Romancing John Cly

Posted: June 10th, 2010 | Author: Lonnie | Filed under: Hardcore Stories | Tags: Hardcore, Story |

Valentine’s Day. Chick’s holiday. Another excuse for women to show off for their friends, like weddings and anniversaries. Hey, look at me, my boyfriend bought me… what… more jewelry? Expensive flowers that are going to die in a day? Chocolates in a heart shaped box—I don’t know why women like getting them so much, they won’t eat them anyway because it might make them fat.

And what do I get out of it? A card with little construction paper hearts pasted on it, painstakingly assembled Elmer’s glue so that the hearts fall off in a day or two, and God help Me if I throw them away. Then it’s a teary-eyed question of whether I liked the card in the first place or if I appreciate “anything” she does for me.

And yet, this morning Sydney has that twinkle in her sweet blue country eyes, the twinkle that says”, Thank God have a man on Valentine’s Day”. This entire day will be about posturing, posturing for Sydney and her girlfriends. They can all sit around laughing and giggling like schoolgirls, but their eyes will all be saying, “My boyfriend is better than yours”. And I’ll have to play along, sit back with that smug look pasted on my grill that says to the other guys, “Yeah, I’m better than you”. Why? For The Sake Of My Woman.

Primitive man was allowed to club his woman and drag her back to the cave as a sign of possession. I have to buy mine diamonds. I might as well club myself and fall to her feet; it might be better than spending a thousand dollars on a bracelet. The diamonds are set in white gold, whatever the hell that means, but chicks seem to like it.

“The Big Book of John Clay” says, page one, chapter one, verse one: “Fuck Valentine’s Day”.

Don’t get me wrong, Sydney, my little blonde bombshell, is absolutely adorable. Raised in the depths of South Carolina. On a farm. A real farm with assorted farm-dwelling animals and livestock and whatnot. Christian upbringing. Not Bible-thumping, but Christian enough. Christ, we haven’t even slept together. It’s been six months, and some days I feel like I’m going to pop. Thank God for beer and porno.

But Sydney, oh Sydney, that little minx, she’s so damn cute, and so damn sweet, and that little southern drawl of hers makes me want to scream sometimes. “Johnny Clay”, she often tells me, “I’m gonna mold you yet”, in that way Southerners seem to be able to cut up their sentences into three thousand extra syllables. It’s one of her own little jokes; I don’t think it’s very funny, and I’m not sure what it means, but it’s cute the way she says it.

And that’s why I stay with Sydney. She’s cute, she’s sweet, she makes me want to scream. Isn’t that why all men stay with women? Yeah, I know you guys are thinking, “You bought her a thousand-dollar bracelet for Valentine’s Day, and she won’t even put out”? Well, she gives a hell of a blowjob, even though she won’t swallow.

“The Big Book of John Clay” says, page two, chapter two (yeah, okay, it’s a short book), verse one: “Never turn down free head”.

Oh, Sydney’s in rare form today. Her blue eyes absolutely sparkle as she shows off her new thousand-dollar bracelet to her friends. We’re all sitting around a table in one of those restaurants where the waiters’ uniforms are covered with buttons and they sing to you on your birthday. To be fair, Sydney only shows the bracelet off once, but the sleeves of her cashmere sweater are just a tad too short, and she gestures grandly as she speaks, the bracelet that broke my wallet glistening brilliantly in the light. Her friends, while trying not to look at it directly, can’t keep their eyes off it. It’s like a set of cats watching you dangle a toy in front of them, their heads all moving at the same time in the same direction.

And their men, oh how they hate me because when they go home tonight whatever they bought for their women just won’t be good enough next to that bracelet. They’re all giving me that little smile… all of them except for that Sneaky Shit Derek Wills. That Smug Little Bastard is just as calm as can be, and I’d love to know what he’s up to. He bought his girlfriend a fucking set of kitchen knives; who buys their girlfriend a set of kitchen knives for Valentine’s day? And Casey, that poor girl, is gazing at Sydney’s bracelet with an even more powerful look of longing than the other girls.

“Nice job,” that Sneaky Shit Derek says to me quietly across the table.

“Thanks,” I answer the Sneaky Shit. The Smug Little Bastard leans over to his woman and whispers something in her ear. She’s distracted, she says, “What?” So he repeats himself, a little louder this time, and I can hear, “I have something else for you outside.”

They head to the exit, though the rest of the group is hardly distracted from the glittering prize on Sydney’s wrist and the glib conversation that accompanies it. Already knowing how great I am, I turn my attention to Derek and Casey. I can’t see them outside, but after a few moments, I hear a muffled female cry. Maybe finally, finally Derek decided to man up and drag his woman back to the cave.

But no, they return a few moments later, and I can see by the glow around Casey’s entire being and the conceited look on that Sneaky Shit’s face that the worst has happened.

The next moments are a flurry of female activity. There’s a fat rock sitting on Casey’s ring finger, the kind of rock that glows like the sun, the kind of rock that you actually have to finance and take out a second mortgage on your home and talk to the bank, like buying a new car without that wonderful new car smell and the convenience of transportation.

Even worse is what comes with the ring. A proposal. “Proposal”. The word that’s used both in marriage and in business. What a coincidence.

“The Big Book of John Clay “says, page three, chapter three, verse one: “Never marry”.

