A girl, back.
The knock on the door was soft and hesitant. The woman looked up from her book and said: "Come in."
When the big door opened, her heart jumped.
"Honey," she said, having to force her voice through a suddenly tightened throat. "It's been weeks. I missed you, girl, are you all right?"
The girl stood naked on the doorstep. Her dress and underwear were in a bundle under her arm. She dropped them after closing the door. Then she went down on her knees, clutching a black riding crop with both hands.
The jewel swung on her left nipple, sparkling with the movement.
"I missed you too," she whispered, lowering her brow to the cool marble tiles. Her spine sloped up to her gorgeous ass.
"I'm so sorry."
The woman rose and walked over. She was dressed in tight leather leotards and a loose-fitting gray satin blouse that allowed a pale expanse of cleavage.
She knew what the girl went through, during and after the ordeal; she'd been there herself, dangling in darkness for hours, sliding through an entire life's worth of emotions, running from sheer panic to utter fatalism, before the nuns of the convent had let her down - collapsing on numb and useless legs.
So young she'd been, so alone.
For days, she'd cried at the drop of a hat, responding to the questions of fellow schoolgirls with wide-eyed silence - a ghost doling through the ancient building, by day and night. Even pressed by mother superior, at her imposing desk, she'd been unable to find a syllable in her empty mind.
She knew not to ask.
Getting down on her haunches, she reached out and lifted the girl's face by putting a finger under her chin.
She saw tears running from the dark brown eyes.
"Don't cry," she said, removing the moisture with her other hand. "I love you, remember?" It didn't stop the crying. She embraced her, spoiling yet another precious blouse.
"I... I understand now," the girl said, her voice muffled by the silk.
"I'm an ungrateful bitch," she went on. "I did everything to avoid you. You were so nice to me and all I did was staying away..."
The woman laughed.
"Yes, you did. But you're here," she said. The simple truth of her statement silenced the girl. She looked up.
"I'm not worthy," she then said, before crying out when the woman pushed her away and slapped her cheek. Her angry face pushed itself into hers until their noses touched.
"Don't you
ever
tell me you're not worthy, cunt!" the woman hissed. "You understand, you say? You don't! It offends me, you hear? As if I ever,
ever
would choose a girl not worthy of me!
"Am I such a fumbling loser in your eyes that I could not judge your worth - your talents?
"Do you think I would waste my time on a
failure
?"
The woman rose to her full, stiletto-enhanced length, looking down on the girl who once more pressed her brow to the floor, shaking. It's so easy to be soft now, she thought, to have pity on the thing, but it would ruin everything - sanctioning the girl's wallowing in self-deprecation.
Loving her made it easy to spoil her. Watching her cry like a child did hurt; hearing her sobbing her damn sorry's again, and taking the blame.
Too tempting, too easy.
"Maybe you think you understand," she asked, hardening her voice. "But deep down you hate this, don't you, slut? Crawling back to me? You'd hoped to be stronger. You think it is weakness that brings you here, don't you? I am a weakness in your eyes, am I not? A defeat. Be honest.
"Am I?"
The girl looked up, just working her mouth; there were no words to be found.
"Well, I'm not!" the woman growled. "On the contrary, and you know it. It is the other way around: weakness keeps you
away
. You're scared of what attracts you to me. You're too damn scared for your own good, girl. That's why you need to blame others - me.
"You blame me for your weakness. Don't deny it!"
The woman was by now a dark, burning angel standing at what might be the gates of hell - or paradise. Or both?
Every word of her stung like a flaming sword. The golden, dangling girl knew they held the truth, but the girl sobbing on her knees knew it was a truth she could never live with. It was a truth that stripped her soul more thoroughly naked than her body had ever been. So, as always when she was confronted with a dilemma, she broke down crying, mumbling yet again how sorry she was.
The woman picked her up and held her tightly. Her lips found bare throat and chest to kiss.
"Just know this, cunt," she whispered into her ear. "I am the only one who appreciates who you truly are. And that isn't the girl sobbing excuses; it is the girl dangling from the chain, proudly knowing who she is.
"I am the only one who loves you
because
of that - not despite it.
"Now kneel and clean my boots."
***
A girl, flung.
Live became unbearable.
