Master Me (39 page)

“Didn’t have time. Been busy. I’ve done
everything
else,” I wailed in a sudden outpouring of guilty defensiveness.

“Have you, Lara? Everything?” He smiled sadly. “Tell you what. Why don’t you wash up a cup and I’ll pour this brew into it. Then you can sit down here and we’ll go through the list together.”

He hadn’t mentioned a punishment. Perhaps he would let me off. Perhaps he was quite a generous-spirited kind of automaton after all. I smiled gratefully and pulled open the cupboard door. An ear-splitting crash of falling crockery and aluminium rent the air.

“Oh. Dear.”

“You’ve done extraordinarily well,” he told me, closing the spreadsheet and turning to me with a melancholy smile. “So much better than I would have expected at this stage. I think our little motivational scheme might be working.”

I glowed in the sunshine of his praise, then the inevitable shadow chilled the air.

“Of course, I don’t expect perfection, and I’m almost inclined to be lenient with regard to what happened earlier.”

“The Teacup Incident,” I said, having already christened it in my mind so that its notoriety would live forever.

“The Teacup Incident.” He smiled.

He really was so much more human and…approachable…since I gave him the green light to redden my bottom.

“After all, you will have to replace all that broken china from your own pocket, and, judging by the finances we’ve just trawled through, that won’t be easy. A punishment that truly fits the crime.”

I perked up, and yet at the same time, my heart sank. Was he letting me off? Did I want him to?

“So I’m not going to punish you for hiding the washing up.”

“Oh. Are you not?”

He chuckled at the note of disapproval in my voice.

“Don’t worry, I’m taking everything just as seriously as you need me to. I might not spank you for hiding dirty plates. But concealing them and lying to me about it…that’s quite a different matter.”

It had taken a mere millisecond for him to snap back into that terrifying mode and my lips parted, suddenly dry, like the back of my throat.

“If you lie to me, Lara, what are you achieving? Can you tell me?”

I looked at my hands. “I get to…look good. I get…to win.”

“Are appearances so important to you? I’m so very disappointed. I thought you were genuine in your desire to change and improve your organisational skills. But it seems that you’ve been fooling both yourself and me. You aren’t serious, are you? It’s all a game to you.”

I opened and closed my mouth. I wanted to protest, but I felt so terribly guilty—really guilty! Not the fake, fun kind of guilty. I was even close to tears.

“Please don’t…I do want to be better,” I blurted. “I really do. I’m just…it’s hard. It’s scary.”

“I understand that it’s hard, Lara. That’s why it’s so important that you’re one hundred percent honest with me. If you lie to me…well, for one thing, I will know. And for another, I will have to withdraw from our arrangement. With the greatest regret. But I would always, always prefer for you to fall short and confess your shortcoming, than to believe you’re sailing through without a struggle when you still need my help. You need my help, don’t you? Still?”

“Yes, I do, I really do, I’m really sorry.” A tear trickled out. The sight of it seemed to affect him, because he wound up the lecture and handed me a handkerchief.

“Good. Now dry those tears and come here.”

He patted his thigh and I stopped crying straight away, my thighs clenching with dread. Oh no, that’s not dread, is it, when you feel wet between them? That’s something else.

I really had no alternative, and the feeling thrilled me. I had to obey him.

I felt that same childish embarrassment in the act of placing myself to be spanked as I did on the first occasion—I felt so meek and submissive, letting him straighten the hem of my skirt so that it was tighter over my bottom. I had dressed especially for him, though I hoped he didn’t realise it—short, tight skirt, stockings, light cotton chemise that almost showed my bra. In my bent over position, the skirt hem edged just high enough up my thigh to reveal the bottom of the stocking lace, with its plastic suspender snap holding it up. His thumb stroked along the line. He liked it. I could tell by the uncomfortable lump digging into my stomach.

“You’re incorrigible, Lara,” he said, his voice soft, almost caressing, so unlike the voice of somebody who was about to…

“Oy!”

“Yes, it’s going to hurt more than the first time. It’s a punishment, not an experiment. I take honesty seriously, and I intend to demonstrate that to you.”

And he did. He demonstrated it with a thoroughness and efficiency that took my breath away and brought stinging tears—matching my stinging behind—to my eyes.

