Faithe and Salvation

Faithe could feel her temples pulsing and her brain felt like every neuron was super charged, and she couldn't think clearly of how to respond to his monologue.

Morgan pushed his chair back against the wall and towered out of it. His broad shoulders were two whole heads above the bead-board wainscoting that ran around three walls of the café. "I'm in the mood for another latte myself. Excuse me. I'll be right back. Please don't leave," he said authoritatively.

Faithe shivered when a rush of September evening air wafted through the café as the door opened and a teenage couple sauntered in. They were arm in arm and putting on a public display of affection that didn't belong in a café where other people could watch. Faithe tried to look out the window instead but their reflections were clear in the glass. The young man's whole forearm was up her black leather miniskirt as soon as she sat beside him. Above her leather halter top, the girl, not more than sixteen, wore a blue-and-white lace collar with three large stainless steel o-rings sewn into it. The girl, her eyes downcast, didn't seem to mind what he was doing to her.

Faithe finally turned away from the scene before her at the sound of another mug clunking on the surface of the table. "Come — so to speak," Morgan smiled, "It's not that late. Let's stay awhile and talk some more. I'm enjoying your company and our conversation."

Faithe felt herself flush at the suggestiveness in his choice of words. "Maybe we could talk more quietly now that there are other people around us," she said.

"They won't disturb us, but very well," Morgan said.

Faithe opened her lips, but before she could think of what she wanted to say, Morgan said, "Do you mind if I ask you another personal question or two? I'd like to ask, but I'm not sure you'll answer given your reaction a few minutes ago to my question about the panties and garter you're wearing."

Faithe glanced to make sure they weren't being overhead. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the boy and girl were now on the far side of the café, completely engrossed in each other. She was half over his knee, in fact. "I suppose I don't mind," she said. Her dress had ridden up and her thighs were chilled and sticking to the leather chair. She lifted her buttocks off the seat and wriggled the dress back down.

"I hope you didn't do that on my account," Morgan said, gesturing his steaming mug at her, "because your derriere was a very pleasing sight when I was standing waiting for this latte."

Faithe stifled a choking cough with one hand and managed to set her own mug down with the other.

Morgan laughed softly. "You certainly have a journey ahead of you," he said. He leaned in close, and brushed her bangs gently away from her forehead. He traced his index finger down her cheek. "When, my Faithe, he asked softly, "was the last time that you had an orgasm and experienced sexual ecstasy, either by your own hand or at the hands of a lover?"

Faithe quivered. Jean-Franco had never spoken to her like this; in fact they had barely spoken to each other at all over their last year in the suburban Montreal townhouse. And when he did speak, it was only to willingly hurl verbal abuse at her on the nights that he wasn't out until four a.m. with his "friends," as he would phrase it. Whenever she tried to find out what he was doing in another life that she knew was being kept from her, he attacked her with words.

When he'd gone to France for six weeks last summer, he refused to let her go with him, and he'd come back . . . different. And wouldn't tell her about the trip. From the evening he'd returned from Europe, until the day last month that their separation papers came through, he hadn't touched her in any way. He had only found fault in everything she did. He was no longer the man he'd appeared to be the afternoon five years ago that he'd seduced her at a convention she'd been hired to photograph and at which he was a simultaneous translator.

That spring afternoon . . . the afternoon he'd charmed his way right into her panties the second day of the conference, during an hour-long break. Before she'd known it, they were in his room with a king bed and she was wearing nothing but a garter belt and seamed stockings from Linda's Love Lace, and Jean-Franco was binding her wrists to the corners of the bed with Pierre Cardin silk ties, and she wasn't resisting him. Then he'd spread her thighs and pressed his face into her. And she'd gasped as his forefingers peeled her outer lips and his tongue roamed all over her clitoris before probing as deep as it could go into her while she writhed and ground her hips into him. Faithe had long since put the hotel-room encounter out of her mind. Until now. Until Morgan Tremayne. Under the table, she pressed her thighs together. The black Lycra high-cut panties were damp and sticking to her.

