Fall From Grace Read online

  “I imagine that eventually you’ll get to all of it,” he said, remaining vague.

  “Then where would you like me to begin?”

  He finished his coffee, stood, and then took her hand, bringing her to her feet. Something wildly erotic burned between them, but Regan could not risk acknowledging that fire.

  Starting back toward the foyer, they stopped briefly in the formal dining room where her host pointed out a few things of interest—mainly his art. His point made, they returned to where they met, standing before the bank of celestory windows looking out on the pastoral scene outside.

  Regan met her first master, Jon Benjamin, while drinking mocha at a sidewalk café. She was wearing a silk collar around her neck, which seemed to be the point of his attraction.

  “Does it mean anything?” he asked, stopping beside the table with a jaunty expression on his face. He was cool, a generous, but crisply charming sort of man. He had a preppy, schoolboy attractiveness, a feast of tousled brown hair and the kind of smile to disarm any woman.

  “Does what?” she looked down at her clothes wondering what he was referring to.

  “The collar?”

  She touched her neck. “Oh, yes, the collar. What if it did have meaning?”

  “Then we might be fast friends.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Suppose you tell me first. Does the collar have any meaning?”

  She cocked her head to get rid of the sunshine blinding her eye.

  “I like the way it makes me feel submissive,” she answered bluntly. This would either take him aback or arouse his interest.

  He took a seat across from her after the remark registered successfully.

  “Would you rather it were leather?” he wondered.

  “I like leather, too. But that really doesn’t matter.”

  “And you like bondage?”

  Her heart fluttered excitedly. “Yes.”

  “Being whipped?”

  “You’re getting awfully personal,” she joked.

  “Cut to the chase, I say.”

  “So, you just walk around the city looking for submissive women?”

  “No, but I notice when I see one. I couldn’t take my eyes from you.”

  “Then I can assume you are a Dominant.”

  “I am.”

  They talked for two hours over dinner, Regan spilling out her fantasies of submission, and sharing her initiation scene in its vivid detail. She had no further S&M experience to report, but he had many scenes to share with her. He was looking for a fulltime submissive and wanted her exclusively.

  They fell into bed the first night as if they were long lost lovers reuniting. The next morning he laid out the guidelines for a relationship that would last nearly a year. He was firm, with a command that quickly touched her crotch. She stayed in his apartment, served his sexual needs whenever he was with her, and became his owned property in little more than a week. This was everything her dreams devised. He fed her, bought her clothes, tortured her exquisitely and kept her happily rule-bound. He even advised her on her career, keeping her focused on work. She turned over her money to him, which he portioned out to her judiciously—she had few needs. Regan became as emotionally bound to him as she was physically. She believed this was her heaven…

  Heaven except for a wife who claimed more than half his time. The wife knew nothing of his sexual predilections; either that, or she ignored his S&M philandering. Jon, however, made no apologies for the fact that he lived this dual life and expected Regan to understand and cope.

  As a slave, this shouldn’t have been a problem. Slaves have no rights, no power to negotiate, no claim to anything, but the obligation to serve their master. A slave’s bliss was the trade-off. No worry, no need to fear life, because life was fashioned by their owner.

  Regan might have made accommodations to remain Jon Benjamin’s slave. She was deeply in love. But love hurt; and soon hurting became more important than the loving and the serving and the abdication of her rights.

  “I’d like to see swatch books for fabric tomorrow,” Tennyson said.

  “That might be difficult, unless I know what you want the fabric for.”

  “You’re going to argue?” he jumped back at her.

  “No, sir. I’m not being argumentative, but you’ve hardly given me any idea what you want.”

  “I work free form. And I need ideas. You bring me the ideas and we’ll discuss them.”

  “Could I at least see the rooms I’ll be working on?”

  “This one,” he said, looking upwards. “I was thinking of a hand-painted fresco in the ceiling, something, soothing, but vividly sensuous… women kissing, bodies entangled.”

  She peered with him into the dome high above the foyer.

