Faithe and Salvation


"Perhaps look to your great-great-great uncle Samuel for inspiration," his father had said. "The man began as a lowly innkeeper in Boston over two hundred years ago. Today his legacy is a world-wide resort chain that earns the Tremayne Corporation billions every year. Perhaps this empty house can be your start of your own Tremayne legacy. Think about the possibilities, Morgan. You must get on with your life. You will find another kindred spirit to be part of it with you," he reassured. "Perhaps when and where you least expect to do so."

And so the 1858 Shipwright's house at the end of the lane had become the Shipwright's Inn, but renovation delays, and delays in receiving permits and licences, meant he'd missed the height of this year's tourist season.

It was the late afternoon of his thirty-fifth birthday that Faithe had shown up on the porch. Strands of her mid-shoulder length, tousled auburn hair blew gently in the warm August breeze; her captivating green eyes looked up at him hopefully from under long, black lashes; the corners of her lips turned up in a nervous smile. Her voice was soft and sensual, but saucy at the same time.

"Hello, I'm really hoping you have a room available," she'd said, "because I've come a long way and my butt's killing me from all the sitting at the wheel, and it just can't drive all over town looking for a place to stay."

She'd carried nothing but a Swissgear backpack over both shoulders and a Loweprowe Slingshot camera bag slung around her neck. She was dressed in an oversize turquoise t-shirt that hid her upper-body curves and was tucked casually into blue jeans that hugged Ruebenesque hips and derriere, and long, inviting legs. The t-shirt swelled tightly over her breasts but hid the rest of her upper body curves and ignited Morgan's imagination about what awaited him underneath the cotton. He hadn't felt this alive since fate forced him to let his beautiful slave Belinda go.

His mind came back to the moment and conversation at hand. "I would chain you — but only if you consented to my doing so, of course — but I promise I would never whip you," Morgan responded. "Dominance and submission is based on devotion, trust and caring, it's not about abusing the woman whose life is in your care and control, and whom you love."

Faithe coughed up a mouthful of her latte. "I'm really not sure I heard that quite right."

"I simply said — "

"That you get your rocks off on chaining women to the bedpost."

"While I confess I do have a sexual appetite and that I would expect to be pleasured by you whenever and however I desired to have you, it would be consensual," Morgan said. "You would only be chained if you allowed me to chain you."

Faithe struggled with herself. She should end the conversation and the date right now, and get up and walk away. Maybe even run back to the Inn, pack her things and leave. But instead, she took another sip of her latte. And felt her nipples rise. "The old 'take me master, I'm yours,' is what you're saying, then?"

"A rather crude interpretation," answered Morgan, "but essentially right. Let me put it another way, perhaps one you can better relate to. When you're photographing with your Canon, what shooting mode do you use? Aperture priority? Shutter priority? Full Manual? Program? You have so many choices."

"Most of the time, I shoot manual," Faithe responded.


"Because it allows me to have complete control over exposure and shutter speed, so I can have total control over the lighting, and make the photograph come out the way I pre-visualized the scene, the way I want it to," Faithe said. "It's what . . . I . . . get your point."

Morgan laughed softly. "I thought you might, when I put it in those terms. Perhaps some days you should let the camera do more of the work for you, instead. Experiment. Give up some control and see whether you like the results."

He knew by the way she raised an eyebrow that she caught the double entendre, and so continued, "Allowing oneself to give up total control to another requires great inner strength and courage, and complete trust in that person. And it's a huge responsibility to have someone's entire life and well being completely under your control. A D/s relationship is not something to be taken lightly — if you're ever trying to decide whether it's how you want your life to be."

"Right. If I'm ever thinking about being a sex slave, I'll let you know. I must say, Morgan, you're an interesting man. But I'm going to feel kind of awkward seeing you in the morning."

"The lifestyle is not merely about sex," Morgan said. She really was being impertinent now. She just didn't seem to understand that he was trying to connect with her, not merely talk with her. "As I said, it's about being able to give up control, finding inner strength, discovering your inner self and true desires, and trust and devotion. And there are the sexual pleasures, naturally."