Derek, that Smug Little Bastard, obviously never read that part. But, God Almighty, he proposed, on Valentine’s Day. He won it all, the whole smash. Even Sydney’s thousand-dollar bracelet has lost its luster. Sydney looks over at me, a tiny smile on her lips. I glance at the bracelet, then shrug.

A look of disgust flashes over her face for a split second, then she returns back to sweet little Sydney.

Now what the hell did that mean?

—–

After lunch, we all break up and go our separate ways, the happy, newly-engaged couple floating away on a cloud. Mr. and Mrs. Sneaky Shit. The entire afternoon has been all about the fucking wedding, when, where, what the dresses will look like. It’s been a bubbly, giggling nightmare, and I’ve been trapped in the middle of it, my thousand-dollar investment slowly turning into a thousand dollars worth of horse shit.

And Sydney’s barely spoken to me since. God damn it, I hate it when I’m right.

When the rest of the group has departed, I turn to Sydney, who can barely look at me.

“Dinner tonight?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’ll meet you at “Chez Louis”? Eight o’clock?”

“Fine.”

“The Big Book of John Clay” says, page four, chapter four, verse one: “The word ‘fine’ coming from a woman is evil”.

“Sydney, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“That’s not what you said,” I assert, “you said ‘fine’ not ‘I “am” fine’, it means something entirely different. ‘I “am” fine’ means you’re fine. ‘Fine’ means you’re pissed off, and I just want to know why.”

“You know something, John? You are “the” single most shallow asshole I’ve ever met. I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking this is all about a ring or a bracelet or a marriage proposal—”

“—some proposal, we all know Derek won’t go through with it. What a great way to get a woman’s attention on Valentine’s Day, though—”

“—and that’s what this is about, isn’t it? You haven’t learned a damn thing about women, have you?”

I look at her, the fiery little Southern Belle. I know all kinds of things about women, thus “The Big Book of John Clay”.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, John Clay,” she says abruptly. In a second, all I see is the flash of blonde hair, and then Sydney’s exquisite ass moving away from me.

“Eight o’clock, Sydney,” I call after her.

I refer back to “The Big Book of John Clay”, page one, chapter one, verse two: “Valentine’s Day sucks”.

—–

It takes me half an hour sitting in a seat at a reserved table at “Chez Louis” before I realize Sydney isn’t coming.

I glance around the room; maybe she sat down at the wrong table. The place is filled to capacity with happy couples, jewelry sparkling, volumes of sappy cards being passed back and forth. There’s one still sealed in an envelope with “Sydney” on it. There’s a picture of a rose on the card, and inside it reads:

“Roses are red”

“Violets are blue”

“This Valentine’s Day”

“I’m thinking of you”

It made me sick when I read it in the store, so I knew Sydney would like it. But Sydney isn’t here.

—–

When I arrive at Sydney’s apartment building, I look up to the fifth floor. Her light isn’t on. If she’s not home, I don’t have a clue as to where she could be. I hit the button on the intercom.

“Sydney, it’s me. Are you home?”

Nothing but static.

“Come on, Sydney, let me up. Where were you tonight?”

Nothing.

“Sydney, buzz me in, we have to talk. I can’t believe you forgot, I had a quiet Valentine’s dinner planned for us, something special because I know you love this stupid—”

The buzzer interrupts me, and I hear the lock on the front door click. Finally the woman listens to reason. Much quicker than I expected, as a matter of fact. I guarantee, it’ll take me less than fifteen minutes to talk her out of this little funk, and then we’ll be back on her sofa making out as usual.

I step into the lobby, and before I make my way up the stairs, my attention is captured by a colorful bit of paper on top of the mailboxes. And it has my name on it. As I walk closer to it, I realize what it is: a piece of red construction paper with little hearts pasted all over it. Can I call it or can I call it? “The Big Book of John Clay” never lies.

I pick up the handmade card. Inside is a short note, reading simply: “John, now is the time for you to learn something about women”.

I look down at my feet. There’s a little pile of tiny construction paper hearts on the floor. Jesus, they’re falling off already. I bend down to pick them up, then I notice a trail of them leading to the stairs. The trail continues up the stairs. This is just too cute, even for Sydney. I’m going to have to have a talk with her about this.

—–

The trail, of course, leads directly to Sydney’s door. Covering the door, more construction paper hearts. Women really are predictable. This is really, really too much. Why do women torture themselves like this on a silly holiday? Men don’t need drama or pageantry; I would have accepted a simple I’m-sorry-I-was-so-cranky-today-I-was-on-my-period phone call. But who knows how long it took her to do all this. Just for me.

I knock on the door and wait for an answer. From inside, I hear a husky Southern voice I barely recognize say, “Come in.”

I open the door slowly, half expecting to be showered with balloons or confetti or some such girly thing. Nothing but darkness inside. I shut the door behind me and squint my eyes in the darkness.

“Sydney?”

There are no balloons waiting for me, no confetti, only darkness. I peer around the room, and I can just barely make out Sydney standing by the window, her petite figure outlined by the glow of a streetlight outside.

“Syd, what are you doing?”

“Johnny Clay,” it’s Sydney’s voice speaking, I recognize the drawl, but it’s not a tone I recognize coming from her. Her voice is dark, low. “You think you’re so god damn cool, don’t you?”