"Gawd, why am I telling you this?" Faithe asked both Morgan and herself. "If you must know, I haven't had any in two fucking years. Because the last two years of my life have been hell. When a man goes from ripping your clothes off to constantly tearing you down, and doesn't want to have anything to do with you, including sex, it tends to leave a girl feeling kind of worthless. Christ, Morgan, I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know if I'll ever fall in love again. Maybe if I do, the next time it'll be with a woman. At least women understand each other's needs."

"I think I'd desire to watch you making love with another woman — perhaps bound together in a sixty-nine position," Morgan said. "If you desire me to let you do it."

He could see her sassy exterior slowly breaking away. Morgan brushed her lip with a forefinger and sat back in his chair. "There are some men who do understand a woman's needs," he said. "I understand your needs, and your desires. Perhaps even more than you do. Even though you haven't spoken of them yet. Two people understanding each other's needs and desires, this is the very essence of a fulfilling D/s relationship. What are you desires and needs, Faith? Receiving carnations every day? Quiet walks together in the evening as the sun sets? Walking around naked just because you desire to do so, or because you are told to do so? Cunnilingus? Being taken from behind? Being bound and ravaged by your lover? Coming on your lover's command? Taking him in your mouth?"

As he finished speaking, Morgan's mind focused on a mental image that made his cock instantly hard: Faithe stood before him, legs wide enough apart to expose her sex and allowing him to probe her with his fingers; and her full, round breasts swelling out of a black leather corset, nipples erect and chained with the endurance clamps and chain Belinda had worn because it was specifically designed for the purpose of stimulating the sexual senses and generating waves of erotic pain and pleasure. Her head was thrown back; her eyes closed; her breathing heavy.

"Take me master, I'm yours," Faithe jeered.

"Please don't mock me, Faithe," Morgan said. "I'm being sincere and I wish you would be truthful with both me, and yourself. I want to help you find yourself again, Faithe. In so many ways. I'm very attracted to you. I desire you, as I have already confessed. I believe we're kindred spirits. I hope you'll let me be your teacher, your guide, your Dominant. There's chemistry between us, Faithe — not to mention we seem to have more than a few interests in common. I'll be devoted to you, and to our relationship. I believe you'd be devoted to me. We found each other, Faithe, by chance. I'm choosing not to let you go — you're my salvation after two years of lifelessness. And I hope you'll accept me. And yourself. You must remain with me at the Shipwright's Inn. I'll allow you to continue your photography and perhaps open a studio; I'll train you to come on command — only on my command — so you can have the sexual release you haven't had in two years; you'll help me run the inn — I know you'll be a lively hostess when called upon; I'll reward you with breakfast in bed on Sunday if you've earned it that week; I'll protect you from harm. I think eventually, you'll be a different person, with a different outlook on your life. Maybe I'll be a different person, as well."

"I have to say again, I don't think I've ever met a man quite like you," Faithe said. "You're choosing not to let me go. And what of me? Do I have the choice of telling you to go fuck yourself? You're sitting there telling me you want me to be your sex slave at your beckon call."

Morgan laughed and took a sip from his mug. "I can see I'll have much to teach you, if you accept me as your Dominant. On the contrary, I'm merely asking you to recognize what you really want out of life, and choose your destiny. It would be entirely up to you."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Faithe? Pure, raw, sex alone, is no basis for any kind of devoted relationship, let alone ours that would be a lifestyle. We Tremaynes have always been men of honor. Never, ever has my father treated my mother as nothing more than an object to be used purely for his own sexual gratification. Yes, she committed to never speaking unless spoken to or opening her mouth at all unless it's to eat a meal or swallow his cum or cry out when he fingers her pussy until she comes. But he is entirely devoted to her in their total power exchange. He's always made sure she is looked after in every way, because that's his responsibility as her Dominant. Her cares for her deeply, and she for him," Morgan said.

"And they lived happily ever after," Faithe interjected snidely.

"As a matter of fact, they have," Morgan retorted. "For almost 30 years now. My mother was running her own very successful public relations consultancy when she met my father. They met when she was bidding on a proposal to represent Tremayne Corporation."

"Don't tell me — your father charmed her right into his four-poster bed with the shackles attached to each post."

She was being impertinent again. "No, Faithe. And please don't be impertinent about my family. He simply courted her awhile, and helped her recognize her true submissiveness."

