The Savant

I'm a switch. I've known that since before I even knew there was a term for such things. Marc's a submissive. He's known that since he watched me fuck another man back in '99.

It was that 'other' man, my Master and Dominant, who helped parlay my confusion as a young woman struggling to comprehend her sexuality. I met him before Marc. He was older, much older than my youthful, naive nineteen years. One might even argue that he rather adeptly groomed me, though if he did I was the consummate student - willing, keen to learn and doting on his every lesson.

He taught me that I needn't be ashamed by the extraordinary arousal I felt whenever he spanked my cunt, and that it was perfectly normal to get so turned on when he reminded me that I was his fucktoy - just holes for use and a good pair of tits.

'A human being ought to be diverse.' He explained, 'Like you, for example - you can be the strong, empowered woman you seek to be out in the world, and whatever you crave in your personal life too. It's an and-and world. Don't let any fucking cunt tell you otherwise.' - He wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, but that only made his occasionally on point observations that much more profound, particularly to a teenage girl.

He was, however, a savant, sexually speaking, and he was the first man to make me cum. Put bluntly, he had a deviantly creative mind, a huge fucking cock and he knew what to do with it. And big hands.

I went to him even as other relationships with boys my own age began, were endured, and then collapsed. Therein lay the crux of my confusion, for with my peers I wanted to dominate and to rule. I wouldn't succumb to their wishes that I be the dutiful wallflower girlfriend who ought to shed her attitude and bolshie ways. I thought I was broken for not fitting their ideal.

Until I met Marc.

I didn't tell Marc about my Master, the savant. At first. Marc was the one who I would take as my life partner. I knew it from the first time we stepped out. He was the epitome of a gentleman - kind, thoughtful, masculine, physically muscular and impeccably charming. He was also intriguingly sensitive and tentatively willing to submit, albeit nervously, as the latter had lain dormant in his subconscious until I extracted it with all the bludgeoning haplessness of a young rookie Domina.

Marc was also a good fuck and a thoughtful lover. I taught him how to eat my pussy and gradually incorporated a greater sub/Dom tangent to our twenty four seven. I built a loving, nurturing environment around him. I encouraged him to suckle as I held him when he woke and before he fell to sleep at night. I held him tight, cuddled him, praised him and guided him - all the things his childhood had never provided. I constantly reminded him that he was my baby, and my beautiful, sensitive soul. I repaired his damaged psyche, and he thrived in the safe, loving world I built for him. We both did.

We'd been living together for three months when I mentioned the savant.

'He's an old friend of mine.' I explained, 'A close friend. He's kind of a mentor, crazy as that sounds. I'd love for you to meet him.'

The savant came round for dinner. My suggestion. The two men sat at our quaint little breakfast bar talking about rugby while I made spag bol in a state of euphoric bliss. Proper little housewife and all that.

I'd reigned in Marc's drinking after we met. He needed a firm, guiding hand, mine, in all things. He must have thought it was Christmas when I temporarily lifted the booze ban and encouraged him to crack open another can of Guinness.

'It's only your fifth pint sweetheart, and we're enjoying ourselves.' I declared reassuringly before tugging on the ring pull and pouring the silky dark liquid into his glass.

One might say I was grooming him, though he responded with a gleeful, scholarly dedication befitting a truly aspirational submissive.

I won't pretend that I hadn't planned everything with keen precision, from the choice of my floral summer dress, with its brazen décolleté offering an unladylike spectacle of my braless bosom, to going sans knickers so both men could witness more than just the tops of my stockings when I bent over to extract something from the fridge.

It was a test. For us all - but mostly for Marc.

'You looked fucking gorgeous tonight.' He eulogised, crashing on our bed with his eyes fixedly watching me as I undressed by the wardrobe.

'In this old thing? I replied, looking back over my shoulder with faux surprise, 'Thanks sweetie'.

'It turned me on that he was looking at you.' Marc mumbled. I could feel his eyes glancing away, even as I stepped out of my dress and let it fall to my ankles. And he never mumbled. Educated men are taught to speak clearly and authoritatively and always whilst making eye contact. Yet my charismatic boyfriend was suddenly staring up at the paint flecked ceiling whilst blushing like a pubescent nerd upon declaring his love to a first crush.

'I didn't notice him looking. You sure you didn't imagine it?' I teased, peering back at my would-be sub through my dressing table mirror as I eased a stocking down my thigh.

