Robert and Sasha

"How's my kitten?" Robert takes off his suit jacket. Work day over.

Sasha stares blankly at her Gmail screen. She is sitting at the dining room table, where she goes when she feels antisocial.

Robert approaches, loosening his tie.

"Are you busy?"

She doesn't respond. Clicks on the top email, an ad from DKNY. Stares.

"Kitten, answer me." He bends to look at Sasha's face, gently pets the back of her head. "You ok?"

"I'm fine," she says. Acrimonious, anger in her voice, the tone of "leave me alone."

"Look at me," Robert asks, but she continues to stare at her laptop. Opens another email, a Russian Community announcement. Scrolls all the way down. Fixes her eyes on the signature of the Community President.

He sits next to her.

"Look at me," Robert repeats sternly. He takes her chin, turns her to face him, holds her head until she raises her eyes to meet his.

"Work?" Robert pauses. "Family?" He watches as tears well up in her eyes. "Something I did?" He waits patiently until she shakes her head "no."

"Good."

Slowly, emphasizing each word, he asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head "no" and looks away, out the window, through everything she sees. Again, Robert turns her face to his. Gently wipes her tears.

"Are you sure?"

She blinks, forcing more tears to chase each other as they stream and fall. "Yes," she whispers, nods.

"Bad mood," he says contemplatively, looking at her pretty, sad face. "I do think I know how to make you feel better, kitten." He kisses her wet cheek, inhales her scent, closes his eyes for a second or two.

"Are you ready?" he whispers in her ear and, when she does not respond, takes her hair and firmly grasps it in his fist. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

He stands up, forcing her to follow. Her gaze softens as she feels his clenched fist pulling her bunched up pony tail. He moves his chair back with his left hand, then sits down forcing her to kneel.

"There's my good girl."

With his left hand, he unbuttons and unzips his pants, takes out his cock and waits as they both watch it quickly rise and fill out. He squeezes his fist on her hair, forcing her to wince.

"Let's do some breathing exercises," he says as he pushes her face down. She feels the tip of his cock in the back of her mouth, expanding inward. He holds her down as he becomes more and more erect. Pulls her head up and off, tilts it back sharply, looks into her eyes.

"Take a deep breath, little girl," he says, and she does. As she inhales deeply the second time, he pushes her down and gently moves her head side to side until he slides into her throat. He pushes her down farther, farther, until his entire cock is in her mouth, filling her throat, as deep as it can go. He gives her head another jerk down. Deeper.

"Now relax, baby," he commands. "Count, if you have to." She looks up at him, tears in her eyes, but now it's his cock forcing them to well up, and it feels good.

He lets go of her hair and pets her head, admiring how beautiful she looks in this position, how sexy her obedience and silence, her tears.

As her body begins to convulse for air, he grabs her hair and pulls her up, just far and long enough for her to take a few breaths. He continues to facefuck her methodically, rhythmically, holding her down for as long as she can take it, pulsating his cock in and out of her throat, then pulling her up a split second before her body begins to fight. He holds her head down one last time and looks at her intently as he releases his cum down her throat. Holds her down until he's done, drained. Lets her go.

She swallows repeatedly and breathes fast, sniffling, recovering. She looks so young, so pretty to him. He kisses her cheek, holds her close.

"Let me know if you don't feel better," he says softly.

She looks at him and cannot help but smile.

* * *

"You didn't ask!" Protest in Sasha's voice.

"I expect you to tell me these things, and you know that," Robert says sharply. "You know that I need to know with whom you associate and how, because I want to -- I have to -- make sure you are safe."

"But you didn't ask!" Her Russian accent gets more pronounced when she becomes upset.

"Are you arguing with me?" He leans in toward her and advises, cold and factual: "You will stop that, and the sooner you do, the better for you."

She briskly stands up and walks away, heads for the door.

"Come back here," he says. She opens the door, stands in the entryway, hesitates. She is torn, uncertain whether to disobey, confused, struggling.

"Don't think. Do as I say."

She slowly walks back towards him, and he lights a cigarette. She sits across from him and looks down at her hands.

"What else should I know about last night?'" Robert asks. Adds, after a second, "Now is the time."

There is a long silence as she fidgets, feeling the smoothness of her nails with her fingertips.