Outside the café window, the single, two-lane main thoroughfare of St. Andrews was all but deserted even at this early hour in the evening, and the shadows were growing long as the sun went down. The days were growing short. Labor Day had come and gone; the tourist season was over. He hoped Faithe would stay on, so he could devote his full attention to her. So they could both discover whether there was a true bond between them and whether they were truly kindred spirits who would be completely devoted to each other's passions, pleasures and desires for the rest of their lives. For he still sensed that her sass was merely her way of hiding from true desires.

Steam spiraled from the frothy surface of his latte as Morgan brought the over-size mug to his lip. He gazed silently at Faithe over the rim, four fingers of his long, slender manicured hands clasped fully around the porcelain and a thumb hooked through the handle.

He'd left the parcel and note at the foot of her door while she was out photographing covered bridges in the area that morning, and it appeared she had followed his request precisely. There was just enough cleavage showing in the deep vee-cut of the tight, black satin dress, and he could see a hint of the black lace bra peeking through the trim of the vee. The dress fit her perfectly, hugging the desirable curves of her body and pressing against her breasts enough to make the tips of her nipples visible in the material. The black stockings encased her legs and feet; the overall black aroused him.

The amber earrings dangled just below her earlobes and swayed back and forth, making quiet swishing sounds every time she brushed a loose strand of auburn hair away from her eyes or moved her head. Other than the lip gloss and a mere hint of color on her cheeks, she wore no makeup, also part of his request. He desired to see the bare, soft, supple skin of her face in its naturalness. Soon, he still felt, she would bare much more than her face — she would bare her body and soul to him, and herself.

"Tell me . . . what are your pleasures, Morgan?"

"I have many pleasures," he said. "One of the simplest is just sitting quietly, watching the sun rise. And, through the love of my life — my kindred spirit — I came to develop a passion for photography, and very much enjoy photographing seascapes early in the morning. Perhaps one morning the two of us will drive to St. Martin's, where the shores are rugged and — "

"I was thinking more in terms of your sexual pleasures," Faithe interrupted.

"I always found great pleasure in taking my beautiful slave Belinda from behind," he said, "and it was her favorite way of presenting herself to me."

Faithe wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. "So then you have kept a sex slave," she said.

"Belinda was not my sex slave," Morgan countered, feeling offended and that she still wasn't understanding. "She was my kindred spirit and we were completely devoted to each other. She was happy with all her heart in our relationship. And I was happy with all of mine. There was a bond between us from the first day we met."

"So why aren't you with her now?"

"Because she died. She died in my arms, during the swine flu pandemic two years ago. I grieved for over a year."

Feeling suddenly guilty, "I'm sorry, Morgan," was all that Faithe could manage.

"I accept your apology."

In the moment of awkward silence that followed, both looked away and tried to think of something else to say.

Finally Faithe redirected the conversation. "I know the tourist season is over, but I hope you won't mind if I stay for a few more days. I was out photographing some of the wonderful old buildings on Main Street the other day, and passed by the real estate office. There was a posting about a wonderful little blue house down by the harbor that's for rent. I'm considering it. It's got a great room with a big window overlooking the harbor that would be a perfect studio. Great lighting."

"Then you're planning to stay?"

"Yes. I think so. I'm a newly single, thirty-two year-old woman who hasn't known what to do with her life since my divorce came through, and I need to find myself again. And I'm beginning to think this is the place to do it in. It's been so refreshing, just being alone with my camera somewhere completely different and concentrating on shooting wonderful landscapes in the early morning. I guess you could say I'm on a bit of a journey of self-discovery."

He raised a blond eyebrow.

"But don't get me wrong, Morgan," she quickly interjected, "I'm really not interested in letting you chain me up and fuck me from behind whenever you like."

"We shall see," he said.

"No, we won't."

"I'll be most unhappy if you decide to leave the Shipwright's Inn," Morgan said. "Your very presence brings the house — and me — alive. I'll have to convince you to not rent that little blue house down by the harbor."

"Good luck with that," Faithe teased.

Morgan gestured at her with his mug. "I really like that color of lip gloss. Peach. It's very attractive on you. Enticing, even. Goes very well with the outfit, I must say."

