Master of Two: Nascent Love by Derek, Verity Ant Page A

something
managed and reliable. I am the sort of guy whose clothes have to
face the right direction in the closet, but I don’t line up the
pens in my desk drawers.
    That's the way I behave, and the way I want
others around me to behave: disciplined and reliable. Growing up, I
found myself allied with my taciturn father more often than with my
unpredictable mother. I suppose I learned to prefer strength of
character over whimsy. My mother was an artist, and although I
loved her, her fickleness often grated my nerves.
    Both of my parents are gone now; killed in a
small plane crash. My father piloted the little Cessna, but I don't
blame him for the accident. He was a rock-solid guy who got me
through some difficult moments growing up. Randolf didn't say much,
but his actions were loud and clear.
    I remember in high school, how I was the
smart guy to whom people turned when they couldn't understand the
homework or needed an answer to a problem with a girl. I guess I
was like Cyrano de Bergerac, writing love letters that would bear
another man's name. It was an awkward time for me. But eventually,
I found a girl who wanted me for me. Teenagers that we were, there
were constant issues to be dealt with. After a while, I had to step
away from that relationship because her behavior was too emotional
and erratic and began to be something I had to manage more often
than I liked. I took control of the situation, but I was still
pretty green, and my ham-handed arm chair psychology left us both
unhappy and alone.
    But in college, I tried a few new things
with the girls I dated. After a while they weren't so callow, and
there was more order than chaos.
    I had a lovely girl my sophomore year. Her
name was Tasha. She was a beautiful woman, with soft, light coffee
colored skin and bright sloe eyes. I thought I was in love with
her, and maybe I was. At the time, I didn't know what love for a
woman really meant – my parents were fractious and sometimes
distant with each other. My mother got a wild hair up her ass one
year and adopted my baby sister, Loretta. I was thirteen at the
time. It was a crazy, emotional decision, but my father went along,
so there we were, suddenly a family of four. That took some getting
used to, but I adapted.
    After I got into Princeton, Tasha and I
spent more than a few hours babysitting Lori as she moved beyond
babyhood, and I have to say, if I've ever loved anyone, truly loved
a person for everything she is and the potential she has, I loved
my baby sister.
    That kind of love came more naturally to me
than the kind of love Tasha was trying to find, and although I felt
some emotion for her, I don't know how I'd label it–or for that
matter, whether a label is even necessary.
    Tasha was a very sensual person. She loved
sex—everything about it. And, with a young man's raging hormones, I
was ready, willing and able to indulge her. There were things I'd
seen during a trip to Amsterdam with my father, magazines and adult
comic books, that left a lasting impression on me. I was drawn to
the sadomasochist stuff the most—not blood and destruction, but the
expressions on the faces of the participants pulled me in. I wanted
to try some of those things with Tasha, and she was more than
willing to accommodate me.
    The first time I spanked her, she took to it
like a sea turtle to water. Even though it made her cry, she was
wet and ready for me to fuck. Her breasts were firm, the nipples
hard and, before I took her, I pinched rather roughly and found
that, not only did she react with enthusiasm, but I enjoyed it
immensely. Her moan, the arch of her spine, the suffering on her
face, and the way she bit her lip as I slowly twisted those
nipples, turned me on so much, I nearly came right there on her
belly.
    I tested other aspects of sadomasochism,
gently at first, then with a little more force. I found out what I
could do that gave her sensual pain, and learned what would cause
bruises—bruises that I felt guilty about