Mirabeille, in progress

            Elena followed Ivan and Kelly down the hall, past the guest bathroom to a closed and locked door at the far end. During the course of the evening she had noticed them slip away periodically from the party into this room, darting quickly inside without opening the door all the way and then reappearing later, always together and hand in hand. She had assumed without really giving it much thought they were seeking refuge from the noisy gathering for a quiet moment together and at one point she indulged herself briefly with the imagine of a quick fuck or blow-job with several dozen unknowing friends and neighbors just a few feet away. A host’s prerogative, she thought after the third or fourth such visit and suppressed a secret grin.

            And now Ivan was motioning her inside.

            Surely they don’t mean to invite me to join them? she thought wildly as they ushered her into the room.

            That fleeting thought echoed instantaneously between her legs.

            She found herself in what was clearly a guest bedroom furnished plainly with a heavy bed, a garishly Art Deco nightstand with a metal-based lamp, a cracked antique-looking bureau against one wall and rich area rug but little else. A set of huge windows with the blinds drawn dominated the wall opposite the bed. She blinked in the pale light and her first impression was that the room was unoccupied but as the door clicked shut behind them she sensed, rather than saw, a flash of furtive and restrained movement from the bed.

            A pair of shocked, dark eyes peered out from beneath a tangle of raven hair and Elena’s breath caught in her throat.

            “You remember Mirabeille, don’t you?
            Elena stared at the girl stretched out on the bed. At first all she could see was the bare mound of her pubis, so swollen that it looked like a medical student’s perfectly exaggerated rendering. But as she dragged her gazed reluctantly across the plane of her stomach and the flat hard little breasts to the girl’s face, contorted by the effort of twisting herself as much off the bed as she could to stare at them and the anguish of whatever they had been doing to her, whatever she had lain there anticipating and the shock of Elena’s sudden appearance, a more composed version of her resolved in Elena’s memory. Small, spare, always with hair tied back tightly into a neat ponytail in Ivan’s regular evening classes, expression serene and practice perfectly composed. One of Ivan’s regulars who had followed him to the new studio, spoke an elegantly-accented English and paid with a platinum American Express card with the name M.-something-or-other.

            Mirabeille, stretched wide.

            Ivan and Kelly waited expectantly and the noise from the party outside sounded unnaturally loud.

            Say something.

            “She’s a student of yours.”

            Ivan actually clapped his hands together delightedly. “Just so!”

            Kelly finally left her position at his side and moved towards the bed.

            “Belle has been a student for some time now.” He watched as his wife slid onto the bed and propped herself on one elbow overlooking her. “A quite devoted student, I should say.”

            Kelly was smiling down and Belle looked up at her, something in her eyes that Elena was at a loss to place. Not fear but not relief, either. Something else.

            “Quite devoted,” Kelly said. She made no move to touch her, just looked down at her.  

            Elena had never seen someone look so naked. She had certainly seen her share of both men and women without clothes but stretched wide like that Belle looked naked and exposed in a way that slashed instantaneously at Elena’s senses and wobbled her knees. Reflexively she glanced at the girl’s pussy again, staring intently at the dark compressed slit gleaming moisture and wondered what they had been doing to her during their periodic visits to the bedroom. Whatever they wanted to.  Kelly was so vivid and bright with her sun-kissed skin and tennis-player’s legs next to Belle’s bare coolness. Like sun and moon.

            For an interminable interlude the three of them simply watched her. Belle stared up at Kelly as if to find a center of gravity in her green eyes, refusing to even glance at Ivan or Elena, although she doubtless felt their gaze. Her lips parted and she asked Kelly a silent question to which Kelly offered no reply. Then Ivan startled Elena out of her reverie with a hand on her arm, and steered her to a low, plain bench padded in cloth at the foot of the bed. She let herself be led to it and sat.

            From here she could have reached out and touched a tiny, callused foot.

            Belle clung desperately to Kelly’s gaze.

            “We’re showing you something quite special, Elena,” Ivan said, “and I hope you’re ready to appreciate the value of this gift. Belle is quite special to us and we’ve worked very carefully with her and over quite a long time to bring her to where she is. A long-term project, so to speak.” Elena could hear the smile in his voice. “We take great pride in her. Pride in what she has offered to us and what we’ve taught her to be. It’s very important that we all value her gift and respect it.”

