by B. Cavis

by B. Cavis

“Who do you belong to?” he asks her, his voice unaffected and low. His hands remain in their assigned positions on the chair arms. The glass of scotch is bleeding condensation onto the coaster to his left. He doesn’t look away from her.

This is what a real Thursday night should be. Not working an impossible case. Not sanding a lump of already smooth wood. Not lying in bed and wishing, hoping that by some god’s grace, his wet dreams will come true.

Those things are not Thursdays. Those things are not fun, they are not new, and if he’s honest with himself-- they’re not even satisfying. Thursday nights were made for something else. Thursday nights were made for… personal time.

And in his world, in his life, personal time has become this.

Him and his little entertainment.

She shifts in her “at ease” position, throat working her nerves down. There has been no answer yet, and she knows that that will not satisfy, nor will it go unpunished. She can’t get her throat to work-- he knows it-- and that makes her more nervous because she knows exactly what he does to her when she doesn’t do what she’s told.

He can see it on her face; she has no idea what’s wrong with her. Why this Thursday, of all others, she can’t form words or adhere to commands. She’s usually quite good at this-- he made sure she was. It took months of training, and several nights that forced her into sated unconsciousness, but she got it down pat, and she doesn’t stray from it now.

To him, the answer is obvious. She’s too close to her every day persona-- there has been little time to adjust and slip into her mind space, and he knows it but that’s not the point.

She is supposed to be ready for him, no matter what. There is no excuse for her not to be.

After all, that’s her job. To follow his lead and do what he tells her to do. To be a “good little agent”; a new variation on the person she was all through her childhood and school-- the Good Little Girl. Always with the right grades, the right boys, the right college. She was raised up by her parents and by the church to obey authority-- to please. Good little girls please.

And she is very good at being a “good little girl.”

He knew that instantly, of course. The second he saw her. Sitting there, so prim and proper; so perfectly composed. He had wanted to take her into the bathroom, turn her skirt up and pull her panties down, and teach her body how to react to him. He wanted to hear her beg and moan and gasp for him and her God; wanted her to break into a thousand razor sharp slices of silver for him to gather up and put back together any way it pleased him.

He had initially dismissed it as a reaction of being in such a confined space with her-- after all, she was an attractive woman, and he was a hot-blooded man. It was only natural that he wanted to fuck her; that was what men and women did together. Fuck.

It was only after he found out about her boy toy; about her little rebellion from being the responsible, “good” one, that he had known it was a real possibility. Had known that he could take her in hand and rebuild her so that that entire urge to please was redirected towards him. He had known that she would be perfect on her hands and knees, doing whatever he demanded of her, and that she would love it.

It had taken a year or so after that for him to make it happen. One night of honesty, a few dozen whiskey flavored kisses, and he’d had her in his bed, hands tied in one of her own stockings, begging to come. She had twisted and thrashed on his sheets, her breathing shallow and forced, her skin red. And his Good Little Girl with a dark streak had followed every command he had given her.

Legs together. Sit still. Arch your back.


And she was absolutely desperate for it, just the way he had known she would be. Needy and hot and full of the low burning fire of submission. She had moved to where he wanted her, bent and shifted when commanded, climaxed when ordered.

Four times. Until she had sobbed and collapsed boneless and half passed out on the bed, legs apart, head thrown back.

Because good little girls please.

And from that night on, he had made absolutely sure that she recognized him as the only one she needed to focus on pleasing.

“I asked you a question,” he says, and the iron in his tone makes her shiver. Her nipples bruise dark rose on her pale skin. The leather collar is black and wicked looking around her neck. He settles back further in his chair, long callused fingers resting on the wood. She can’t draw her eyes away from those hands.

“You,” she whispers, swallowing down her own fear and nervousness. She is drifting further into the mind space of his submissive, and he can see the worry floating away from her back and posture.

Still. She knows better than to whisper with him.