“What? Syd, I—”

“Shut up! Don’t answer me unless I tell you.” Her statement is as sharp as a knife fresh off the stone. “You won’t “speak” unless I tell you to, do you understand?”

An amused chuckle escapes my lips. What is this girl trying to do, intimidate me? “Sydney, I know you’re just trying to have fun, but—” I stop as she approaches me aggressively, and without warning, I feel the sharp sting of her palm across my cheek.

“Tell me you understand!”

“Ow, Jesus Christ, Sydney, what are you—” another slap lands on my face, and I’m starting to see stars in my line of vision. I had no idea she could hit so damn hard. If my father hadn’t taught me not to hit women, by God, I’d—

“Answer me, you fucking swine!” I feel her fingers suddenly wrap around my wrist, her nails biting into my skin.

“Shit, Sydney, okay, okay, I understand.” I have no choice but to do what she says. For one thing, I have no way to fight back against this, and for another thing, I’m suddenly aware, despite the fact that she looks like my girlfriend, I have no idea who this woman is.

“Hold out your hands,” Sydney says sternly.

“Why, what’s—” I can barely get another sound out of my mouth before I feel the shattering sting of her hand across my face for the third time. I shut my mouth; it seems like the best thing to do at this time. I’ll no doubt add it to “The Big Book of John Clay” later.

“Do you believe I’m dangerous, John Clay? Answer me.”

Her nails dig into my skin again, and I realize it’s only a matter of time before she draws blood.

“Yes, yes, shit, yes. Ow, fuck.”

“Then hold out your hands.” I do as she says, and in a flash, she’s wrapping something around my wrists, pretty tightly. I think its rope. Where the hell did she get rope?

When she’s done, I test out her work. It’s tight, but not cutting off my circulation. Still, I can feel that the rope isn’t moving, and my hands aren’t going anywhere. I’m impressed; even Boyscouts can’t tie knots like this. But… what exactly the hell is she “doing” to me?

“Sydney, I’ll ask you one more time, what the hell are you doing?”

“Get on your knees.”

“What?”

An irritated sigh escapes her lips. “I said, get on your goddamn knees, NOW!”

Once again, I do as she says. Never argue with a little southern girl who has you tied up. Another one for the book.

In the darkness, I can see her circling me like a predator. “I have some rules for you to follow, John. If you follow them exactly as I tell you, I won’t hurt you. If you insist on being a disrespectful little swine, I promise you… ” as if to complete her thought, she runs her cool palm gently over my stinking cheek.

The rules? She has to be kidding. This whole thing has to be some kind of joke. In just a minute, she’ll turn on the lights, and her apartment will be decorated with more insufferable hearts and a hand painted ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ banner. We’ll kiss and make up, and this ridiculous charade will be over.

“You’ll speak only when I tell you,” Sydney continued, “for that matter, you won’t do a thing unless I tell you. You never, “ever” touch me unless I ask. And you call me… hmm, what should you call me?” There’s a long pause as she circles around to stand behind me. “You’ll call me ‘Mistress’ at all times—”

“Mistress?”

I can feel Sydney lean over my shoulder, her breath quick and hot against my ear, her voice menacing, but sultry at the same time. “Yes, that sounds nice. I’m your Mistress now, John Clay,” her hand reaches into my hair, her fingers entwining, then clamping, then jerking back, “the sweet little Southern girl isn’t here, and I’m the mistress you’ll take when she’s not. I’m your Mistress of the night, I’m here to lead you through the darkness of your ridiculous little mind.”

My ridiculous little mind is spinning wildly. There’s not a single verse in “The Big Book of John Clay” to help me through this, and I’ll finally admit, I’m completely lost. Handling this little Southern girl should have been easy, and for the last six months, it has been. Be charming and flattering, win her heart. Flash her the sexy smile, she’ll melt. Buy her flowers for no reason, she’ll love you. Buy her jewelry for Valentine’s Day, she turns into a raging beast, a force to be reckoned with, a figure out of the darkness that right now is scaring even the unshakable John Clay.

Ah, finally I remember page five, chapter five, verse one of” The Big Book of John Clay”: “Never be afraid of women”.

But the passage has now been crossed out, with a scrawling handwritten note in the margin that says, “Fuck that. Be afraid”.

My neck hurts, having been held at an odd angle by Sydney’s strong hand for who knows how long while I’ve been collecting my thoughts. I glance up into Sydney’s blazing blue eyes, and the most frightening thought of all occurs to me: she’s loving every minute of this. I’ve never seen that look in her eyes, that look of pure and total… Christ, I don’t even know what.

“Do you trust me,” she asks softly, that lilting Southern voice finally recognizable to me. But no, the answer is no, I don’t trust her, how can I trust someone I barely even know? I don’t dare tell her that, not now.

“Yeah, of course I trust you, Syd,” I answer, hoping to God she can’t hear the apprehension in my voice. I know she heard something, however, as she jerks back harder on my hair.

“What did you call me,” she hisses.

Oh shit, what did I call her? Damn it, man, your stupid brain is so cluttered with completely useless knowledge, half of it you made up yourself, now you can’t even remember the simple rules. “Uh, oh, Mistress, of course I trust you… Mistress.”