'He could barely take his eyes off you.' Marc scoffed, with his own gaze suddenly returning to its original focus.

'Really?'

'Uh huh.'

'Come to think of it, I suppose I did catch him looking down the front of my dress as we chatted. It's just that I'm used to it with him.' I offered, dipping my head to one side and ousting my earrings, 'And he's seen it all before. Maybe he just fancied reacquainting himself.'

Had I really just fucking said that? Aloud?

There was a beautifully uncomfortable, seemingly endless pregnant pause. I catwalk flounced to the bed, stark naked, and stood over Marc's figure as he lay prone and vaguely drunk across the duvet.

Haunted Dancehall by the Sabres of Paradise oozed from the bedside hi-fi. It's funny how those little details never leave you - of how the moody melody swooned around me as I waited for some kind of response, any kind of response from the boy I loved more than words could describe. But none came. He wasn't angry. That much was obvious. His eyes spoke of a discomfited confusion, suddenly flummoxed, lost for words, and floundering.

Boobs. Give him boobs.

'It was before us...' I elucidated, delicately running a reassuring hand through my boyfriend's foppish dark curls as I coaxed him to the edge of the bed and pressed his lips to my bosom, 'I probably should have told you...'

Marc whinnied appreciably and latched on.

'Do you like knowing that he's had me? It's okay to admit it.' I offered softly, holding my baby close, 'There's no shame in it.'

No shame, but definitely mighty erections.

I had Marc eat my cunt shortly afterwards - while I orgasmed to thoughts of the savant treating me like a worthless piece of fuckmeat. It had been so long, too long since I'd succumbed to the roughhouse touch of my deviant Dom. I knew Marc could never offer me that particular strain of release and I'd developed a craving for it - but the boy didn't have a violent bone in his body. It was one of the many things I loved about him.

A few days passed before the subject was mentioned again. I'd sown the seeds and left it up to Marc to pursue it further. We were getting stoned (to LoopGuru, for those who want the music reference) when he finally found the courage to revisit the scene of my past and our future.

'What was he like in bed?' My beau asked, passing me the smouldering blunt as we sat huddled together on our threadbare two seater sofa (one that I will forever maintain was actually only built for one and a half persons. Or maybe that was just down to the size of my ass).

'What was who like in bed?' I queried vaguely whilst drawing heavily on the joint.

'Him, from the other night.'

Oh, Him.

I shrugged, as if the topic was as laissez faire as a query over the weather. But inwardly I revelled in how Marc had wanted to bring the subject up. Yet this was delicate territory, as any woman will tell you. A man's ego is fragile and we have been conditioned by society to protect and bolster male self esteem at all costs. A girl must be tactful, sensitive, and above all else, diplomatic.

'He fucked me in ways I didn't know were possible.' I blurted, and exhaled with my best attempt at smouldering noire, before giggling hysterically. The latter might have been down to the skunk.

Marc was rabidly fucking me over the breakfast bar about thirty seconds later. It was beautifully surreal, from how he forced me across the pine top surface and hitched up my dress, panties dragged furiously to my ankles, cock desperately pressing at my sex.

He wanted more details, nay, pleaded for more details as his cock finally speared me and I groaned with delight. He wanted to hear it all, he hollered, thrusting back and forth inside me as I clung to the edges of the table for support.

I won't lie, He's huge baby, like way bigger than you...

He gave me my first orgasm...

You're such a good boy for wanting to know about him - I'm so proud of you.

The denouement was swift. Some of the best fucks are. We came together. I felt Marc's shaft twitch and that was more than enough to have me screaming in delight. Afterwards we lay in a heap, bonded and euphoric. We both knew it was a revelatory screwing. We'd crossed a threshold.

Welcome, brave new world.

The savant came round on Friday evening. Marc helped me prepare for the occasion, from drawing my bath, to going down on bended knee so as to fasten my stockings. There was something symbolic in that. We even perused my wardrobe together.

'I like this one.' My imminent cuck suggested, holding up a little black dress that he'd recently bought me.

'Good choice. He's not seen me in that one.' I praised.

It was figure hugging and had a criss cross neckline that promoted the buxom size of my boobs and eluded favourably to the bare swell of my cleavage where the fabric intersected.

'He's got easy access to your tits in it, too.' Marc added, without a hint of jealousy. I felt so proud of him, 'It's elegant with a dash of slutty, and functional too.'

