Fall From Grace

Chapter One-2

“It was once the bridal suite,” the professor informed her. “Few brides now would accept such tattered surroundings for the a wedding night, but I think it suits your need.”

He picked perfectly, Regan thought. “I think you’re right, sir,” she answered him.

“And you call yourself ‘slave’?” His voice turned cold as he suddenly grilled her with the question. “You’re still on your feet.”

“My apologies,” she said, immediately dropping to the floor, folding herself over submissively, her face pressed to the carpet.

Regan didn’t look up to see the expression of determination on his face. She’d already seen it a thousand times in fantasy. Her professor was a little older than her ideal master. He’d aged gray at the temples, and wrinkles creased his brow and around his thin lips; but his look and appearance was keenly masterful—enough to suit her need.

“You’ll learn to serve on your knees. That’s what slaves do best. If you were mine for a year, you’d rarely stand, and you’d learn.”

“I already know, sir,” she said looking up.

He grabbed her hair, and pulled her up so that she stared at his crotch, “You know little but your imagination.” He wanted to say more, but stopped. More wasn’t part of their agreement. He shook her off, “Climb on the bed.”

Regan scrambled to obey, suddenly feeling quite clumsy as reality took twists she had not counted on.

“On your back,” the professor continued. He’d quickly clamped her one handcuffed wrist to the post above her left side. A second handcuff encircled her right wrist and was then attached to the right-hand post.

With a jerk of his hand, the master removed her long thin skirt to reveal her naked crotch beneath. Her bare p***y pressed the air wantingly, beginning to thrash back and forth for more stimulation.

“Lie still,” the man demanded.

He wanted her obedience. She wanted that, too. A rush of satisfaction swept her as she settled herself compliantly. Yet, this only made her crotch burn more eagerly for his touch.

Unbuttoning her blouse, the professor bared her breasts, which flattened against her chest as her n*****s rose beyond them pink, tight and proud. He ran his hand across her skin while her head fell back and her chest rose up to greet his fingers. He tweaked a n****e between them waiting for her scream; but the urge to cry quickly receded as sensation descended to her wet p***y.

He tried the other n****e realizing the same results, hearing her gasp gratefully with each pain he made her endure.

To immobilize her completely, the professor cuffed her ankles and secured them to the posts at the end of the bed. Though these, he drew high along the smooth wooden columns, so that her ass was nearly lifted off the spread. Her p***y seemed to dance on air, while female juice collected at the opening. She was ready for an assault.

The assault came in a steady rain of stimulation from the professor’s flogger, and chains he drew along her underarms; from a feather duster and then a claw of prickers, which grazed her breasts and moved along her undulating belly to her thighs. Her hips swayed as each new toy changed her experience of physical sensation. Then he used the flogger again, working her breasts first, then the inside of her thighs on the tender flesh where her skin brightened in color.

The strikes penetrated more than skin, moving beyond her body’s sweaty surfaces to hit a soulful place of sexuality.

Her cries were mirthful, even in pain. He could see she wanted more, so he gave her more heat from the leather strands of the flogger, more cold chains to tease the heat, and more prickly stimulation from the beguiling claws.

Regan thrashed frantically, moving quickly down into a stream of newly unearthed consciousness where she didn’t exist except in the atoms amid the air… no thought, no emotion, simply blessed nothingness that filled her full. A paradox indeed. This was more than she imagined.

Aroused, the professor climbed on the bed between her legs and spent himself into her fast cumming p***y, while Regan still rocked in one savage jolt after another.

Her initiation was more than she expected. The feeling lasted for days, enough to propel her into another, completely unexpected relationship with her first true Master.

“I don’t want to destroy the feeling of light that is so natural in the house,” Tennyson continued the conversation.

“Of course not,” she agreed. “That’s why we’ll keep the colors light. This house breathes. But then, I’ve only seen part of it.”

“You’ll see what I want you to see,” he answered abruptly.

Tennyson Hallock was not like other clients. He was far too brusque, even familiar, as though he knew the details of her life. He probably did, if he knew Kurt well. He knew enough to call her ‘slave’. And that still bothered her.

What right had Kurt…

Every right in the world, she reminded herself.

“Then I’ll be redecorating only part of the house?” she asked.

“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 c****d 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 s****l 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 s****l 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 s*x 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 s*x 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 and 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.”