“You do need this, Lara, don’t you?”

“Ohhhh.” There was hardly any time for pauses between ouches and ooohs now, so they poured forth in an unbroken stream as the blows fell, hard, fast and relentless, burning my bottom ten times hotter than last time.

“Well? Don’t you? You know you do.”

“Yesssssssss.” It hissed out of me like steam. I did need this. I needed it and wanted it, and I needed Dexter and I wanted him, and it was all mixed up in a jam of needing and wanting, loving and desiring, fearing and hurting.

“You’re taking it well, if not very quietly,” he told me, stopping for a moment to rub his self-satisfied hands over the seat of my skirt. “I think I need to check the damage though. I don’t want to go too far. I’ll need to look under this. Do you mind?”

He wanted to raise my skirt. He wanted to look at my bare arse! Did I
mind
?

“Be…my guest…” I shuddered out.

He took his time, pulling the skirt gently upward, inch by inch, until my bottom in its thong was revealed, and oh, the touch of his fingers against that warm, tightening skin, oh. It was almost unbearable, an erotic tickle that made me jolt over his lap and muffle a giggle.

“You’re very warm,” he said, his voice thick with admiration. The pads of his fingertips stroked firmly downwards, then upwards. I wanted them to travel. I wanted them down, up, in, a long way in, and I did a wriggly movement with my hips in the hope that he would understand this.

“I think you’re trying to distract me, Lara,” he tutted. “Are you?”

“No,” I lied.

Oops, so much for honesty.
I will know
, he’d said. And he did. His hand smacked down on my bare bum with such force that I yowled, forgetting the open window and the interesting sound effects for the passers-by outside.

“Don’t!” he said, with another ringing slap. “Lie!”

“Argh!”

“To!”

“Owwww.”

“Me!”

“Ohhhhh noooooo.”

“Message received and understood?”

The rain fell hard, red and stinging.

“Yes, yes, yes, understood.”

“Good. That’s the first part of your punishment over with.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

“The first part?”

“I can’t help noticing,” he said, placing a palm against a very damp inner thigh, “that you can’t seem to control your response to discipline.”

“I…don’t mean to…”

“I know. You mean well, don’t you? But your body betrays you. Let’s have a little lesson in the art of self-control. A little practice. Shall we?”

“May I ask what sort of practice, Sir?” I asked, the sub-speak coming easily to me in this over-the-knee, hot-bottomed position.

“Yes, you may ask. I’m going to touch you, Lara, in a way that will give you pleasure. But you are not permitted to come. As soon as you feel that orgasm is inevitable, you are to do your very best to head it off.”

“I…won’t be able to do that!” I squeaked.

“Maybe not straight away. But you will learn. You don’t come now without my permission, my dear, and I think we should extend that even to times when I’m not here. No sneaky masturbating in the shower. I’ll ask you at each meeting, and don’t forget, I know when you are lying. I think this will teach you to achieve a level of focus that has been sadly lacking thus far.”

I gasped.
A level of focus?
This was going to be torture. Ever since Dexter had come into my life, my fingers had seemed connected to my pussy as if by a force of gigantic magnetism. I had to wrench them away sometimes. He knew it! He must!

“Spread your legs for me now,” he commanded quietly.

Pouting, although he couldn’t see it, I let them scissor apart, feeling him jolt my pelvis up with a knee, so that my bottom and sex were high, wide and open to him. The side of his hand brushed my lips and clit. I almost combusted on the spot. I was dripping, hot, sweaty, squirmy, and milliseconds from coming.

“You need a good seeing-to,” was his assessment. “Perhaps one day I can give you that. Perhaps.”

In the fug of lust and humiliation, my heart found space to leap. He was thinking of a future, however vaguely.

“Of all the greedy little quims I’ve ever known,” he said, gently, hypnotically, rubbing the sweet spot into a fat bloom of need, “I think this must be the greediest. What kind of girl gets wet from being punished? Eh? The kind of girl that needs more punishment, I think. The kind of girl that needs to be taken in hand.”

He pushed a finger up inside me and rotated it. It was useless to deny it, I was going to come soon, and hard.