“Wrong answer,” he says, soft and dangerous now, and she swallows again. He takes his hands off the armrests and folds them together on his knee. “Are you deliberately testing me? Do you want to know if I’ll do something about it?” She lets out a shaky breath and a soft whimper follows it out of her throat. It’s the neediest sound in the world, and it makes his cock jerk up higher.


“Because,” he continues, “I will. You’ve already racked up quite a few demerit points and we haven’t even gotten started.” He spreads his legs apart in the chair, wide, and presses the heel of his hand down on his erection for a little relief. She follows the action with her down turned eyes, legs shaking in anticipation. “And if you don’t want me to tan your ass red and bleeding,” he hisses, “you will tell me right now-- who do you belong to?”

“You, sir,” she forces out desperately. Her head drops down even further, slipping into the submissive niche completely, and he lets her hang there in silence for a moment while her breathing loses all signs of being controlled.

He is the only one who gets to control her.

“That,” he says, “is much better. I was beginning to wonder if you wanted this at all tonight, Pet. I’d say that I wasn’t going to relish forcing you, but that would be a lie.” He lets his body sink into the chair until he is more comfortable.

This could take a while. He hopes.

“Look at me.” Her head tilts up, eyes dazed and happy, clear of any emotion but the urge to love and be loved in return. Perfect. “Why didn’t you answer me immediately, Pet?”

Her head tilts towards one side, and her white teeth take her bottom lip in and chew thoughtfully. “I couldn’t. It felt wrong.”

“I felt wrong?”

“Oh no, sir,” she hastens to amend. “It just felt… too weird. I wasn’t ready for it, sir, and I couldn’t make the words come. I’m not sure why.” Her eyes are confused now. Best to put a stop to that.

“Come here, Pet.” He keeps his legs spread open, and when she steps in between them, he snaps and points down. She kneels without protest. She does everything without protest when she’s like this. He trained her to be this way, after all.

Wait for my orders. Be obedient. Never question me. Three lessons that act as her touchstones, and he gave them to her for exactly that reason. She works best when controlled by rules and boundaries. He was more than happy to provide her with a few.

The silver ring attached to the leather calls to him, and he links his pointer finger through it, pulling gently. She moves with it, looking up at him like he holds her world in his hands.

And he does.

“What does this collar mean, Pet?” He jerks the ring to hasten her answer along, and she doesn’t disappoint. Her hands are still and glued to the tops of her thighs as her ass rests on her heels.

“It means I belong to you, sir. You can do whatever you want to me whenever you want to, because I am yours to play with.” She recites the words that months of training have given meaning. There is no hesitation or nervousness in her voice. She is not allowed to have any.

“That’s right, Pet,” he says, and she basks in the approval. The happiness in her eyes is brimming and thick. “I can do anything I want to do to you whenever I want, and you don’t have any say in it, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then what makes you think you had the right to ‘not be ready’ for me when I ordered you to?”

Her eyes storm quietly as her happiness is replaced by shame, deep and grinding. She bites her lower lip hard and the need for forgiveness blooms onto her face. Her chin droops, and he jerks her head back up to keep her eyes where he wants them. “Hm? That was not a rhetorical question, Pet.”

Her bottom lip trembles, fat and heavy. “I didn’t, sir.”

“No, you didn’t, did you?” He leans back in the chair, releasing the ring but not her eyes. She doesn’t look away from him-- she hasn’t been told if she can yet. “You tried to be in control of something that belongs to me. And that’s against the rules, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir,” she answers, her guilt seeping into every line of her body.

“You broke the rules,” he says, and nods to himself. “And like with anyone else who breaks the rules, you need to be punished for it. Don’t you, Pet?”

She sets her jaw, biting her lip red and swollen. “If… that’s what you want to do to me, sir.”