He takes her hand, kisses the palm, rubs it gently. "Kitten," he says softly, "I suspect... no, I already know what you did. But before I punish you, I need to hear it from you. I want you to practice telling me things that are important for me to know. And please, do not make me repeat myself too much."

He squeezes her hand, giving her courage, taking away her choice.

"Now, kitten."

Looking down, "Sam is my best friend," Sasha speaks quietly, but she knows that is irrelevant, she knows that she now has to disclose the heart of the matter, the misbehavior in violation of the rules. "And with Sam, when she did it, I also did..." Her voice breaks, and she forces out the words "...some coke..." She looks at him pleadingly. "Just a little. Just with Sam."

Robert nods, but she is unsure what that means. He smokes.

"Remind me," he says after a long silence, "What is the difference, to me, between lying and not telling the entire truth?"

She looks at him with fear, but feels increasingly calm. Almost as a whisper, she answers, "None."

"And, if one is not told the entire truth, he is being...?"

She hates being his Socratic student in moments like these, when she would give anything for the right to remain silent. "Being misled," she whispers.

"So when I asked you what happened at Sam's, and you said 'nothing of note...'" he puts out his cigarette and stands up. He walks to Sasha, lifts her face, looks into her eyes.

She looks up, and he reads her imploring him, "please, please don't be angry." Tears slowly make their way down to his hand.

Very slowly, he repeats, "When you said 'nothing of note'...?"

She feels the proximity of his retribution and, surrendering finally and completely to his judgment and will, says clearly, "I misled you."

He looks at her with profound affection that promises kindness despite her misbehavior.

"I love you, you know that," he says. He releases her chin but she knows, instinctively and with absolute certainly, that she may not move. He strikes her across her face with force and precision, and she remains perfectly still except her head sharply turns on impact, and she closes her eyes with an involuntary, momentary whimper.

For a few minutes, Robert strokes her face and hair. They breathe deeply, in unison. She rubs her cheek against his hand, feels the relaxing magic of his forgiving touch, and silently cries in relief and gratitude.

* * *

He is silent, waiting until she recovers, stops crying, until she looks up, her face glistening and flushed. He kisses her cheek, keeps his lips on her warm skin for a few moments.

"Let's get the rest over with so we can watch a movie I got for us, ok kitten? But first we do need to discuss some issues."

Sometimes he calls what he administers in times like this "a discussion."

She nods. He looks at her, a micro-frown that she registers instantly. "Yes, Robert. Yes, Sir," she says quickly.

"You know the drill. Today probably will be a seven or an eight. You gave me a bit of grief, didn't you. I probably will fuck you, too. If I don't, expect that later tonight, and expect it rough."

"Yes, Robert." She looks down, escaping his penetrating look. "Yes, Sir."

He motions and she stands up, walks across the room, enters his office.

Yes, the drill. First, pick. She knows he has a slight preference for the belt, elegant and simple, out of his extensive arsenal. She opens the closet and takes the one that hurts the most. "He will know that I regret my behavior." She looks at it reverently, runs her fingers across the buckle, and sets it on his desk.

Second, prepare. She takes out a sheet from the closet and lays it across the couch, makes it fit perfectly, no wrinkles, the lines straight. She removes all of her clothes and takes out her hair tie. Removes her necklace and bracelet. No accessories, no foreign objects, nothing extraneous. Her body, on its own.

She takes from the closet a small pillow, affectionately fluffs it and puts in on the couch. Her best friend in this room, her comfort, her blanky.

Third. Relax.

She lies down on her stomach, puts her hands under her pillow, and turns her head towards the door. She can see the whole room, so familiar, the legs of the desk where she knows every curve, the landscape paintings that have taken her on multiple journeys, the library wall where she moved her gaze from book to book, shelf to shelf, with each lash. She takes a sharp breath and her eyes slightly widen, "Did he say eight?" Her average punishment is a four or a five, out of ten, five being severe, ten being inconceivable.

He walks in, scans the room. Everything in here he owns and controls, knows inside and out. His beautiful, vulnerable girl like some Renaissance artifact.

