Learning to Fly Pt. 02

**
Just a clarification: King and Dove met when they were youngsters and, yes, there is a decade that separates them. But I must underscore that there is ABSOLUTELY NO UNDERAGE SEX IN THIS STORY. The passsages describing Dove as a minor merely underscore the fact that their friendship--and yes, there are relationships and marriages that have their seeds in long-term family friendships that mature into something more--began when our protagonists were young. That said, both characters are DEFINITELY in their majority when the sex between them happens.

(Part 2 of Learning to Fly continues the tale of a young woman's awakening as a submissive, told in the voice of King, her first love and Dom.)

Taking Dove

The picture is two decades old. It is in black and white. Dove was 19 then; by the morrow she would turn 20.

The sun's early morning rays slip through half-open blinds. On the huge bed, Dove's body is taut, her arms forced high, bound by silk ropes to post rings. Her breasts jut up, perfect cones. Her nipples are hard, surrounded by shadows of the bruises made by my hands and teeth.

Her legs are spread, her torso arched inches from the face of a woman. Fingers pierce her cunt. The camera has captured her scream – and her spray. Her eyes plead. Wild fire pierces through a blanket of tears. With Dove, shame and ecstasy were often one and the same.

She was insatiable. And she hated that.

She was too young. I should have known better. Chemistry is a poor excuse for seducing a girl barely out of childhood. Had I waited, she could have come to me more formed and empowered. Instead, she had to burn me to find her freedom.

But those two short years were days and nights of rapture or, following periods of separation, the desperate rutting of animals.

** Coming Home

I'd been away for four years. I left when she was 13. The tiny tomboy called me "kuya", older brother in our language. There was a ten-year gap in our ages. I was long-haired then. She sported a short mop of deep brown hair and a golden tan with red undertones.

Dove and my younger brother, Roman, were buddies. Since I left our hometown, phone chats were our only contact. She squealed out demands over the intercontinental static -- swimsuits, rare blues records, vintage posters.

Without mothers, Dove and Roman grew wild. Our widower fathers tried their best but their children were natural guerrillas, pausing only to recover and plot their next act of mayhem.

The brats liked updating me about their new adventures. They shared latters. She wrote; he took the photographs.

A photo of Dove leaping down a waterfall snapped my patience. They'd bribed a truck driver to take them to this remote site, 150 km from our homes.

I made a phone call and our fathers grounded them for a month.

The rascals accused me of "betrayal". This was in 1980. No Internet was available to ease their confinement so they spent their time writing angry screeds or drawing me as the devil in all his forms. It stopped only when I threatened to stop sending their Stateside goodies.

Over those four years Dove hadn't seemed to grow at all, except in the chest area. Always slim, she mostly wore shorts and t-shirts.

Then one day, I got photos from her prom: Straight shoulders and a long, delicate neck above a bustier and a ballerina skirt. Roman was her date, of course. They both looked elegant but spoiled the effect by affecting martial arts poses.

One picture punched me in the guts. Dove leaned back against the balcony rail, her arms spread out. The lighting cast shadows across her face and shoulders. Her top was cut really low; tight and breasts rose from a deep cleavage. A lopsided smile displayed her right dimples. Roman had scrawled at the back, "Eat your heart out, bro!"

I asked him if a romance was budding. He laughed. Soon after, he started taking an interest in alternative religions. And I came home to trouble.

Roman had joined a religious group. He started going around in hand-woven robes and sandals. Dove stormed and bitched and pined. But she soon tired of trailing after a would-be monk. When Roman announced he was leaving for Sri Lanka, she blew him a kiss and demanded he send her cotton cloth.

When you're 17-going-on-18 a ten-year age difference is huge. I may have been the idol of her pre-teen days but the day I stepped in for my brother Roman, Dove was very pissed.

Our fathers were great pals and very busy men. Dove was an only child. Her Nanny couldn't keep up with her. My brother and I had been her surrogate minders. And when I came home, there was just me.

Dove lost her temper. She stormed, that at almost 18, and didn't need a nursemaid.

She threw manners to the wind. "He's old," she accused, pointing at me. She claimed I'd scare off her friends.

Our fathers cooed and coaxed. They promised to bring back souvenirs and anything she wanted. I ignored the theatrics and ticked off the things we could do during breaks from work.

Her jaw dropped at "work".

