Thumper Ch. 08

George didn't want a slave.

That's not to say that a small part of him -- a small pinkish part, say -- wouldn't rise admirably to a slave who responded with sexual verve to his every perverse beck and call. Someone, for example, forever clad in a sheer, flowing garment that left little to the imagination, someone who lived for the pleasure of giving pleasure and launched into mind-blowing, erotic gymnastics on command. No, he didn't want that. The problem was that Abby, all recent evidence of submissiveness aside, wasn't that woman, nor did he want her to be. Not really. Besides, he wasn't the type of man who'd be long satisfied with mindless acquiescence to every carnal whim.

George sighed and allowed the fantasy to dissolve.

So, no, George didn't want a slave.

The alternative was infinitely trickier. Abby had, over the last several weeks, demonstrated a grudging acceptance of submissiveness, just as he had reluctantly accepted the mantle of authority over her. They were at a delicate stage, he realized. He hadn't wanted to leave home so soon after what was, by all accounts, the last session with Britt and Damian. He'd wanted some time with Abby to build upon the foundation that Britt and Damian had helped lay for them. He wondered whether the old patterns had re-established themselves during his absence, or whether he'd return home to a fundamentally different relationship with Abby.

As he waited to board the plane, he pulled out his Blackberry and texted Abby. Two words. Perhaps it was a command, but it was one that granted room for interpretation. "Surprise me," he typed.

After boarding, he settled into his seat for the flight home. He'd presented a paper at an academic conference, disentangling his thoughts from Abby and the last few weeks just long enough to deliver a talk that had been, by all accounts, well-received.

Yes, they were at a delicate stage. He and Abby were on their own now. Britt and Damian had helped them adjust the course of their marriage and had finally nudged them into the current; it was now up to them to navigate their way by themselves.

Damn, it would be a lot easier with a slave...

The plane's engines spooled up and George let his thoughts drift back in time to the strange brand of marriage counselling that Abby had introduced them to. He still didn't know how she'd stumbled upon Britt and Damian and didn't much care. Perhaps the truth would come out at some point. He still couldn't quite believe how much had changed in those few weeks -- how he'd gone from cuckold to master and Abby from ice queen to submissive. Even now, as he allowed himself to think back, he could scarcely believe what he and Abby had gone through. As the plane taxied to the runway, the recollections passed like photographs in his mind's eye.

Of him, on that first session, with his face buried between Britt's legs, having been issued a challenge to make her come in fifteen minutes.

Of Abby, emerging from behind Damian, looking unusually vulnerable and beautiful, clad in little more than a breast binder and sporting a pony tail from a part of the human anatomy that had evolved to be tailless.

Of him again, being taught the possibilities of discipline, the moon of Britt's exposed ass growing redder with each blow.

And of Abby again, willingly subjecting herself to the pillory while he claimed her from behind, her body stretched out before him like an extension of himself.

This could have been someone else's mental photo album, but it was his.

With a start, he realized that his small pinkish part was no longer quite so small. Damn. In public, no less.

He turned his mind instead to a more recent memory. Before this trip, George and Damian had met for lunch at a pub close the campus.

"You should feel blessed," said Damian.

"I do."

Damian sipped his beer thoughtfully. "Both Britt and I had our doubts about Abby. About you too, but perhaps less so. Abby had a longer, harder journey. Most women would never have agreed to our contract. A lot of those would have told us to go to hell when they realized what it entailed. But Abby is incredibly strong and determined."

"So now?" asked George.

"Now you dedicate your life to reinforcing the trust she has placed in you. You have the responsibility of guiding your relationship through the next chapters. If the relationship fails, it's because you haven't listened, haven't placed Abby's well-being and happiness above all else. You have to be more attentive and more creative than you've ever been. In return, Abby will bestow those same gifts on you. She's now capable of doing so."

The plane lifted off, pressing George more deeply into the seat.

* * *

Abby received his text message an hour ago at work. His plane would have taken off by now. "Surprise me" was all it said. Those two words encapsulated a world of possibility. She smiled as packed her things and left the office early.