He picks up the belt from the desk and approaches. He kneels by Sasha's face, tilts his head to align with hers, rests his hand on her hair. "Baby kitten. I've mentioned this paradox before, but I'll remind you because it's important. I love beating you. It's always good for you. But I prefer beating you without your misbehaving. I prefer that it be... medicinal, and... preventative." He stands up. "Alas, you must be taught lessons, and taught them frequently."

He tightens his grip around the ends of the folded belt as Sasha buries her face in her pillow.

* * *

The pillowcase feels nice on her face, cool and familiar. She puts her hands under the pillow and turns her palms up. "It will be just like meditating," she thinks and smiles at her own silliness. She takes deep breaths, visualizing Shavasana from earlier in the day. "Just breathe," she tells herself at a slow exhale. Everything else perfectly silent, Sasha hears his grip clasp the belt, her smile disappears, and she closes her eyes.

Sasha loses count of the hits quickly, which is a problem if Robert asks, but he doesn't always. Her pillowcase becomes hot and wet. She turns her head away from him, hiding against the couch, and, with the next hit, muffles her moan against the fabric. A particularly hard hit follows and she cries out, and this time even pressing her face as hard as she can into the couch does not help or distract.

"Face me." She knows he doesn't like it when she hides from him, at any time, in any way.

Something child-like and impetuous inside her involuntarily rises and she bites her lower lip. If she turns her head, he will see that she is not taking it with complete acceptance. He will pick up on an objection, and, with absolute certainty it will not end well for her.

If she turns, she will not be able to hide the little girl "unfair!" contrarian accusation and fire in her eyes.

She receives another belt hit, it's more forceful and a little angry. She does not utter a sound as she bites her lip through to the blood. But she turns her head to face him, and she looks straight at him.

Robert looks down at her and no, indeed she cannot hide it. He reads "unfair!" loud and clear, and unless she can explain herself and do so well, she will not be able to attend her morning yoga because she will have to stay in bed and recover for half the day.

Robert puts the belt down, walks behind his desk, sits down, and lights a cigarette. He will hear her out.

"Sit up," he motions.

She does, repressing moans and outcries with all her will as emphasis of her now overt opposition.

He is gentle and inquisitive.

Patiently, "Now the last time I saw this look, you announced to me that 'the punishment does not fit the crime.' Then, you were beaten much harder than if you hadn't said that. Then, I explained to you why you were beaten much harder, and you seemed to understand. Kitten. Are we back at that point right now?" Ernest curiosity, even concern.

He waits for her to speak.

"It's not fair," she says despite knowing she should not, and so it begins, and she can no longer help herself.

"No?"

She speaks quickly through tears that she tries hard to suppress. "This has been at least a six, probably a seven, and I know you said maybe eight, but... For the little bit of coke I did with Sam, I did, like, a line!" Her voice rises without her control.

Robert leans back in the chair, looks at the ceiling, and blows a ring of smoke.

"Go on."

"Seven, all because I did one line!"

He blows another ring, slower, larger.

"Go on."

She ignores her clear intuition to stay silent.

"The time I let Omer hold my hand, I was whipped less than half this much! Now it's just, like one line!"

Robert utters a barely audible laugh. She expects displeasure, but he seems softened, amused.

"I proved my point, I convinced him," she is elated. She feels accomplishment, relief... pride. Because he is fair!

Robert shakes his head ever so slightly, inhales slowly, tilts his head in assessment, and shivers run down her spine.

"For your sake, we'll stop you here." He puts out the cigarette. And next all she knows is his hand in her hair, with lightning speed throwing her down to the floor.

"First. 'It's not fair' is the same as 'punishment doesn't fit the crime,' baby kitten. If I have to punish you for two identical things, the second time must be brutal. Naturally." Slight, ever so slight, anger in his caring voice.

She looks up at him in disbelief at her own misstep, then looks away as quickly as she can: in his eyes the verdict is in, not in her favor. She fixates her gaze on the gilded frame of a portrait on the wall. This has turned bad for her, fast.

"Second."

"Did you do one line, or 'like' a line, kitten, because you said both things."

"I know if I ask you how many, it's more than one line."

Disappointment and sadness join his anger. She will never lie to him again, they both know it.

"Did you forget you are already being punished for misleading? And now you are misleading about the number of lines, was it one or, like, one or two." He pauses. "Irrelevant, also. And if I have to punish you for two identical things, the second time must be brutal. You understand."