He watches her, keeping her waiting for a good long moment, before smirking at her. “I do believe, Pet, that that is exactly what I want to do to you.” He unfolds his hands and puts them back on the chair’s arms. She watches him desperately. “Go over to the nightstand and take out the blue jar and your new toy.” Her eyes widen at the words “new toy,” and he bites down a smile.

She loves it when he tries something new on her. She loves it even more when he surprises her with it.

She rises less than gracefully on shaky legs, and he examines her ass with interest as she walks over to the nightstand. Nice and tight, and oh so round. She is covered in young, pert flesh that makes his cock harder than stone. He intends on giving her a workout tonight-- her skin is perfection wrapped in salt when she is coated in a thin blanket of sweat.

She returns, with a blue, unlabeled jar in one hand and a thick red vibrator in the other. She stands at the ready.

“Give them to me, and bend over my lap, Pet.”

He can feel her trembling on his thighs. Her breathing is harsh and uneven, and when he pulls the ottoman over so she can support her upper body on something, she rubs her nipples against the leather desperately. He pinches her ass. “Do that again, and I’ll take it away and make you press your face against the carpet through all of this. You’ll have rug burns on your nipples for a week.” She stills.

He takes the red vibrator in hand and presses it gently against the small of her back. “Now, Pet, where do you think I should put this? Hm?”

She gasps at the feeling of cold plastic on her warm flesh. “Uhhh… M-My pussy,” she whimpers, “please, sir.”

“Your pussy? You mean this tight little wet pussy that I control tonight?” he asks conversationally, fingers training down the crack of her ass to press the round head of the vibrator against her. She wails, and he runs it over her from hole to clit, gathering up her juices. “I suppose I could do that. I do love to watch you scream, don’t I?”

She tries to hold herself still-- he hasn’t told her she can move around his lap-- but the feeling of the artificial cock against her is driving her nerve endings to the breaking point. She drools on the ottoman. “Y-Y-Yes, sssir.”

“Yes, I do.” He lets it play over her for a moment longer, before pulling it away. She moans. “Silence, Pet. You know you have absolutely no say over what I do to you.” He spreads her ass cheeks apart with one hand, looking down at the tight little pink and tan muscle that he has gotten so much pleasure out of in the past. He presses the vibrator against her, and she clenches automatically, unable to control her body’s instinctual response to the pressure. “I think I might get a better show if it’s in here,” he says, and she pants against the leather ottoman.

He presses the vibrator into her, and she screams at the sensation. He’s trained her to give voice to every sensation he instills in her unless told otherwise, and he smirks at how well she has taken all of it to heart. His little entertainment, clothed in flesh and blood and his ownership. The collar around her neck is the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

He pushes until the whole thing is completely buried in her, past the little notch in the plastic designed to keep it in place unless removed by hand. It had intrigued him when he saw it in the store. He had imagined it up her ass as she walked around his house or her apartment, being forced to carry out every day tasks while her ass burned and her legs shook. He had pictured her bending over the table, begging to be fucked and put out of her misery, and him simply sitting back and watching her as she writhed and shook, ass in the air.

It looks beautiful in her. She looks good on it.

He takes the blue jar and opens it, tossing the cap aside. The smell is reminiscent of his childhood, and he breathes it deeply. A shiver runs through her as she smells the menthol filling the room. She remembers the burn of it on her chest when she was little.

“I do love your clit, Pet,” he remarks, tone light enough for him to be discussing the weather or a story in the paper. “It’s always so happy to see me. Swollen and red.” He dips one finger in the cream and swirls it around, branding his print in the cream remaining in the jar. “I do hate to have to do this to it, but you have been extremely bad tonight, haven’t you?”

Her back is shaking and she is pressing one long open mouthed kiss against the ottoman. She whines against the leather. “Yu-Yes, siiiir…”

He takes his pointer finger, coated in the rub, and runs it over her clit. She jerks at the feeling, ass pressing up in the air. He smirks to himself, feeling the rush of power that comes from knowing he can control this normally so composed woman, and works more of the cream in. The smell of the menthol drips into his nose and expands to fill all the air in the room. He pulls his hand away and rests it on her ass cheek, holding her in place.

