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1 Careless Moment
This material is copyright, 2003, Uther Pendragon. All rights reserved. I specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping one electronic copy for your personal reading so long as this notice is included. Reposting requires previous permission. If you have any comments or requests, please e-mail them to me at anon584c@nyx.net. All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. |
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1 Careless Moment
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Jon's lips and tongue were everywhere on her breasts. His fingers rubbed one spot deep within her. His other hand rested gently on her forehead, comforting her through her agony. And it was agony. Waves of fire crashed around her, tossing her to and fro. Then they crashed through her, flinging her into a furnace of passion. Until it was blessed relief. She was back on her sofa. Jon was kneeling beside her, holding her and comforting her and kissing her. These were gentle kisses, on her forehead and eyebrows and cheeks. He no longer sucked on her still-stinging nipples. "A minute," she gasped. It had never been so complete with anyone -- nor by herself. And he hadn't even been in her. "As long as you need," he replied. He caught up her hand in one of his, and kissed the back -- each knuckle, each finger. He turned away to remove something tangled around her ankle; it must be her panties. He pecked a kiss on her kneecap, another on her shaven mound. When his face was back in focus, he was grinning. He pecked a kiss on her chin, avoiding the mouth she still needed for oxygen supply. He carefully brushed the hair back from her face, lifting individual strands from the perspiration sticking them to her skin. He kissed her forehead again, a very gentle suction, not the pecks he'd given her immediately before. That kiss was a comfort from deep in her past. Could he know that? Could Jon know her so well? She hardly knew him at all. The man who'd moved into the condo above hers had invited her to his first party in the new place. The drinks and snacks were a standard exchange for not complaining about the noise; Jon turned out to be a bonus. He'd been their host's lawyer for the closing, and most of the other guests had been strangers to him just as they were to her. Attracted as much as thrown together, they'd exchanged telephone numbers. He'd called the next day. On the first date, he'd walked her to her apartment door and kissed her thoroughly. On the second, she'd invited him in for a nightcap. The glasses were still half full. But this memory had taken her more than the minute she'd asked for. "Want to come up here?" He broke his kiss to answer. "Don't think I'd fit. Here!" He rose from his kiss. "Hold the back of my neck." When she hugged him, he slipped his arms under the sofa cushion and pulled it off with her still lying on it. It wasn't the smoothest ride in the world, but the only parts that really bumped when the cushion fell to the floor were her heels. Jon straightened her on the cushion, partly lifting and partly sliding. When he was done, her hips were just at one edge. "Your feet okay?" he asked. She nodded that they were, but he went to them anyway. "Poor feet," he said, though he kissed the ankles, not the heels. He kept kissing the insides of her legs, moving upwards between them. By the time he had reached the tops of her thighs, she was writhing again. She was about to start the climb to her explosion, but she wanted him in her this time. She needed him in her this time. "Please come inside," she said. He kept licking her labia. They were exquisitely sensitive after the last series of orgasms, even the outer ones, more sensitive than they had ever been before. The licking drove her wild, but it wasn't quite enough to take her over. After an agonizing length of time, his tongue touched -- just touched -- her clit. She tensed. "Oh yes!" she said. He went back to the labia. "Please," she said. She started playing with her own breasts. It couldn't have been hours before he touched the clit again, but it felt like hours. She was so close. "Please," she begged, "oh please, please." When he returned to her entryway, she could stand it no longer. She moved her own hands downwards. She couldn't restrain her fingers at all. The intense friction was painful, but it was taking her to the top.... Then he grabbed her wrists and pulled them away. She needed, oh she needed, something there. His gentle, soothing kiss was something, but it wasn't enough. She struggled for a moment, but he clearly had the advantage of strength. As she relaxed her arms, he returned his mouth to the spot. She was close; she was there; she was over. And, as she started to pulse deep within, his mouth was gone again. She screamed her frustration, screamed until his mouth covered hers. Her hands suddenly released, she clawed at him until she felt him at her vulva. His hands, pressed down by his whole weight held her pelvis steady as he eased inside. Then she writhed once more as the slow friction began. The stimulation was entirely different, and the agony continued through three more strokes. Then she was pulsing again, gripping him within her as the fire played over her breasts and through her center. She was warmth, and heat, and fire. She was around him, she was under him, she was nowhere, and she was everywhere. Until she was nowhere again, and nothing, and limp as a rag. Except that he was moving within her still, somehow. And, impossible as it seemed, she rose to meet him once again. She tightened one more time, though her muscles screamed that they were done. And, when she felt him pulse within her, she pulsed in response. He kept hard and moving until she was quite done, done for the night, done for her lifetime. He was heavy, but she had no breath to frame a complaint. No mind, for that