"And lastly, you are saying I didn't punish you nearly enough when you let Omer hold your hand. I did not know you felt that way." He smiles and nods.

The moan of complete entrapment escapes her lips.

Somewhat dreamily yet with resolution, he continues, "That mouth has a much better use than speaking, at this time." He reaches down and grabs her by the throat.

* * *

The pillow has cooled off, but it is still damp when she lays down on her stomach and turns her head facing his office. His cum coats her mouth and throat, her lips are sore, and she is still vibrating from the merciless, prolonged facefucking. She receives the rest of her beating until the level is, indeed, an 8 without a doubt, and without objection.

* * *

The middle of the night, she sleeps deeply in the comfort of their bed, turned on her side where it hurts the least. She has put on panties and a tshirt, the softest ones she has.

He walks in and stands over her, admiring his little good girl. She took the second half like a champ, full acceptance, fully present. He undresses and slips under the covers behind her, inhales the subtle lavender scent of her hair, gently traces her neck, shoulder, and arm with his fingers. Her little waist, tshirt all bunched up under her perfect breast.

He slowly pulls down her panties just enough to expose her to him, touches her pussy lips. He knows he can enter her with no delay, wet or dry, and her pussy will begin to drip for him instantly. But her soft lips are fun to fondle, so he continues for a minute or two.

She awakens from the feeling of her pussy lips being spread wide open by his two hands. She knows at this point, she better not move or make a sound, because he had warned her to expect him, expect this, which means in silence. He knows by her breathing that she is awake.

He enters her, holding her lips spread wide with his two sets of fingers, then moves his hands onto her shoulders to push her firmly down on his cock. She knows that because he came recently, this will take a while. She bites her lip and the sharp pain reminds her of how she had bit it through, in protest, and she repeatedly shivers from the recent memory of trial. "Mmm," he feels her pussy clasp him tighter.

After a while, he pushes her flat on her stomach and sits up, towering over her. He presses her into the bed with both his hands on her back and he thrusts hard, fast, and for what seems like hour after hour. It feels to her like every punitive fucking is somehow harder, deeper, more harsh, taking a longer time than the last. A few moans of pain escape her but he grabs her arms and gives her a shake "shut the fuck up." He wants her in silence, so he enjoys himself in peace, and so she fully focuses on the lesson.

* * *

Robert holds open for her the door to their suite. She walks in briskly, her silk evening dress swooshing turquoise behind her. He hangs the "Ne pas déranger" sign outside, then shuts the door.

She knows she must wait for him to begin speaking. She knows she must wait as long as it pleases him to wait before starting. She walks to the bar and mixes a White Russian. She thinks if she becomes a little more drunk, or a lot more drunk, things will go smoother.

A couple of times, it appears to her that he is about to begin speaking, but he does not. This silence begins to frighten her. "Sir," she says but no sound comes out. She knows better than to engage him before he wants to speak with her. She lowers her eyes and finishes her cocktail. Walks to the bottles, mixes another. He joins her at the bar and opens a bottle of CÎROC. She looks up at him while he is next to her, hoping to feel some affection from him, any warmth, anything, any indication of his feelings or intent. But, as if she is not there, he pours his drink and walks away. Sits in an armchair and looks out the window, admiring the nighttime Eiffel Tower.

She follows his gaze and her mind escapes into the cool night. The grace, the beauty. Yet she cannot escape completely, she knows she will be dealt with soon, a heavy sigh escapes her preoccupied, pretty face, and her mind jumps to the beginning of the night.

"Sasha, meet my associate Omer. Omer, Sasha."

"Pleasure to meet you, Sasha."

As the two excuse themselves and walk towards the bar, Omer nudges Robert: "Wow, she is striking, and just how young is she?"

She overhears this, and Robert turns slightly to meet her eyes. How could she have missed the "Careful," warning of his look.

Her gaze leaves the Eiffel Tower and she realizes that Robert is looking at her, directly, with calm intensity. Momentarily locking eyes with his, she looks away and takes a long drink of her cocktail. It's empty now.

She moves in the direction of the bar, but he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. She looks at him pleadingly.

"It will not help you," he says. "May make it worse, if anything interferes with your listening or paying attention."