She hadn't wanted him to take the trip, but it had been planned long ago, before Britt and Damian had entered their lives. When the trip had been planned months ago, she'd considered his week-long absence with indifference. At the time, he was little more than a fixture in her life, a reminder of her failure. For the last week, however, she'd mentally checked off each day, growing excited as his return grew closer.

Absence not only made the heart grow fonder, it made it hungry.

Once home, Abby placed her heavy briefcase in the hall closet and vowed to forget that it existed until Monday. She kicked off her pumps and gratefully wiggled her toes. She walked upstairs, shrugging out of her dress jacket as she went, and hung it carelessly from the baluster. Feeling lighter already, she quickly shed her blouse and skirt, letting them fall to the floor like discarded skin. She shimmied out of her underwear, a thong, and flicked it with her foot, caught it in mid-flight, and tossed it into the hamper for three points.

Naked, having left the outer trappings of authority and responsibility scattered through the house, she sighed and felt liberated. She stretched and caught her reflection in the mirror. She liked what she saw.

Abby took an unhurried shower; it would take George more than two hours to clear customs, collect his luggage and return home. She washed with leisurely care, stoking herself where, she hoped, George's hands would soon linger.

After drying, she anointed herself with a hint of perfume in the cleft between her full breasts and lit some candles on the bedside tables and antique dresser. It was too early for candles, but lighting them seemed oddly appropriate.

She knelt before an old steamer trunk that sat at the foot of the four-poster bed, lifted the lid, and examined the contents with a sense of wonder and anticipation.

Britt had called out of the blue yesterday, perhaps knowing that Abby was alone, to suggest a shopping excursion.

There had been a mischievous tone to her voice, of challenge and playfulness. "We're going shopping for your graduation frock," Britt had added.

"Graduation?"

"You and George don't need us anymore. You're ready now to go it alone."

It was true. Abby felt a momentary sense of loss, knowing that the architects of their recent adventures were now exiting stage-left. She and George would have to find their own way now, and in a flash she realized that they were both now capable of doing so.

Britt had driven Abby to a shop called Her Mistress's Closet. The mannequins in the window sported all manner of leather and latex. It was the kind of establishment from which Abby would have averted her eyes in the past, recoiling at the depravity of those maladjusted souls who frequented it. Now her heart skipped a beat. Britt ushered her in and Abby stopped at the threshold. The shop was tastefully decorated, completely devoid of the seediness Abby would have imagined.

"Hi, Britt," greeted the saleswoman, a remarkably beautiful Asian woman.

"Go browse," suggested Britt, propelling her into the shop with a little push on the small of her back.

Abby strolled past the lingerie. She had, she realized sadly, plenty of that; gifts from George that she'd ignored and relegated to the dark corners of her closet. She'd have to see about those, she decided. No, she wasn't here for lingerie, but something more emphatic. She continued to the back of the store where she spied more provocative items -- leatherwear, corsets, bustiers. There was a world of possibility here, each item unleashing visions of potential. As Abby strolled through the store, she found herself surprisingly engaged where a few months before she would have been mortified, shuddering at the symbolism of such items -- submission, degradation, objectification. Now she now considered the impact that such outfits would have on George. Would they please him? Would they arouse him?

They would. What man wouldn't be aroused? She felt herself growing excited at the mere thought of surprising George on his return. Perhaps she really had graduated.

She settled on a leather corset with a shelf bra and laces up the back.

"Find anything you like?" asked Britt, who had silently come to her side.

Abby raised the corset.

Britt nodded and smiled. "That'll do nicely."

They strolled past a display of restraints and Britt stopped. "Have you considered these?"

Abby hesitated. "No."

"You might," suggested Britt.

Could she? She examined the cuffs and collars, some plain, others studded and fur-lined, and allowed herself to imagine. These were not the tools of enslavement, but of consent to be George's erotic canvas. Her body answered for her by means of a tingle of anticipation in the pit of her belly.

"Okay," said Abby.

Their next stop was the beauty salon. Britt was recognized here too. Britt and a pair of hairdressers gathered around Abby and deliberated earnestly, as an artist might before a blank canvas.