"And that's what you're hoping I'm going to do."

"I believe you will, yes." He reached into his pocket for the velvet-covered box and flipped the lid open. "This collar is a symbol of devotion," Morgan said. "It has been worn by eighteenth-century debutantes; suffragettes; secretaries; prominent business women. For three hundred years, the submissives chosen by my ancestors have worn this collar with pride. I'm offering it to you."

Faithe sipped the last of her second latte and gazed at the chain heart lock collar. She felt uncomfortable, yet at ease in his presence, at the same time. She closed her eyes and tried to gather her thoughts, but her brain was racing as the confusing emotions swept through her.

"I can see you're wrestling with your emotions right now," Morgan said. "Yes, there will be sex and you'll learn how to present yourself; to come on my command or only when I permit you to; to never touch yourself sexually because that's reserved for me. But you'll also learn to discover your own true sexuality and your own limits, and what in life makes you truly happy. And to revel in life's simple pleasures together — like watching the hummingbirds in the garden in spring; the sunset over the harbor; sitting with me, naked, silent and still, doing absolutely nothing on a Sunday afternoon."

He would give her a day or two to think it over, he said, because he knew he was asking her to make a lifelong commitment to him and the decision must be hers. "Spend tomorrow shooting some seascapes," he said, "and the ocean air will clear your mind. And the ocean shores will make some magnificent photographs."

The sun was down and dusk was giving way to a chilly September night. Faithe gazed out the window. "It's getting late, Morgan. We should be going. I need to get some sleep if I'm going to get up early and photograph those seascapes when the light's just right."

They walked silently along the dark streets to the Shipwright's Inn. She was a full stride ahead of him the whole way, but he knew that she would eventually learn she must walk behind and slightly to the right of him when they were in public together.

"Goodnight, Morgan," she said, holding on to the banister. "It was . . . quite an evening."

"Goodnight, my Faithe. Sleep well. Think about all that we talked about. Begin your journey of self-discovery. The pleasures will be many, and intense. I'll expect your answer tomorrow evening, then. We'll dine here. I'll make you a calamari salad, accompanied by some fine Australian wine."

The following evening, the box was at the foot of the door to her second-floor room when Faithe trudged up the stairs at the end of a long day that had started at four so she could be up and out to catch the sunrise. Morgan had been right; the coastline was rugged and magnificent, and she'd captured some outstanding shots. The only thing was, it'd mean hours of sorting, and then editing the best ones after transferring the twelve-hundred images from the Canon's memory card to her MacBook Pro. She'd even given up some control of the camera and shot a few images in Auto Program mode. It would be interesting to see the results in those ones. Becoming a photographer was all she'd ever wanted to do. It was a creative outlet, but concentrating to make her compositions also really helped her keep her mind focused, and relax. Except today, nothing would quell the confusing thoughts and emotions racking her brain and body, and it had been hard to concentrate on her image composition.

Faithe unfolded the note slipped underneath the red ribbon wrapped around the box that said "Sonya's Fine Lingerie" in stylized silver lettering. Black is your color. Wear this. I'll look forward to seeing all of you at dinner, was all the note said. She lifted the lid.

The sheer black bodysuit with a thin neckstrap was crotchless, and also had openings that would completely reveal her breasts. I'm not wearing this, she was thinking when she heard a latch and Morgan appeared from a door at the end of the second-floor hallway, dressed in casual gray slacks and a pale green sport shirt that offset his complexion and early graying around the temples. He looked . . . attractive.

"I see you've received my second gift," Morgan said. "I do hope you like it and I know you'll look stunning in it."

"You expect me to wear this to dinner? I'll be half naked."

"Precisely."

"Morgan, please. You can't make me wear this. I already told you, I'm not interested in being your precious sex slave."

"Are you sure about that, Faithe? Honestly? I'll see you at dinner in 30 minutes," was all he said, and brushed past her, treading down the stairs and then she could hear sounds from the kitchen.

Her street clothes and underwear fell to the bathroom floor in a heap and the shower head spewed steam when the hot water started to jet out. Faithe stepped, hesitantly at first, into the tub and drew the curtain. She closed her eyes, and breathed deeply as the hot shower water soaked her hair and ran down her shoulders.