            He paused and chuckled darkly. “Not her, so much, but her gift.”

            Kelly stretched out against the girl and threw one long leg across Belle’s and snuggled up against her. The two women stared at each other and Belle moved towards her, minutely and without effect, as if to absorb the other’s warmth. Kelly bent forward and lowered her face into the hollow at the base of Belle’s throat and kissed her there softly.

            The room was utterly silent. Kelly kissed the side of her neck, the sharp clean line at the base of her jaw and then languidly put her own mouth on Belle’s upturned lips that parted immediately to receive her in a hungry, open kiss that Kelly held for only a moment before drawing back again as Belle tried hopelessly to follow her.

            Belle’s scent, thick and salty, swam heavily in the room.

            “Our lovely Belle is very special,” Ivan said.

            “Very special, indeed.” Kelly said.

            “She had some significant barriers to break through, did our sweet girl, problems that had bedevilled her for her entire life. But she was eager to learn and to become whole  and that is what we have given her.  And now she has something she’s never had before, doesn’t she?”

            “Stability,” Kelly said to Belle. “Belonging. And ---- ” she suddenly brushed a hand across the flat, outstretched stomach, “--- release.”

            Belle convulsed and cried out, the first sound she’d uttered since they’d entered the room. She heaved up and into the fleeting caress.

            In the studio dressed her in compression pants and tank top Belle had always struck Elena as implacable and strong, unbreakable as corded wire. A fragment of vague conversation from the grand opening reception swam up from her memory: Spanish, a former ballet dancer, a job in some kind of financial analysis. Elena had made a point to talk to all of Ivan’s students, her “steals” as she thought of them, and Belle was always there when Ivan was teaching. She moved with such fluid strength and Elena remembered how neat and precise everything was, even the way she opened her wallet and withdrew a credit card. But here there was something so fragile and helpless about her that Elena was embarrassed and wanted to look away, to spare Belle the humiliation of whatever was clearly about to happen.

            Don’t watch. Go back to the party.

            She didn’t move.

            Kelly reached out one strong arm and began languidly running her fingers up and down the girl’s helpless flanks. Belle’s head fell back, eyes fluttering closed.

            “Discipline,” Ivan said. “Her entire life has been marked by self-control. She is extraordinary in that way, what she has made of herself. If you knew where she has come from and how far her journey has taken her . . . ”

            Belle cried out again as those dancing fingers suggested and then skittered away.

            “Elena, you’ve seen her practice. I’ve never had a student who had so much power without seeming to exert it. We all talk about ‘flow’ but Belle actually does. Flow. Each breath in full measure and in its own space. I saw it the first time she took my class. Every day, the same energy and focus. And not just in her practice but in her profession, too, and in the business of getting through each and every day. She is truly remarkable, you know. She exerted herself through sheer will. And we didn’t realize, not at first, how much it cost her to be such a tough girl. And how much she needed . . . not to be.”           

           “Go to her, Elena. Get to know our Belle.”

            Elena hopped rather than moved to the side of the bed, opposite Kelly so that Belle was flanked. She reached out, tentatively, to one narrow hip.  Belle’s skin was hot and dry to the touch but soft, like some kind of exotic animal, and Elena traced the elongated contours with her palms while Kelly continued with her own explorations.  Lean, hard arms, the pits lightly stubbled. Upturned ribs covered by a tissue-thin layer of skin. Belle turned and pulled, trying to follow the course of every caress, pushing up into their dancing hands, no trace now of the spare, economical movements Elena had seen in the studio. This girl was pure sensation and impulse, reduced to a collection of buzzing nerve endings. Elena marked the course of the shallow bowl between Belle’s hips and tickled the naked swell of her mons and Belle surged reflexively, crying out yet again and Kelly smothered her cry with a greedy kiss.

            “She needs the counterpoise,” he said. “For her to be so strong the rest of the time she needs a place to go, a place to be, where she isn’t strong. Where she is the opposite of that. And that’s what we give her.”

