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

afterward. I didn't want
to go that far. It wasn't sexy; it was brutal. My morals and my
sense of self-control kept me from doing things I would regret
later. Giving Tasha a spanking, pinching here and there, wouldn't
harm her, and always made her come harder. Me, too.
    Now, maybe, as I experimented cautiously, I
was hard on her. Her nipples were my playthings and I was rough
with them. She could come from my pulls and twists on that tender
flesh. I let her, exploring the limits of my sexuality by observing
her reactions to the strength of my pinches and twists. She'd arch
into my hands and say encouraging things. "Yeah, baby, harder. That
hurts so good."
    Tasha was a talker in bed. There was never
any doubt in my mind what she liked and didn't like. In that way,
she was perfect for a young man with minimal experience with sex.
"Do it, do it, do it," was her mantra more often than not.
    But the more eager she became, the more I
wanted to control the situation and parcel out the treats in my own
time. I loved to listen to her beg for orgasms.
    I'd fuck her hard and fast, sometimes to the
point where the head of my prick would feel a little battered the
next day, but if she was near to coming, I'd withdraw. She'd beg me
to continue, plead with me and coax, so I'd relent. She learned to
say thank you for each and every orgasm I allowed her to have.
    There’s a strange scent that wafts from a
woman in sexual pain, and I found out that it shoots right to my
hindbrain. I absolutely loved the perfume of her pain when we
delved into sadomasochistic territory. She smelled like wet female,
clean sweat and something else—something subtle and sublime. It
turned me on, and as I look back on it now, if anything could be
pointed out as central to the evolution of my sexual sadism, it was
that fragrance, and the effect it had on me. Even today, nothing
makes me hard as does that special smell.
    All of our play was consensual and I knew
she'd back me up on that, but sometimes she'd beg for more than I
was willing to give, and I had too much to lose. I was knee-deep in
schoolwork, trying to make the best grades in order to get into the
economics program at the Chicago school. Coming from Princeton, if
I could manage the highest grades, test scores, and class
placement, I had a decent shot at it. Any kind of legal hassle
would put all of my plans in jeopardy. So I avoided bruising her at
all costs–should a routine medical visit put her bruises in view of
a medical professional, my academic career would have been in
serious jeopardy.
    I gave her most of what she wanted, but not
all of it. We'd live out some of the fantasies I cherished from
those Amsterdam books, but within the limits I set. Tasha would
pout and cajole, but my limits were hard limits.
    One day, she begged me on hands and knees to
slap her. I'd spanked her more than a few times, and, at her
request, slapped her breasts and pussy. The pain excited her to a
very high degree, so high that I realized she'd be as excited by my
rough sexual practices as if I was to truly harm her. Harm her, I
would not do–that’s not the way I was raised. Not only didn’t I
want to cause harm, I felt strongly that it wasn't right to do
damage to another person that way. Seeing her in pain excited me,
but there's a certain point where the idea of going past harsh into
something sick makes you pause and take a step back.
    She knelt there, begging me to slap her, her
eyes were glistening, all deep purple-brown and excited. Her hands
were on my denim-clad thighs and her freshly spanked bottom was
resting gingerly on her heels.
    "Don't make demands on me, Tasha," I told
her. It irritated me when she tried to take charge of the
situation. She knew I would take care of her needs within limits
and yet she constantly tested the limits.
    "Slap my face," she said. "Slap me and make
me feel like the naked bitch in heat I am."
    I was definitely not going to slap her face.
That was way beyond what was