I screwed my eyes shut and tried hysterically to think of boring and disgusting things. Nothing occurred. My consciousness was as full as my pussy, now with three probing fingers inside, full of him and his diabolical workings on my sex. I jiggled my bum frantically, trying to push him away, but there was no chance of that. He had me in a strong and capable grasp, one hand on the small of my back, massaging me into helpless compliance while the other finger-fucked me with exquisite finesse.

Mustn’t come, mustn’t come, mustn’t come
.

“If you come, I’ll have to use my belt on you, you know.”

I came.

He used his belt on me. It left a sharp, sweet, hot sting and neat, red lines on my backside, lines that I would touch and gaze at in my bedroom mirror for a long time that night. But I wouldn’t follow my urges and masturbate over it. Oh no. I wouldn’t dare.

“You’re doing well, Lara,” he said gravely, once I had sat my aching behind down on the chair next to his, hands folded demurely in lap, flaming face pointing down. “Don’t think that you aren’t. I’m delighted to see how much you’ve achieved in this relatively brief space of time. But there is always room for improvement—and sustaining this level of improvement is very hard. I will expect a few falls from grace along the road. Just remember to be honest with me about them, or it will certainly go worse with you. Let’s say that I know of things that are a lot worse than the palm of my hand, or even my belt.”

I yipped and looked up at his face, so placid in its sternness, so relaxed in its authority. He meant it.

“Were you always like this?”

“I’m sorry?”

“So…self-contained. And self-controlled. And bloody efficient! You’re almost…” I tailed off, realising that it would be rather hurtful to liken him to a robot.

“Almost what?”

“Nothing. Sorry. Just unusual. An unusual person.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he said, one eyebrow raised, inspecting his palm for damage. It was almost as red as my backside. There was a slightly awkward silence, then he spoke again. “But actually the answer to your question is ‘no.’ No, I wasn’t always like this.”

“You…taught yourself?”

“Trained myself. Yes. It was a case of having to. When you hit rock bottom, there’s only one way up. But there’s also the possibility of floundering on at rock bottom. I did that for a few years and then realised I didn’t have to.”

I was utterly intrigued. I imagined Dexter sleeping under cardboard in a railway arch or lying in some crackhouse with a needle in his arm. Surely he couldn’t have ever…

“I can’t imagine you being sloppy and disorganised,” I told him, overlaying my tragic imaginings with some light chat before they disturbed me too much.

“I was. More the result of circumstances than natural inclination. All the same, it couldn’t go on.”

“How did you change? You didn’t have someone to spank
you
, did you?” The idea amused me and I giggled girlishly.

“No, Lara, I did not.” He rolled his eyes, almost affectionately, then, just as suddenly as it had opened, the door to Dexter slammed shut. “My shady past isn’t relevant to the here and now. What matters is that you benefit from my experiences. And my refusal to accept anything but your best efforts. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” I grouched.

“I’m not sure I cared for your tone, Lara.
Are we clear
?”

I sighed. “Yes. Crystal. So what are my targets for next week?”

As the spankings mounted up, my infatuation with the spanker intensified. I didn’t make the elementary mistake of deliberately messing up, and I was as honest as I could be, but I just wasn’t very good at the whole being-in-control-of-my-life thing, and most meetings ended with me rubbing my bottom and promising myself that I would do better whilst orgasmic stars circled my head. And after he left, I watched him from my window, striding down the street, so full of purpose and sureness, not an inch of doubt to be seen, and I longed for him.

I tried to find things out about him—sly questions, stealthy peeks into his bag—but he was as tight clamped as a clam, a real man of mystery.
Who are you, Dexter?
I asked my pillow before resisting the urge to let my fingers relieve some of my sexual and emotional tension and flick furiously to a rerun of the last spanking, with a slightly different ending of my own tacked on.

“Do you spank your girlfriend?” I asked him, a bit desperately, on our seventh day of reckoning, once I had been allowed off his knee. It was a serious omission so he’d used a paddle this time, and I felt roasted, my bottom raging hard against the wooden kitchen seat.

“Get on your knees,” he commanded non sequiturially, unbuttoning to demonstrate that he expected me to show my gratitude for his discipline in our newly established way.