He had watched her, from a discrete distance, for nearly two years; watched her once shining eyes and easy laughter gradually dimming, a mute testimony to the insidious, debilitating toll of the abusive love affair in which she was trapped. How often had he gritted his teeth, his stomach churning with anger and helplessness as he witnessed yet another in a seemingly endless series of emotional assaults and petty degradations? Later, he learned that this had not been her first such affair, nor had the abuse been strictly mental. He admired her wit and intelligence, her boundless energy and curiosity, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand how she had come to this point; a nearly lifeless shadow, haunting her abuser’s couch with no thought for herself, no ambition, and no way out.
Later, when that ugly affair had finally disintegrated and she was free, if deeply scarred, he asked himself over and over if there was something else he could have done to help her; something besides the occasional sympathetic touch or clandestine glance of support. He knew, though, that like so many of life’s injustices, her liberation could only come when she was ready to reach out and take it. On that fateful morning, awakened from a dead sleep by her phone call for help, he rejoiced in her new-found courage and happily offered his home as a safe haven.
Her manner was terrifying. She paced nervously, lighting, then forgetting, cigarette after cigarette, her hands trembling uncontrollably. At times she was nearly incoherent, raging one moment about the horrors of the last several years, sobbing the next. And yet, there was a singular beauty to her anguish...the rebirth of spirit; the healing power of critical thinking rediscovered. He tried his best to listen, cajole, guide..whatever seemed necessary in the moment. And, when sleep finally came to her, he gently tucked her in, closing the door to the bedroom quietly behind him. Sitting in the silent darkness, his mind poured over what to do...how to help her…and, with some trepidation, what his own role in her life might become.
Slowly, her initial anger began to subside, or at least fade somewhat, and they spent hours talking about her life, what might have led her to make the choices she had made, anything and everything. He was nursing his own wounds, fresh from the breakup of a long marriage, but chose to focus on her struggle; comforting when he could; acting as a go-between to secure some of her possessions from her former lover; or simply listening.
But there was more. To his delight, he discovered that they shared something very special, an interest in what is commonly called dominance and submission. He had harbored certain secret suspicions, or perhaps hopes, that she did, indeed, have a fondness for his kind of play; smiling to himself, for instance, at the relish with which she recounted, several times, a tale of overhearing some former neighbors engaging in a long spanking session. He had done, he thought later with a laugh, a pretty poor job of concealing his joy at this discovery, but really didn’t care. Coyness and cool weren't his thing, and he was glad to be able to open up to her.
He was also very surprised to learn that she had never had the opportunity to explore these desires, and wondered, out loud, if perhaps her fall into those recent abusive relationships might have had something to do with the fact that her true nature had been suppressed for so long. They talked, teased, giggled and planned for the day, once she was ready, strong, and not on the rebound, when they could probe the depths of their mutual interests. Still, it gave him pause. He was not a person who had ever given himself lightly, nor one who particularly enjoyed casual sex, and he knew she felt the same. Their willingness to dive headlong into this kind of exploration caught them both off guard but was, at the same time, irresistible.
As it turned out, that day came sooner than either of them expected.
"You bastard," she hissed, and he chuckled, sliding her pinned wrists even further up the wall above her head, thrusting his knee between her thighs as she strained to meet him.
The wall was cool, smooth, hard against her hot skin, and he fixed his gaze to her eyes, wide now with passion and a little fear, feeling her nails dig a little into the flesh of the hand which held them tightly, immobilized.
"Why, we must not call Master a bastard, that will never do," he admonished, his voice a curious mixture of firmness and bemusement.
Abruptly, he caught a fistful of her flowing blonde hair, propelled her to the bed, and began to spank her squirming bottom hard with his open palm. She gasped and moaned, but lifted her ass to meet each flaming caress. Fair-skinned and very sensitive, her bottom turned instantly red, then purple, as the punishing hand came down, over and over, sending white hot waves of pain rippling along the nerve endings of her spine, only to return to her dripping heat as messages of pure pleasure. And she came--again and again--shuddering, shaking and crying out, her body giving the lie to the feeble protests which stuttered sporadically from her pouting, delicious lips.
Although an admitted novice, she had spent years reading and fantasizing about these games, and when the opportunity to give free reign to her passions had finally arrived, her response was nothing short of explosive. Slowly, patiently, lovingly he guided her, plumbing the depth and breadth of her pent-up lust; finding what worked for her, and what didn’t. She was very submissive, to be sure, but had no interest in a traditional Dom/sub relationship, with its focus on real life control skirting too uncomfortably close to the kind of trauma from which she had so recently escaped. Submissiveness, for her, was a kind of emotional vacation from her daily and professional life (which so often demanded that she be the antithesis of passive); a way to let down her guard and get in touch with her deepest and most primal needs, secure in the knowledge that he would never hurt her.
He sighed, now, as the memories and images washed over his consciousness. She was a quick study, absorbing and relishing each new experience as fast as he could conceive it...
...spread-eagled on the bed, wailing and jerking as the biting leather tips of his small cat-o-nine-tails tormented her tender pussy and ample, jiggling breasts, the nipples clamped tightly between the harsh tips of wooden clothespins, till she came in a veritable torrent of steamy release...