            Elena lingered over the dark pebbles of her nipples, circling each with her fingertips. Farther down, Kelly traced abstract circles between knees and cunt.

            “Does that feel good?”

            “Oh God,” the girl whispered, barely audible. “You don’t know . . . ” and then breathed something in Spanish that only Elena understood.

            Ivan watched thoughtfully.

            “But this isn’t her real secret, Elena. Walk into any bookstore and you’ll see evidence of the secret longing of women to be dominated, to submit to a fantasy lover. Men dream about Angelina Jolie and women dream about Christian Gray. Bondage isn’t even particularly titillating anymore, is it? It’s as commonplace nowadays as strippers.” He smiled thinly.  “That Belle likes to be tied up isn’t that special. What makes our sweet girl so special is that she needs this.  It affords her something she cannot achieve otherwise.”

            He watched as the two women caressed and teased her and she jumped like a wire between them.

            “Do you know what I am talking about?”

            Elena shook her head without taking her eyes off Belle.

            “Tell Elena sweet Belle’s secret.”

            “She’s such a poor baby,” Kelly murmured. “A poor poor baby. Isn’t that right?  Yes, she certainly is. We’re going to tell your secret.” Belle jerked helplessly and raised her head, imploring and about to speak but Kelly fluttered her fingers over that poor cunt and what came out instead was a strangled cry and she heaved up again and Elena momentarily lost contact. Kelly smiled. “Elena’s going to know. Yes she is.”

            “Tell her,” Ivan snapped.

            Kelly looked at Elena over the taut body. “Poor baby Belle can’t cum without this,” she said.

            Elena stared.

            “Not on her own. Not by herself. Not getting fucked vanilla.”

            The girl had fallen back on the bed, surrendered again to the women’s touch.

            “This is the only way she can get off. The only way.”

            “That’s her secret,” Ivan said. “Only like this. And only with permission.”

            Elena looked down at the girl again and saw someone different now. Belle seemed carved from a single piece of granite, a series of frosted flat planes connected by sharp angles and broken only by the inflamed pouch of her cunt and swollen tips of her nipples. Elena was dizzy. She wanted to sink her teeth into that skin. Blemish it. She began to trace a curve around the outer folds of Belle’s swollen pussy and the girl strained to follow the maddening caress, arcing up in a perversion of a bridge pose, failing desperately, dropping back against the bed. Elena wanted this to go on and on, to keep her like this.

            Belle turned pleading eyes to Kelly and Kelly kissed her, just a taste.

            “We own her. Because she’s trusted us with her secret.”

            Long tendrils of dark hair had been whipped across Belle’s face and Kelly smoothed them back across her damp forehead to see her eyes. She kissed her again and Belle kissed her back with her entire body, twisting against her cuffs as if testing to make sure was fully captured.

            Kelly touched her face and Belle pressed her cheek into her palm.

            “It is her need that is so beautiful. There is a purity and simplicity there that you don’t find anywhere else. Such a strong independent woman and this most basic and primal of human needs is beyond her. It doesn’t belong to her. That fundamental part of her, what makes Belle Belle in so many ways . . . ” He had not moved from where he stood over them. “ . . . she has given to me.

            “Because her need compels her to. She needs me,” he mused, almost tenderly. “In every true way that there is.”

            Kelly’s hand began inching its way down Belle’s body, fingertips lingering on her nipples before continuing over the ridge of her sternum and into the soft valley below. Down down, strong fingers reaching further . . .

            “Imagine the power, Elena. This exquisite woman at your mercy.”

            Kelly’s hand closed over the girl’s cunt and Belle gave a long dawn out Ohhhhhh.

            Her index and ring fingers flanked her swollen lips while her long middle finger slipped into the inner folds in a fluid, practiced motion. Elena could see it begin to move, slipping up and back until Belle’s hips lifted up as Kelly found her core.

            “She feels things because we say she can.”

            Belle’s hips began to rock in perfect counterpoise to Kelly’s stroking.

            “It’s not cruel. It’s a mercy. Without us, she can’t feel them at all.”