"It's called Enticing Rose, by Lancome. And you're trying to flatter me again and get in my pants."

Morgan half-smiled. "In any case, you should wear it again on our next date — all the time, in fact; it suits you perfectly. I think it's the only color of gloss you should wear."

"Our next date — well you're an optimist, aren't you? Actually I'm enjoying your company. Though I must say this conversation hasn't been what I was expecting for a first date with the innkeeper. Well, since you seem to like my lip gloss that much, I'll have to make a point of wearing it again," Faithe said.

"It goes splendidly with black. Black's my favorite color on a woman," Morgan said. "On the right woman, with the right figure, black is very sensual and erotic. On you, for instance — you look stunning. I'm glad you accepted my gift, and my request to wear the outfit this evening. I assume you're also wearing the high-cut panties and garter underneath?"

Faithe's face flushed, her shoulders tensed and her green eyes darted around the bistro to see if anyone had been in earshot. "I . . . er . . . um, yes," she stammered quietly, squirming in her chair, the dress rustling.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Morgan asked.

"Let's just say now you're being a little bit too forward on our first date," Faithe answered. "A nice girl doesn't like to talk about her undies with a man she hardly knows."

"Why not? The tourist season's over, and there's nobody here except us and the barista. And she's quite busy reading a book. I think it's a Kathy Reichs novel. Even now, in 2025, some people still read books, it seems. I mostly prefer to sit quietly and browse on my laptop, and watch webisodes, although I still enjoy the classics — Jane Austen, The Bronte Sisters, Updike, Hemingway. But I digress. Honestly, she's paying no attention to us. But very well, if you're not yet comfortable with me, then I'll let it drop for now."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, my Faithe. I see your cup is empty. Please, I'd be most disappointed if you didn't let me buy you another latte. The evening's still early, and we're finding so much to talk about between us."

Faithe scratched at an itch on her left breast. "Excuse me," she blushed. "I had an itch that was driving me crazy."

"You needn't be afraid to touch yourself in front of me," Morgan said. Faithe blushed again. "In fact, when I desired to see you do so, I would expect you to touch your body in the most intimate places, in front of me — if you were to do me the honor of accepting me as your Dominant, that is."

She started to say something in response, but raised a palm to her cheek when she felt her face flush yet again. "Another latte for you then," Morgan smiled. "I'll be back in a moment or two."

When he clunked another steaming mug down in front of her, gently pushing the empty cup aside, Faithe smiled a polite thank-you, and wrapped her hands around the sides of the cup as though they were cold. Seeing the inquisitive look in his eyes, she said, "I felt a sudden chill. I suppose it's the air conditioning."

Morgan scraped his chair as he stood up, then wrapped his light jacket over her shoulders. "I wouldn't let you catch a chill," he said. "I hope this makes you more comfortable."

"You are a gentleman after all," Faithe teased. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome, my Faithe. I find myself feeling . . . devoted to you." She didn't back away when he planted a kiss on the top of her head.

"You're being charming again," Faithe's voice cracked as he sat down again. "Now stop that."

Morgan laughed softly, then looked in her eyes. "You said a few moments ago that you're on a kind of journey of self-discovery. I sensed from the moment you appeared on the porch of my inn that you were lost and empty. And yet full of hope that there was someone who would care for you, devote himself to you, perhaps even love you; someone with whom you would find your way again."

He continued while he sipped another mouthful, "And, I have been alone too long, and shut out the world for too long. So I've decided to take a chance on

. . . both of us. I hope to help you find your way, and make you ready for many wonderful things to experience in your life. You're a very beautiful, intelligent, desirable woman. Any man would, or should, be happy to have you as his life partner. Let me guide you; possess you, be your Master for a time even — if I may put it that way; so that you may eventually be your own master, and know yourself intimately."

Faithe shifted in her seat, tensing her shoulders. This conversation was getting uncomfortable again. He was making her think about the coffee-table book she'd come across in the guest salon of the Shipwright's Inn.

"I see from your body language that you're not comfortable talking about this," Morgan said. His steel-gray eyes were fixed upon her, awaiting a response and she found herself unable to resist his quiet insistence.

