Read Online Master of Two: Nascent Love by Derek, Verity Ant - Free Book Online
Authors: Derek, Verity Ant
Tags: S/M, BDSM, Short Stories, Erotic, Sadism, Sadomasochism, heterosexual, masochism, fast read, lesbian bdsm, lesbian affair, heterosexual bdsm
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reasonable, and it suggested she had
some kind of emotional problems. To slap a person in the
face—especially a woman—was the lowest form of disrespect. I told
her no firmly, and turned to walk away. She grabbed me by the leg
and begged.
"I'm a cunt, I'm a whore, I'm shit," she
said wildly. "I need you to teach me a lesson. I want to be
better."
It took a lot of self-discipline to
disengage her from my leg, but I was so disgusted by her behavior,
I knew that I had to pull back, pull away emotionally or be sucked
down into the riptide of her illness. For illness it was. It was
beyond a sexual need to be roughly stimulated and deep into the
realm of self-loathing. She needed help, not sadomasochistic sex
play.
Once I'd disengaged her from my leg, I
pulled her upright and held her in my arms. She cried, sobbing and
begging me to strike her, make her clean again. But, of course I
wouldn't. I held her and told her how beautiful she was, how
perfect and fresh and desirable. I tried to counter all of her
self-hatred with affection and respect. After a while, she quieted
and apologized.
I accepted her apology, but that was the end
of our relationship. I talked her into seeing the campus mental
health professionals, and stood by her through the difficult first
two weeks of her therapy. At times, her doctor would stare at me
curiously, and I knew she'd told the man about our sadomasochistic
sex, but he never said a word to me. I guess it was telling enough
that I'd brought her for help and tried to be supportive while she
was getting it. I might have been sexually sadistic—I was; I knew
it—but I was not a monster. I had morals and a sense of right and
wrong.
Tasha was embarrassed by the entire episode
and there was no way I was going to get back into the same
situation again, so there was no place for us to go as a
couple.
I found other women while at Princeton, and
had vanilla relationships. I was attractive enough, I guess. They
tell me my gray eyes are appealing and that I have a good smile. I
was boxing regularly, so maybe they saw physical strength, too.
Those vanilla relationships were much less satisfying, but I had
been burned by the fire of Tasha's unhealthy masochism and didn't
think I would likely find a masochistic woman who didn't have deep
psychological problems. I limited my behaviors to spanking during
sex, and slightly rough fucking. It was hard to keep my hands from
wanting to tug ungently on nipples and labia, and I really had to
work to lave a swollen clit with my tongue gently and not nip at
it. But I kept myself under tight rein.
Eventually, I graduated from Princeton, and
to my delight was accepted right into the PhD program at University
of Chicago's school of economics—the most prestigious program, some
said, in the world of economics.
I was twenty-four and had the world on a
string, as they say. It was a lot of hard work, but I knuckled down
and did it, letting much of the rest of my life wait while I ground
through the economics program relentlessly.
It took me five years, but I got my PhD,
and, having graduated at the top of my class, was recruited by some
big economics consultancies and brokerage firms. I took the one
with the most potential for networking and prominent projects. The
money meant less to me—money is part of my family heritage—but I
was happy to live in Manhattan and rake in the bucks that were
offered.
I was arrogant and believed that it would
all keep getting better and better. But I was wrong.
Three days after my thirtieth birthday, I
got a call from my father. My little sister, Lori, was in the
hospital. Apparently a gang of vicious girls had attacked my
beautiful teenage sister and she lay in serious condition at Cedars
Sinai hospital in Los Angeles.
I flew home at once, of course. Lori had a
fractured skull, pieces of which had lodged in her brain. One of
her arms was broken and ligaments were torn in one of her ankles.
There were deep purple bruises all over
some kind of emotional problems. To slap a person in the
face—especially a woman—was the lowest form of disrespect. I told
her no firmly, and turned to walk away. She grabbed me by the leg
and begged.
"I'm a cunt, I'm a whore, I'm shit," she
said wildly. "I need you to teach me a lesson. I want to be
better."
It took a lot of self-discipline to
disengage her from my leg, but I was so disgusted by her behavior,
I knew that I had to pull back, pull away emotionally or be sucked
down into the riptide of her illness. For illness it was. It was
beyond a sexual need to be roughly stimulated and deep into the
realm of self-loathing. She needed help, not sadomasochistic sex
play.
Once I'd disengaged her from my leg, I
pulled her upright and held her in my arms. She cried, sobbing and
begging me to strike her, make her clean again. But, of course I
wouldn't. I held her and told her how beautiful she was, how
perfect and fresh and desirable. I tried to counter all of her
self-hatred with affection and respect. After a while, she quieted
and apologized.
I accepted her apology, but that was the end
of our relationship. I talked her into seeing the campus mental
health professionals, and stood by her through the difficult first
two weeks of her therapy. At times, her doctor would stare at me
curiously, and I knew she'd told the man about our sadomasochistic
sex, but he never said a word to me. I guess it was telling enough
that I'd brought her for help and tried to be supportive while she
was getting it. I might have been sexually sadistic—I was; I knew
it—but I was not a monster. I had morals and a sense of right and
wrong.
Tasha was embarrassed by the entire episode
and there was no way I was going to get back into the same
situation again, so there was no place for us to go as a
couple.
I found other women while at Princeton, and
had vanilla relationships. I was attractive enough, I guess. They
tell me my gray eyes are appealing and that I have a good smile. I
was boxing regularly, so maybe they saw physical strength, too.
Those vanilla relationships were much less satisfying, but I had
been burned by the fire of Tasha's unhealthy masochism and didn't
think I would likely find a masochistic woman who didn't have deep
psychological problems. I limited my behaviors to spanking during
sex, and slightly rough fucking. It was hard to keep my hands from
wanting to tug ungently on nipples and labia, and I really had to
work to lave a swollen clit with my tongue gently and not nip at
it. But I kept myself under tight rein.
Eventually, I graduated from Princeton, and
to my delight was accepted right into the PhD program at University
of Chicago's school of economics—the most prestigious program, some
said, in the world of economics.
I was twenty-four and had the world on a
string, as they say. It was a lot of hard work, but I knuckled down
and did it, letting much of the rest of my life wait while I ground
through the economics program relentlessly.
It took me five years, but I got my PhD,
and, having graduated at the top of my class, was recruited by some
big economics consultancies and brokerage firms. I took the one
with the most potential for networking and prominent projects. The
money meant less to me—money is part of my family heritage—but I
was happy to live in Manhattan and rake in the bucks that were
offered.
I was arrogant and believed that it would
all keep getting better and better. But I was wrong.
Three days after my thirtieth birthday, I
got a call from my father. My little sister, Lori, was in the
hospital. Apparently a gang of vicious girls had attacked my
beautiful teenage sister and she lay in serious condition at Cedars
Sinai hospital in Los Angeles.
I flew home at once, of course. Lori had a
fractured skull, pieces of which had lodged in her brain. One of
her arms was broken and ligaments were torn in one of her ankles.
There were deep purple bruises all over
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