We chuckled.

'Should we choose some knickers?' Marc asked innocently, and I shook my head.

'No sweetheart. He prefers me not to wear any.' I replied, kissing his forehead softly, 'And he rips up any I do wear anyway'.

The savant was late. Nothing new there. I was a nervous wreck when the intercom finally buzzed. Would Marc be alright? Did he really understand what we were about to do? Would he still love me afterwards? Was it worth risking what we had together? Had I been a greedy, stupid girl to think this could work?

Marc must have noticed the sudden panic etched to my face as I hurriedly stubbed out the dog end of a joint. A Domme's partner must be supportive of her in a myriad of ways. Marc showed great promise and self awareness even in those early days together.

'Gina...relax. It's all good. You look staggeringly beautiful. Enjoy yourself, don't hold back, and don't worry about me. I can handle it. I love you.'

It was the way he looked at me as he said it - so commanding, so calm, so reasoned, so assured, so masculine. In a singular moment he'd effortlessly assuaged my nerves and purposefully opened a door to my every sexual freedom.

And I'd fallen in love with him all over again.

'Meet me downstairs.' The savant ordered gruffly when I picked up the intercom.

I did as instructed. My Dom was waiting in the communal foyer clutching the duffle bag he kept his toys in. He winked, slapped my backside, disdainfully yanked my dress up around my waist until my bushy cunt was on display - and then forcibly pressed me up against the myriad mailboxes by my throat.

'Present yourself to me properly next time.' He grunted.

Oh how I'd missed those steely grey eyes bearing down on me, and those firm, yet ageing, tattooed biceps flexing as he held me in my place.

He'd often joked that the bairns in the gym called him The OG - yet even into his fifties he still had the sort of stout, chiselled physique that only years of pumping iron can foster. He was almost a cliche, pleasingly rough around the edges and never dressed in anything but jeans and a tight white tee. Yet he had the sort of street savvy wisdom that belied the hench exterior.

We'd met three years earlier. I'd been invited to a barbecue by my bestie, Kirstie Tranner. The savant was dating her Mum. He arrived late (as always), and turned all our heads as a consequence when he rumbled into the back garden like a pec pumped whirlwind. He looked shady, like the sort that ran the door for some sleazy nightclub owner and spent the rest of his life in a weight room, which turned out to be almost bang on. I just hadn't figured that he'd be the club owner.

We got chatting in the kitchen when Kirstie's mum sent me to fetch the plates and cutlery. He'd made eyes at me since he arrived and followed me indoors on the premise of 'giving the wee lass a hand'.

He was flirty. He said something about how I looked so good in my dress that I was shaming the other women. I retorted that he could get locked up for comments like that.

'Why? You're legal, ain't ya darlin?' He'd smirked, and I giggled with an encouraging lash flutter and my best virgin whore eyes. He was that kinda hot, the sort where you lose all sense of reason, know it, and don't give a fuck.

'I guess you'd be used to jail anyways, being that you look like a convict, what with that gritty stubble, the broken nose and that shaven head.' I fired back, trying to come off all confident and sassy while cack-handedly juggling the plates and a handful of knives and forks as he cockily breached my personal space.

'I might look like a jailbird, but you definitely look like my next fuck.' He huskily replied, backing me into a corner against the kitchen cupboards, 'Are you my next fuck darlin?'

I didn't dissuade him of the notion, nor did I try to struggle free of my captivity. Truth be told, there was something kinda hot about the way he placed his huge hands on the worktop either side of me, penning me in as he towered over me, all mammoth shoulders and broad chest.

He extracted the plates and the cutlery from my shaking fingers and wiped a slip of hair from my face.

'Relax. You ain't got nothing to worry about with me.'

I insisted I was fine. Nervous? Me? Nooooo.

It was a surreal conversation, being that he'd lifted the hem of my dress and had begun gently but expectantly pushing his hand between my thighs. I widened my standing gait and teetered slightly on my heels as I did so, which only exacerbated the obviousness of my accommodating act.

'Good girl.'

That was all it took. Fireworks suddenly exploded in beautiful waves inside my head. My tummy did leaps and rolls of nauseating joyfulness. What the fuckety fuck? Why did hearing those two words have me all gooey?

