Owning Pita Ch. 01

A Romance of Submission and Dominance

Is this the first chapter of a novel? The decision partly depends on the interest of readers like you who are willing to express your reaction in emails, PMs, or public comments.

The story is true. Some of it is factual. Thank you to pita, my submissive partner in D/s and crime, for helping me to live it, to write it, and to dig deeper into myself. Thank you to Sophia Jane, my partner in writing, for helping me to dig deeper into my characters. And thanks to you for reading it. – Joe

Prelude: What Will Be

On the front porch, a woman stands naked except for a collar and cuffs. She goes to her knees in the yellow mist of a Georgia morning before a naked man, somewhat older than she, who sits in a wicker chair. Neither of them preen nor hide from the other. They are comfortable in their nudity. Water dripping from leaves and branches makes the only sound a summer shower has left behind.

Her knees are spread and her hips rest against her heels. Her hands rest palm upward on her thighs. Her head tilts down as if it would be presumptuous to look up. She is not only at peace, she is stunningly beautiful to him. The way he looks at her is tender.

She waits. His voice is quiet, deep, and affectionate. "A beautiful morning," he tells her.

"Yes, Sir," the woman responds, and then adds, "I suppose ...."

"How can you doubt it, little one?"

"It is beautiful," she admits, "but I hate having my new hairstyle caught in the rain."

He is silent, regarding her carefully. Then he asks gently, "Is there something I should know?" Their conversation is a morning ritual, and he is watchful at any note of discontent in her.

She shakes her head slowly; her red hair catches the sun as it moves softly across her shoulders, and light sparkles off of her collar. "No. The day will be what it will be, Sir."

His brow furrows. The creases in his forehead are deep and his eyes penetrate her. Like the gray wolf in a picture on the wall in their den, she finds this look omniscient and emotionless when she is fixed by it. Her head bows further, and her breath comes faster. She doesn't always understand what makes him look at her this way.

"I think it is best if you spend a few minutes in your room, dear one." His voice is low and friendly. "You are unsettled," he explains. "I will call you in a bit."

The woman rises gracefully, in a single, fluid motion and pads into the house with short, silent steps. She likes it that he sees into her heart so easily, but it is unsettling. She goes to a door off the living area that leads to a room, which once was a large closet but is now hers.

She has had such a room in every place they have lived. This one is painted pink. It has a pink rug, a chair that has been hers ever since she has been with the man, a white and pink rabbit, and is organized around a picture of a child ballerina who is looking wistfully out of a window. When the man gave her the picture years before, he told her it could tell her everything she needed to know. The child soon became comfort and inspiration to her.

On the porch, the man finishes a mug of chai she had brought to him. He stands and stretches in the yellow light, a lean and weathered body freeing itself from the gray night he carries from bed each morning now. He is thinking of her.

She is unsettled; he might guess part of the reason, but she is able to sometimes settle herself, and that is preferable; but when she can't understand the problem, whether it is hers or his, she will ask him for help to find her focus and natural docility.

He moves easily and swiftly, arranging furniture so there is space around the large, white column at the corner of the porch. From there it is possible to see three counties. He quickly arranges loops, cuffs, and hooks that tinkle and rattle from heavy eye hooks at the top, middle, and base of the column. He goes indoors and returns with a black whip called a cat-o'-nine-tails. He brings a towel and a container of water with ice rattling against the sides and places a holder of straws next to it. Finally, he adjusts a clear path to the hammock suspended at the shady end of the porch.

When he is done, he goes in, knocks on the door to her little room and asks the woman to come out. When she re-enters the living room, her hands are fluttering like birds; she is anxious. She turns to him and, head down, asks if she may ask a favor.

"Of course," he says with concern. "You know I am yours."

She goes again to her knees. "It's nothing serious, Master," she says, speaking clearly. "I need help dealing with hormones and the crazy energy in me. I feel scattered and self-absorbed."

The man bends down to take her hands in his. As he straightens, she raises her head to look into his eyes for the first time since she knelt before him on the porch.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks her.

The woman tells him what she wants, bowing her head again, and the man nods; he helps her to her feet and they walk, he a step behind her with his palm resting lightly on the cool skin just beneath her waist, back onto the porch. There, she goes to face the corner post he has prepared and takes a deep breath.