Abby's current style just wouldn't do. They decided on a something radically different, something that would frame the geometry of her face, and add a few highlights to draw the eye and liven thing up.

She could barely follow their conversation, her mind on her new purchases and considering how they might best be employed. The hairdresser and Britt looked at her expectantly, as though expecting an answer. "Whatever you want," she said. "Just do it."

Abby scarcely noticed the stares that she and Britt drew, in equal measure, from the men who were returning to their offices after a late lunch. If she had, she would have been flattered. As it was, her thoughts were never far from George and his homecoming.

Over coffee when their shopping was done, Britt beamed at Abby. "You've come a long way, baby."

Britt could feel the blush rising to her cheeks. "I couldn't have done it without you and Damian."

"It was in you all the time."

"I have a question for you," said Abby, changing the subject.

Britt raised an eyebrow. "Shoot."

"Are you and Damian a couple? You know, in the way that you've... trained George and me."

Britt hesitated for a moment. "If you're asking whether Damian and I are master and slave in the strict sense, we'd say no. But then, neither are you and George."

"And in the loose sense?"

"Possibly. Certainly anyone looking in from the outside would say so. I prefer to think that we're partners. Are we equal partners? No. He's a demon, after all, and I have no wish to be his equal. Besides which, we've both seen too many equal partnerships dissolve under the weight of constant bickering over power and real or imagined threats to equality. So I defer to him because he has earned my trust and respect. In return, he constantly seeks new ways to reinforce that trust and respect. While some masters might be tempted to control a submissive through fear and humiliation, a good master will foster such a relationship through discipline tempered with love. "

"So it's a partnership?"

"Absolutely."

"But not an equal one?"

"I prefer to call it symbiotic."

That was yesterday. Today she was on her own and the heady confidence instilled by Britt seemed a long way off.

Around her narrow waist she fastened the corset, removing it to make adjustments to the laces and then trying it on again. When the fit was perfect, she strapped on the black leather wrist and ankle cuffs. She saved the collar for last. Her breasts lifted as she fastened it around her neck and fed the tongue through the clasp. Studs and rings glinted in the flickering candlelight.

She looked at herself in the mirror, almost disbelieving what she saw. Not so much that she wore nothing more than leather and looked every inch a slave, but that she saw the unmistakable glow of confidence and anticipation that had been absent not so long ago. At that time, she would have averted her eyes from the sight in the mirror -- that and questioned her sanity. Now she appraised herself with satisfaction, knowing she would soon be giving and receiving pleasure in equal measure.

The leather would be a surprise for George, much as it was for her. She was still a little uneasy with the symbolism of enslavement, but she trusted George to see it for what it was -- consent.

She wrapped a silk robe around herself and cinched the belt. She reclined on the bed, sipped some wine, and waited for her man.

At the sound of George's key in the front door, Abby slipped from the bed and assumed the position. She felt a little ridiculous doing so, but a tremor of excitement coursed through her nonetheless. She knelt on the floor and rested her buttocks on her heels. Her hands lay open and palms up on her spread thighs and she paid special attention to holding her posture erect, not that her corset would have allowed much in the way of slouching. Britt had instructed her to bow her head, but she couldn't, not when she wanted to see George's reaction.

* * *

George opened the door to the bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Oh my God," he stammered.

Abby sat on her haunches in the middle of the room. Her back was straight and her chest swelled with each breath, visible beneath the diaphanous robe. Her palms lay face-up where her thighs emerged from her leather boots. A nervous smile played on her mouth.

He had told himself that he hadn't wanted a slave, yet here she was.

"Are you pleased?"

"Oh my God," George repeated.

He approached her slowly, eyes devouring her. He gazed down at her for a moment and then gave her his hand and drew her up.

"You're beautiful."

Abby blushed.

He placed a hand under her chin and tilted her head up so that he could gaze at her fully.

They kissed hungrily, bodies pressed together. A part of him wanted to throw her onto the bed and take her now but he sensed that she'd given this some thought and was curious to see where it would go.