            Belle stared up at Kelly. Her tormentor, her savior. All under Ivan’s watchful gaze and for Elena’s benefit. Elena was no longer embarrassed, her breathing sharp and shallow and her own pussy throbbing. She wondered what it would feel like to be stretched out like that, displayed, toyed with . . . to be utterly captured the way Belle was.

            “And for us, a joy to take this for her and a responsibility to guide her.”

            Kelly found the hard little clit and Belle cried out, a nose of such longing that Elena jumped.

            “Its another form of teaching. And Elena is a dedicated student.”

            Kelly watched Belle’s rapt face, eyes glittering. As the girl’s hips pushed and pushed Kelly pressed the ball of her had into Belle’s mons to anchor her grip, keeping the sensation constant. Caught in the low lamplight Belle’s skin glowed damply. Belle stared up into that hard gaze, face a mask of concentration.

            The tempo of her hips increased, frenzied and the muscles in her thighs trembled.

            Ivan put his hand on the back of Elena’s neck, his hand in her hair.

            “Now it’s up to you, Elena. It’s your decision.”

            For the first time since Elena had entered the room Belle looked at her directly, with an expression of such pure desperate supplication that Elena felt flash-frozen in place. Kelly had changed neither the tempo of her manipulation nor her bemused expression even as the pace of the bound girl’s bouncing hips mounted frantically. Ivan’s eyes were on Elena while Belle’s were locked onto the new holder of . . . her.

            Elena decided.

            She took Belle’s nipples between thumbs and forefingers and pinched, twisting hard.

            “Cum.”

            At the sound of the word Belle’s face froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide and mouth open as if in eternal surprise, then crumbled. Her head jerked backwards in an exploding cascade of dark hair and her body surged off the bed in a clenched, bowed expression of release. Kelly had to lean forward to maintain her manipulation but she did it, wrapping her other arm around one corded thigh, her rhythm steady.

            Belle came.

             The girl hung in the air, body not moving as she received what they were giving her.

            What Elena had given her.

            Her mouth was frozen open in a soundless cry and she stared sightlessly at the headboard behind her. Elena imagined she could feel the surging of pulse through her nipples beating back against Elena’s cruel fingers. I’m holding her up. There was no other indication of what was going on inside the girl. She made no sound or other movement. Poised, disciplined, as if now that she was granted release her discipline had returned. When she was denied and wanting she had let go of self-control; it was only in that place that she could be outside herself and without responsibility. But now she was Belle again, no more vulnerability, as she pushed into her orgasms against Kelly’s hand.

            Her breasts were slick and ridged belly shone with sweat, an angry red flush spreading up from her chest to her neck. The room silent but for the wet sound of Kelly’s fingers in Belle’s cunt and seemed much smaller now, heavy with the scent of her sweat and her release.

            She fell back heavily onto the bed as if a cord had been cut, chest heaving. Kelly wiped her fingers on Belle’s stomach. They watched her catch her breath, eyes closed now, mouth working to moisten her mouth. The orgasmic roseate faded and her skin returned to its alabaster perfection. Finally she opened her eyes.

            “What do you say to Elena?”

            It was not a question.

            Mirabeille looked up at Elena, her eyes wide and searching.

            “Thank you,” she said.

            Long tendrils of black hair covered her face. Elena brushed them away from her face and thought she had never seen anyone look more beautiful.

            She bent down and kissed her. 

Toy

            She was seven minutes early so Sanchez left her out on the stoop until it was time.

            First she stood motionless, listening for the telltale sound of the front door bolt sliding free. When it didn’t come she glanced at her phone – Blackberry in left hand, keys in her right – to check the time. Then a deep breath and a long blink, letting her shoulders fall back and down, willing herself to relax. She was wearing a sundress, really just an abbreviated beach cover-up, and flip-flops, hair loose and curled back behind her ears. No jewelry other than a simple gold chain at her throat.  A light tracing of eyeliner. The rest was just her.

            His instructions had been precise and she had followed them to the letter.          So far.

            She smoothed the hem of her dress and tugged discretely as if she could will it to cover more and then sighed again, letting her hands fall to her sides. Her gaze rested slightly below eye level at about where his belt would be, anticipating that the door would swing open at any moment.

            Down the street a car door slammed, then another, both followed by the sound of laughter.