She adjusts the cuffs on her own wrists and ankles. He snaps a quick release latch from the ceiling through her outstretched wrists, gently spreads her ankles, and latches one end of the lower chain through the left "D" ring of her ankle cuff, and the other end through the right ring.

He moves up her body. He has designed restraints that allow her maximum sensation and some control over the feeling she receives. She has small rings through her nipples and each of her major labia; he hooks the small chain around the column at the height of her hips to the labial rings, and then the chain at chest height to the nipple rings. The woman is quiet, eyes closed, head tilted back and her lips slightly parted. She is waiting patiently for what will be. There is neither need nor desire in her to struggle.

When he is done, he stands by her and bends his head to kiss her open mouth. His sex stirs. He asks her if she is alright and ready to begin. She nods. He gives her a sip of the water and, when he sets the water back on the table, picks up the whip.

The knotted leather whispers through the quiet air of the Georgia morning. Against her shoulders it makes a snapping sound. At first, each time it lands the woman cries out and writhes against it. His motion is fluid, controlled, and he gradually moves the strokes lower on her body. He watches each stroke hit its target. Her bottom quickly becomes pink and then shows a series of crisscrossing welts. He is listening to her and after each stroke his eyes scan her body and her face for the signs of what she wants and needs from him.

The whip hums and snaps through the morning air again and again. After awhile, the woman no longer cries out but softly moans and then, gradually, becomes silent. She has stopped writhing and she seems to be pushing into the strokes and pulling gently against the nipple and labial clamps.

A drop of spittle trickles from the corner of her mouth. His sex is hard with the energy he feels at owning her in this way. His rhythm never varies, and he sees small spots and streaks on her skin where blood has begun to seep.

He is watching her carefully still and begins to see the signs of what some call subspace, a trancelike euphoria where she is no longer capable of good judgment but is afloat on waves of sensation, like a hawk on high winds that soars and floats above sparkling trees and grasses far below. Her head rolls in circles from shoulder to shoulder. Subspace was, from the first, easily won, but still it is a prize they both cherish.

He allows her to remain in the place she loves, a head space free of the need to be locked in herself and her stresses, for as long as he feels he safely can.

Then he changes his rhythms, interrupts his strokes, pauses, gives rapid, staccato flourishes until he sees he is disrupting her stupor. He speaks her name and stops the flogging.

Now he moves as quickly as he has all morning and loosens her fastenings, beginning with her feet and ending with her hands, after he has turned her toward him and put his shoulder so that she can lean against him when he frees her.

He carries her to the hammock, gives her water to drink and unwraps a large piece of the dark chocolate she loves. While she nibbles on it, he spreads cool lotion on her welts and on abrasions left by the whip. He notices that the morning birds sing louder. Later he will help her apply an antibacterial cream.

For now, he climbs into the hammock and holds her to him, her face against his throat, and she cries with the release of the emotions that had been unsettling her. At first she cries sporadically, then with a burst she sobs and at last settles to a low, soft keening. He holds her continually and tells her she is his good girl.

After a time, she dozes. He continues to hold her and finds himself dozing off, too, grateful that his tired right arm no longer needs to be under constant control. He visits the place inside himself where darkness often hides and decides it has retreated once again, perhaps into the forest across the field. He feels the muscles begin to twitch in his triceps, and feels the ripples of muscle in her back as she, too, relaxes.

He listens to the birds and thinks "This is what the day should be" while the hammock barely moves. When she wakes, the sun is high. She is playful now and begins to touch his soft penis. As he begins to stir at her touch, he teases her "What's a fatalist like you doing in a nice hammock like this?"

She is playful now. "I've told you, my submission is what I am, Sir." But she is also intent. Her hand and fingertips bring him, quickly, to full erection. Her touch is magic, and his cock begins to twitch of its own accord.

She caresses him for a long time. Finally, she raises her head and asks: "Sir, will you come for me this beautiful morning?"

"No, pita," the man says, smiling at her. "Your submission is beautiful, and you, and your lust ... but I'll give you that part some other day perhaps."

"It's a long day, Sir," she says, "and it will be what we make of it." But her fingers slow, and minutes later he becomes aware of a soft breeze at his loins. He has to think whether it is her breath or a lost breeze.

