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She cried out and I grunted, exploding and feeling her contract around me, a powerful orgasm triggered by my being buried in her ass and her hands being buried between her legs.
She all but fell off me.
"I didn't tell you to move," I said. I wasn't even quite finished coming. Without thinking, I reached down and slapped her hard across the face.
Seconds later I realized she wasn't my sub to punish. Not without permission. The little man seemed unconcerned. He was too far gone into his own pleasure, but the man next to me said, "Not acceptable, St. Martin," and I nodded. "If you have a system?"
They did. A charity. Odd how many of the charities out there received regular influxes of money from billionaires with "unsavory" habits. I helped the girl up and asked if she wanted ice or Advil or any natural painkillers. Her dazed eyes said the slap hadn't registered as much as the O had. I put my hand out to stroke her face, wondering if she'd shy away. Instead she leaned into me, nearly purring, then adjusted her skirt and said dreamily, "I have to go clean up and dress."
Looking around the table I saw an out for the rest of the festivities and suddenly I was very tired of all of it. All I wanted was to finish the business talk over cigars and port. That was coming. As far as I could tell, we had about thirty minutes of debauchery left.
Was I losing my edge? My mind? Or did I just want the person I hurt to be mine?
"Let me take care of you." It wasn't a question and she didn't refuse. She knew the house better than I did and led me to the guest bath, stocked with condoms, dental dams, morning after pills, laxatives, various deep heating rubs that obviously weren't there to soothe tired muscles. There were analgesic pills and analgesic creams, disinfectant wipes, bandages of all sizes and shapes, and a treasure trove of toys still in their wraps.
This was becoming a weirdly new normal. Though the caretaking with Marilyn had been because of an accidental injury, this girl I'd meant to hurt. But aftercare is supposed to be a part of it.
I wondered about my new companions, whether their kink went 24/7 or was hauled out for events. I wondered if they were Doms or Masters, or if any of them matched me for sexual savagery. I was a sadist first and foremost.
But I cleaned her nipples carefully, wearing gloves as I did so. "Are you bleeding anywhere else?" There was only one other place she would be.
"Do you wish to check?" she asked. She met my stare.
That was disconcerting. "If I check, it will mean a second time."
She continued to hold my gaze.
"Bend over the sink," I told her, reaching for another condom. Fifteen minutes later we’d learned she wasn't bleeding. I led her into a shadowy guest room and made her lay face down on the bed. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't to have warm oil poured on her back and her shoulders and back massaged gently.
Until she fell asleep, a fleece throw pulled up to her chin, both hands fisted in it, keeping it over her. There was a smile on her face and one on mine that surprised me. I leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then turned the light off and left the room.
In the dining room the activity was drifting away. Leo Stark and John Fleet were smoking cigars and drinking bourbon.
"St. Martin," Fleet hailed me. "Have a seat. Have a smoke. Let's do some business."
The air was blue and hazy with good tobacco. I sat down, went through the ritual, lit up and puffed, poured two fingers of top of the line bourbon and sat back.
"Tell me about the day spa idea," I said.
It was the best I'd felt in weeks. I wasn't certain if it was talking business, drinking bourbon, a fine meal, a couple good fucks, hurting the girl and then comforting her –
Or having not thought about Annie for something like two hours straight.
7
Annie
By the second week of September I had the routine down. I could find my way between classes, and I'd read the text books cover to cover, making paragraph notes in the virtual margins to later study. Not because I was a great student but because if I left ponderous tomes to be read later, later would never arrive.
My best class was Constitutional Law with Stan Barnhill. He was a used-car-salesman-looking man of indeterminate late middle age, fat the way older men get and kind, curious about everything and fascinated with the mob. Anything mob got his attention. I got in the habit of carrying a paperback to class with me to read before it started. I was about the same age as most of the students, but it didn't feel like I had anything in common with them. Since I'd tested out of basic classes, I didn't have a background with them. They were nice enough, but it was like sitting through endless in-jokes.
Barnhill would come in every day and nudge the book I was reading upward until he could read the cover. When I started reading John D. MacDonald's Travis McGee series, he was excited and spent five minutes talking to me about it before he started class.
He was never as enthusiastic about the Jenny Crusie romances.
My other classes were corrections, all about the prison system, by a man older than God, it seemed, who gave interesting assignments in the real world like walking through the local prison. Interesting if it hadn't been your career for several years already.
The third CJ class was Procedure, taught by a local judge who wore immaculate suits and told funny stories about cases that had happened in Clark County. The following semester I'd have Principles of Investigation from the department chair, and a different constitutional law class from one of the retired heads of the GOP.