...tied to the foot of that same bed, her hands in front of her, extended, as she knelt on the floor and sucked his hard cock greedily, her body arched, accentuating each delectable curve, her lovely round ass displaying the criss-crossed, throbbing red reminders of his recent ministrations with the fiberglass cane...her lips and tongue hungrily working toward the moment when his unchecked spasms would blast a load of hot, sticky cum onto her waiting face...
...crawling on her hands and knees, her eyes downcast, ordered to the shower to be paddled with a long handled, wooden bathbrush.
...straddling his smooth leather chair, tied hand and foot to the legs and armrests, her pussy impaled on a coarse scrub brush, the hard bristles digging into her tenderest tissue as he lay sprawled upon the couch, unhurriedly dragging on a cigarette, watching her, his steely gaze burning to the center of her being, growling softly for her to wriggle her slutty ass till she climaxed, howling in ecstasy like an animal hopelessly in love with the trap...
...and her eyes…always those sweet, intelligent, wanton eyes...pleading, surprised, longing, willing, so beautiful...
The ensuing weeks blurred by in a haze of passion and discovery. She told him, blushing with pride, about being unable to stop smiling, about how her newfound glow had stunned and delighted her friends. She called incessantly, which made him feel flattered and very special, and he was always eager to drop whatever he might be doing to drive her on an errand, or go to her in the dead of those long, lonely nights, or simply wait while she reveled in her rediscovered freedom. He didn’t mind the waiting; he knew that she needed time…time to heal…time to regain her emotional strength. And he had realized, to his amazement, that here, at last, was someone worth that wait; someone he wanted to wait for; someone with whom hope, for him, could be reborn.
He marveled at her resilience and emotional resourcefulness. She faced the abuse she had suffered head on or used her job, which she loved, as a symbolic conduit to vent the pressurized years of anger and fear, still too fresh for her to confront directly. When she ended up beaten and battered from a misguided effort to finally close the book on her relationship with one of her abusers, he held her gently, tears of anger and outrage, unseen by her, burning in his eyes, and tried to rock and talk away the demons. He joked with her, engaged her in the kind of real conversations for which she had longed during her years of oppression, and tried his best to help her understand her new sexual feelings, feelings which seemed to both elate and frighten her. He explained that their "preference", as he liked to call it, was a choice--a completely consensual thing whose ultimate aim was pleasure--and not at all akin to the abuse she had suffered for so long. He showed her websites, photos and internet chatrooms; every source of information he could access on the subject. Her mind, exquisitely curious and quick, seemed to swallow this knowledge whole and come back hungrily for more. He could feel her drawing closer, and he welcomed it; wanted it.
His own mind ached now, as he recalled their adventures. The time he had rescued her, breathless and laughing, from a creepily ardent suitor, a peevish boy, really, from whom she had escaped by slipping out the back door of a club and into his own clandestinely positioned "getaway" car. Or the night he had driven her, delicate hands still trembling from the final assault, to retrieve a few of her things from her abuser’s porch. The nights of passion and release; that cold evening in her new apartment, huddled under the blankets, when he had held her so closely that it was impossible to tell where her smooth, sexy skin ended and his began. She had smiled softly, curling even closer, gently touching his face with loving fingers as they talked of where their lives might take them. What was between them seemed to grow, deepen, and still he waited, not wishing to pressure her, not wanting to risk what had become so precious to him.
Until this night. He was working but, around midnight, stopped briefly at his apartment. With a chuckle, he replayed her messages; an ongoing chronicle of her evening, the last of which indicating that she was at home. On a lark, he decided to drop by and surprise her, maybe spend a few minutes laughing and talking before he finished his evening’s work. He parked in the alley beside her apartment building. As he rounded the corner, he was puzzled to see her standing at the curb, and instantly thought, a little wryly, that perhaps she had lost her keys again, something of a recurring problem for her.
But then, in a flash of understanding that seemed to slow time to a crawl, he understood what was really going on, just as a car eased to a stop in the street beside her. Inside was the boy--that peevish boy--that fucking little stalker from the club. Stunned, his eyes met hers, questioning.
She looked at him, clutching his still-beating heart in her hands, mumbling some nonsense about getting a ride with a "friend," then dropped it unceremoniously into the gutter and turned away, disappearing into the car. He stood there, motionless, his mind screaming, his body shivering with grief and rage as he watched her drive away. How could she--she of all people--do this? He stumbled back to the van, and somehow finished his work, biting back bitter tears till he tasted his own blood.
He lit a fresh cigarette now, in the dim, sleepless dawn of the grey morning, and snarled softly, "Goddamn you."
Rising stiffly, he began to prepare for an arduous day. He was to be a pallbearer at the funeral of a favorite aunt, and he couldn’t help but chuckle sardonically at the ironic timing of it all.
"Day of the dead," he murmured, laying the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray and absently lighting a new one.
She had done him a favor, he decided; taught him a long-overdue lesson. Only a fool opens his heart; only a mark believes in hope; only a child trusts. He would not make these mistakes again. He felt neither anger nor bitterness. He felt no longing, no love, no pain. He felt...nothing.
Pulling on his overcoat, he glanced once around the room, then stepped out into the bone-chilling January morning, locking the door behind him.