"I wonder," she says quietly, "what Lexi's new med student boyfriend is like."

Her comments often sound irrelevant. "Are you concerned she isn't ready to be submissive?" he asks.

"Oh, I still think she'll be more of a domme." She pauses, then thinks out loud. "I was just hoping my daughter finds someone who will fly a thousand miles to give her a pink rose."

He listens to her breath as she drifts off into a deep sleep. Her shoulders rise and fall in rhythm with the slight motion of the hammock.

The man watches across the field where cottonwoods at the edge of the woods shimmer in the sun. Beyond them, from a tall, shadowy oak he sees a hawk leap forward and climb toward the sky where it will search for prey.

He smiles as he recalls, as he does every day, the woman who taught him to love, and he thinks, too, about the woman asleep on his shoulder who has brought him back to it.

From the line of trees, a mockingbird begins its list of songs. He knows there is darkness deep in the woods and imagines gray forms moving silently from shadow to shadow. He wonders what the wolf will be doing on such a beautiful morning.

Chapter 1: Touching Down

"Touch yourself. Sit where you are, pita, and lift your skirt."

"I'm in the front hall. Someone ..."

"Sit on the steps."

"The guy next door is paint..."

"Pita, no one can see. Touch yourself."

"Yes, Sir." He heard her sigh but ignored it.

"You don't have panties on, do you? Are you aroused?"

"No, Sir. And no, I'm not."

"I want to tell you about your spanking bench.... I finished it."

"Thank you .... Sir, what is that?"

"Yours is like a saw horse with leather cushions for the sides and top. The wood is cherry. There are shackles for your ankles and wrists and a collar."

For a second he heard silence on the phone. "It sounds lovely, Sir. Will you punish me on it?"

"Probably not. It is for my pleasure, pita, but I think you'll like it."

"Why, Sir?"

"If I bend you over it, you can be spanked. If you straddle it, I can have your bottom or pussy, or I can use your face."

"Sir...." She was quiet, but then from the back of her throat he heard heat rising. "How does it ...." She became quiet.

"A dildo is harnessed to the top. I can put a butterfly against your clit, and you can mount the bench and lower yourself onto them. They both have remote controls."

"Yes, Sir...." Her voice was nearly a whisper. He smiled, imagining what was in her mind.

"Are you wet now?"

"A little. Sir."

"Is your clit enjoying the spanking bench?"

"Sir, could I come today?" Her breath had become deeper, eager.

"I thought you weren't aroused," he teased, then spoke succinctly. "Am I your dominant, pita?"

"Yes, Sir, of course."

"Then I'll decide if you want to come. Isn't that the way it works?

"For now, keep touching yourself." His voice was a low growl, but he was smiling. Through his kitchen screen, he could hear crickets chirping and the motion of wind in maple leaves.

"Thank you, Sir."

"Imagine you are in my house; the shirt I've had you wear is off. You have cuffs on your ankles and wrists, and the training collar is snug. You are being my good girl. You wear a butterfly and straddle the spanking bench, waiting, my pussy an inch above the dildo. Your open hands rest on your thighs."

She hummed, "Yes, I await your pleasure." He listened to her breathe.

"I will use you, pita. Someday soon. I promise."

"You know I want that, Sir."

"When I come into the room, I'll blindfold you and lock your ankles to the bench and your wrists together. I'll have you lower yourself gently until pussy's lips touch the dildo. You will move your ass forward and back, so the dildo just slips past your lips and begins to open your cunt.

"Are you still wet, pita?"

"Yesssss. Sir.

"You will lower yourself slowly, dear one, onto the dildo, just an inch. Then come back up, and again down. Each time go deeper, until the dildo is buried and pussy is pressed against the leather." Her breathing followed the motion he imagined; she inhaled as he described the dildo sinking into her, and she exhaled as he told her it withdrew.

"Ummm," she sighed.

"Are you comfortable, pita? Your hands are on the bench?"

"Yes, Sir, for balance."

"I'll put a line through the rings in your cuffs to a ceiling shackle. If you put your weight against the rope and hang from it, your body can press against the butterfly and the dildo."

He heard her moan, a little louder. His eyes were closed to imagine both the scene he was describing and the submissive on the other end of the phone as she touched herself.