“How did you get so fucking stupid, John, you disgust me.” And by the tone in her voice, I know she means it. Regardless, she finally lets go of the handful of hair and stands up straight again. I glance behind me and see light glinting off the bracelet I bought her. At least she’s wearing it, I guess that’s a good sign. She glances at the bracelet as well, then back at me with a scornful look in her eye. “Yes, my little swine,” she coos at me, “we’ll discuss this later. For now, I have a chore for you. Stand up.”

A chore, great. Now she makes me clean her apartment or some damn thing like that to make me understand how hard women have it. She didn’t have to hit me; I would have done it if she had asked nicely. I’m a sensitive guy.

Rising slowly to my feet, I turn to Sydney. For the first time, I have a good look at her, and I’m completely taken aback. In the dim light I can see flashes of perfect, pale flesh, clad in leather, lace, so perfectly packed, her petite body seems intent on pouring out of the outfit. I’m suddenly aware of an uncontrollable tingling in my loins. She has no intention of making me clean her apartment.

“Do you like what you see,” Sydney says with a smile.

“Goddamn right,” I answer dumbly.

She reaches out and takes hold of the ropes around my wrists, yanking me forward violently with surprising strength. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that, fucking swine.”

I’ve had enough, I’m through listening to this shit coming out of her sweet little mouth. “Okay, Syd, enough of this bullshit, untie me and we’ll talk—”

Without warning, Sydney reaches up with her free hand and takes hold of my hair again. With amazing speed, she whips me around facing away from her, and now I’m in a precarious and highly uncomfortable position. Somehow, she still manages to keep me on my feet. In a moment, I feel her breath on my cheek again, and a slight tingle run down my spine as she runs her warm tongue along my earlobe. Between the pain in my spine the pleasant sensation of her tongue against my ear, my brain is firing in all different directions.

“We won’t be talking about anything,” she whispers sensually in my ear, “and you’re not going anywhere except to the bedroom. I’m going to make you eat my pussy.”

My knees, wobbly already, threaten to give out from under me. I’ve never done that to Sydney, and she’s never asked me to, let alone commanded me to. I can see what’s going on now, but I can’t decide if this is all good or bad. What exactly are Sydney’s intentions? If she wanted sex, why not just give it up?

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my sweet,” she says in an entirely unnerving tone, “I own you.”

Her words chill me to my very core. “I own you”. I’m suddenly reminded of primitive man, clubbing his woman over the head and dragging her back to the cave. I can still feel the tingle of her heavy-handed slaps on my cheek. My, how times have changed.

Sydney lets loose her grip on my hair once again, and I pray this will be the last time. I should be okay as long as I can manage to keep my stupid mouth shut. She pulls me to the bedroom by the ropes binding my wrists; I trail behind her feeling like a scolded puppy. After all, that’s what I am now, isn’t it?

I can’t believe this. Sydney is ruining “The Big Book of John Clay”, she’s practically taking the son of a bitch and throwing it on the fire, and I have no choice but to let her. My book, my big wonderful leather-bound book I’ve clung to for so many years, through so many relationships, now useless. All because I let this little bitch tie me up and smack me around.

As my mind wanders, she jerks me into the bedroom, and I realize the room is glowing with dozens of candles. At the center of the room is Sydney’s four-poster bed, delicate sheer material hanging all around it. Sydney has impeccable style, but I’m suddenly aware of how dangerous this bed is to me. Four posts, plenty of ways to get tied down. Can I escape? Dare I even try?

Do I “want” to escape?

“Sit down,” Sydney commands me sharply, and this time I’m smart enough to listen. There’s a small wooden chair across from the bed, and I put my ass in it almost as soon as the words leave her lips. Now that we’re in the light, I can see her clearly. She’s like an angel in devil’s clothing, and I barely recognize her. Her golden blonde hair is streaked with crimson red highlights, her lips coated with blood red lipstick, her eyes darkened with thick mascara. Sydney never wears makeup.

She sits down on the edge of the bed across from me, eyeing me up and down. Her shapely legs spread, and she runs a black-nailed hand from her calf up to her thigh casually as she watches me.

“You never answered me properly,” she purrs, “do you like this?”

“Yes… uh, yes, Mistress.”

Her hand continues up her bare thigh to the strip of black leather between her legs. I watch her fingers as they lightly caress the smooth material, pressing a little harder with each pass until a light sigh escapes her lips. My eyes travel up to her mouth, where her teeth gently bite her bottom lip. Her crystal blue eyes are still fixed on me.

“I love touching myself like this,” she whispers. “Would you like to touch me?”

“God yeah, Syd–” but I’m interrupted again as she darts forward again, her hand palm lashing against my face again. There’s going to be a hell of a bruise there tomorrow morning. That is, if I ever see tomorrow morning.

Sydney’s eyes are flaring again, her breath heavy. “This is going to take forever if you don’t smarten up and learn your lesson, stupid little swine.”

I reel for a moment from the impact. Jesus Christ, it was hard, she’s really, really serious. For a split second, I stupidly wonder if I get a safety word…

“I’m sorry, Sy–Mistress, I’m sorry,” I manage to sputter, my mind swimming in shock and confusion. How far is she going to take this? My face is already throbbing at the hand of the very same woman who caressed it lovingly only last night. Who the hell “is” this girl?

“Would you like to touch me,” Sydney repeated, in a much firmer tone of voice this time.