  “All women?” she wondered out loud.

  “Yes. To my thinking, the female sex is much prettier than the male.”

  On this, she agreed.

  “Do you have a painter in mind?”

  “I was thinking of you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “But I don’t…”

  “Don’t lie to me, slave, you do paint. Kurt showed me your work.”

  “And he shouldn’t have.” She was all flustered now.

  “Oh? You’re telling me that your master had no right to show me what belongs to him?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “If you were my slave you’d be soundly punished for that impudence.”

  Regan’s body jumped at that warning, though she managed to retain her poise, “But, Mr. Hallock, I am not your slave.” She tried saying that without an edge of anger and thought she pulled it off well.

  Tennyson only looked at her more suspiciously, “I’m surprised you belong to Kurt Kingsley,” he humphed to himself. “You may have him hoodwinked, but you won’t get your haughtiness by me.”

  She wouldn’t get it by Kurt either. Yes, disaster was brewing with all her premonitions coming true. Worse yet, her body was so vibrantly charged for sex that she was certain the man could feel it.

  “Maybe we could just step back a bit, sir,” she tried calmly. “I obviously have no idea what Kurt has told you about me—I assumed nothing, but I’m wrong about that. And yes, he has every right to reveal anything he wants to you. Your assumptions about my painting took me off guard. I’ve never done anything to the scale of what you’re suggesting. I can’t imagine that Kurt would have implied I could do such a project.”

  “Maybe he has a loftier viewpoint of your talent than you do?” He was smiling now, which made Regan feel much better.

  “He always has; but I think he understands my limitations.”

  “If you can’t execute the project, I’d like for you to design it.”

  She bit her lip nervously, making every effort to keep her composure; all the while feeling as though she were being pulled through the eye of a needle. She could not risk making any error in speech, demeanor, or facial expression. One slip, she imagined herself collared and in the closet for the entire evening—not what she had planned even if the confinement might settle her mind. In lieu of that, she’d have a pained ass. Neither punishment suited her.

  “I’ll give the design a try, sir.”

  “Good.” He was smiling again. “And no cherubs or little nymphs. I want full bodied voluptuous women like yourself, embracing deeply.”

  Regan felt a blush rising swiftly on her cheeks until they were burning again.

  Tennyson snickered. “Oh, how I love toying with slaves.”

  “Yes, sir.” She went straight to the mindset, just as she would with Kurt.

  He nodded his head appraising her from head to toe. Submission ran down her body like a wave of pure water. “You think you’re good. Kurt thinks you’re good. You’ll both know for sure by the time I’m finished with you.”

  Was this a contest, she wondered? Though it was a silent question.

  “I want fabric an
d color swatches, and a preliminary sketch by tomorrow morning. Can you do that?”

  “With Kurt’s cooperation, certainly.”

  “Oh, I think my friend will be as interested in seeing you perform as I am. Now be off with you, wench,” he shooed her away like a stray cat and moved toward the doorway under the stairs. He pushed his blond hair off his face again, and looking back, noticed that she was still standing in the middle of his foyer. “Go on, I haven’t eaten you, not yet.”

  Regan almost slipped on the terra-cotta as she flew toward the door. Only when she was out of the house, on the other side of the bramble and vines, standing by the car door did she breathe easily again.

  Even that one moment of relief was cut short, however, as she stared back at the house. Tennyson Hallock was standing in an upstairs window looking out at her with a grim air of command.

  Regan shuddered and dove for her car keys.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jon Benjamin met his slave in the back of a crowded deli. While ordering two subs and a beer, she stood in front of him pressing her ass into his groin—enough for him to feel, but not enough for anyone else to notice. She might as well have been fucking him for all the attention paid to their lewd behavior. She was ‘on contract’ with her slutty conduct, as Jon loved publicly promiscuous displays. As he waited for his order, he opened his trench coat, letting her draw back inside it while he began to inch her short skirt up her thighs. He was moving toward her snatch, feeling each tingle of her sexual body as he toyed with her pubis.