She'd been accepted back in the capricious hands of the woman. But she'd never giving up her claim on 'normal' life.
It made her feel as if tied to an elastic band, propelling her to the woman before tearing her away and slinging her back to her girlfriend and her normal life - only to toss her yet again to the woman.
Normalcy was: her business, her town, her friends and her reputation. It also was the tie to her girlfriend, however fragile that was.
She could be sweet. She also could be unbearably arrogant, taking her superiority for granted. The girl was in awe of her impeccable taste, her worldliness, her ease, her French and Spanish. It made her feel inferior when they went out to see friends and business associates, the few times she took her.
She didn't mind being shown off as a trophy, but she hated being ignored during conversations. She loved to serve her girlfriend and her friends drinks and cook for them, but hated to be treated like a servant.
The irony wasn't lost on her.
How could she despise her girlfriend's high and mightiness, while craving the thorough humiliation the woman showered on her. Maybe because it felt phony?
In bed, her girlfriend was all but dominant. She was incredibly reserved and conservative. As soon as they went to sleep, the lights went out, and often there wouldn't be sex at all.
And finally, there would always be the quiet bitterness of not introducing her to her Italian family.
Her normal life meant being alone a lot, feeling ignored, and when stretches of lonely evenings or empty nights yawned, she went to the club to bath in the woman's love or to tremble from the breathtaking emotions she stirred in her masochistic soul. And whenever the woman wasn't there, she gave her body to anonymous fucks by some of the shadier girls around - knowing she'd regret it immediately, but unable to say no.
Her times with the woman were intense and often confusing.
When she scratched at her door, naked and holding her clothes, she never knew what woman she might encounter. One day she seemed mad at her and rude in her commands, tying the girl up and fucking her with a monstrous black strap-on dildo.
The next day, or even the next hour, she might be tender and loving, kissing her and making the sweetest love to her on the soft rug in front of the fireplace - or on the bed, or in the bath.
She would make her wear new prototype corsets or wildly erotic lingerie, and show them off to clients, allowing them to feel her up, making her undress in front of them.
On other nights, she would take her to concerts and ballets; or to parties, dressed outrageously. And then again, they would just go out shopping, sipping soda and gossiping like the oldest of friends.
They would be talking deep into the night and giggle like teenage girls, drinking wine and eating fresh fruit or slippery oysters. But like the turning of a page the woman could change back into a fury from hell. She'd bend the girl over a chair and fuck her into a blubbering heap of Jell-O, slapping her skin until she was red all over.
The girl's moods changed just as often.
When she was punished or strap-on fucked her mind seemed empty of every thought - just floating on a sea of lust. When the woman talked to her lovingly, the girl seemed caught in a magical web of arousal, even forgetting there was an outside world at all.
But when she left the hypnotic circle of the woman's voice and eyes, guilt flooded her. The magic poofed, and the golden girl was nowhere to be found.
Reality showered her like a cold winter's rain.
One night she huddled between the woman's spread thighs, just listening to the fairytale voice. It made her sink into a state of pink, fluffy bliss, aching to hear the next word, craving the next caress as her fingers rubbed her swollen clit.
The woman asked her if she'd accept another present.
Images of a glaring sun on a white beach flashed by. Her still tender nipple throbbed, plunging her into a state of helpless indecision.
"It would make you... well... even more precious," the woman said. "Wouldn't that be something?"
The girl had rested her head back against the woman, feeling a slow climax flush her fingered cunt. 'Pussy,' she thought. I should think of it as my pussy.
***
A girl, bent over.
She felt the woman's soft lips on her brow.
"Please rise," she said, "and walk over to that club chair over there, next to the fireplace."
She felt her body's urge to obey - and the reluctance of her mind. She also felt the weakness of her knees - the familiar echo of the slow, delicious orgasm she just had.
She rose and walked until she reached the old leather chair.
"Now please fold your upper body over its back, darling," the voice behind her said. "And show me your lovely ass."
She hesitated. Then she pushed her hips into the high back and bent forward, her hair pooling on the seat. Spreading both arms, she grabbed the sides of the chair, her tight ass rising high. The shaven pussy lips peeped through her spreading thighs.
She had to stand on tiptoe.
