Old-Fashioned Values (13 page)

“And what, sweetheart?”

She took a deep breath. “Kink.”

“Ah,” he said. “Are you kinky, young lady?” He smiled to show her that he knew the answer, and that he welcomed it.

“Yes,” she whispered, blushing. “Are you?”

John felt his smile broaden. “Yes. Very.”

“Oh,” Rachel said. “So, um. I… I mean, am I, I don’t know, allowed to… to tell you about… Oh, God, I don’t know how to say it.” She bent her head and closed her eyes, chewing on her upper lip.

“Can I guess what you what to tell me?” John asked.

“Please, please do,” Rachel replied, not opening her eyes.

“You want me to know how aroused the spanking got you, after it was over.”

She nodded. “And…” She opened her eyes and looked into John’s. “Before, when you told me, and at the beginning. I know it was supposed to be a punishment…”

“And I bet that it felt like a punishment at the end.”

“Yes,” she confessed. “I mean, I started to worry that I would do badly on papers so that you would spank me, but then it got pretty painful.”

“Rachel,” he said seriously, “two things. First, I will give you all the spanking you need. As long as we’re spending time together, you’re never going to have to worry that your bottom won’t get enough smacking. That’s going to be a big change for you, I think, because you’re going from a life in which you longed for discipline to one in which from time to time, if I’m doing my job right, you’re going to feel like you’re getting a little too much discipline. Second, I will decide how you are punished, but truly the
pain
of the punishment is not the most important thing, for making sure you do better in the areas where my loving discipline applies. The
fact
of the punishment is what’s going to help you improve. Do you understand?”

“I think so, sir.” Her voice didn’t sound confident, but he could see that at the very least he had gotten her to the mental and emotional place where she needed to be, here at the start of their relationship. “But, sir?”

“Yes?”

Rachel took a deep breath, and John could tell that she was about to blurt something out, because she couldn’t stand not to have it out there, but she also couldn’t stand to keep trying and failing to find elegant words. He was pretty sure he knew what she was going to say, and his heart ached a little for her having to say it. He knew, though, that he couldn’t help her; either she would say it, or she wouldn’t—and it appeared that she would. “Are you going to do anything about my arousal?”

John pulled her in tighter to him, and he kissed her forehead. “Not tonight,” he said.

Chapter Fifteen

Mark had pulled down her panties. He had just reached out and pulled down Sally’s panties. Her hands tightened into impotent little fists in front of her breasts, scantily covered in the lacy white bra she had bought, and then donned, for him.

Standing where he had told her to stand, just in front of where he sat on the bed, Sally looked at Mark, and saw that he was inspecting her. His eyes fixed themselves on the lower parts of her body, and she blushed to realize that he was examining the place that she still couldn’t help thinking of as her ‘private part.’ Mark Weaver inspected Sally’s private part for the very first time, for the very first time anyone of the opposite sex had inspected that very special part of her.
Inspect
. Yes, that described with great exactitude what Mark did then. Her boyfriend inspected her, between her legs: he had pulled down her lacy panties, obviously, in order to do just that. She watched his eyes feast themselves on her pussy, with its covering of soft, red-gold, curly hair, and she knew that even though no one but Rachel might ever understand, to be inspected that way made Sally feel that her life as the woman she knew she should be had begun.

She gave a tiny little whimper of arousal, and she felt herself getting wet at the mere idea that Mark liked to look at her pussy. Somehow it meant that he owned it, and that he owned her. They were here in this hotel room in order that Mark make a woman of her. How could she love that terrible phrase so much?

Sally’s senior boyfriend liked to examine Sally’s pussy. Sally’s senior boyfriend planned to fuck Sally’s virgin pussy. Sally was not yet a woman, but when Mark put his cock inside her, she would be.

“Oh, God, Mark…”

“Sir,” he said, not looking up at her, but leaning forward farther, to gaze even more intently at the tender little triangle, with its tangle of reddish curls.

“Sir, please…”

“Please what?”

“P-please touch… it.” He glanced up at her, smiling, and that smile seemed to tell Sally that he liked to hear her requests, but that he would not honor any of them that didn’t comport entirely with his own pleasure. Mark Weaver had taken Sally Lanchester in hand, and she must not expect that he would do anything but exactly what he liked with her.