Unlike our father, hers never thought of his princess learning life trades. I had my own business, which took me out of town to some quaint places. She was unmoved. I dangled a book allowance. The brat simmered down at the bribe.

Dove turned out to be a good comrade. She was kept pace with every physical and intellectual assignment. She did give my women friends the runaround but that was part of her job as general factotum. There was nothing romantic between us. I didn't want to make a mess in my backyard. At 17, she was jailbait and too young to be introduced to my lifestyle.

I was already an experienced Dom. I learned the ropes from the wife of the president of the local chamber of commerce. She introduced me to the pleasures of domination when she visited New York City on my university freshman year. She was just playing – the lash, the belt, nipple clamps. Mostly, she was an exhibitionist who liked being told to take two men at the same time.

I soon tired of her. But in the club I met Mindy, ten years my senior, a Domme, and her sub, Mary. Mindy had a mantra: Every Dom should know how it is to be a sub. Or, at least, know how it is to be on the receiving end of Domination.

Both women were bisexual. It was an arrangement that pleased everyone until they relocated to the wilds of Midwestern America. I raised my skill level with a series of other subs, most of them older women. Then I went home to my Asian country.

Dove and I had seven months to grow closer. After protesting my zero-tolerance for underage drinking, she kept to the narrow on the nights my jazz band smuggled her to watch our shows.

She always wore jeans and white floating blouses with deep necklines. Her sultry voice and her sensual movements gained a steady following. But nobody dared approached with me around. I'd already grabbed the shirt of some Lothario, hissing he had one foot in jail.

**

The platonic warmth slid into a sexual blaze the day after her 18th birthday.

Maybe it was the day. Maybe it was the air. Maybe, I was just a bastard taking advantage of a sheltered girl. Within a week, she was screaming in my bed.

Indigo shorts barely covered her bum cheeks. Tanned legs ended in ankles I could encircle with a hand. Dove was on her belly, head on her arms. She sang along to "Black Coffee". Her legs were raised, flipping in time to the slow blues beat. Her hips rolled to the music. At "blaaaaack", she pressed breast and loins to the grass.

Two hours later, we were at my farm and I was kissing her for the first time.

She was pliant, offering her lips and body to my touch. But she zigged and zagged from bratty to ultra shy. I saw emotions rush across her face. I knew she felt vulnerable. I feasted on that.

Before that day, I wouldn't have believed it of this pampered, assertive daredevil. With physical contact, I knew: A natural sub: the best kind, feisty on the outside.

I kept on turning her face up, turned on by the mixture of fear and a desire to give in to my demands. But we were in the open. And I wanted to savor the experience. I wanted it to simmer. I wanted her frustrated and wanting. I wanted her to beg.

Later that day, in her home's huge library, I pressed harder. I sat her on my lap. I tested her limits. My thumb traced her lips. I slowly pushed it in and stroked her tongue.

I saw panic in Dove's eyes but she opened up with a moan and suckled. She pressed down harder, with shallow breaths, as my other hand trailed down to the deep V of her dress. I slipped my hand in and softly rubbed nipples barely covered by a lace demi-bra.

Dove broke off first. She was gulping air in, almost hyperventilating.

"It's okay, it's okay," I comforted her. "You have some growing up to do."

But we knew a line had been crossed. While no words of love were spoken, we were no longer just friends. That day, Dove dropped the "kuya".

I dialed down tension and slid Dove off my lap, teasing that she'd miss her afternoon jazz lessons. I also had to get back to landscaping duties.

As the chauffeur drove off, I spied Dove's dad frowning at the window. He'd seen the kiss. Later, I learned he'd called up Dove's grandmother, fretting his daughter was too young. There was no question about my eligibility. We moved in the same circles, though I had other secret ones he didn't know about.

Dove's Nana told her son not to come down heavy. The forbidden is more enticing, she warned. She had more reason to be nervous. She knew but kept mum about how her women friends tittered over my exploits.

When she sat me down for a talk, she mentioned my insistence at protection. I raised a brow but said nothing. It wasn't a question. Nan was wary but accommodating. She died before Dove walked away.

It was after dinner when I phoned Dove.

"What are you doing, Babe?"

"Taking a bath," she blurted out. I choked on coffee. She sputtered apologies.

My cock swelled. I tried not to imagine Dove in that moment.

I cleared my throat.

"How are you?"

"I'm okay." The whisper was shaky. Dove never did shaky.