  In ten months, Regan had learned to keep her poise under such duress. She’d been fondled and exposed in public a dozen times, sending her master deep into his lordly desires. She would gravitate to her submissive roots at such moments, let go, lose conscious thought, and trustingly put herself into her master’s keeping while wordlessly obeying his orders—even if they had the effect of screaming to the world, ‘I am a slave!’

  As he worked his fingers deeply between her thighs, she parted them, which only pushed her skirt up higher on her legs. Such lovely legs were meant to be exposed, Jon repeated to her often—until she finally agreed and quit worrying about the overt display. In the crowded deli, she was almost disappointed that no one noticed.

  Meanwhile, Jon pushed further with his hand, driving two fingers into her creamy cunt. His thick digits fucked her fast for several seconds until he could sense that she was grabbing hold of that erotic peak. He backed off, content to massage the aroused flesh. Regan’s hungering body replied with a soft, senseless sigh as someone wedged their body against her hot one.

  A second later, Jon pulled his hand out from under her skirt, reached over the counter with his twenty-dollar bill, and exchanged it for the sack of sandwiches. Simultaneously, Regan reached for their beer, and the couple exited out the back door onto the patio.

  “Cum before you eat,” Jon ordered her, as he sat back in his chair chewing the first bite of his sandwich. Regan whimpered softly—she was very hungry and a little nervous—but she obeyed. At least her exposure was minimal. With her back to the deli door, few could tell what she was doing as they strolled onto the patio with their lunch in hand. And though there were several people eating at tables nearby, none seemed to notice, except one young man in position to see straight at her daring presentation.

  Putting her hand to her crotch, Regan began to play with the warm wet folds of excited skin. Seeing her admirer’s eye, she smiled blushingly and continued playing with her pulsing puss.

  The edge of satisfaction was close, and easily attainable. Her ripe, desiring pussy lurched forward to its objective, while Regan let her gaze move from Jon, to the man sitting two tables away, eyeing her with amused interest. Her glances were flirtatious to both men, as though she had each one dancing on the tips of her skin, and in the center of her clenching channel where the spasms were about to break free.

  Without warning, there was a hand reaching in where her fingers had her at the finish. Jon. Clamping his fingers around her wrist, he pulled her hand from her crotch.

  “You can wait until later; I want to fist you, slave.”

  Regan looked up shocked, her eyes screaming, ‘No!’ while her irate pussy backed down grudgingly—and not without having spent a few rebellious spasms that she couldn’t halt.

  “Straighten up and eat your sandwich,” Jon ordered as she adjusted to her abandonment. With a quick glance at her admirer, she noted his quizzical expression. She smiled and turned her attention to her master. A slave would let the denial fire her more. And Regan was a good slave.

  Later that evening, they returned to her apartment for the promised fisting. It had been weeks since the last time—that time a frightening fear had bound her body in a knot and she couldn’t relax. She would succeed this time; she was determined.

  Regan had to give this master credit for his patience. When he wanted the extremes he pushed her forward emphatically, but he was always patient, as long as she kept trying. And for fisting her cunt, his restraint, coupled with her courage was required. To have her master’s hand within her was beyond the limits of her imagination—an impossibility, something for dreaming, not reality.

  Jon had taught her otherwise.

  “On the bed, on your back,” he ordered as soon as they were in the door. “And naked, Regan…” he paused, remembering what he wanted. “Get out the cuffs and rope,” he called to her as she was scrambling from her clothes and moving rapidly toward the bedroom.

  “Yes, sir,” she acknowledged back.

  He’d never fisted her while she was bound.

  Drawing her master’s bag of bondage toys from the bottom of her closet, she emptied the contents on the bed beside her, carefully—though quickly—laying out cuffs and various manacles along with the many lengths of rope and straps he used to immobilize her.

  He liked his things neatly ordered where he could find them, or allow their inspiration to guide his plans.

  Lying in the center of the bed, she waited, shivering naked. The room seemed cold.