“Yes, Mistress, very much.” It’s becoming easier to call her ‘Mistress’ now because any semblance of the Sydney I once knew has faded. She was right, the sweet little Southern girl isn’t here any longer; she’s been replaced by this woman who–yes, I’ll admit it now–scares the living shit out of me.

“Very good, you’re learning. Maybe you’re not so stupid after all.” She slowly moves back to the bed, pushing aside the curtain. I watch her every movement from the quick graceful flitter of her fingers to the subtle flex of the muscles in her smooth legs as she crawls into the bed. Without another word, she lays back and her fingers immediately return to her leather-clad pussy.

My mouth, I can’t help but notice, waters almost uncontrollably as her fingers press into leather, trying to reach the flesh behind it. Breaking her gaze for the first time, Sydney—my mistress—drops her head back, her blue eyes squeezing shut, her lips opening to breath a sigh of pleasure. A strong tingle of lust flares deep in my stomach, though it’s different from what I’ve known before. I don’t want to just throw her down and fuck her… deep down, I “want” her to take over me. I want this night to go too far.

Her fingers skillfully slip beneath the leather between her legs and press against her body. Her cries become louder and more hungry as she pleasures herself, but in a heartbeat, she pulls her fingers away and sits up to fix me with those piercing eyes. Without breaking her gaze, she draws a wet finger to her mouth, deliberately spreading a bit of her moisture on her bottom lip. In a second, her tongue slips out to taste her own silky juices. Then she smiles at me, a smile both inviting and devious.

“Do you want to taste me, little swine? Have you ever tasted country pussy? Do you want to taste your sweet little Southern girl?”

“Yes, Mistress, please.”

“Tastes like honey,” she says softly, once again raising her hand to her lips, her tongue sliding along her fingers. My heart thunders in my chest. Never have I wanted anything so badly.

She slowly turns and kneels, facing away from me. Leaving her beautifully curved ass in the air, she lays her head on a pillow. Her hand snakes between her legs, rubbing the warm spot between her thighs. This is a show for me now, to torture me, and it’s working. I can feel my cock throbbing wildly in my pants and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

“Ask me for it,” she whispers just loud enough for me to hear, “no, don’t ask me, “beg” me.”

“Please, Mistress… ” “Dear God, Mistress, please, I’ll do anything, I’ll give myself to you completely, do with me what you want, just please let me have it.” No, I’m not ready for that yet, damn it. It’ll take more than a taste of pussy to break John Clay, I swear it.

She turns over again and sits gazing at me. It’s her eyes, I don’t know if I can take the stare of those blue eyes anymore. Before they were just pretty, now they’re… hungry. “I think you’re holding back on me, John Clay,” she says skeptically. “Say it again. Tell me what you want.”

“Please, Mistress,” I say, trying to keep my voice from wavering, “please, I just want to taste you.”

“That’ll have to do for now. Stand up. Come here.” I stand, a little unevenly considering my legs are all but ready to go out from under me. My mistress gazes at my crotch in amusement. “My, you are enjoying yourself, aren’t you? Come here.”

I approach the bed slowly as she crawls towards me. She reaches out her hands and stops me at the edge of the bed. In a moment, she has my pants unbuckled and is sliding them down to the floor. There’s no hiding from her any more as my cock stands at full attention before her. She licks her red lips, then gently slides them over the very tip of my head. The sensation sends electricity all through my spine, but it stops almost immediately as she pulls away.

“Don’t think I’m going to make this easy, dearest. I know how easy you think I am—”

“No—”

“Don’t try to argue. I know what you think about me. You think I can be bought, or swindled, or charmed. You think that’s what today is about, give the little girl some pretty jewelry on Valentine’s Day and she’s yours forever… ” her soft hand moves to grasp my cock, her slender fingers wrapping around the shaft, an incredibly possessive action, but almost comforting nonetheless. “Well, John, don’t think that this night is a reward for your behavior. This night is for you to learn.”

She lets go of me and lies back on the bed. As I suddenly realize I’ve never seen anything more than the smallest portion of her breasts, she begins to strip. She slides the straps of her leather teddy over her shoulders, slowly moving the rest of the outfit down her body.

Her body… her body is flawless, smooth skin with a slight tan, firm, round breasts, a tight stomach… her hands reach her waist, then continue to move the teddy down. I can see even in the dim glow of the candlelight that her pussy is entirely shaved. Her moist lips are smooth and curved, and the tiniest hint of pink shows through, just enough to make my mouth water once again.

My mistress throws the leather outfit to the floor and leans back against her pillows, her legs spread invitingly.

“Do you like it?”

“Very much… Mistress… ” my voice is barely holding up anymore.

“I’ve wanted to show you for months now, but I knew you’d never appreciate it until I did something truly drastic. Now you’ll learn to appreciate every last inch of this body. Kneel down, now.”

I do as she says. She turns away from me once again, on her hands and knees, offering up her delicious rear. I lean forward slowly, not wanting to seem to eager, knowing how eager I really am. I think she knows as well, she has to. She knows she has me under her control now, but I won’t let her break me. Not yet…

I press my face between her thighs, taking in the scent of her musk. It’s delicious and intoxicating, and now it clouds my head, making me forget that I’m a prisoner to her desires. Now, her desires are mine. As my tongue slips deftly between her thighs, she almost immediately releases a moan of pleasure. Her legs spread to allow her to open herself to me, and I slide my tongue along the soft flesh of her inner labia, savoring the taste of her juices. Like honey. She was right.

