The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (12 page)

The room was deathly silent, all eyes riveted to the man standing on the dais as Master H. slipped the tip of the knife beneath a strip of leather that held the codpiece in place and jerked it forward, easily slicing the material. With practiced ease, Master H. cut away the remaining strip, and the codpiece fell away, revealing slave Mark’s erect shaft over his shaven balls.

Master H. gripped the base of slave Mark’s impressive erection with his free hand. A murmur moved through the crowd when Master H. lifted the hand holding the knife and touched the tip of the blade to the head of slave Mark’s penis. A small dot of red bloomed against the engorged shafted and dropped with a silent splash to the white marble below.

Without turning to the crowd, Master H. put the knife away. “I love you,” he murmured. In a louder voice, he said, “What do you say, slave?”

“Thank you, Sir,” Mark replied, his voice husky.

“You’re welcome, slave.” Master H. ran the tip of his index finger along one of the bloody welts on Mark’s thigh and touched the finger to his own lips. He wrapped his hand around slave Mark’s thick shaft and began to stroke it.

Owen shifted uncomfortably, but stilled when he felt Mistress Sylvie’s grip on his neck tighten.
She
wanted him to watch, he reminded himself. He would watch—he would do this for
her
.

Master H. was speaking loudly now, orating for the crowd. “You did such a good job for our guests. Show them how much you appreciated the attention. Come for us, slave boy.”

Mark began to shoot his load on cue, long streams of ejaculate, some of which landed on the dais, mingling with droplets of red blood. Owen could hardly believe the man could be so disciplined, so trained, to come like that on command, especially after what he’d just been through. 

Master H. pointed toward the dais platform. The slave dropped his shoulders at once, bending forward to lick the come and blood from the smooth surface. When it was clean, he knelt back on his haunches, his puppy dog eyes again fixed on his Master.

Master H. held out his arms and Mark jumped nimbly from the dais and moved into them. Amidst thundering applause, they embraced for a long moment and then Mark knelt at Master H.’s feet, showering them with kisses. After a moment, Master H. pulled him up again. He turned to the still-applauding crowd and Owen saw that his white silk shirt was spattered with his slave’s blood.

“Thank you for witnessing slave Mark’s extraordinary grace and discipline. If you’ll excuse us, I need to take proper aftercare so my slave heals properly. Please, continue to enjoy yourselves. The night is young!”

Owen’s heart was racing, his cock throbbing, his mouth dry. He couldn’t stop the sudden, vivid image that rose in his mind of himself, naked and suspended, the lovely Mistress Sylvie dancing around him with a single tail whip, each stroke cutting a long, bloody line of fire against his skin. He wanted to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around Mistress Sylvie’s bare, beautiful legs. He longed to submit to her, the
woman
, not the paid pro. He ached to experience the intensity and passion that had just passed between these two men.

“Owen? Are you okay?” Mistress Sylvie’s soft hand slipped away from his neck as she peered up into his face. “Come, let’s sit down. You will tell me everything you were experiencing as you watched. I can see it affected you strongly. There are things we have not yet touched upon, you and I. Secrets, dark secrets that you will need to share with me, if we are to explore the true nature of your submission.”

Owen stared into her eyes, imagining he saw past them into something deeper, something beyond the pro Domme, even beyond the
friend
she had introduced him as. What was she offering? Was it more than just a paid service? Was he about to break through the barrier of their professional relationship?

As he stared into her eyes, he saw the color creeping up her cheeks and realized she was blushing. He leaned toward her, certain she was going to kiss him, when all at once she gave a sudden, small cry, and turned away from him, moving quickly toward the bar.

Owen followed, wondering what the hell had just happened, or not happened, between them.

Chapter 9

They sat down at a small table away from main area. Sylvie knew she’d behaved like an idiot, blushing and running away from whatever it was that was happening between them. She felt bad for interjecting her own confusion into the mix, when clearly Owen had enough to deal with at the moment.