"Scared, baby?"

Dove mumbled, yes. I asked if she wanted to slow it down. She said it was up to me.

I sighed. It would be a balancing act, coaxing out the wanton without scaring the tomboy away. I veered to more normal topics, keeping the conversation light. After ten minutes, I ordered Dove out of the cooling water, telling her to call when she was getting ready for sleep.

Her husky voice came on the line an hour later. I tried to ignore the sexual tension. But after 10 minutes of talking about nothing, desire flared.

"I want to be with you, watch you sleep."

Dove gasped. I pushed. "Would you like that?"

"Yes, King," she confessed.

"But you drove me batty today!" she wailed.

I ordered her to repeat it. I made her do it several times. I couldn't get enough. Her husky tones grew more pronounced each time she repeated the statement. The last ended with a soft sob. And then I said goodnight.

I called her then next morning.

She was sleepy, still in bed.

I told her my schedule for the day. A friend was celebrating his first child's baptism. It would be like a high school class reunion.

Dove was silent for a long time. I thought the line had been cut, always a possibility where we lived.

"Babe?"

"Um, are you asking for my permission?"

I said yes. The silence lengthened.

I frowned at an old photo of Dove catapulting above a balance beam. I hadn't thought her the jealous type. We'd often exchanged notes about women who attracted me.

"You don't want me to go?"

"What?!" Dove's voice was the closest to a shriek an alto could get. "Why would I stop you?!"

I was floundering. We were on different wavelengths.

I asked what was bothering her.

Dove made a false start then raised a question in the most tentative manner I'd heard from her.

"Do I have to get your permission for everything I do also?"

I chuckled, trying not to show expose relief.

"No, Babe. You're under your Dad's care. You go to him for permission."

"But I'd appreciate being informed so I don't search high and low for you."

That made her laugh. Two weeks back I had to scour neighboring parks when Dove failed to appear for dinner. For days my friends called me the Kindergarten Cop. I'd found her playing tag with some bedraggled kids.

During the party, I went to find a phone. I needed to hear Dove's voice. I told her that. In response she whispered my name.

After lunch I slept off the effects of alcohol. I gardened for an hour, then showered and got into cut offs.

I arrived at Dove's house at dusk. Her dad was away.

Dove raced into my arms. We kissed. At her moan, I slid my tongue into her mouth. This time she needed no prodding. Her tongue met mine. My cock surged as she laved at my gums.

I cupped her breasts. "Miss me?"

It was almost a hiss. She wasn't wearing a bra.

Dove pressed against my hands. I tightened my hold, my thumbs and forefingers gently squeezing her nipples. She moaned my name.

I drew back to repeat the question. She nodded.

When I bent down to her lips again, they were open and ready. As the kiss deepened, my hands clasped her butt. Dove rose on her toes to squirm closer.

We were in full view of the street so I led Dove to a shaded, quiet grotto at the back of her Dad's home office. The breeze gently swirled around the scent of jasmine, that lady of the night.

I sat on a low, long stone platform and tugged her close. A dim pin light glowed down on Dove's face.

I pondered my dilemma. What was I supposed to do when Dove seemed determined to let me set the pace?

Many teenagers have sex. I knew Dove, at 18, was a virgin. And I very definitely knew her father would hold me responsible if I upended her life.

I kissed Dove's forehead and told her we needed to talk.

Dove frowned.

"Why are you suddenly acting like an uncle?"

I hugged her for reassurance.

"Dove, you're only 18..."

She cut me short, her jutting chin announcing rising temper.

"Are you changing your mind?"

She tried to get up. I held tight. I'd seen her stalk off before and didn't want that to happen now.

"No, Babe. But I also have to be responsible. I'm 28, you're ..."

She jumped in again.

"Don't worry. I know everything."

My jaw dropped.

"What do you mean you know EVERYTHING?"

I felt a muscle twitch in my cheek. I saw Dove try to take a step back. I wanted to kick myself for scaring her, but god help the boy who...

I reined in the green monster. Made an effort to modulate my voice.

"Just what is everything?"

Dove spread her arms, clearly exasperated.

"Sex, King! I'm not dumb."

The last sentence came with a toss of her head.

I leaned against the wall and studied her.

"You've had sex?"

Dove shook her head.

"So what's this about knowing EVERYTHING?"

"I read, don't I?" Dove challenged.

I nodded for her to go on.