“Touch what, Sally?” he murmured. Oh, no, he was doing
that
again. She felt herself blushing hotly as her tummy fluttered, and her wetness… Oh, God, her thighs were wet; would he see? Would she actually
drip
into the panties he had pulled down? The shame felt terrible and yet so delicious that it made her tremble all over.

“My pussy,” she whispered.

“Your cunt, you mean?”

“Oh my God… I… You-you can’t say that.” She almost said ‘yellow’ just at the thought that Mark had used that terrible word.

But now he had begun to reach his right hand out, with the palm turned up. He was going to… he was going to touch her… her private place.

“I can call your cunt whatever I want to call it, Sally,” Mark said. “I am taking you in hand tonight, and from this moment on you belong to me. I will call the parts of your body exactly what I like.”

At that, Sally felt her breathing grow so rapid that she thought she might faint. If she thought she had never been so aroused as when he had brought her to the climax after the belt-whipping, what she felt now, before he had even touched her there, seemed for a moment to be an excitement too great for a human body to sustain. She inhaled, over and over, quicker and quicker, realizing that she could smell the naughty scent of her pussy’s arousal. Mark’s hand, as she watched, got closer…

He touched her and she moaned, and bent her knees entirely without willing it, spreading them as much as she could within the restraint of the bunched panties around her thighs, trying desperately to get him to soothe the burning warmth in her pussy. Then he rubbed gently, and Sally cried out as she gave herself over to his touch, and the knowledge that by it he asserted his right to look, to touch, to have.

Suddenly she realized that she had closed her eyes, and also that because she had closed her eyes, she was losing her balance and would fall down. But just as she felt she must fall and her eyes opened, she felt Mark’s left arm come around her shoulders even as he took a very firm hold of her between her legs.

That grip—that extraordinarily possessive grip—seemed to turn Sally into the girl she knew now had always been waiting: the truly submissive girl who could only be happy if she belonged to a loving man who knew what her submission meant. Though she could not stop panting with her overwhelming arousal, and blushing furiously as she felt just how much wetness she was pouring into Mark’s hand as he rubbed hard and quick at her cunt (he had called it that, so that was what it was now, though really it felt like she should call it ‘his cunt’ rather than ‘her cunt,’ in her mind), she felt a smile break out on her face, through the rictus of her erotic fever.

“Why are you smiling?” Mark whispered into her ear, gripping her even harder, so that, still smiling, she cried out in passionate discomfort at the way he possessed her.

“I-I just… thought… oh, sir—oh, God—I can’t…”

Then this thing Rachel had said about a dominance-and-submission dynamic that day came to her mind. When Rachel had told her about it, Sally had pretended nonchalance, but that was because the thought had aroused her so much she hadn’t wanted to embarrass herself by revealing the effect it had on her. Rachel had said, “I don’t know why it gets me so hot to think about being
denied
pleasure—having to ask permission to have an orgasm. What’s that all about?”

Sally had said, “No idea.”

“But it’s hot, right?”

“Well,” Sally had said, pretending to be a little doubtful. “I guess so.”

But now, practically screaming with the pleasure Mark forced upon her, that seemed to demonstrate his mastery of her, she cried out, “Sir, may I come?” The thought that he owned her body so thoroughly—well, Sally supposed that she still didn’t have an answer to Rachel’s question, but the idea itself seemed to make her melt into Mark’s arms.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Come for me now.”

She cried out loud and long, and felt herself gush into her boyfriend’s tender, firm, possessive hand. The big mirror on the wall of the hotel room showed a scene so dirty Sally could hardly believe that she was the blond girl in the lacy bra, and the garter belt and stockings, with her panties down and a man’s hand covering her pussy, forcing her to the orgasm that he had given his permission for her to have.

Every muscle in her body seemed to contract. She felt herself holding her breasts, rubbing her nipples through the lace there, without even deciding to do it, just to try to make the incredible ecstasy climb a little higher. At last she felt herself go limp in Mark’s grasp. “I love you so much, Sally,” Mark said softly when she opened her eyes, as he looked tenderly back at her.

“Thank you for my orgasm, sir,” Sally whispered. “I liked it very much.”

“What were you going to say? Before you came?”