            The girl reached up to tuck back a stray lock of blonde hair. Suddenly her phone alarm beeped and she started, glancing at it for a second time even though she knew what it would tell her.

            The door swung open and she instinctively looked up at him, eye-to-eye, before instantly dropping her gaze and ducking her head.

            “Inside,” he said.

            Marti was nude now and in position for inspection, legs spread and hands locked behind her head with her forearms at a perfect perpendicular to the floor.  Sanchez circled around her, once, twice, eyeing her critically – her legs, the bare notch at the top of her thighs. Her ass, he noted, was still lightly bruised from last weekend.

            “Which will it be?” he asked. “Ass or cunt?”

            He’d only given her sixty minutes: a text message that read simply, “Exactly one hour” and she was expected to present herself on time showered, shaved and perfumed and ready for use.  She’d moved quickly enough that she’d arrived early; he wondered if her haste had made her sloppy in her preparation. He touched the small of her back, tracing the line of her spine until it curved into her long neck, allowing himself a small moment of weakness, enjoying the warmth and softness of her skin. Her eyes closed and she swayed slightly in his direction as if to draw more from him. He stood close but just out of range.

            “Did you prepare yourself for me?”

            Eyes still closed, she said, “Yes, Master.”

            Sanchez just watched her.

            “For your pleasure, Sir,” she said.

            He grunted. “We shall see.”

         Starting at her hips he swept his hands lightly up her sides, causing ripples below her ribs, up and up until his fingertips traced the outer curves of her breasts. He paused there, drawing buttermilk smooth circles and watching with satisfaction as her areolae dimpled and nipples began to swell. The girl arched her back beneath his touch and her head fell back, mouth open slightly, sighing deeply. Sanchez lingered there, enjoying the way she vibrated with pleasure without moving, holding the strict position he required of her. As if by magic those nipples were drawn up and out without his ever touching them to their full distended length. He had a sudden urge to hurt them and stared thoughtfully while stroked her, then thought better of it. He had a different plan in mind for today.  He slid up and into into the hollows beneath her shoulders and she moaned and shivered all the way down to her toes. This was a particular torment for her and he was thorough and careful, alive for the slightest trace of stubble or burn.

         "Where will it be?"

         "Your cunt," she said, head still back and throat tight. "Please fuck your cunt."

         Her underarms were smooth so he stepped behind her and flattened his palms against her back, gliding down across her shoulder blades and back to her hips. He stood much closer now, she could feel his solid presence, and he filled the hollows above her hipbones and glided above her pubes, the skin soft and unblemished. He let his fingers graze her lips before lowering himself to one knee.

         “Spread those legs wider,” he snapped. “You know by now how a slut presents herself for inspection.”

            "Oh God," she whispered, because this was the best and worst part, all mixed together.

         He paused, watching her work to balance herself in her new, awkward position, before placing his hands on her ankles. This was usually a problem area, especially if the girl was in a hurry to get ready, and he stroked and examined slowly. Nothing. Moving up now, across her flexed calves, his touch gentle but filled with so much portent. Her thighs now, his hands and fingertips exploring, the skin silken. Sanchez knew how to touch Marti, to wake up those exquisite nerve endings that hovered so close to the surface and she was trembling now and not just from the effort of holding her position. He could smell her excitement, that thick tang that, in his world, meant a girl's surrender of her desires. He loved her long legs and what always awaited him at the end of his slow journey up their length: her cunt, thick and swollen with need and belonging utterly to him.

         Finishing his examination now he flicked the backs of his fingernails feather-light against her, tracing the pattern of her swollen lips with a touch so light it was barely there. Marti groaned and shuddered, her hips moving helpless against the sensation that seemed to be all at once both there and not there. For a moment he thought she might fall.

         "Hmm," he grunted, sounding vaguely disappointed. Sanchez stood, cupping her cunt in his palm as he did so, the heel of his hand firm against the pouch that housed her clit, finger pressed into the length of her, middle finger pressing slightly between her wedge. She moved reflexively against him and the weight of his finger partially opened her.

         "You prepared yourself properly," he admitted. She glanced at him, a small grin appearing, before the look on his face wiped it away. "The cunt it is."

