Master James, seasoned Dom and gourmet extraordinaire, craves a taste of something new. The BDSM scene bores him the way warmed over scrambled eggs disgust him. Once known for his creative food play scenes, he now wonders why he’s even attending BDSM events at all.
Submissive Sapphira, also food obsessed, seeks a strong guiding hand. Emotionally expressive and with a fondness for spankings, she’s heard the tales of Master James and hopes he still ‘has it.’
James happily shows her how food, spankings, and bondage can delightfully mix. But to win her heart, he must overcome his scars from the past and her secret compulsion, while walking the line between too much control and not enough.
It wasn’t that the Con organizers hadn’t done a good job. They’d transformed the hotel ballroom into a delightfully moody space suitable for the various beatings and piercings and rope work at stations scattered around. Trance music bubbled in the background—loud enough to drown out distant conversations but not so loud as to cut out the screams. The twilight level lighting didn’t hide any of the action, even in the corners where dungeon monitors flicked their flashlight beams from time to time. Each of the play areas had been set up meticulously, with antiseptic wipes and towels easily at reach. It smelled clean, unlike too many makeshift dungeons I’d been in.
But there just wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before. Flogging on the St. Andrew’s Crosses. Flogging over a bench. Medical torture in one corner, carefully supervised. Two burly men in black leather vests boosting a naked blindfolded brunette into a suspension harness.
Bored, bored, bored.
And it was only Friday, the first night of the convention.
I flexed my fingers in my black driver’s gloves—comfortable cloth, not the cliché leather—and then balled them into fists again. As much as I’d enjoyed the Con’s afternoon presentations, and especially the one on the spirituality of BDSM, I’d begun to seriously question why I hadn’t just gone to my room to read after dinner. The rush of being in The Scene was gone.
And wandering around watching other people play wasn’t getting it back.
I paused near one scene, just finishing. A young, long-haired blonde and an older portly man in a black t-shirt and jeans were helping a thirtyish nude short-haired redhead off a St. Andrew’s Cross. Scarlet welts covered her back and ass. The man whispered in her ear, while tenderly stroking her neck, far above the stung flesh. The blonde untied the other woman’s wrists, and then the redhead sagged into the man. He lowered her to the ground and cradled her in his lap.
She shuddered, and let out a long held sob that left her lax in relief. He continued to hold her, caressing her gently, talking to her, the whole while not touching her welts.
I smiled softly. That was the magic of The Scene. I’d treasured those moments with Molly…
I started. Lost in my memories, I hadn’t noticed the blonde approach. A short twig of a woman, she wore a translucent black chemise over a black cotton bra and panties. Her feathered hair briefly reminded me of Farrah Fawcett, but Farrah had curves. This woman looked thirty going on thirteen. Her voice fit the younger age as well—a high pitched soprano with an undertone of uncertainty.
I straightened my shoulders and tilted my head. “Yes?”
“Umm…” she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked away briefly. “Umm… I just wanted to say I really liked your demonstration this morning.”
“You should tell Headmaster Jeremy. I was just an assistant.”
She blushed. “Um, but the way you caressed that woman’s back, between spanks…”
I couldn’t help smiling. I didn’t get Jeremy’s wife Angelique over my knee very often, but I loved it when I did. She squirmed so delightfully and more than once, her arousal had soaked my slacks. Jeremy was a truly lucky man.
“…and the way you varied your blows. Those soft ones, on her upper thighs…” She took a deep breath, her eyes wide.
“You enjoyed that?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. And I was wondering…” She shifted her weight again, and her eyes went puppy wide, blinking up at me.
I resisted an exasperated sigh. “You want to play.”
About the Author
Big Ed Magusson, also writing under the name Dick Spears, has been writing sexual fiction under one name or another for many years. This site gives the descriptions and links for all the books he has for sale, as well as collaborations with other writers. His musings and free stories can be found at BE's Place.