Only a matter of time now, he thinks, and sits perfectly still. He knows what is about to happen to her. He’s looking forward to it, actually. One thing he’s learned through all of this-- she is absolutely perfect when she’s begging for it.

And when it comes, it is unmistakable; the ice-cold burn rips into her, forcing all the air out of her in one long wail.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh,” she gasps, twitching against him and trying desperately to make contact with something hard and solid. He laughs, and keeps her clit away from the warm relief of his thigh. “Sssiirrr…” she moans, pores oozing a thin veneer of sweat to flavor her skin. He bends over her and runs his tongue up her back gently.

Her taste spills into his mouth, heady and thick, and he smiles. “You taste wonderful, Pet.”

“P…Puh… Please,” she whimpers. “It b-b-burns… I need to cuh…” Her throat is rebelling against her. The words die before they reach the air. Her ass thrusts up at him, desperate for something to relieve the aching that he has put into her.

I got your something right here, he thinks wickedly, and his fingers twist the vibrator on high before his hand comes down on her behind with no warning.

She screams. Loudly. There are tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, and her hands clench tight fistfuls of the ottoman. Her face is beautifully open, so perfectly accessible, and he revels in the look of mental and physical availability she wears. Absolutely gorgeous.

Absolutely only for him.

His hand comes down on her, quick and hard. Again. Again. She is twitching away from his hands before they come down, but when they’ve made contact with her, she tries to follow them back up. She is afraid of his hand on her ass; she is desperate for the pain, for the contact. The two conflicting emotions make her fight just enough to excite him, and beg with her body more than enough to entice him. His perfect little young submissive. His nice, tight-bodied little amusement.

She thrashes on his thighs, her wail a constant accompaniment to the sound of his hand coming down on her. The symphony they create makes his cock press insistent and hard against his zipper. He can’t hold onto this much longer.

When the blows stop, she is sobbing and shivering. Her thighs shake. “Tell me what you’re feeling, Pet.”

She gathers up her breath and her tattered thoughts, gasping in between words as her body begs for the release that he hasn’t granted her yet. “I…” She struggles to talk. Struggles to please. “My c-clit is on fire. I’m so w-wet, sir.”

He rubs her red stained ass with his palm, and she whines in the back of her throat at the soothing sensation over her aching rear. She doesn’t want soothing right now-- she needs release, not comfort. “You’re wet?” He asks. “Where?”

“My puh… my pussy.” He knows she hates that word-- it makes her feel dirty and foolish. The fact that he makes her use it in this state is another type of control. Another level of ownership. It makes her feel like he’s fucking her mind as well, and he knows it because there is nothing she can hide from him anymore.

“Your pussy is wet. Hmm… And your ass?” He jiggles the handle of the vibrator, still buzzing inside her ass, and she pushes up against him at the contact. He withdraws his hand quickly, and she moans in disappointment.

“My ass is f-full,” she whimpers. “It feels stuh… stuffed.”

“Ah,” he purrs, and that sound would be wrong coming from his throat normally, but it works perfectly here. She grinds against him. “I suppose you think you deserve to come now? Hm?”

And she stops moving, swallows, and when her voice comes, it is calm and even. “If that is what you want for me, sir.”

His grin would scare the Grim Reaper. The speed at which he has his pants down and her sitting up and turned in his lap to face him would scare an Olympic sprinter.

“Right answer, Pet,” he applauds, and pulls her onto his cock with no further fanfare.

Her head flies back, eyes closed for a moment, inner muscles working him in relief. “Uhhn,” she grunts. Some of the desperation has leaked out of her face, but most of it remains. She is needy. She is wanton.

She is his.