Now Sally remembered, and giggled. Mark’s hand had not left her pussy, and when she giggled he started to caress her there again, as if threatening to take away her power to reason once more. “Oh, sir…,” she moaned, still giggling. The mixture of sensations and emotions seemed too much, but also just right. “I was thinking, ‘What if he tells me he’s going to call it my pineapple, just because he can?’”

“Call what your pineapple?”

Sally compressed her lips into a little line, then whispered, “My pussy.”

Mark started to laugh, and Sally’s giggle became a real belly laugh. Mark took his hand from her pussy and tickled her tummy, and then he was pulling her toward the bed so that they could just lie down there and laugh, and laugh. So much tension seemed to go out of Sally’s body. All the nervousness—well, it wasn’t gone, because she still knew that she was going to be deflowered very soon, and that gave her the same fluttery feeling in her tummy it had all day. But it felt entirely good, completely good.

“Sir?” she said, finally brave enough to confess something else. She propped herself up on her elbow to look down at him. He stretched out his left hand to touch her pussy again, framed by the garter belt, the stockings, and the panties still at the top of the stockings, where he had put them. Sally shivered, at the touch and at knowing that by the touch he told her again that she was his to touch.

“Yes, Sal?”

“I started on the pill last month.”

Mark smiled. “Really?”

She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“For me?”

She nodded. “Mm-hmm. I want to… I wanted to be, you know, ready. For you.”

“Oh, God, Sal. That makes me so happy.”

“Does it make you, you know…”

“Hard?” Mark’s eyes turned serious—almost hungry. “Yes. Very, very hard. Go into the bathroom and take off your lingerie. You look incredibly beautiful and sexy in it, but it’s time for you to be naked for me. I need to spank you, and then I need to fuck you.”

A new wave of arousal seemed to crash over Sally’s head at the sound of Mark’s voice, commanding her to go and take everything off for him, saying in effect that he didn’t want to see her again until she was ready to have him discipline her and take her maidenhead. As she emitted a little whimper, he accompanied the words by continuing to stroke her more insistently between her legs, as if her pussy were a cute, furry little animal for him to hold in his big hand. She sighed at the feeling, but then he withdrew his hand and said, “Get going, Sal. It’s time.”

“Oh, God, Mark.” The nervousness rose, and she began to breathe quickly again. One part of her knew Mark was giving her what she needed, with this dominant way of talking. It felt so wicked, dark, and delicious. But another part told her that this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go, her first time.

Mark propped himself up on his elbow to face her. “You okay?” he asked softly. “Should we go more slowly?”

Somehow, though it diminished the arousal a bit to know that Mark wasn’t actually disregarding her anxiety, it also brought the fear way, way down—to manageable proportions. Sally knew she wanted to go forward, full speed. She wanted to get back as soon as she could to feeling like Mark didn’t care what she thought about her lingerie or lack of it, about being spanked, about being fucked: her boyfriend would have his way with her, because that was what Sally was for. Sally Lanchester was Mark Weaver’s fucktoy, and she must not forget it.

So many times over the last two months, she had wondered, when she thought something like
I am a fucktoy
and felt her pussy grow warm and wet, whether she were losing her mind. Not tonight: tonight Sally welcomed the knowledge of her submissive nature, because it meant she was what Mark wanted and needed, just as he was what she wanted and needed.

Sally said, “As you wish, sir. But I want to be a good girl, so I’d like to obey you now, and go take off my lingerie for you, if you would still like that. I know that it’s time for me to have my fucking.”

Chapter Sixteen

Over dinner at the stunningly good Japanese restaurant on the upper west side, it took a long time for anything erotic or disciplinary to come up at all. When it did, it was from a perspective Rachel didn’t expect.

At first, Rachel felt terribly shy about all the questions she wanted to ask about John, but after their miso soup, when they were waiting for the first course of sushi to arrive, he said, “Alright, Rachel, I have you at a pretty significant disadvantage now.” He had spent the time since they had sat down at the little table in the dark, quiet restaurant getting her entire life story out of her: divorced parents, public high school in a little Wisconsin town. Orchestra, honor roll, creative writing workshops. “You may ask me three questions, and I want you to spend time thinking about the first one. After I answer that one, you’ll think about the second; same with the third. I promise that I’ll give you long, fulsome answers, so don’t worry about getting cheated. If you ask me where I come from, you’ll get a lot of details about my education, for example, rather than the little tidbits I gave you over lunch.”