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.