He takes her hips in hand and starts to move her up and down on his cock. “Grab my shoulders,” he commands, and when her hands grip him, he trusts her balance enough to lean forward and grab one of her nipples in his teeth, pulling firmly. She jerks, and starts to move her hips faster and harder in his hands.

“That’s it, Pet,” he urges. “Move that tight little ass for me, and we’ll see what we can do for your burning clit, your full ass, and your sweet, wet little pussy.” He pulls his mouth away from her skin, leaning back to watch her as she dances obscenely in his lap.

Her fingernails bite into his back, but he doesn’t rebuke her for it. The idea that he has her this out of control-- loose enough to hold onto him to keep from falling-- is extremely appealing. She tosses her dark hair back from her face, mouth open and gasping. Her breath is hot against his face. It feels like sunlight.

The vibrator buzzes angrily in her ass, and he can feel it through the thin walls of her cunt. It hits his leg with every down ward movement of her hips, and she grunt every time it does. His fingers reach behind her and jiggle it in her ass playfully.

She gasps and picks up the pace. Their bodies make a wet, hot sound when they slap together. He watches the flush on her body glow red and heated, and smirks to himself.

“You are so desperate for it, aren’t you, Pet?” he questions, sticky sweet and soft. She grunts at the sound of his voice. She gets off on him talking to her when they do this. He gets off on doing this, period. “I could bend you over anywhere and stick that thing up your ass and just sit and wait while you come undone.” He jerks it around a bit more. “Would you like that?”

Her cheeks are red and flushed. “S-S-Sir?” she asks as her body tenses and tightens up.

“I could take this devious little thing, put it on the lowest, just barely teasing setting, and shove it up inside you before work in the morning. Hm? How does that strike you?” Her head drops forward against his shoulder, mouth open in one long groan as he takes her hips firmer in hand and starts to move her faster. “Walking around all day with this buzzing up your ass. Sitting doing paperwork, joking with Tony-- all the while knowing that you are just two seconds away from screaming your pretty little head off as you come. And knowing that it’s all because of me, because I own this tight ass of yours whenever I want it, and therefore control what happens to it.” He can feel his control over her slipping away, but she is tightening around him in that telltale way that screams she is losing it just as fast.

He leans forward and bites down on her neck, marking her skin, and pulls back with a dark grin in his eyes. “You’ll never forget who you belong to, Pet. I won’t ever let you. This ass, this pussy, this body-- it’s all mine. And you are just here to be used in any way I want to.”

She screams, her body tightening and tightening and her head is thrashing and her mouth is open and her hips hammering and oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah.

“Katie!” he hollers, jerking forward…

And falls out of bed, his come coated boxers glued to his thighs.

The alarm clock buzzes angrily in the corner, and he throws it a look that could drop a man in his place. Seven oh nine. Time to be a professional again. God how he hates being a professional after a dream like that.

He hasn’t been able to look her in the eyes in weeks. He wonders if she’s noticed that whenever she encroaches on his personal space, he finds an excuse to start walking away. Probably she has. Probably, she thinks it’s just a funk he’s going through because of one ex-wife or another.

Best to let her believe that. Safer, to let her believe that.

He scrubs his hands over his face, feeling the grime and sweat on his skin, and winces. Another goddamned dream. Another impossible, improbably, totally hot scenario starring a woman he can never have and a control that he can never maintain around her. His subordinate. His prodigy.

He tells himself firmly that that is the way it will remain, and shakes the image of her upturned ass out of his head. Foolish, horny old man, he chastises himself. Foolish, horny, desperately in love old man.

This is no way to have a Friday morning, he groans as he climbs up from the floor and heads towards the shower. This is no way to have a life.


The Skin Within Series gets its name from an Incubus song, "Priceless" off the album "A Crow Left of the Murder." It goes:
“The fact that you think you can
Speak to me the way you do
Bleeds me to believe that you
Have never stepped out of the
Skin you live within.”
You know.
Just in case you cared.

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