The Spur Ch. 15

Literotic asexstories – The Spur Ch. 15 by Spartamac,Spartamac
Do not hate my obedience

and do not love my self-control.

In my weakness, do not forsake me,

and do not be afraid of my power.

–The Thunder: Perfect Mind

JILL

That may have been the longest I had ever gone without saying a word. My brain felt like a barge being turned around on a waterslide. Her story caught me so off-guard, I struggled with disbelief at every moment–and yet, as it all came together, I could absolutely see it, believe it, feel the rightness of it. After a long silence, I reverted to form by blurting out the first thing that popped into my head.

“So, is that nipple-flicking thing something they teach you in domme school?”

Jamila laughed her throaty, decadent laugh.

“Well, I don’t remember where I learned it, but I can tell you for certain that Steve learned it from me.”

“He’s such a different dom from you, though.”

“He is. It’s not an apprenticeship system. I taught him how to be my sub. You are teaching him how to be your dom. We’re all of us changing, adapting, teaching each other. It’s more like a biome than a ‘lifestyle.’ Ugh; I hate that word.”

“But you like the word ‘biome’?” I asked, skeptically. Smiling, she answered,

“Well, we do pursue each other, feed on each other, and encourage each other to evolve–what’s wrong, sweetie? What did I say?”

Remember I said I sometimes need to feel caught to feel seen? An idea–not even that, a feeling, an intuition, an irritating mental no-see-um buzzing faintly in a boggy corner of my brain suddenly came to awareness, and it obviously showed on my face. Taking a deep breath, I said,

“Steve is sick, Jamila,” I said. “I’m sure it’s not serious, and I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing, but it bothers the shit out of me that he won’t confide in me.”

“Oh, no! How sick? For how long?”

“Not very, and I’m not sure. I’m just sure he’s not telling me the whole truth, that he knows more than he’s saying.” Then, without warning, I suddenly found myself sobbing. Jamila was around the table in a heartbeat, her arms around me, her right hand stroking my hair. Finally I begin to calm down a little; I had no idea I was that upset.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said. “You really love him, don’t you?” All I could do was nod my head.

“Well, hon,” she said, still stroking my back, “you’re not wrong. Steve is a protector, to a fault and beyond. If you want him for the long haul, you’re going to have to remind him what a dom’s real protective responsibilities are, and that they do not include sheltering you from unpleasant truths.”

“Could you talk to him?” I asked, hopefully. She shook her head

“Sorry, sweetie; too much water under the bridge; too much flotsam. But I can tell you this,” she said, looking intently at me. “The cruel streak that Steve sees in me, he also sees in himself–and he rejects it. I think that’s why he’s so…fastidious about things. And I think he also believes he needs to protect you from himself–the darker side of him. If he takes that angle–which men often do, as we both know–don’t be too quick to call bullshit on him. He might actually mean it. I could be wrong, but just think about it, OK?”

I promised I would.

* * *

“You know what I noticed?” I asked one evening, comfortably warm and full of home-made muttar paneer.

“I can’t imagine,” Steve answered.

“I noticed that Janice, at the B&B, greeted you with ‘Welcome back!'”

“Did she?” he said, non-committally.

“She did. So may I presume I’m not the first woman you’ve taken there?”

“You may.” When he didn’t say anything more, I sighed in exasperation.

“Look, I know information is a commodity, but just for tonight, could you be a little more generous with it, Mr. Stingypants?” Steve smiled.

“Fair enough, Grasshopper. Ask me anything!”

“So who was she?”

“Lana.”

“What did you see?”

“By sheer coincidence, ‘La Traviata.’ But because we were in school–she in college and I in grad school–not far from there, we saw it on Friday night, and had all of Saturday to ourselves.”

“What did you do with it?”

.

“Well, you remember how sunny our room was?”

“Yes–it was lovely.”

“Lana and I had the same room. And as you know, I like to surprise a sub. So I didn’t tell her what the Saturday plan was. All I did tell her was to bring make-up, which, like you, she always used sparingly.