"I was thinking about . . . there was a book I found in the salon the other morning with cover art that intrigued me, and I started flipping through the pages," Faithe said. "I was curious."

"Ah. Yes. A Portrait of Sensual Slavery. Of the books I do have in my library, that's one of my favorite ones." He caught the look in her eyes immediately. "But not for the reasons I see you're thinking, my Faithe."

She tried to avert his penetrating eyes and scratched at her cheek.

Morgan continued: "You see, my beautiful slave Belinda inherited magnificent natural photographic talent. It was her behind the lens for that wonderful book. I have an old college classmate who became a very successful horror writer, and lives in a very fine apartment on the Upper West side of New York City. Of course living in New York, one encounters many interesting characters, especially in Greenwich Village. David became intrigued by the D/s lifestyle during the initial research for his latest novel, and decided to write a book about the D/s and bondage community. I recommended my beautiful slave Belinda to photograph the book because she was in the lifestyle as well as a talented photographer, and I knew she would be perfect for it. She of course accepted the assignment because I wanted her to. And it was very exciting for her, knowing that her work would be in a published work by such a well-known author. It was so was stimulating, I might add, that Belinda often had to concentrate very hard not to constantly orgasm while she was photographing the subjects. I was very proud of her, both for her work, and for controlling her orgasms. I rewarded her afterwards. She came on my command numerous times, until she was completely exhausted."

Please stop now, Faithe thought. She felt her pussy tingling, and a wet spot in the black panties under her dress. She tried to think of other things, but the book's pages were etched into her memory — the full-page photos of women, and men, in all kinds of leather get-ups and positions and scenes. And in every photo, they were looking intensely at the camera, like they were content with being tied up spread-eagled, or bound to crosses, or standing there laced up in leather body suits with hoods over their heads. "Too much information now," she croaked to Morgan, feeling a sensation between her thighs again.

Morgan chuckled. "Very well. But tell me, what was your impression of David's book? I'm always interested to hear my guests' thoughts. Some have found it intriguing, others have been appalled. 'Why would anyone want to be a sex slave?' they ask. They simply don't understand the emotional and mental commitment involved in a total power exchange relationship between two consenting adults who care about each other very much."

Faithe remembered how she'd felt embarrassed to look down and see her nipples making two clear impressions in the material of her t-shirt, and feel moistness in her panties. She'd suddenly dropped the book on the salon coffee table, and glanced nervously over her shoulder to see if Morgan had seen her browsing through it. "It . . . er . . . was an interesting book," Faithe said.

"I sense you're not being completely truthful with me, and I wish you would," Morgan said. "If we're to have any kind of lifestyle relationship it must be based on mutual desire and trust. I wouldn't mock or think less of you if you said you found it arousing, for I imagine that by your hesitation in answering my question, you did. Am I right, my Faithe?"

"Yes," she finally admitted, looking away from his piercing eyes and out into the evening. "I did. And I was terribly embarrassed at myself."

Part three — Salvation

"I did glimpse you browsing through the book that morning, as I was passing the salon doorway on my way to the cellar for a bottle of wine. You were completely engrossed in it, and didn't notice me standing there for a few seconds," Morgan confessed.

"I think," Morgan continued with compassion in his voice, "that in discovering A Portrait of Sensual Slavery by accident, you were at last in your life starting to discover your own true sexuality. I think that book made you realize that you've always had a secret desire to be tied with your legs spread wide and your sex accessible at any time; or dressed in nothing more than a collar and corset; to be dominated by your lovers, at least to see if you would actually enjoy it and find it emotionally and sexually fulfilling. But you've either never found a lover who appreciated you and all your needs and desires; or you've always been afraid to ask."

"So charming and so direct, too," Faithe said, pressing her legs a little more tightly together under the table. "And so wrong about some things."

Morgan ignored her remark, and continued with his insights. "I'm thinking there have been men in your life who have treated you with the utmost disrespect, but you've felt powerless to do anything about it," Morgan added. "That's not dominance and submission, Faithe. That, in any form, is pure abuse of a woman and I detest that."

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