Sylvie found herself strongly moved by the experience, not so much the blood play itself, but Owen’s powerful, visceral reaction to it. As the scene had progressed, Sylvie had felt Owen’s body begin to tremble beneath her hand on his neck, his skin dampening with sweat. He’d jerked when the tip of the knife had touched slave Mark’s cock, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

Had she been mistaken to make him watch? Had she pushed him to a place he wasn’t yet ready to go? She realized she’d exerted her dominant will over him in a way that wasn’t entirely appropriate for the evening. It must have been the residual effect of the flogging. Their connection then had been so immediate and intimate. It had allowed her to move to a place she probably shouldn’t have. Yet she was sure she’d read Owen’s signals correctly—the way his eyes had dilated when Rick mentioned the blood play, his breath catching, and the most obvious clue of all, the sudden bulge at his groin. Despite his protests to the contrary, he had wanted, even
needed
, to see that scene, to become a part of it in a way.

“Owen, talk to me.” Sylvie leaned toward him over the small table. “That scene was powerful for you. I want to understand better what it was in the scene that so affected you.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the pulsing disco beat.

Owen shook his head. “Not here. I can’t talk here. I can’t even think here. There’s too much going on.” He ran his hands through his hair, leaving it ruffled and standing up in tufts around his head. He looked at her, pleading with his eyes.

 Sylvie nodded. “
D’accord
. We should go somewhere we can talk.”

As she reached for her purse, Owen pushed back in his chair and moved toward Sylvie, placing his hand on the back on her chair in a gentlemanly gesture. How remarkable, Sylvie thought, that even in the midst of his near-panicked reaction to the scene, he was still so polite and thoughtful. She knew at that moment she could trust Owen, not only as a sub, but as a man.

The doorman escorted them to the top of the stairs. They stepped out into the night, and Owen used his cell phone to call a cab.

As the cab driver maneuvered through the busy streets, Owen turned to Sylvie. “You probably think I’m nuts.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m okay now, really. I can just drop you off at your place if you want and I’ll be on my way—”

“No.” Sylvie interrupted him, placing her hand on his thigh. “I don’t think you’re nuts at all. Listen, I feel responsible. I’m the one who encouraged you”—she gave a small, embarrassed laugh—“well, forced you, to watch. What kind of Domme would I be if I just sent you on your way after that?” She shook her head for emphasis. “No. You will come home with me. We will talk, okay? I will help you process what you’re feeling.”

Owen nodded slowly. “Okay. Thanks.” A sudden, sharp turn by the cabbie caused Sylvie to slide over on the seat, so that her leg was touching Owen’s. She made no move to pull away, liking the feel of his firm, muscular thigh against hers.

They were silent the rest of the ride back to her place. Owen stared out the window while Sylvie watched him from the corner of her eye.

In front of her brownstone, Owen leaned forward to the pay the driver while Sylvie climbed out and found her keys. They walked together to the front door. She put her hand on Owen’s arm and smiled. “What you need, Mr. McCarthy, is a glass of fine French Cognac. Please come inside.”

~*~

Owen followed Sylvie into the townhouse, waiting as she deactivated the alarm and switched on the lights, curious where they would talk—in the sitting room where he’d been interviewed by Isabel? In Sylvie’s office? In the dungeon with him kneeling at her feet?

As if reading his mind, Sylvie surprised him by saying, “We will go up to my apartment.” At the top of the stairs, instead of turning right toward the dungeon, Sylvie led Owen along a short hallway to a second set of stairs. At the top, she opened the door and turned on the lights, revealing a warm, welcoming room with old but well-preserved furniture, brightly patterned throw rugs scattered over wide-planked hardwood floors and scenic watercolors framed on the walls.

Sylvie took off her shawl and draped it over the back of a chair. She dropped her purse on the chair and turned to Owen. “I realize I should not have assumed. Would you prefer coffee to Cognac?”

“Cognac would be great, thanks,” Owen said. He sank into a deep sofa, feeling the kind of exhaustion that comes from running a marathon. At the same time, he remained agitated, not only by the blood play he’d witnessed, but by the mixed signals he kept getting from Sylvie.

He was silent as Sylvie moved toward an antique armoire, pulling it open to reveal shelves lined with bottles, glasses, neatly stacked piles of hand towels and various other household items. She reached for a bottle and two snifters. Returning to Owen, she set them on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Owen tried not to stare at her alluring cleavage as she bent over the table to pour the brandy. She handed one of the snifters to Owen and, kicking off her sandals, she curled into a chair catty-corner to the sofa on which Owen sat.

