Claiming Cleo (Masters Club 2)

Master Jack’s chuckle was deliciously evil. “Stop anticipating,” he said, his voice low and sure. “Remember—keep yourself open to the pain, open to me.”

He started gently, delivering a series of light taps over her ass and the backs of her thighs with the side of the cane. “You need this, don’t you Cleo?” he murmured throatily. “You need my touch, my cane, my cock, my command of your body and soul.”

“Oh, yes, Sir,” she agreed fervently. How different this was from the years when she’d scened with both Annette and Master Jack, Cleo by definition always the third wheel. And different, too, from that awful time when he’d finally returned to the club, only to use her as if she were an interchangeable, faceless plaything.

No, this was totally different, and way, way better. She did need what he offered, and she sensed that he needed it as well. That revelation was stunning, and still so shiny and new. She was afraid to examine it overmuch, as if by doing so, she might tilt the delicate balance of whatever it was that was happening between them.

As the caning got underway, Cleo settled into herself with a contented sigh, her body and spirit fully primed now for erotic suffering.

The intensity increased by degrees, delivered in a series of rapid little bee stings darting over her flesh. The first real stroke sent a shockwave through her core. It was instantly followed by a sharp sting that made Cleo yip with pain as it seared across both cheeks, high on her ass.

A second strike, delivered just below the first, refocused her attention. She gasped, trying to fill her lungs.

“Breathe,” Master Jack reminded her.

Cleo drew in a tremulous breath and let it out slowly. The cane always had the ability to send her effortlessly into deep subspace. Under Master Jack’s expert hand, the process had been almost instantaneous.

As each new stroke was expertly delivered, the sharp sting tipped over into a flowing stream of dark, heady pleasure. It didn’t so much mask the pain as transmute it. The caning hurt. Make no mistake, it hurt like hell. But as her skin numbed, her brain, now flooded with endorphins, registered nothing but pleasure and sexual arousal. She was on fire, both inside and out.

“More. More, more, more,” she chanted breathlessly, not even sure if she was speaking aloud.

As the cane continued to whip cruelly against her ass and thighs, exhilaration and fierce pride bloomed inside her. She was suffering for her Master. She was taking what he gave her with grace and courage.

She was at the point where she’d never tell him to stop. She’d let herself be flayed alive, if that was what pleased her Master. But she knew, too, in the core of her being, that he would never do that. It was precisely because she could trust him so completely that she was able to let go, sure in the knowledge he would keep her safe, even as he brought her to the very edge of her endurance.

She floated effortlessly into the sky, skimming along the water, the sun on her back, joy in her soul. After a time, she became aware the caning had ceased. Master Jack was behind her again, his body between her spread thighs. Gentle hands smoothed soothing balm over the welts they’d inflicted moments before.

She became dimly aware of voices and laughter nearby. She partially registered someone talking directly to Jack in a bantering tone, and his murmured responses. She tuned out the voices and laughter rising around them, used to being on display at the Masters Club.

Her body still thrummed with desire. Her cunt ached to be filled after that masterful caning. Her lips tingled with the need to kiss Master Jack and worship his cock.

Master Jack must have read her mind and body. He leaned over her draped, bound form and murmured into her ear, “I would love to ease my cock into you right now, to feel the heat of your welted skin against me as I thrust deep inside.”

“Yes,” she breathed, though it came out more as a hiss, her mouth too slack to properly form the word.

“Hey, bro, great to see you again,” a nasal voice with an Irish lilt said, so close to Cleo’s cradled head that she flinched. “Oh, sorry. You’re in the middle of a scene. Who’s the babe? I can’t see her face, but she has a great little ass. Gorgeous welts, by the by. Can I have a go at her?”

Master Jack was suddenly no longer behind her. Cleo lifted her head, her sweet languor slipping away. He was talking to a short, wiry guy she didn’t recognize. In his late forties, he was dressed head to toe in shiny black leather.

It wasn’t long ago she would have been pleased by this attention. She’d built her life around service and submission, always ready to submit to whichever Masters Club Dom cared to have her. The model had worked well for her, especially as a balm after she’d stupidly fallen for a married and then widowed man who had only seen her as another nice bauble to play with.