I continue to tease her with the jabbing motion of my tongue, but she reaches blindly with her hand to take hold of my hair, pulling me even closer to her. Another wordless sound escapes her lips, and she need not say anything to me. I press my tongue into her deeply, probing for the hard nub of her clit. The taste of her untouched country pussy and the scent of her sex fill my head once again, and I feel like I’m going to pass out. I’ve gone down on many women in my time, but this is different. I want to taste every inch of her, not just to make her come, but to make her come over and over and over…

She presses back against me as if trying to fill herself up with my tongue. A loud cry passes through her lips as I gently suckle her clit, and I can feel her inner muscles clenching as the first orgasm strikes her. As her body shivers with pleasure, I run my tongue upwards, along the wet slit of her pussy, to the puckered hole above it. I flicker my tongue over the spot lightly, and for my effort, I’m rewarded with a cry of passion louder than any I’ve ever heard.

I’ve pleased my mistress.

Her breath coming in heavy waves, she pulls away from me, collapsing face down onto the bed. She turns her head to cast a sideways glance at me, her red-streaked hair tousled lightly. Her face, her entire body, is flush with excitement. I’ve never seen her look so enticing.

But I won’t touch her until she says.

“That was wonderful, my love,” she says breathlessly as I kneel reverently before her. “You should be rewarded for that.” She pushes herself towards me on the bed, and takes hold of the ropes around my wrists. To my surprise, she undoes the knot and begins unwinding the ropes that have bound me so securely.

“I’ll only untie you for a few moments,” she says, a tone of contempt creeping into her voice, “but if you even “think” about trying anything… ”

“No, Mistress,” and I mean it. If I fuck up now, she may take it away from me, all of it. I don’t dare test her now. My heart, my soul, my entire body, are all crying out for release, for pleasure, for satisfaction, and at this moment in time, my mistress is the only one who can bring it to me.

She finishes taking off the ropes, giving my hands merciful freedom. The only movement I allow myself is to rub my wrists tenderly, and my mistress seems okay with it for now. She gazes at me, and behind the hunger and lust in those blue eyes of hers, I can, for the first time, see true adoration. It makes me feel warm and safe, despite the fact that she intends to use me to suit her will.

“Take off your shirt, my love,” she quietly commands, and I obey quickly, letting my shirt drop to the floor. Now I kneel naked before her, and while I should feel shame—my mind is fully aware that I should feel shame—I feel only… what is it? Devotion?

She runs her soft, able hands over the flesh of my naked chest, and for the first time in my life, I feel truly loved. Is it possible, over the span of my short life, with all the women I’ve known, that I’ve never felt this? It doesn’t seem possible, but then again, at the moment he comes, every man thinks he feels love, even if just for the split second it takes to empty himself. But now… now things are different.

“Come here and lie down on the bed, my love,” she tells me. I rise to me feet once again and do as she says. I watch as she circles me, moving to the post by my right hand. I know what’s going to happen next, I’ve known all along since she first brought me in here, but I chose not to do anything about it. Now, as she ties my right hand down I know I’m under her control, and “The Big Book of John Clay” is gone. John Clay as I know him is gone as well, he was gone the moment he decided to give up control to a woman.

My mistress saunters to the other side of the bed and firmly ties down my other hand. She climbs onto the bed and straddles her legs across my hips, my fully erect cock throbbing between her legs. She allows my head to rub slightly against her wet lips, allowing me fleeting moments of pleasure, but not enough.

“I’m sorry I have to do this to you,” she says quietly, almost sounding remorseful, “but this is the only way you’ll learn. You’ve made so many mistakes, love, and it’s apparent to me that you don’t know anything about women. Like this, for instance… ” she reaches to her wrist and undoes the clasp on her thousand-dollar bracelet, the bracelet I handed her so proudly this morning, the most expensive gift I’ve ever bought for a woman. If I was going to have to suffer through another Valentine’s Day, I was going to do it with a one-way ticket to total adoration.

She holds the bracelet up against the light of a candle and regards it grimly. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she says, “but it means nothing. I saw you this afternoon, looking at it, wondering how it might save you, wondering what it might “get” you. You were trying to buy “me” with this thing, weren’t you?”

I stare up at her dumbly. What am I supposed to say?

“Answer me. You can tell me the truth.”

“Yes, I was. I’m sorry.”

There’s a certain hurt that comes into her eyes that I can’t bear. I feel stupid, I feel like an asshole, and I deserve it. How many women have I done this to?

She leans forward, resting her head on my chest, her eyes focused absently on the bracelet in her hand. She stares at it, and there’s a long moment of silence. I can only lie here and bask in the warmth of her body, the steady pulse of her heart, and the soft rise of her breath.

“It almost worked,” she says sadly, quietly, “when I saw it, I thought to myself, ‘He must love me.’ And then, this afternoon, when I realized what it really meant, what this whole day means to you… you don’t really love me, you only love yourself.”

My heart drops and I actually feel like I want to cry. I want desperately to tell her how wrong she is, but I don’t dare speak, I don’t dare breath a word. If I could hold her and cradle her in my arms, I would. But now isn’t the time, I know she isn’t finished with me yet. Maybe by the time this is all over, I can convince her… somehow.