Sylvie raised her glass. “To new experiences,” she said, a small smile playing over her lips. Owen lifted his glass in kind, leaning forward as they lightly clinked glasses. The brandy was delicious, smooth and mellow, and he savored its warmth as it slid down his throat.

Sylvie
.

Owen suddenly realized he had been thinking of her as Sylvie, the
Mistress
falling away, ever since their thighs had touched in the car, and he’d felt the sexual tension between them, not only his, but hers as well. Now he couldn’t stop his mind from leaping to a place he knew he was a fool to go. He gave himself a mental shake, even while his heart surged with ridiculous hope.

“You were trembling when you watched Master H. and slave Mark.” Sylvie said. “The sight of slave Mark’s blood was difficult for you, but also exciting. Tell me what was going through your mind as you watched them. Tell me what was going through your heart.”

My heart. Do you really want to know?

Owen took another sip of the fine brandy, swirling it on his tongue. Despite the quiet, desperate longing that had sprung up inside him, he knew too that she was right. He needed to talk this through, to figure out where his head was at about the intense scene he’d witnessed.

“I was scared,” he admitted.

“Of?”

“That he would hurt slave Mark. Go too far.”

“What else were you scared of?”

“What do you mean?”

“For yourself. What frightened you about your own reaction? I could feel you trembling, Owen. And yet you were aroused—deeply aroused by what you witnessed.”

“Yes,” Owen said softly. He drank the rest of his brandy. Sylvie reached for the bottle, giving him a questioning look. He nodded, holding out the snifter, into which she poured several fingers.

As she settled back, Owen lifted the glass in her direction and gave a small laugh. “Courage in a bottle,” he said, before taking a healthy swig. The brandy was doing its work, easing some of the coiled tension he’d been carrying since the moment Master H. had pulled the sharp knife from its leather sheath.

Sylvie was watching him, her expression kind and earnest, as if she genuinely wanted to understand what he had experienced. This, he realized, was part of what made her so good as a Domme. She really paid attention, and beyond that, she actually cared.

He decided to be completely honest, for a change. He’d tell her the raw, unvarnished truth. He took another fortifying drink of the strong liqueur and blew out a breath. Focusing on a watercolor of a small stone house surrounded by a riot of colorful flowers, Owen felt as if he were balancing on the edge of a cliff, with Sylvie standing below, her arms spread wide to catch him.

Taking a breath, he dove.

“I know this must sound really weird, maybe even sick, but the sight of his blood got me hard, even though it also freaked me out. I couldn’t tear my eyes away when Master H. used that blade, drawing it over slave Mark’s skin, leaving those bloody trails in its wake…”

He paused, glancing at Sylvie. She was leaning forward, her eyes fixed on his face, her lips lightly parted. Oh god, he wanted to kiss her. It took every ounce of control not to reach for her, to pull her into him, to cover her mouth with his.

“Go on,” she urged softly.

Owen forced himself to continue. “The fantasies I have surrounding the blood play. I’ve never told a soul…” He trailed off, feeling his face heat. He drank the last of the brandy but kept the glass cradled in his hands as he stared down into it.

Sylvie reached for him, lightly stroking his thigh with her fingers. Just her touch sent a jolt of electricity directly to Owen’s cock. “Are you ashamed of your desires?” she asked gently. “Do you understand that fantasy can become reality, but only if you wish it so? You are the one who gives yourself permission to experience it. It is perfectly okay to have erotic fantasies others might label sick or perverted. What they think is their problem, most certainly not yours.”

When Owen didn’t reply, she continued, “
You
choose how you live, Owen. You choose how you express your sexuality. It’s nobody’s business but your own.”

Owen nodded gratefully, biting back the words he wanted to say. “Thank you,” he whispered instead. He closed his eyes as she continued, letting her smooth, sexy voice flow over him.

“I have brought many fantasies to life for my clients over the years. I had one client whose secret dream was to be roasted on a spit over an open fire. Another wanted pins stuck into every inch of his flesh, even the head of his penis.” Owen winced at the thought.