The rushing hot water ignited images: The naked, gagged and cuffed blonde staring into the camera in A Portrait of Sensual Slavery; Jean-Franco thrusting into her and her cries as her bound wrists pulled on the headboard in the hotel room; blurred images of last night's dream that had make her wake in a cold sweat with her hardened nipples sticking out a whole quarter inch. Her whole body quivered, and she went off balance, and had to lean against the cold tiles of the shower.

She lathered her body in slow, circular motions with her hands. When the flowing water had washed away the last suds clinging to her skin, Faithe squirted an extra palmfull of body wash into her hand and reached for the razor. When her entire lower body was completely lathered, Faithe moved the razor in long, slow, careful strokes until every inch of skin, from her ankles to her bikini line, was smoothe; then shed the stubble under her arms. She would be more naked, totally shaved. But was she ready to relinquish herself completely? As unbearable as life had been for the last two years with Jean-Franco, it was hers.

Her body trembled in both fear and anticipation as she climbed out of the shower and slowly, deliberately patted her skin dry with an over-size towel. Faithe took a deep breath again, and felt the quivering charge from her toes, to her pubis, to her areolas, to her earlobes. From the medicine cabinet, she grasped the twist-top tube and carefully applied a hint of Enticing Rose to her lips and pressed them together to work in the color. Then with trembling hands, she gently cupped one breast and then the other, and added a touch of color. With a forefinger, she massaged the Enticing Rose until the skin of her erect nipples and areolas glistened peach.

"You look stunning and so very desirable in your outfit and Enticing Rose," Morgan said as she joined him in the dining room. "Please, you may sit," he said. "I'm so very pleased you've joined me. I really do enjoy your company, my Faithe. I hope you don't mind me calling you that."

"No," she answered, "I don't. Because I am. Yours. I think."

Morgan looked into her eyes and reached across the table for her hand. "Are you mine, Faithe? Are you truly mine?"

Orange-pink sunlight from the setting evening sun bounced deep shadows on his face. "A pink sky at night is . . . a true submissive's delight," Faithe quipped.

Morgan laughed, and kissed her nipple. "You, my Faithe, are sassy and I will have to teach you talk to me more respectfully. You may even have to be gagged, at least for a while, I think. But you make me feel so alive."

"May I speak, at least sometimes?" Faithe asked. "I don't know that I could bear a vow of total silence."

"Yes, of course, my Faithe. While from this night on I'll expect your obedience at all times, you shan't be kept silent. I'll only gag you if become impertinent or disrespectful. This house has been quiet, empty and lonely for too long. I will enjoy our conversations as much as your body. In fact, I must have you right now, for I can't resist the sight of you in black. Please present yourself."

He allowed her to cry out at his every thrust from the rear. By her own admission, she hadn't orgasmed in two years and he felt that she deserved to this night, for in the morning her lifestyle training including orgasm denial would begin. He found his rhythm as she tightened her arched back and rocked her whole body to and fro in unison with the motion of his cock, and the sensation was intense for both of them. As their sexes moved in unison with each other, he spread her buttocks and gently massaged the outer surface of her rear opening with his thumb in steady circular motions.

Faithe crushed her face into the cushion he'd put under her head and quivered as the motions of his thumb unleashed new sensations for the first time. Morgan drove into her at a furious pace, and then slowed, then drove hard and deep again and again, taking her to the brink once, twice, three times. "Please my Master Morgan, let me come," her muffled lips said into the cushion. His sex slapped against her sopping pussy and he felt her muscles starting to contract around his cock and then he felt himself so very hard inside her and then he exclaimed, "Now it's time, my Faithe!" Their desires met head on in unison as her body convulsed and he drew on his inner strength and let his body control him, and felt the rush of his warm liquid filling her, and their voices echoed in the darkness as they cried out as one.

After he withdrew, and her orgasm had subsided, they held each other and lay with their legs intertwined. He stroked her sex-tousled hair gently, and spoke softly as he explained the collaring ceremony and how their life together would be, and that now that her decision was made, there would be no turning back for either of them. He felt her heart beating, and put his palm on her breast. "Are you happy to stay with me at the Shipwright's Inn, my Faithe? Truly happy?"