  “You’re getting quicker,” Jon noted as he appeared in the doorway. He stood there some time as though he were contemplating something truly serious—though it wasn’t what he was about to do in the next few minutes. His thoughtful expression made her wonder. This wasn’t unusual. Her master often lost himself in moments somewhere outside real time. She could see the gears working in his brain, but he never gave her any idea of what it was that occupied his thoughts. She wondered if he was thinking of his family. If somehow a stray piece of guilt had suddenly fallen from the sky to cloud this sexual merriment. Or was it deeper in significance, something to do with her and her slavery? Ideas like this one thrust themselves uninvited into her brain just when she wanted to forget that she was little more than a detour in Jon’s life. At such times, she wanted to be the center of his universe, to believe that they existed in a perfect vacuum together, that nothing could get in to harm the beauty of his mastery or her submission. Seeing his expression mutate—even for a brief moment, she knew otherwise. She was just his detour.

  Jon recovered and so did she. For the next half hour, Regan threw herself into the scene.

  Jon bound her hands with ropes, refusing to use the cuffs, preferring this raw statement of his authority over her. She felt the soft hemp cut into her flesh, as though it might eventually work its way to the bone. She loved the feel, and quickly caught the remembrance of her lost orgasmic moment at the deli. Her crotch leaped forward. Her pubis was ready almost instantaneously, wet with her thick, milky nectar. Jon had little need to grease the pathway to her insides; although he still swathed his bare hand with lubricant before he began the plunge.

  She opened wide, held her breath, and arched her back for a moment as her Master slipped his first four fingers into the pulsing opening. Her muscles squeezed around them, clutching them tightly as if she were trying to stop his submersion in the carnal pathway.

  “Back off, Regan,” he ordered in a tone of gent
le warning. “I’m going inside.” It seemed his knuckles were striking bone, that the path had closed and was for a moment driving him away. Then he laid his second hand on her quivering belly, settling the stir of anxious wildness gathering there. The fear, crowding out the pleasure, eased, as if, like scattering leaves, a gust of warm wind had shooed them off. Her surrender plummeted lower by degrees, slowly, efficiently opening her to the master’s invasion.

  “You’re very close.” She didn’t know how close because she thought only of opening herself wide, not the impossibility. Then, with one small burst of pained heat, every bit of tension in her died and he was there. Fisting her.

  The savagery began.

  His hand moved boldly, striking her insides with ferocious purpose. The impact jarred loose any last bit of vacillation. Was he driving for her soul with his bare fist? She bucked with him in a frantic rhythm, beginning to build to an edge. Regan’s internal abdication brought back the lost climax in a new form. She felt as though she were riding waves to the bottom of her being.

  Screaming softly, she came. In one wondrous burst of physical joy, the wildness took her. And thrashing back and forth her pleasure continued until she finally settled.

  When Jon pulled out his hand, he moved his crotch to her face. And straddling Regan’s neck, he pressed his erection to her lips. She opened again, to fit his hefty stalk inside her mouth as far into her throat as she could manage. She struggled little. Her bondage was comforting; the emptiness between her legs pure satisfaction; and her desire to serve her Master poured through her as wet desire.

  After pounding her mouth, there was little left of her to scour. Jon came, his seed pouring on to her face and down her chin. The taste was sweet this time of night; and so she licked her lips as a broad smile broke out on her face.

  Once Jon untied the ropes, she snuggled into his side, hoping for sleep.

  Regan almost liked the moments after climax better than the moments in the middle. They were, at the very least, soothing. Though they were often difficult to manage. Intimacy after sex mattered more than it did before sex or during, more than it did in the middle of eating sandwiches in the deli, or when she first put her slavey arms around her Master’s neck and kissed him with her wet tongue and undulating belly. There were always question marks in the moments thereafter—a hesitant wondering. Would he spend the night with her, or climb into his clothes and return to his other home? She was forbidden to ask, forbidden to mention his wife, forbidden to consider that he had a wife who mattered to him.