matter. Then, with a whispered "Back soon," he was gone. He waked her by picking her up. Being carried to her room, being laid down on the bed, reminded her of her childhood. When she was very small, her daddy used to carry her like that. Jon even tucked her in like Daddy had and kissed her forehead. "Sleep tight," said Jon. "I'll take care of letting myself out. I'll take care of everything." His taking care of everything. What a wonderful-sounding idea. "I wish you would. I wish you could, I mean. Take care of everything." He kissed her. It wasn't erotic, their mouths were closed; it wasn't even romantic. It was comforting. "For tonight, I will take care of everything," he said. The next day was a Saturday. She was profoundly grateful for that by the time she started breakfast -- at a few minutes before one. After that, she cleaned off the makeup from the night before, removed the diaphragm, and took a shower. With that preparation, she felt able to face what the living room must look like after the abandon of the night before. The reality wasn't that bad. Her clothes were neatly stacked on the sofa, blouse on top -- not in the order she had taken them off. She had a few minutes panic over the earrings, before finding them on her dresser in the bedroom. The necklace, which she had quite forgotten, was with them. Her ears were pierced; the earrings were studs. When had she taken them off? Not in the bedroom before, she always wore earrings when a man was present. She replayed the previous night. She had still been wearing the jewelry when he'd pushed her panties down. Then he'd given her that nearly-continuous string of orgasms. She couldn't have managed the coordination to remove the necklace, let alone the earrings, during that -- even if she could have spared them the attention. It must have been afterwards, after he had carried her to bed and tucked her in like a little girl. He had taken care of those hard objects against her skin, like he'd taken care of everything. She smiled when she remembered that he said, "I'll take care of everything." If only he could! But he'd taken care of a lot. He'd taken charge of the dates: "Do you enjoy dancing?" when he'd asked her out for the second time; "do you like Thai food?" when he'd picked her up. Courteous enough, avoiding any disaster of allergy or anything like that, but he wasn't one of those wimps who left half the planning to her. She was an assistant corporate comptroller for God's sake; she didn't want to control her dates as well. While searching the living room for the earrings, she had come across the wrapper for his condom. He hadn't needed to do that. On the other hand, she hadn't been in much shape to communicate by the time he'd used it. It was the same sort of thing; he was willing to take care of everything. She wished that he could. She had said that! Had she said that? Had she told Jon that she wished he could take care of everything? Had he really heard her? She always played her role so carefully. She was the competent woman executive. She demanded total obedience in business matters from her subordinates. And, in social relationships, she played the appropriate role, a modern liberated woman. If her dates were both attractive and attentive, they could fuck her. They couldn't spank her, much less tie her up. They couldn't take care of her, either; she took care of herself. And, when she needed to be spanked, needed to be tied up, needed to have another person in control, she took care of that too. But she never mixed the two roles. More than that, she never mixed the two worlds in which she lived. And, then, she blew it on a second date. Had he heard what she'd said? What she'd let slip just because the sex was better than she had experienced in a long while. He may have heard the words, but not understood the depths of her meaning. After all, when he'd heard them he'd been immediately post-orgasmic, too. He might have forgotten those words already. Because, if he really understood what she'd said, really knew that she wanted him to take control of her life, she'd never hear from him again. He wanted the woman he'd asked out on the date, an independent woman, someone he could take to the movies, could take dancing, could even fuck in her apartment. But he didn't want someone he had to take care of. Those thoughts went back and forth. Blase' Jon, who shrugged off her words, traded places in her imagination with sensitive Jon -- and he had been sensitive -- who knew precisely what she had asked. She managed to get to the cleaners before they closed, leaving the food shopping for Sunday. He didn't call Saturday, and he didn't call Sunday. Clearly, Jon had understood what she had said, understood what she had needed, and would never ask her out again. Worse, Jon knew about her executive life, had her business phone number, was friends with her upstairs neighbor. One slip in her constant watchfulness, one careless moment, and the dual lives she had worked so hard to keep separate were starting to come together. Or, more accurately, her life was starting to come apart. But, to give the devil his due, Jon hadn't simply come across her in a random weak moment. He'd brought her to a sexual peak rare in her adult life. And then he'd cared for her like no one had since her early childhood. When had her father last carried her to bed? Second grade? Third grade? Something like that. She knew that the sensible thing was to cut her connections to the other side and bluff his discovery out. "Did I say, 'I wish you could take care of everything'? Don't we all wish that? Doesn't mean I really want somebody else to control me, though." But her connections to the other side had never been about the sensible thing. They had never been the slightest bit sensible, only necessary for her life. And, now when she saw everything collapsing, those connections were more necessary than ever. She went out to a pay phone to call