         The look of relief on her face was palpable. "Thank you Sir."

         Marti was already pushing against him. He hadn't given her permission but she was already doing it before she quite realized what was happening. Sanchez kept his hand firm against her, letting her move, watching her rock forward onto her toes, heels slightly up, trying to find enough leverage to gain some blissful pressure. She swayed awkwardly and almost fell against him while she kept her hands locked behind her head. He said nothing. She moved one foot slightly forward and leaned again, onto the balls of her feet and he could tell by the look on her face -- lips suddenly parting, the whisper of breath through her teeth, eyelids fluttering closed -- that she had a found a spot. So he let her work it, moving slowly at first, pivoting her hips up and down, grinding into his hand. The movement allowed his middle finger to slip into the hot cleft between her lips and he let it linger there. She'd been on restriction for ten days so she would have been primed as soon as she received his text.

            Her pace quickened. She was frowning with concentration on the pressure against her clit and the finger that lay so close to her hole, so close but not quite there. Her breasts, already full, were swelling even more, becoming rounder, the skin tight and shiny, brown nipples impossibly gorged. She was self-conscious about how long they were and how much attention they attracted so, naturally, Sanchez and Elena delighted in showing her off. Now there were bare and vulnerable. All he had to do was to take one in the fingers of his other hand and she would probably cum in an instant.

         He had no intention of allowing that to happen.

         Her head was thrown back now, thighs corded with the effort of balance and thrust, her pale chest beginning to flush.

         "Who decides when you cum?" he asked.

         "Oh God," she moaned, then gathered herself. "You do, Sir."

         Now he pressed his hand back and she shivered, tempo quickening.

         "Who owns it?"

         "Sir -- "

         He pressed against the opening of her hole with his finger and she gave a little bark of frustration and pleasure.

         "Who owns it?

            "OhGodyoudoyoudoyoudo . . . "

            Sanchez held position for one hip thrust,

            two,

            a third ---

         “PleaseSircanIcumcanIcumcanIcum – “

         Sanchez held his hand in place as she pumped,

           once,

           twice,

           "Pleaseletmecumletmecumletcumletmecu --- "

            "No," he barked and his hand was suddently gone, her plea trailing off into a strangled sob.         

            "But now I'm going to fuck my cunt,' he said,  and he grabbed her fingers where they were tangled her hair and walked her quickly into the living room where she saw the rug with stand-up mirror along one edge and she knew what was going to happen next, even before he pushed her heavily to her knees and then down onto her hands. With one foot he kicked her knees apart and entered her quickly, putting his entire body behind the thrust, leaning down on her so that her elbows almost buckled and she grunted from both the feel of him suddenly filling her as well as the strain of holding both of them up. Then he set his knees and his feet and began fucking his cunt with a slow, sure stroke, drawing his cock almost all the way out, his head hovering just inside her hole, teasing her with the prospect of emptiness before filling it again.

            Sanchez looked down at her, the long pale line of her back just beginning to dust with perspiration, blonde tendrils glued to her shoulders and neck. She had braced herself against the floor, sturdy and strong, back arched to give him the best possible access, presenting herself as perfectly as possible for use. In the mirror her head was forward and hair in her face but her breasts, those fucking gorgeous tits, hung full and almost obscene, bumping in time to his thrusts.

            “A fucking toy,” he said, emphasizing the first word. “That’s all you are, a fucking toy.”

            She said nothing, was making no sound now so he took a handful of hair and pulled her head back. She looked at him in the mirror, her eyes narrow slits, her lips pressed together and jaw clenched. The girl looked like she might burst into tears at any moment and Sanchez knew: she was trying not to cum.

            He quickened his pace.

            He owned this one in a way that was truer than what he had with Elena. Marti belonged to Elena, too, but that was still not the same thing. When he called Marti “slave” they both knew that it was literal not symbolic. Sanchez could do whatever he liked with this one and she would not only accept it but would crave and come back and beg for more.  His sadism, something he had always restrained with Elena, and Marti’s masochism were a matched set. Not just physically – that was easy. But the other, harder and uglier emotional cruelty . . . Marti needed to feel it as badly as Sanchez needed to inflict it.