She disengaged herself from his arms. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him gently backward until he sat on the edge of the bed.

"I've been shopping," she said.

"I can see that."

Abby stepped back and stood before him with arms outstretched. She had changed her hairstyle, George realized. Her unruly curls had been tamed and framed her face. Her makeup flattered her eyes and well-defined cheek bones. Deep red lipstick accentuated the fullness of her lips.

A collar with silver rings encircled her neck, the black leather contrasting with the tender, pale flesh of her throat. She wore cuffs on her wrists, the rings of which glimmered as they swayed in the flickering candlelight. The leather bodice she wore hugged her torso and thrust her bosom forward.

Abby closed her eyes and pirouetted with slow and deliberate grace on the toe of a leather boot. George's eyes followed the laces up to her shapely thigh and glimpsed the freshly shaved pubic area until Abby's slow revolution removed it from view.

She presented her back and George followed the lacing of the corset to the womanly flare of her hips and the firm roundness of her buttocks.

George was utterly gobsmacked as Abby stopped, legs apart, and placed her arms behind her back. Her breasts lifted becomingly in response.

"What do you think, master?" she asked with a wink and a smirk.

George smiled and said, "I feel like I've died and gone to heaven."

Abby approached languorously and lowered herself onto his lap. She draped her arms lazily over his shoulders and straddled his legs with her leather-clad ones.

"That would make me an angel," she murmured into his ear before taking the lobe into her mouth. She bit the soft flesh and a low moan issued from George's throat. She pressed her lips to his and insinuated her tongue teasingly between his lips. "I'm not."

Abby slid off George's lap and lowered herself between his legs. She placed a hand on his groin and traced the contours of his cock with the tip of her index finger.

"May I?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

Abby slipped his trousers and underwear off. George's manhood sprang free.

Abby's fingernails stroked the underside of his erection and George couldn't restrain an unmasterful whimper. He'd asked for Abby to surprise him, and so far she had.

She held his cock against his abdomen as her tongue laved his testicles. Gently, she took one in her mouth and played her tongue over its surface. Then she repeated the action with its twin.

More arousing than her actions was the way in which she performed them. She lingered over him, exploring him with unhurried engagement. Before, when he could cajole her into doing these things, she performed with scarcely contained impatience, rushing through the script as though nothing were more important than the falling of the curtain. Now she lingered, following no script.

Her hand held the base of his cock as her tongue trailed up its length and explored the contours of its crown. He felt the leather of her wrist cuff against the inside of his thigh. She took the head in her mouth and her tongue flitted over its surface.

He gave himself over to the sensation of her lips descending over him, the warmth of her mouth and tongue enveloping him and then withdrawing.

Whether it was the week of absence or Abby's actions -- possibly both -- George responded quickly. A few minutes later he felt that familiar tingling and sat up. "Abby," he gasped.

She stroked his saliva-slick length and peered up at him, a smile quirking on her lips. She shook her head. "Let me," she whispered. "We have time."

George perched himself on his elbows and watched as he vanished into her mouth again.

The velvet softness of her lips descended over his hardness in slow increments, deeper than he would have thought possible. Her hands reached behind his back and pulled as her mouth descended the last few inches until her lips encircles his base.

"Oh God," he groaned as she withdrew and plunged upon him yet again.

Abby had evoked a scarcely contained fullness to his erection that he hadn't felt since adolescence. He wasn't far now. Arresting the effect of her actions was now out of the question and he surrendered himself to her. The muscles in his legs trembled and seemed to signal Abby to redouble her efforts.

This wasn't how he'd imagined his homecoming. He'd imagined taking her, yet here he was being taken. Not that it wasn't great -- his body told him that much -- it was just...

With a groan he shot into her mouth.

* * *

George emptied himself into her mouth and the spasms gradually diminished. Abby revelled in her power over him.

George lay limp on the bed and Abby climbed alongside and wrapped an arm around his chest.

"That was..." he whispered.

"Yes," she said with a smile.

George sighed contentedly. After a few minutes, he spoke again. "These cuffs..."

"Yes?"

"They give me an idea."

"I'd hoped they would."