the recording machine. "Master, this is slut 273. I beg for an appointment. Could it be Monday? I will call back later." Nobody ever picked up the phone on a first call. Sometimes she wondered if He really had 272 others. Maybe He had more by now; she'd had that number for years. On her way back from the restaurant at lunchtime Monday, she stopped at another pay phone to call. "This is slut 273. Does Master have an appointment for me?" Somebody picked up. She'd heard that voice for a year; it wasn't Master. "Yes, slut 273. Come Wednesday at 7:30. Bring $1,000." She knew better than to ask for an earlier appointment. She would immediately be given a later one, at a higher price. Was Master really that busy? She didn't know and dared not ask. His rent and the pay for the minion who answered the phone must cost him a fair amount, but if He had several appointments on each of Monday and Tuesday at $1,000 a crack, He was raking it in. When she got back from lunch, one of her phone messages was from Jonathan Quirk. That was Jon. "I really enjoyed our date," he said. "I'm sorry I was called out of town for the weekend." "That's quite all right. I enjoyed our date as well." Which he had probably figured out by her third orgasm. But she was talking on a business phone, and he sounded as if he were using a cell phone. "Is it too late to ask you out for dinner Wednesday?" So, he hadn't heard her. Wednesday, though, was a problem. "I'm afraid it is. I have a prior engagement. I'm really sorry, though." She would have broken most engagements for Jon, but one didn't break an appointment with Master. And, of course, a woman who didn't want to go out with a man told him that she had something else scheduled, so Jon would think she was telling a white lie. "I'm sorry to hear that, but it's my fault. Could you have dinner with me Friday?" Thank God Jon had heard the regret in her voice. "I believe so. Let me check my schedule." She'd cancel anything -- well, almost anything. Her appointment book, though, was clear. "Friday night is fine." "Your office? A few minutes after five?" "That would be wonderful." They got off the phone rapidly, both being aware that the other was in a business office. She stopped at her bank on her lunch hour Wednesday to get the cash. She was fifteen minutes early for her appointment on Wednesday. She'd been late for an appointment with Master once; it wasn't the sort of mistake one made twice. When her watch told her that she had five minutes to go, she went up to the door. She opened it easily, and she heard the electric lock click as she closed it. She went into the next room, fanned out the bills on one small table, stripped, and put her clothes on the other table. When she was done, she put on the dog collar, walked to the next door, took the riding crop in her teeth, and got down on her hands and knees. "You may enter," the same voice she heard on the phone said after a minute or two. He must have a way of seeing into that room. That he'd seen her strip was one more humiliation. Master was waiting for her. "Master," she said when he'd taken the crop. He gestured for her to rise. When she'd walked to the post, He tied her hands over her head and her ankles to the sides. Then He said, "Count!" She counted the strokes of the crop on her ass until He asked, "Have you been a good girl?" "No, Master." "What did you do?" "I told a man I wanted him to take care of everything." "Do you want another master?" The crop struck the inside of her left thigh. "Twenty-one," she sobbed. The blow to the inside of her right thigh was even more painful. "Twenty-two. No, Master, I don't want anyone controlling me but you. I spoke carelessly." And, for that one careless moment, He whipped the back of her thighs, her ass again, and her back. "Forty-eight," she wailed, knowing what was coming next. She screamed as He struck her right breast, screamed louder as He struck her left. "Tell me everything that happened." And she did. Given the choice between the recital of her sexual activities and the beating, she would probably have chosen the recital -- those beatings could hurt. But, of course, she wasn't given a choice. "You have been disobedient," He said. "All of you. Most especially, though, one part." She screamed again even before He struck upward with the riding crop between her spread legs. Then she dangled against the post and sobbed. He untied her hands. "Untie yourself," He said, "and dress." It was minutes before she could. The second table in the outer room was empty. "I've called a cab," said the voice when she was dressed. When she heard the lock click, she opened the door, got in the cab, and asked to be taken to the train station. Once at the station, she took another cab home. Her ass being too sore to sit in the tub, she took a long shower. Lying on her left side was the least painful alternative. The room was warm enough that she didn't need a sheet. The next morning, she took another shower. Her muscles needed heat her bruises couldn't stand. Having experienced erratic driving when a twinge hit her after these sessions, she stood on the bus to work. She managed to sit through three meetings, though. Her vulva was still too sore from the whipping for sex; maybe she didn't need to wear the diaphragm. But after going through two weeks of anxiety when she was in college, she'd sworn to never go on a date without it. She took a nicer but less comfortable pair of shoes with her to work Friday, and slipped them on just before 5:00. By that time, sitting -- although it reminded her of what she had endured -- no longer made her wince. Jon was in the outer office at the dot of 5:00. He drove them to a fancy restaurant south of the office district. He grabbed a paper bag out of his car and carried it into the restaurant. "Do you like porterhouse?" he asked, "asparagus and mashed?" "That would be fine." She was a little taken aback. At the Thai restaurant, where he could possibly have thought her unused to the cuisine, he had let her order for herself. Indeed, nobody had chosen her meals like that since she was quite small. He ordered for her and then for himself. He finished with "a bottle of chablis and two glasses." She looked at him. Wasn't he assuming a great deal? "I'll take care of that," he said. "I'll take care of everything." She looked at him aghast. He did remember; he must remember. "Do me a favor," he continued. He gestured towards the paper bag he'd left on another chair at their table. "In there is a pair of silk stockings and a garter belt. Take the bag into the ladies', take off your pantyhose, put them on, and bring me back your pantyhose in the bag." She was staring at him. "Are you wearing panties?" he asked. She stared harder. "I asked you a question." "Yes, Master." 