I had asked Janice to hold breakfast for us, and when Lana awoke, I told her to shower, dry her hair, and apply makeup suitable for a headshot. While she was in the bathroom, I fetched us some coffee from the breakfast room, and, to help her relax, made a pitcher of mimosas. Then I made the bed and set up my camera equipment. She had already consented in principle to my taking nudes of her, but I knew she was still apprehensive about it.

“Lana had body issues–and while she was a little zaftig, she was curvy and shapely and I found her very attractive. I know some doms impose a workout regimen on their subs, but I didn’t want her to think she needed to change in order for me to find her sexy.

“I had left a gift-box in the bathroom containing a pair of leg-lengthening, high-cut black panties, sheer in the back with a lace panel in the front that matched the demi-bra. There was a second pair of panties for later in the shoot.

“When she emerged from the bathroom in the lingerie and saw the camera equipment, she resigned herself to her fate with a smile. We spent two glorious hours photographing her in various states of undress.”

“Do you still have these pictures?”, I asked hopefully.

“Somewhere, I expect.”

“Oh, let me see them!”

“Really?”

“Yes–please find them and let me look at them.” He got up and went into his room, and I heard offstage sound-effect rummaging–like when someone wants you to hear them ‘looking’ for something more than they actually want to find it. Finally, apparently realizing that further stalling would avail him nothing, he came out with an eight-by-ten-inch cardboard box, which he handed to me without comment.

I removed the lid and saw dozens of photos of an attractive young woman in various stages of nudity. Some were candid, some posed, some without any overt sexual content (moving the curtains aside to look out the window, for instance.) And, of course, a great many devoted to displaying her sexuality. None of them, however, were degrading or cheap. And Lana was obviously enjoying herself.

“Steve!” I exclaimed, startling him a little. “Why are these languishing in a box? Why aren’t they up where people can see them?

“That would be a bold decorating choice.”

“It would be tasteful and lovely!”

“Why would you want racy pictures of one of my ex-girlfriends on the walls, anyway?”

“Because they’re beautiful! Because she’s beautiful! And because they’re part of you–part of your history. Steve, I don’t need to pretend I’m the only girlfriend you’ve ever had. I’m proud to take my place in your life. I’m honored to be among these smart, sexy women whose company you’ve asked me to join! It’s not like I’m threatened by them. They’re like my sister-subs!” I paused for breath. “Does any of that make sense?” Steve’s eyes shone.

“You are an extraordinary person, Grasshopper,” he answered at last–catching me a little off-guard. “And that is probably the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Throwing my arms around his neck, I kissed him long and deeply, then gazed into the eyes of the man I thought I could spend a lifetime getting to know.

“Let’s choose some pictures!” I said.

For the living room I chose a picture of Lana laying back on the bed, propped up on her elbows with her legs casually crossed at the ankles, her head thrown back in full-throated laughter.

“What had you said to her?” I asked.

“I don’t remember,” Steve answered, “but I’m so glad I got the shot! This was unplanned, and definitely her favorite.”

“I think it may be mine, too,” I said. “She looks so unselfconscious, and comfortable with herself, and happy; it’s adorable!” I also chose a parody of Nastassja Kinsky and the Serpent done with a plush toy snake.

For the bedroom, I chose one in which she was topless, and she’d traded her sheer, lacey undies for a pair of black booty knickers with SPANK ME stenciled on the back. Standing before a full-length mirror, she brushed her thick, pretty ash-blond hair and, looking into the mirror at the viewer, flashed the “Take me home and fuck me” smile that captivated our mutual Dom years ago.

Finally, I chose a shot from behind in which she was kneeling, naked, sitting back on her heels. Her wrists were bound with a small, black leather belt, and her elbows with a slightly larger belt–the same way Gerald had bound me for my birthday threesome. She wore an elegant red silk blindfold, and her face was turned to the to the left, her full, luscious lips parted, steeped in patience yet panting with anticipation. I found this one mesmerizingly sexy.

“I’ll get those framed,” Steve said, reaching out his hand for them.

“No, you won’t!”, I replied. “I will. I’ll do a better job than you, and you know it, so don’t argue with me.”

Within a week, Lana adorned the walls of Steve’s apartment. Steve was still bemused, but I loved those pictures, because they helped me know where I fit. Besides, I like to look at scantily clad pretty women, too. As long as they aren’t me.