She sucks in a deep breath and rises to kneel over me once again. Her face is hard once again, the emotion drained from her. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll show you what this bracelet means to me now.” Still on her knees, she leans back, her left arm bracing her against the bed. It’s an unimaginably sexy pose, and it makes me realize how limber she actually is. She holds the bracelet in her free hand and slowly lets it slide down her body, the sparkling diamonds caressing the curve of her gorgeous breasts. I watch as the string of diamonds falls smoothly down her taut belly, down her soft flesh, to the vale of her pussy. She lets the sparkling rocks slip up and down her wet cunt, teasing herself as the bracelet just brushes over her sensitive clit.

I can only watch her in stunned silence. Never in the six months we had been together could I have even imagined this kind of erotic dance from her. She was supposed to be the sweet one, the innocent one… my sweet country girl is a seductress, pure and simple.

She leans forward again, moving the bracelet to my face, sliding it across my lips.

“Open your mouth,” she orders. I open my mouth, just enough for her to slide the clasp of the bracelet past my lips and between my teeth. “Hold this in your teeth.” I close my teeth gently around the studded band and it hangs out of the side of my mouth.

“Now,” my mistress continues sternly, “you’ll hold on to that, or you’ll be punished. If it drops out of your mouth, no matter what, you’ll pay for it, even more than you already have. You think you can buy me with a worthless trinket… ”

She smacks me lightly on the cheek, just hard enough to rattle my jaw, and I let the bracelet slip away from me. She grabs the bracelet and holds it up triumphantly. “Well, look at the little swine,” she taunts, “this thing was supposed to be a symbol of your possession. Look where it gets you now.” She places the bracelet against my lips again, and I grasp it with my teeth. She reaches over and picks up one of the candles sitting on a small table beside her bed. I groan uncontrollably as she holds the lit candle over my chest. Without another word, she carefully tips the candle, letting a few drops of hot wax drip down onto my flesh.

The burn is painful, but short-lived, just enough to get my attention. She shifts her weight back, and I feel her rub herself against my aching cock. As she continues pouring small streams of hot wax on my chest, her outer lips slip over my cock, spreading her moisture over my hard flesh. The sensation of pain and pleasure together is creating a fireworks display in my head, and it’s all I can do to keep that damn bracelet from slipping out of my mouth.

Mercifully, my mistress smiles down at me and places the candle back on the table. “Very good, my love,” she purrs, “you’re starting to learn, aren’t you?” She reaches down between her legs and grasps my cock. With an inviting moan, she rubs my rigid member firmly between her lips, allowing it to just barely penetrate her. I feel like I’m going to burst already, I’ve never wanted to come so bad in my entire life. Not just come, but come with her, make her come with me. But I know she isn’t going to make it that easy.

As if to prove me right, she releases me and slides down my legs, her hardened nipples trailing down my body. Her red-streaked hair falls in a cascade over my hips as she traces her tongue from the base of my cock to the very tip. Once again, I moan loudly through clenched teeth, swearing to the gods that I’ll never let that bracelet slip away from me again. It may now be my only saving grace, the only way that my mistress will ever stop torturing me and give me the pleasure I so desperately need.

I suck in a deep breath as she takes me in her mouth completely, slowly working her lips over me, allowing me to slip down her throat. She releases a deep moan that seems to resonate through my entire body, then pulls her mouth off me. “Do you like that, love? It’s okay, you can answer. Do you want to come in my mouth?”

“No, Mistress,” I manage to mumble through my teeth. She reaches up and takes the bracelet away from me.

“What was that?”

“No, Mistress. I don’t want to come in your mouth.”

She looks at me with a look of mock confusion. “You don’t want to come in my mouth,” she says thoughtfully, “well why not? What about all those times I’ve sucked your dick? When you put your hand on the back of my head, tell me to swallow. Isn’t that what you want?”

“No, it’s not what I want.”

Bracelet still in her hand, she crawls back up to me slowly so that I can feel her warm breath against my neck. Her legs entwine with my own, and I have the feeling that she wants this as badly as I do. It suddenly occurs to me that we’re in this together. My heart pumps wildly at the thought, the thought that we’re connected in a way I’ve never imagined, all because I was a fool.

“What do you want, John,” she says, her voice softened, back to the usual sweet drawl I’m used to. Her hand gently strokes my chest, and for the first time since we met, I feel real, genuine affection for her.

“Sydney… ” I realize I’ve broken the rules, but I don’t care, and I don’t think she does either. But I need to talk to her, the real Sydney, and tell her how I feel. “I want to be inside you. I’m sorry I’ve been an ass, I just… want to make love to you. I want to make you happy, Sydney. I want everything to be… real.”

She looks up at me, her blue eyes glistening. I think she knows I mean it this time, but she doesn’t want to show it quite yet. “How do I know you mean it?”

“You don’t. You have to trust me. I trusted you.”

She gazes down sadly at the bracelet in her fingers. “This thing… how could you have thought that about me?”

“I didn’t know what else to do. I never have. I love you, I didn’t know how else to tell you.”

Sydney freezes in the moment, and I can feel myself feeling the same. If I really told her what I just told her, it would be a first for me. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome John Clay to the real world. People apparently have feelings here, and human emotion isn’t just a myth.

“Tell me, John, just tell me now.”

“Sydney, I love you.”

