spread legs.

“I started to thrust deep inside her. Having her legs in the air and her body in that position meant she felt the full length of me deep inside her. Our bodies slammed together and Sherry began to rock her hips. The muscles of her abdomen stood
proud, like little ridges against the firm skin, and her hands between her legs became a blur. It was difficult for her: with her wrists still bound, her fingers couldn’t quite touch the places she wanted to in the way she desperately needed, to reach orgasm. She made little grunting sounds of frustration between gasps of pleasure, and I felt my own body beginning to grow tight with rising tension as the urge to explode inside her again became a hungry need.”

Suddenly I needed to stand. I got up from the sofa and scraped my hands down my face. The headache, which had been crouched in the darkness behind my eyes,
finally pounced. I winced. My vision blurred and little swirling flashes of light floated before my eyes.

“Are you okay?” Letic
ia’s face was uncertain.

I nodded. I needed another drink, but the wine bottle was empty.

I closed my eyes, stood still for a moment, and then continued with the story, my voice lower now and sounding in my own ears almost trance-like.

“I told Sherry she had until the count of ten to come.
I told her that if she couldn’t come by then, she would be sent home for the weekend without relief. I meant it. Her eyes flashed with horror. Her face became a mask of frantic desperation. Her fingers flew across her clit, and at the same time I dug my own fingers into the muscled flesh of her legs to give me leverage. I lunged into her, thrusting from my hips as I stared down at the way her tiny breasts jiggled and the hard urgency of her nipples.

“I started counting. Sherry arched her back, trying to get herself off. She became more desperate.
Her body contorted like she was on a torturer’s rack. Her voice rose until the sounds of sex filled the room. I felt myself beginning to thrill. Sherry was rigid beneath me. She gave one last cry of frustration, and then suddenly her body seemed to catch fire and she was wrenched from side to side as her orgasm battered and bashed through her body.

“The fierce convulsions within her sent me over the edge,” I said softly. “I pulled my cock from her pussy and wrapped my hand around
Sherry’s throat, pinning her flat on the table. I rubbed my cock against her lips, and her mouth opened instinctively. I forced her mouth closed again. Sherry had a split second to open her eyes in confusion – and then suddenly I erupted across her face: covering her cheek and chin.

“For a long time there was nothing apart from the emptiness. We were both gasping for breath. Sherry lay like a broken doll on the table, her legs dangling, her body still twisted, and I leaned over her, feeling the thumping pulse of blood singing in my ears.

“When my senses cleared – when everything was quiet again – I told Sherry she was to dress and go home. I told her to leave my come on her face: she was not to wash it off until the next morning. For a moment she hesitated – and then nodded obediently. I knew she had a roommate. I knew she shared a little apartment with another girl, but I didn’t care.”

“Did she?” Leticia asked in a hushed voice. “I mean, did she leave…. until the next morning?”

I shrugged. “I can’t be sure,” I admitted. “But knowing Sherry, and knowing what happened the following Friday night, it’s a pretty safe bet that she did.”

“What do you mean?” T
here was that sudden tone of scandal in her voice I had heard before, as though some shocking secret might be revealed. “What happened the following Friday night?”

I shook my head. “I can’
t begin to tell you,” I said slyly. “It’s too late in the night to begin that story – and I know how you hate having your notes disjointed…”

Leticia
made a face.

“Besides, now you have to answer my question. Remember?”

She did, but clearly, she had hoped I’d forgotten. Leticia’s shoulders slumped, as though she had just been told bad news. She gave a little nod of her head.

“You better sit down for this one,” I teased.

Her expression became wary and concerned. She sat on the sofa. She crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest. I started to pace. The headache suddenly spiked, and then began to fade to a dull throb.

“Have you ever thought about BDSM?” I asked. “Have you ever fantasized about what it would be like to submit your mind and your body to a Master?”

“No,” Leticia shook her head, and it was an adamant gesture with no hesitation. “Not once have I ever even considered the idea,” she went on – and then paused dramatically, “…until I met you. Now… now it seems to be the only thing I can think about.” Her voice trailed off and there was a heavy wistful silence.

I didn’t say anything for a long time.

I didn’t know what to say.

I started pacing again. “If you were a submissive, and if you
served a Master, what would your soft limits be?” I asked.

“Soft limits?”

I nodded. “Soft limits. What would you submit yourself to willingly, and what things would you consider, without committing yourself to?”

Leticia
looked flustered. Her hands fluttered and then settled in her lap. She glanced around the room like she was looking for a way to escape.

“I… I don’t know,” she mused softly. “I really haven’t thought about it.”

“Then do it now,” I insisted. I prompted her. “Would you have sex with another woman while your Master watched?”

