Fall From Grace

Chapter Two-1

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 f*****g 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 s****l 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 f****d 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 p***y 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 p***y 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 s****l 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 gentle 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 s*x mattered more than it did before s*x 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.

As he slipped from bed this night, her heart sank beyond her toes, lodging somewhere off the end of the bed… maybe under the bed, which was exactly where she wanted to crawl. This was a very unslave-like attitude, and he’d despise it if she let it show. But fisting is special. It requires a personal honesty bigger and fancier than just normal honesty. Talk about being penetrated! How could he fist her and leave her?

That’s exactly what he was going to do.

“You have to go?” That was a verboten question, too. But she asked anyway.

Midway through putting on his left sock, he turned and stared.

“You have to go?” she repeated, thinking he didn’t hear; and for some reason, his hearing her clearly was very important right now.

“I heard you,” he said stiffly. “And the answer is yes. It should be obvious, now, shouldn’t it?” He was annoyed.

“Why?”

He c****d his head, not believing what he was hearing. Going beyond annoyed, his face first flushed with anger, then he stopped abruptly and returned to the bed, sitting down on the edge.

“Something wrong, slave?” he asked, tousling her hair in his palm, running his fingers through the curls, then tugging her a little closer being almost playful. This was an act of kindness—and she was sure she’d eventually pay. He was pouring on the charm with a nervous smile, as though he realized that there was something seriously wrong.

“The way you leave me is wrong,” she said.

“Oh?”

“The way you have a wife, the way I share you, the way I’m your slave one hour and forgotten the next.”

“If you don’t like the arrangement, Regan, you are free to leave.”

“Am I?”

“Of course.”

“So, even my contract doesn’t matter?”

“It only goes as deep as your feelings for me. I’m not about coercing any woman to be my slave. But if you are my slave, you live with the reality of what that means. You know what that reality is and I shouldn’t have to point this out.”