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Annie
Sometimes the Southern Nevada sunrise is subtle. Silvery clouds stretch over the sky looking like fish scales. The Spring Mountains turn from inky black silhouettes against the dawn sky into their rugged distant blues. Other times the sky explodes with vibrant oranges and reds, with purple and pink clouds, like some kind of science fiction planet, not anything that would be seen on Earth.
The desert outside Las Vegas is flat and rocky, studded with scrub from mesquite to sage. There's a surprising amount of land outside the city, even with all the warehouses being built as the state goes through another cyclical growth spurt.
Outside of billionaire and pharmaceutical CEO Cole St. Martin's rural desert compound, the flat desert made a terrific training ground for trail running. There were foothills Sir and I could reach if we worked on endurance, and there were paths we could take to sprint on. I was much better with endurance than I was with sprinting.
Which was why Sir had decided to train me with that today. Because "training" can denote having a coach who's invested in one's athletic performance. It can also mean one is the sexual submissive and newly discovered masochist in a relationship with a sexual sadist and Master.
That takes training to a whole different level.
I'd come back to Cole St. Martin after a brush with a trafficking ring. An ex-cop – or DEA cop in training, I wasn't sure who I was now – I'd gone after the ring operating out of Southern Nevada. I was partially responsible for partially breaking the ring.
Ever since I'd come back to Sir from that, I'd been restless and anxious. On my return, he'd wanted to sign a new Master/slave contract – my original contracts had been about keeping me safe from myself, because Sir had a variety of rainforest products that helped cure opiate addiction and I was strung out on fentanyl when a bad Seattle PD cop – and my handler for my deep cover narc work – "sold" me to Cole St. Martin.
Sir believed in that.
Me, I fought it until the truth took hold. Or a couple truths. First, that I really needed his cure because it really worked and if I wanted to stay a cop, I had to get off the drugs.
Second? I had a love/hate relationship with BDSM and sexual sadism and masochism. When Sir wasn't doing something to me, I was apt to fantasize about the St. Andrews cross, about caning and spanking and all the invasive, hard and painful things he loved to do to me.
When it was happening, I was convinced as soon as he untied me, I'd beat the shit out of him and run.
But a little self-inspection, at the cost of being trapped by the ring, led me to believe this was where I belonged. I kept coming back to him, after all, even after the addition was cured. There had to be something I was looking for.
This time we didn't sign a contract. This time the reason I didn't run from him was that I could.
Only right now? Right now I was definitely running from him, and I wasn't running fast enough.
"Faster, Annie!"
Pain exploded in my behind. I was running faster, damn it! But he was like ten feet taller than I was and he ran faster, even when I was already running far past my endurance and my comfortable pokey running speed that could take me miles and miles but not in any great hurry.
Cole St. Martin had decided to work on that. So today's training run was very long – more than our usual long ten miler – and I was dressed out here on the rural edges in a jog bra, my dark curls that were getting so long scooped into a ponytail. I wore top of the line trail running shoes.
I didn't wear anything else. Because as soon as we were out of sight of the compound, he’d made me strip off my shorts and panties and now he chased me. Every time my energy flagged or I started to slow, he lashed out with either the birching branches or with a riding crop.
Cole St. Martin is nicely over six feet tall. Those nine or ten inches he has on me he puts to good use and he's in amazing shape.
He had no problem with the speed and distance or with carrying the implements he was using to drive me forward. My ass already displayed a good two dozen switch marks and probably as many from the crop and once we got back to the compound, he'd for certain show me his displeasure at my slowness.
"Focus!"
The birch branches slashed across my ass again. I yelped and tried to pour on speed. It felt weird to be running half naked, shaved and oiled and on display, even if there was no one else anywhere around us.
The thing I found about being a sub was Sir constantly pushed me. The way it worked, at least for us, was he didn't chose the things I'd be willing to do. No outdoor sex in lush tree-filled grottos. No polite spanking with "Is this all right for you?" or holding me down with his hands on my wrists when he fucked me.
Cole St. Martin exhibited me, he stripped me naked in front of others, he spanked and caned and flogged and cropped me. He relied on his medical training before he went into pharmaceuticals and he made certain of my inner workings in ways I didn't even want to think about.
It was never what I wanted. And that in itself was gloriously freeing and horrifying and everything, all at the same time.
"Stop!"
I stopped on a dime. It could be because he wanted me to. Or there could be a rattlesnake up ahead, or a car I hadn't heard, in which case he'd block my body with his while I pulled on the shorts.
Or it could be this.