“Um… I don’t know,” she wrung her hands.

I went on. “Would you allow yourself to be tied?”

“Yes.”

“Would you allow yourself to be handcuffed or chained?”

“Yes. I think so,” her voice was low – nothing more than a soft breathless whisper.

“Would you have sex with another man while your Master watched?”

She shook her head.

“Would you allow yourself to be blindfolded?”

“Yes,” her voice was a little firmer.

“What about being spanked? Would you bend yourself over your Master’s knee for a spanking if you deserved punishment?”

“If it was deserved… yes…”

“And whipped, maybe with a riding crop?”

Leticia winced. “If I trusted the man, and if it was deserved.”

I was pacing around the room, firing questions to the beat of my footsteps like a sergeant major on a parade ground filled with fresh-faced army recruits. I clasped my hands behind my back and circled the room, Leticia’s head turning on the long graceful stem of her neck to follow me with her eyes.

“Would you wear a Master’s collar in public?”

Leticia hesitated. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I know a submissive is supposed to be proud of her collar. I know it’s like a wedding ring because it’s a sign of commitment – but I’m standing on the outside looking in, Jonah. I don’t know how I would feel if I was living the lifestyle,” she shrugged and grimaced at the same time. “So I just can’t answer that question.”

I nodded and thought for a moment. “Have you wondered how it would feel to wear a collar?”

“Yes.”

“And…?”

Leticia sighed and looked thoughtful. “I imagine it would make me feel a lot of different things,” she speculated. “I imagine being collared would be a source of pride – a sign that I was skilled and obedient and competent enough to be wanted by someone. I guess I would also feel confident,” the tone of her voice lifted so that the comment almost became a question. She shrugged. “I’m only guessing,” she said to qualify her words. “I don’t think anyone really knows, except for a submissive woman who is already collared. And maybe it’s different for every woman. Maybe submission means something different to me than it does to women who are already immersed in the lifestyle.”

The depth of her reasoning, and the way she expressed herself surprised me. I was very much aware of her age and her inexperience, and I had expected her answers to be filled with giddy little giggles and blushing immaturity. But her replies demonstrated how much thought she had given to the subject since I had met her, and how well she knew herself – and perhaps her own limitations.

“Do you think you could give up your right to have an orgasm whenever you wanted, and pass that responsibility over to a Master?” I asked Leticia.

“You mean only orgasm when he permitted me to?”

“Yes.”

She
frowned. “I guess so…” she said tentatively. “If I was comfortable in the role of a submissive, and if I felt it was a necessary part of the whole kind of learning process.”

“
Learning process? You mean learning about yourself?”

“Yes,” Leticia said, and then looked up earnestly into my face.
“Isn’t that what submission is really all about, Jonah? Isn’t it a way for a woman to discover and learn something new about herself – maybe something that she never realized was a primal part of her?”

I smiled. “It is,” I said. “That’s exactly what
I believe submission is, and that’s exactly what I believe a good Master does. He gives a woman the chance to discover herself.”

There was another long silence – but this one was different. It wasn’t
the awkward quiet of embarrassment, nor was it the reflective silence that I was prone to lapse into.

It was a significant silence – as though something had just changed – some realization or deeper connection of understanding had just been made. It lasted for several minutes. Finally I roused myself. I was tired. My headache came snarling back from the dull recesses
, and clamped tight above my eyes like a steel band.

At her front door, Leticia put a sudden hand
on my arm. Her skin was warm. “Tomorrow is the weekend,” she said. “I don’t have to work.”

I nodded. “I understand. How about you call me on Monday and we can
make a time to continue with the interview then.”

“No,” she said quickly. “
You don’t understand. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant… I meant I had the weekend free and I was wondering if you liked parks?”

I was puzzled. “Parks? The ones with green grass and trees?”

“Uhuh.”

“I remember them,” I made my voice sound vague.

Leticia gave a little smile. “Well there is a park near here I would like to take you to. It’s a place I like to go to when I have things to think through – stuff to sort out. I’d like to show it to you – if you’re not too busy.” She smiled for a moment like she was being silly and then looked steadily into my eyes, compelled suddenly to explain.

“When I first moved here, I had no friends – I barely even k
new the people at the newspaper,” Leticia said softly. “So I went to the park. The city was so busy, so loud. I wasn’t used to the hustle and bustle. I’m from a small town and I had a hard time adjusting to the frenetic pace of everyone around me. The park reminded me of home. It was my little sanctuary away from all the chaos…”

I smiled.
“Okay, I’m sold,” I said and held up my hands in mock surrender. “And I’m sure a few hours in the fresh air and sunshine won’t kill me.”