He fingered me. I let him. I wanted to be a good girl. His good girl. It was the confidence he exuded, and the ease with which his hand slid my knickers aside and then expertly toyed with my sex. He was a man with a deft, knowing touch, and I'd only ever dated bumbling, fumbling boys.

'I asked you a question darlin - are you my next fuck?'

I whimpered and nodded. There was no point in playing hard to get - he had two of his fingers pushed up inside my sodden cunt and his palm pressed to my pubis. He already knew my truth.

Nobody at the barbecue had an inkling of what had just transpired. He even cheekily wiped his sticky digits on Kirstie's mum when he pecked her on the cheek and handed her the plates as the two of us sauntered back out to the garden.

An hour later he was fucking me in my bestie's bedroom as the rest of the assembled throng sat unwittingly in the garden getting pissed around a makeshift bonfire. I'll never forget Kirstie's Minnie Mouse duvet cover - he'd pushed a wad of it into my mouth when he bent me over the tiny single bed and my senses were suddenly abused by a weird blend of Anais-Anais and Daz washing powder.

'Can't have you screaming darlin, at least not today.' The savant grunted, right before he tore my best lace knickers in half and slapped my bare buttocks with his open palm. My initial apoplectic instinct in regards to my cherished smalls was swiftly lost to the revelation of succumbing to the spanking expectations of a man old enough to be my father.

Spanking feels good. Who knew?

Three months might have passed, but it was like we'd never been apart when he thrust me up against the mailboxes in the communal foyer. His powerful hands gripped me without a care for my struggle or discomfort, his musky aftershave danced back up my nostrils, and then he kissed me. Like he owned me, part passionate lovers moment, part violent expectant bite.

And then he buckled my collar back around my throat. I could have melted when the leather rubbed against my skin and the sound of the lead clinked as he affixed it to the O ring.

'Did you put this on to tease me?' The savant grunted, his hands suddenly pushing brusquely under the criss crossed front of my little black dress.

I shook my head.

'No Master. I put it on to please you.'

He used my nipples to pull my breasts free, and then twisted them in his fingers as my bosoms spilled out of the front of my dress under his duress.

'I'm so grateful for your patience. I know it's not been easy letting me prepare Marc. But he's a good boy and I wanted everything to be honest.'

The savant shrugged and nonchalantly slapped my tits. I caught sight of him pulling the clover clamps from his pocket and whimpered. He laughed. He knew how much I struggled with them.

'Your penance will be my bliss.' He smirked, protruding my areola in his fingers before sliding the first clamp in place and unleashing its bite on my fleshy tit. I winced, and again as the second pincer dug deep into my skin.

'Thank you Master.' I gasped as he sadistically tugged on the chain.

'Good girl.'

I'd have taken any amount of pain to hear that, from him.

The lift chimed our arrival on the fourth floor. The doors shuddered open. I could see Marc waiting in our apartment doorway at the end of the corridor. He did a double take when he saw me and stared back in a wide-eyed stupor.

The pretence was over.

Master's riding crop kissed my bare buttocks with a hissed sting and I began crawling on all fours, my leash jingling and my bare udders swinging back and forth as we made our way along the corridor.

Every now and then he'd crack my bottom with the crop, just because, and then we'd march on.

'I believe you're expecting me.' The savant declared when we arrived at the apartment. He knelt down and stroked my head affectionately before easing the clamps from my nipples, sending shivers of discomfiting relief through my teats.

Marc nodded, and offered Master the sort of stiff upper lip, impeccably polite welcome that might have been more in keeping had he been addressing his future in-laws. I felt a surge of relief. First hurdle overcome and all that, and then arousal when the savant immediately took to dominating my boyfriend with the same ease he'd managed with me.

'Get your clothes off.' Master instructed, gesturing to Marc's shirt and linen slacks. I felt a pang of delight when Marc did as he was told without questioning it.

Master liked how the spider gag looked on me.

'Being that she's such a mouthy cow, n'all.' He explained, semi-rhetorically, before taking a swig of the beer he'd instructed Marc to fetch him.

I couldn't help enjoying the contrast in the two men as I knelt patiently in the Nadu position while Master bound Marc to the corner armchair.

My Dominant had the ruggedly imposing physique of a viking berserker, stout, as wide as he was tall and inked everywhere. Marc was taller and slimmer, with the sort of defined muscular structure that drops knickers when adorned in a smart suit. One was a gentleman. One was a bastard. I needed both.