            And at it’s core was the reality that Marty would always have to share Sanchez with Elena, who would always be his wife, and Marti would always come second. Marti had given herself body and soul to him but would never be good enough or occupy the higher place. She would try and try, do anything to earn that warm, loved placed, but it was never going to happen and that tormented her and yet, at the same time . . . it fueled all of this and bound her to him irretrievably.

            Sanchez got it. And Marti knew this, too.

            He watched her face and her swaying, gleaming tits and thought about this girl that belonged to him and how those tits were his and the cunt that he was fucking and he wanted to lean over and bite into that pale flesh . . . Now at last he felt it beginning to build in the backs of his legs and up into his butt and he knew he was getting ready to cum. His eyes met hers in the mirror again and she knew, too, and what that meant for her.

            “Nononononono,” she gasped frantically, her blue eyes now wide open and imploring.

            Until this moment there had always been some hope that he would be merciful but that candle was about to go out.

            “Pleasepleaseplease,” she begged into his implacable stare, “MasterMasterpleasepleasepleasepleaseMaster – “

            And on his next thrust he came, deep inside her and in his spasm pulled up even harder on her hair and her pleas became a cry, mixing pain with the agony of frustration and, somewhere between the two, acceptance. Sanchez pumped himself dry inside her, keeping her taught and arched backwards so he could watch her in the mirror. Only when he was spent did her let go of her and she fell forward, back onto her hands. He crouched over her, panting, making her support his weight on her trembling arms even as she continued to murmur to herself, “nonononononono . . .”

            Sanchez pushed himself up and stood, pulling her to her knees and towards him but she already knew what the next act of this drama was and didn’t hesitate to take him into her mouth, tasting both of them, sucking and licking and scrubbing with her tongue, cleaning him off while she kept her hands folded behind her back and stared up at him, eyeliner smudged.

            He gazed down at her and there was no beseeching this time in her eyes, just submission. Pure. Complete. 

            He was done. He pushed her back and left the room and Marti, alone now, folded in on herself, arms around her chest, sobbing desperately. It was the only energy release she was going to get that day and he took his time in the other room, letting her have this cry. She cried out of sexual frustration, naturally. But he always felt there was more to it than that, more than the physical. She'd never been able to articulate it to him on the few times he had asked, other than to acknowledge it wasn't just that she wanted to cum desperately but knew that she couldn't. When he'd talked to Elena about, his wife had not hesitated with her theory:

            "The waterworks?" she'd sniffed. "That's because she's a slut and she's used to satisfying herself whenever she wants and now she can't. It's just a foolish girl being denied what she wants and so she boo-hoos. It's like a temper tantrum." Elena's eyes gleamed. "But deep down," she continued with vicious satisfaction, "she cries because she knows that not being able to cum turns her on even more than actually cumming. And that is making her understand, slowly but surely, that what she truly is and needs to be is an owned slave, for real and completely. And that scares the shit out of the 'Miss Indepenent Woman' side of her, who cries because she doesn't want to go there and knows that's exactly where this trainwreck is headed." She gave her husband a searching look. "You be careful with this one, mi amor. The day is going to come that she'll break and you know the saying: You break it, you own it."

            Sanchez thought about that more and more. 

            When he returned he was in jeans and a shirt and she threw her arms around his ankles, kissing his feet hungrily as if they were his cock and she could please him yet again. He gave her this moment, too.

            “What do you say, slave?

            She looked up at him. “Thank you Master for using your slave.”

            “How’s my cunt?”

            “Sir,” she said. “Very needy, Sir.”

            Sanchez looked down at her for another moment and then nodded.

            “Good,” he said. “Get dressed.”

            He watched her pull the sundress over head and try – and fail miserably – to pat her hair into place. She picked up her keys and phone and hesitated. He knew what she was waiting for and decided she wasn’t going to get it.

            “Go home,” he said.

            Marti’s cheeks reddened as if she had been slapped and her cunt twitched. “Yes, Sir,” she said meekly.

            He had already turned away before she was out the door.

Sanchez listened for the sound of her car starting and then fading away down the street.  Then he went to get a beer and sat down to watch the afternoon basketball game.

And thought about broken things.