The Collectors by Lesley Gowan Page B

those few seconds ticked by since the last lash, then I could feel how turned on I was. I pushed myself against the bench, seeing if I could get anything in the general vicinity to touch me and bring me some relief.
    She wasn’t quite done with me. I felt her hands on my ass, lightly smoothing over the welts and bruises before positioning herself and entering my cunt with a generously sized dildo. She went full in and I was ready, surprised but welcoming. She fucked me slowly and for a long time, and I came at least twice. I wasn’t quiet about it. I didn’t think I could come by being fucked. I never did with a man. I never did when being fucked this way by the one girlfriend I had who would do it.
    Did Jeanne come? If she did, it still wasn’t enough for her. She undid my restraints and told me to go kneel by the sofa. She allowed me to drink some water from the carafe on the coffee table and then disappeared for a few minutes. When she returned she was wearing a long silk robe. She sat on the sofa in front of me and parted the robe, pushing her pelvis forward on the seat.
    “You know what to do,” she said.
    I eagerly bent forward, my mouth finding her and the smell of the silicone toy she’d worn. When my tongue touched her, she jerked forward, grabbing me by the back of my head and holding me close to her. It didn’t take long to bring her to orgasm, but it was a wild ride. I was bucked around like a rodeo cowboy, and I wondered if my eight and a half seconds on her was a record or not.
    “The car will be outside for you,” she said. “Be back here tomorrow night.”
    And that’s how it was the whole week. She introduced me to nearly every piece of bondage furniture in her room, each instrument of torture she had locked in the armoire. I have no idea how I performed relative to other newcomers, but she seemed quite pleased. Of course, she would never say she was pleased, but I could tell I was making her happy. She slowed down some and seemed to savor moments, and a few times I saw affection in her eyes. I had scant clues to go by as to her feelings, but that look and the fact that she kept telling me to come back—those had to mean something.
    On the last night of the week, as I was attached to the big X they called a St. Andrew’s Cross, Jeanne spent a long time flogging me. My breasts were bright red and my thighs had marks crisscrossing them. I showed no sign of having had enough, for I hadn’t. I hoped she’d turn me around and do my back.
    “You’re a true masochist,” Jeanne said.
    “What?” I was gagged, so it sounded more like “Whaoaora?”
    “You can take a lot of pain. It gets you off.”
    I didn’t think that sounded very becoming, though it was unquestionably true. The pain did get me off, and each day I was discovering new levels of tolerance. But I didn’t really want to be identified as a masochist. They didn’t get much respect.
    “Why did you pick someone like Balthus to write your dissertation on?” she asked.
    “Whaoaora?”
    Jeanne reached up and undid my gag. I had to work my jaw a bit before I could speak.
    “What does Balthus have to do with anything right now?”
    “I find him an interesting choice.”
    “Why? He was a great painter. Plus, not much has been written about him. He’s an ideal choice.”
    I hoped I didn’t feel so defensive when I actually had to defend my dissertation before my committee. Chances were I wouldn’t be hanging naked on a cross while they questioned me. I had a hard time with discourse when my skin was on fire and my pussy throbbing.
    Jeanne continued. “He was a wonderful painter, I agree. But what do you make of Balthus very pointedly denying having any Jewish blood? Do you approve of people denying who they are?”
    She stood before me with her flogger held behind her back, in a sort of at-ease position. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
    “It makes me wonder if you gravitated toward him because you too have spent a lot of