* * *

It rained in the morning and then the clouds burned away and the sun came blazing down.

Leticia met me in the foyer of her apartment building at midday, and we walked the few blocks to the park. A muggy, steamy smell rose from the
sidewalk as the heat baked the rain off the concrete.

It was the first time Leticia had seen me in just a t-shirt and denim jeans. She said nothing, but I noticed the glances from the corner of her eye.

The park was a square block of vibrant green lawns in the heart of the city, bordered on every side by busy roads, yet protected from the snarl of traffic by tall lush trees that stood like a dense fringe of sentinels.

An overhead bridge stretched
across an inner-city street and we climbed to the top and stood for a moment, leaning on the safety rail. Directly below us, the traffic streamed in both directions beneath a haze of fumes and smog. Behind us, the city office blocks were towers of reflective glass – and ahead was an Eden of green tranquility, with kids and families enjoying the blue afternoon sky.

We went down the footbridge
steps and onto a meandering path that wound its way through a stone archway and into the park.

There were benches and tables scattered aro
und the edges of the open space beneath tall shady trees, and the grass was a green carpet of gentle undulations.

Leticia
led me to a park bench, and I could hear the sound of ducks and splashing water somewhere nearby. I sat down under the dappled shade of a tree and Leticia sat beside me. She was wearing a pale yellow dress that reached to her knees. She tucked the hem neatly beneath her and then swung her legs playfully, like a child on a swing set. I took a deep breath – the air was somehow fresher here, and the sun had a crystal kind of clarity away from the haze of city smog.

“Beautiful, isn’t it.”

I nodded. “It really is,” I said.

A dozen yards away a man was walking his dog, and a young woman in tight
lycra pants and a 49ers sweat shirt went jogging past. Leticia reached into her bag for a pair of sunglasses and perched them on the end of her nose. I noticed her notebook tucked into a corner of the bag.

“Tell me about your family,” I said. “Did you get along with your mother and father?”

Leticia made a thoughtful face. “I guess so,” she said. “I was always daddy’s girl. I spent a lot of time with him when I was younger – not so much when I reached my teens and started high school. But we were always close. I could always talk to him.”

“But not your mother?”

Leticia shook her head. “Not so much,” she admitted frankly. “Mom got kind of distant after she lost her job in one of the local stores. Dad had to pick up extra shifts at the processing plant, and mom started drinking in the afternoons… and into the evenings. She kind of faded away out of my life for a while. Do you know what I mean?”

I nodded. “I think so,” I said. “But what about now
? Are you in regular contact with your folks?”

Leticia nodded.
“I call once a week, but there isn’t a lot to say. We don’t have anything to share, unless it’s gossip from around the town. That takes a minute or two, and then we just hang on the phone for ten awkward minutes until I feel like I’ve done my duty as a daughter and can hang up.”

I didn’t probe further. I sensed there was more to the story, but it was clear that Leticia’s family were not a big part of her life, and she seemed okay with that.

A couple of kids were throwing a baseball, tossing the ball in a high lazy arc to each other. The sound of the ball thudding into catcher’s mitts reminded me of my own childhood.

I got up from the bench and wandered around on the grass. I sensed Leticia’s eyes on me behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses. She watched me for a while, saying nothing – both of us aware of each other and comfortable in the silence.

“Do you read much?” Leticia asked me suddenly. “I saw your library, but some people just like books – they don’t like reading.”

I nodded. “I used to read a lot,” I said. “Mainly historical fiction.”

“You mean those breathless romantic bodice rippers?”

“No,” I started to smile. “I mean
good
historical fiction.”

She asked me if I had favorite authors and I m
entioned the names of several. “How about you?”

Leticia took off her sunglasses. “Well lately all the reading I’ve done has been about the BDSM lifestyle.”

“Oh? Fact or fiction?”

Leticia gestured with a tilt of her head
and a shrug of her shoulders. “Both,” she said. “Online articles and some mainstream erotica.”

There was another pause of amiable silence. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans and kicked at a tuft of grass.
“Don’t romanticize the lifestyle, Leticia,” I said. “Don’t build it up in your mind to be something that it isn’t. BDSM isn’t the solution to every relationship in trouble, it’s not the answer for every lonely girl looking for love, and it’s not all about charming doms and beautiful breathless subs. And please,” I said with sudden intensity, “please don’t romanticize my story when you write it. I’m being honest with you, and you should be honest with your readers. For every erotic encounter I have detailed, there have been just as many failures – times when things didn’t work the way I planned, or wanted. Just tell it like it is. Be honest. Make sure you know the difference between being a reporter of the facts and a writer who is trying to titillate and entertain.”