"I got it today from a pile in the library."

Dove had this self-congratulatory grin. I imagined Penthouse or, heaven forbid, Hustler. I waited.

"The Happy Hooker!" Dove said.

I gaped at her.

"Also, Stella's Diaries!"

I silently cursed whichever elder of hers in the household was careless enough to leave those books around Dove.

"Have you read it?"

Dove's smile faltered. Four chapters of the Happy Hooker, she said, including the part about being taken against the wall.

This was clearly just all bravura. She was 4'11" to my 6". If I fucked up she could run to some callow youth who could hurt her or, worse, ruin her reputation.

"Happy Hooker isn't the best education material around," I told her, trying for an air of levity. I wondered if she'd started on Stella yet.

Dove knew this was serious talk. She imitated my pose on the other end of the platform and eyed me to gauge the mood.

Then, like talking to a grade school laggard, she explained that hookers lived to please and that's what she was interested in.

I wanted to hoist her over my shoulder.

"Glad to hear that."

"But what about your pleasure?"

The look Dove gave said she'd just slashed 70 points off my IQ.

"Pleasing you makes me happy," she said with the frankness of the innocent.

She blushed but forged on: "Besides I like everything you do to me."

I wanted to throw her to the ground and just start humping. I tried to keep my breath even.

"Everything I've done so far," I pointed out. "What about what I may do?"

It was time to jolt her a bit. Frisky pups could get into big trouble.

She couldn't be moved.

"How will I know what I want and don't want if I stop now?"

She leaned close and began tracing my lips with a finger.

I lost it. I scooped her up, crushed her lips, nipped at her neck, her earlobes, her jaw. She grabbed my head and brought me back to her mouth. I drank so long, so thoroughly. It left us trembling, out of breath.

I stopped when she drew my hands to her breasts. She gave a sound of protest but I held her shoulders immobile.

She glared at me. I had to shake her a bit.

"I don't want to stop!"

I raised one hand and almost tore at my hair. "I want to slow it down a bit, give you a little time."

"And you must promise to say, 'No' when you feel like it. I'll take it very seriously."

"No."

"No, what?"

"I won't say, No."

I rose to my full height.

"You cocky little twit. You don't even know what I'll ask of you!"

Dove froze, shocked and hurt by my tone. Then her face flushed and she pushed back.

"Don't fucking treat me like a child!"

"Then don't act like one!"

I cursed and stalked off to regain some calm.

Our first big spat. Over sex. And we hadn't quite done it yet.

I turned back and found Dove fighting tears. Not good. Dove got even angrier when she cried.

I hugged her from behind.

"I'm sorry, Baby, but you don't understand how dangerous it can be."

She stayed silent for several minutes. Slowly, she relaxed. Equally slowly, she disengaged, turning to face me, determined to be an equal.

"May I talk?"

I nodded, keeping my hands still. Dove would not welcome any gesture that remotely looked patronizing.

"King, I know it's dangerous. That's why I haven't slept with anyone yet."

A hand pushed hair off her forehead.

"I know what I want. It's not a boy, not a jock, not some silly, mindless kid."

I bit back a smile.

"I want a man. Not just any man. Or I'd just as soon drape myself on the mall railings."

Her impish smile broke out.

"There are very few men I respect. Most of them are relatives or friends of relatives."

My gut started churning.

"I respect you. I trust you."

I braced for the blow.

"And yes, I know you've been around because your women just have to share."

She sniffed.

"They told YOU?!"

She shrugged.

"They talk in groups and they're hard to ignore."

I was silent, waiting her next move. I did not help her. She bit her lower lip, looked at fingers twisting against each other.

Dove cleared her throat. She smoothed her skirt. But she eventually raised her gaze back to me.

"It's not those stories that make me want you. But I thought it was stupid to pine for someone so much older."

I winced.

"You always had my full attention, Babe."

My brow rose again.

"I thought you liked Roman?" She'd wailed enough over him.

She shook her head. "Who wants a monk?"

I laughed. And then sobered up.

"I have never felt like a baby-sitter," I pointed out.

Dove gave a snort.

Okay, maybe sometimes I did feel that way. Not anymore.

She reached out and held my arms.

"But why are you fending me off?"

The little thing tried to shake me.

"King, I'm not going to rape you, just telling you I trust you enough to be in control."

The world froze. For a very long moment, the only thing I saw were almond eyes.