'Master?' Now where had that come from? "Then bring them back in the same bag." She got up to go to the ladies' room. She stayed there a long time. What would she do? What could she do? If she told Master that she'd obeyed Jon, He would be quite angry. She could just walk out of here, leaving Jon with the check for two meals. If he tried to cause problems, she'd deny ever having said that she wanted him to take care of everything. Then she realized that she couldn't. She'd been in the bathroom far too long. For that matter, she should probably have walked out when he first made his demand. She went into a stall and changed as he had asked. Back at the table, she handed him the bag. He said nothing until the meal came. He sampled the wine, approved it, and said, "pass me your glass." When she did, he filled it. Her skirt was scratchy against her welts. It wasn't her worst suit for that; she'd chosen it knowing that it would rub against her. Still, she had expected the protection of panties and pantyhose; she hadn't expected to be sitting directly on the cloth. Then too, she was getting more excited as the meal progressed, and whatever moisture she was producing ran onto the skirt. "Finish your glass," he said several times during the meal. When she did, he poured her another glass. "Finish your plate," he said finally. Who did he think he was, her daddy? And, anyway, it was his choice that they had eaten so early. But, conscious of her underwear in his bag, she did as she was directed. "Finish your glass," he said again at the end. He split the last of the bottle between them and gestured for her to drink up. She was glad he didn't order any dessert for them. He paid, walked her to his car, and opened the passenger-side door like an attentive date. He parked in a guest slot under her building, not asking her directions, much less permission. All she did when she got to the evening man was sign the form. Having followed her into the apartment, he kissed her. "We'd be more comfortable in the bedroom," he said. There, he kissed her, removed her jacket and hung it on a chair, kissed her again, and removed her blouse. At first she hid her reactions when his hugs and stroking would renew the pain of her welts. When he'd removed her bra, however, he kissed along each stripe above her waist. Those kisses were soothing; the kisses on her mouth and on her nipples were exciting. And then he unzipped her skirt. "You really should hang up your clothes," he said when she was down to garter belt, stockings, and shoes. "The chair can't be good for them. While she hung them up, he removed his jacket, tie and shirt. Then he pulled all the bedclothes off the end of the bed. At his gesture, she lay down on the bottom sheet. He took her shoes from her feet and put them under the bed. Then he resumed kissing her, first her mouth, then her neck, finally her nipples. His finger on her slit hurt, stroking right where the crop had landed. But, when he moved deeper, the strokes on her clit were exciting. Then they were excruciating in an entirely different way. She was so close when he moved away that she grabbed for his wrist. Instead, he kissed the welts on the inside of her thigh. When his lips pressed against her lower ones the pain returned, but the excitement was greater than the pain. She clutched his head to her when she came, then tried to push it away. Instead he grabbed her wrists. His tongue was painful on her inflamed vulva. Then that very pain was exciting. She spasmed again, and once again before he let her go. She was still lying there when he came back from the bathroom. "Did you insert your diaphragm?" he asked. She merely stared at him. "Answer my question," he said while rapidly stripping. "Yes, I did." "Get on your hands and knees." And, when she had, "Back up to the edge of the bed and spread your legs more." At first, though, he only caressed her. He gently rolled her left nipple between thumb and forefinger while the other hand stroked her vulva. As the desire coursed through her, she arched her back. Suddenly, he abandoned all contact. Just as suddenly, he was at her entrance. He pulled her back by her thighs as he drove inside. The grip on her welts and his passage through her torn lips hurt. Then he filled her. One hand went to her right breast, the other to her clitoris. He stroked there as she moved back and forth against him. She was so swept up in the fire soaring within her that she was only vaguely aware of his hands returning to her thighs. He pulled her back against him as he throbbed inside her throbbing. He was the only thing holding her up before he let go. She collapsed on the bed, and he covered her with the sheet. "I'll let myself out," he said. "I'll take care of everything. I'll take care of everything from now on." |
The End 1 Careless Moment Uther Pendragon anon584c@nyx.net 2003/10/09 2004/08/30 Thanks to Denny for editing this. This is the first of a series of stories about Melissa and Jonathan. The next story in the series is: 2 Minds Meet The index to almost all my stories is: Index to Uther Pendragon's website |