"Think of the touch of the floggers, pita. Imagine the soft deerskin stroking your flesh, over your hips to your shoulders, and back down, caressing like warm night wind. I will heat your skin. Deerskin will pink your pale flesh quickly. And when I lash you hard, first your shoulders, then across your ass, you will begin to lean into the whips on each stroke.

"I know you are wet now. Feel the sweetness that will seep past the dildo. Are you wet, pita?"

"Ohhh."

"I'll turn on the butterfly so you can grind pussy against your bench. Hear the buzz as it boils up the orgasm in your clit. Does the vibration feel as delicious as you taste?"

"Yesss," she hissed.

"And when I turn on the vibe in the dildo, feel it curve into your G-spot. You've been moving your hips to touch it harder."

"Ohhhh, yes, Sir, yesss." Her breathing was quick and shallow.

"You're a good girl, pita. You're getting turned on for me."

He waited. She was quiet except for the soft cooing of her arousal. Then he heard a quiet, nearly silent whisper: "Please," she said.

He ignored her. "You will be ready for the whip, pita. The blows will fall across your shoulders. Feel the heat, and in my opposite hand another flogger, this one rabbit fur. I will stroke it over your breasts, then slap them with it. How your nipples will stand out! What a pretty sight."

He heard her say it again, louder: "Please, Sir."

"Please what, pita?"

"I want to come," she said. "Please, Sir."

"No, pita," he said, the growl back in his voice. "Wait." He went on. "I want to whip your breasts and move my deerskin lashes down to your ass, and turn the butterfly and dildo to a higher speed. If you are my good girl, you will press down against them, and let your weight carry you so they will make you come, but not until I say you can."

"Ohhhh," she moaned, then "Yes, Sir."

"Does it feel good, pita? Do you still want to come?"

"Ohhh, Sir, yes."

"Can you ask, nicely, pita?"

"Please, Sir."

"You don't sound serious, pita. It doesn't matter to me if you come. Maybe you would really want it if I made you suck on my cock. I'm very hard. If you really wanted to come, you'd beg me."

"Oh, my Joe. Please let me come. I need to come so bad. Please Sir. Please my Joe, I want to come. Ohh, fuck, fuck."

"Pita," he said to her over her chant. "Pita ......" and he counted slowly to ten while she moaned, listening and straining against her own desire. Perhaps there was the sheen of sweat on her forehead.

He snarled: "Come hard, slut. Come for Me. Now. Right now. Come for me, be my slut."

She erupted, her voice a shrill cry that fell to a squeal and became a soft keening.

Her voice was full of heat, even on the phone. She responded eagerly when he prodded her. And then she was catching her breath with no inkling of the effect she had on him.

What dragged him from the memory right now was not so clear. It could have been the pulse of his erection, or a stewardess' voice, or the woman in the blue hat across the aisle who kept glancing his way. He wondered if his lust was obvious. But the woman was looking at his hand.

He was holding a snapshot. He knew he had been staring at the grainy, webcam photo of a girl-woman with a halo of red hair. He took a long breath. She had an angelic and mischievous look. She had sent him the .jpeg print one night with a note joking that her picture "is better than I usually look." In it she was dressed for her job as chief hostess at "The Boheme," the upscale restaurant for well-dressed dining and debauchery at the Orlando Westin Grand Bohemian. She stood erect, smiling, confident, and in control, charming, and beautiful; but her eyes seemed bottomless and wanting.

Part of her work was to manage the wait-staff. But she dismissed it as unwanted stress. She liked her job, she said, because she got to people-watch close up. "It's given me a good crap detector," she said, "they talk like I'm not there."

After one bad night at work she said, "When I went there I guess I thought people would be nice because they're supposed to have money. But they just know how to look nice. I've seen a lot of ugliness, and overheard worse."

When the blue hat again turned his way, he raised his eyes – Mattie had once described his look as "penetrating" – and the woman turned away. If blue hat recalled him later, she would describe a man in his fifties, too tall for airline seats, perhaps handsome if not for acne scars on one side of his face – his famous "bad skin" – and black, wire-framed glasses. She might recall his conservative and neatly pressed suit, or the way he smiled briefly when he looked off into space. He had the look of a man used to standing before a board of directors, but surely such a man would travel first class. She perhaps noticed the deep lines at his eyes that gave him a look of grief.