She sighs softly, and I can actually feel her entire body relaxing. As for me, I feel like I’ve been bashing myself in the head with a hammer for years and I just now stopped. It still hurts a little, but it feels great now that it’s over.

“Please untie me, Syd.”

There’s a long moment of silence. I want her to untie me, I want to grab her and hold her, kiss her, make love to her, show her that she can trust me, that I mean it all. But she holds up the bracelet to me once again.

“I can’t forget about this, John. You tried to buy me with this.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sydney sits up and closes the clasp on the bracelet. She reaches down and slips the bracelet over my still erect cock, the cool diamonds resting against my skin. She slowly straddles me, her thighs clenched around my hips. I can barely stand it, I want her to let me go so I can touch her, but I guess it’s all part of the game. She leans forward and, for the first time tonight, kisses me sweetly on the lips.

I feel her position herself on top of me, my cock parting the wet lips of her pussy slightly. She gazes at me, and after a short moment, she slowly presses back, slipping her wet body around me. The sensation is making my entire body tingle, but it stops suddenly. Sydney has stopped her motion, and she looks at me lovingly. I’m aware of a vague resistance inside her, and my heart drops in surprise.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love,” she whispers, “this is my gift to you. I’m giving you something I won’t give anyone else.” She presses harder, and I feel the barrier break over the tip of my cock. The cry that escapes her lips is one of pain, but she continues pressing backward until I’m fully enveloped inside her body.

“Thank you, Sydney,” is all I can manage in a hoarse whisper. She smiles sweetly, then begins a rhythmic motion with her hips. I cry out softly as our bodies become one, fit together perfectly, like no one else. She rocks back and forth on top of me, and I’m vaguely aware of the thousand-dollar bracelet between us, now symbolic of much more than I could have ever bargained for.

Our breathing quickens as Sydney rides me steadily, our cries mingling in the air, her body becoming more accustomed to my body buried inside her. I hear her breath become short, her cries become desperate. Her tight pussy clenches around my cock strongly as an orgasm ripples through her, making her shudder violently. She cries out loudly as if her body is releasing something that has been pent up inside her for years, then she collapses onto my chest.

I can feel it now; Sydney hasn’t broken me, that was never her intention. She’s molded me, just like she always said, molded me into a better version of myself. She’s brought out the man that was too busy hiding behind a boy’s warped vision of women and romance. How can I ever repay her for this?

“Please untie me, Sydney,” I say quickly. She looks up at me, her eyes glowing with yearn, and quickly moves to untie my hands. It seems like seconds that it takes her to free me, and sitting up finally, I throw my arms around her, drawing her close and kissing her with a kind of abandon I’ve never felt before. She kneels before me, her thighs still straddling mine, and I pull her closer, slipping back inside her.

She rocks back and forth, her hips gyrating against mine. The scent of our sex drifts into the air, fueling both of us. Sydney wraps her arms around me neck, clinging to me for dear life, crying out hoarsely as another orgasm rips through her. As she comes, I thrust my hips into the air, practically lifting her off the bed and burying myself deep inside her.

I slip out of her gently, and she drops away from me onto the bed, spreading her legs to accept me. As I climb between her legs, the bracelet slips off me and drops onto the bed. Sydney looks down at it in amusement, and as I pick it up gingerly, she giggles. I can’t help but smile at her.

“What do I do with this thing,” I ask her sheepishly.

“Save it,” she says, “I’m always going to wear it. Always.”

I tenderly take hold of her hand and clasp the bracelet back around her wrist. She raises her hand to my face and gently strokes the rising bruising on my cheek.

“I’m sorry about this, Johnny.”

“It’s okay, I deserved it,” I say with a smile.

“Take me.”

I reach down and wrap my arms around her hips, lifting them off the bed towards me. I press forward into her, more easily this time, slipping deep inside her as she moans in ecstasy. My ears are blessed with her soft whimpers as I thrust into her, then withdraw. I watch her body hungrily as she writhes passionately in my arms, our bodies dancing together as if we were made for each other.

A warm feeling builds up inside me, and I can once again hear Sydney’s breath growing short and lustful, her perfect breasts heaving rapidly as her body prepares itself to accept another orgasm. I can feel my stomach tighten, and a shudder runs through me. Sydney’s pussy clenches over me again, her muscles stroking me, tugging at me, trying to pull me in as deeply as possible.

I quicken my pace as I feel the release building. My hips thrust relentlessly, our flesh thundering together as Sydney cries out my name loudly into the night. It hits me like a thunderbolt, and I begin pumping my seed into her, over and over, wishing it would never end, my arms still drawing her strongly to me. When it is over, I can still feel her body clenching against mine, taut, tense. After a few moments, our breathing begins to slow, and my heart, which I thought might explode, returns to a normal pace.

I gently lower Sydney’s body back onto the bed, allowing myself to slip from her. She sighs as I pull out of her, and her arms reach out for me, drawing me down to her. I lay down beside her, listening to the sound of her pulse gradually slow down. There is a glow of complete satisfaction surrounding the two of us, and we both know it’s something more than just sexual.

As we slip into a deep and gentle sleep, I can see the pile of ashes that was once “The Big Book of John Clay”. A strong breeze swoops in and blows it all away, and underneath is another book.

“The Revised Big Book of John Clay”.

Page one, chapter one, verses one and two: Everything you know is wrong. Valentine’s Day is wonderful.

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