A Dom's Best Friend Ch. 01

This is a new story arc that has intrigued me from the pits of my mind. It is a bit different, harsher, than some of my others. Please let me know what you think. Note: There is a harsh punishment scene at the end; if you are averse to those scenes, please read no further.

********

Jacquelynne

I felt his cock, hot, heavy, and thick ram into my contracting pussy, propelling me to the orgasm he had meticulously cultivated from me over the last several hours.

Mewling, my voice raw and husky with pleas for mercy, I was unable to scream the way I wished to celebrate this orgasm. Over and over again, his cock plundered my dripping cunt, my steaming snatch, and I pleaded with him to fuck me harder...harder...

The piercing alarm took nearly a minute to puncture the fantasy. Groaning, not with the indescribable pleasure of my dream, I rolled out of bed and stumbled across the room to my dresser to unceremoniously flick the alarm off--and back on again.

Glaring balefully at the scarlet glow of the numbers that announced 5:00 almost as a warning, the last of the hazy ecstasy from the slumberous rabbit hole of my imagination evaporated. Reality hits hard always.

I glanced mournfully at my tub. No way would a relaxing bath do the trick this morning. Instead, I set the shower spray to driving rain and the temperature somewhere between melting-skin-off and out-and-out boiling. As the steam fogged up the mirror, I shook my head at the whimsy of seeing myself through the romantic haze of, let's face it, condensation.

My finger caught the switch on the radio to flip it on in time to hear my brother croon the weather on KPOP 107.1, the voice of Dallas in the mornings. I am proud of him--don't get me wrong--but sometimes when I am out with him and Prescott (our third roomie-slash-boarder), the DJ groupies are a little hard to take.

Jase is my older brother (by four minutes), and you would think those two hundred and forty seconds give him a license to be insufferable--and overbearing.

The third member of the trio, Prescott Wiliams, has taken on the same role since I moved back home after a disastrous college relationship became even worse. A scant year older than Jase and I, Pres spent my childhood and teen years tormenting me. In the past six months since I've moved back home? He's overprotective to the point that you would think he was Jase's and my absentee father.

No, I don't have Daddy issues. Or a chip on my shoulder. I learned long ago and came to terms with the fact that my dad has as much emotional maturity and responsibility as a potato, slightly more than my mother's maturity level of a carrot. Y'see, I've got this emotional maturity of vegetables analogy figured out.

But I digress.

My parents recently moved into an apartment in the city, leaving the house to Jase and Pres--and me. Other than their extreme overprotective natures, the three of us rub together fine. My job is fine. My life is fine. Everything is fine.

C'mon, you don't actually believe that, do you?

My job. I work at my dad's dad's company. In the oil boom, they were oil magnates. Thank God for the tech sector and diversification because, in the past twenty years, my granddad and CEO of Anderson Enterprises has steadily moved the company from black gold to a multimedia empire. He retired a few months ago, handing the company over to the trusted hands of my cousin. All of that is fine and dandy.

I work under the CFO, Prescott Williams. Yes, that Pres Williams. My roommate and de facto older brother figure (well, alongside Jase). That's not sticky, at all.

And just because I'm my granddad's little princess, make no mistake: Pres rides my ass hard at work, metaphorically. Yes, our work encounters are lube-free. Sorry. Bad pun, I know. Hey, you reading this: get your mind out of the gutter. Our home life encounters are lube-free, also.

Now, my dreams, though? Those scorchingly hot nocturnal bouts of mental pornography? Well, lube has been used. And toys. And fingers. And his mouth. And rope. And a questionable fist, once.

I don't want to sound like my responsibility-shunning parents, but this is all Pres's fault. Fact. Bible, as the annoying reality stars (and Jase and Pres's choice of women) say. Or scream nasally in the throes of passion.

Did I mention my room is next door to Pres's? And that I can hear every orgasmic yell and scream--and noise--that he and his partners enjoy?

See? Totally his fault. Unlike the sex tape that I totally take responsibility for.

Yes, sex tape. Although in this age of streaming digital media, it isn't as if a hard copy exists for purchase from Vivid. Nope. Merely streams of it have been viewed to viral status.

I did mention a disastrous college relationship, right? Matt had broken up with me a few months before Jase and Pres showed up at my apartment door, grim-lipped and murderous-eyed.

A semester before I could become Dr. Jacquelynne Andrews, Ph.D. in Mathematics, I was informed that my "naked ass" (to quote Jase) had embarrassed the family far worse than my parents ever had.

Now, that hurt. Matt had been my only walk on the wild side. Wild party girls don't become all-but-dissertations in mathematics.

To say I was a math nerd was an understatement. Numbers made sense in a way my parents' behavior never did. They became my cage of fuddy-duddyness.

When Matt pursued me, and then introduced me to first sex and then BDSM, I was easy pickings. And, even though he tapped into my exhibitionist side, in the end, my serious nature was too boring for his tastes.

To give him credit, Matt was not the one who released the footage of one of our most vanilla sessions to the depraved eyes of the Internet; no, his new sub delighted in uploading that.

Eventually, Jase and Pres wore me down. I had always planned to work for the company after I finished school. My viral sexcapades simply made it happen a bit earlier than I had planned.

Thank God, Pres and Jase did not see the vids of my less innocent, more kinky times with Matt. I am perfectly okay with my brother not knowing I am a submissive and a masochist.

Pres? Since I am being completely, brutally honest, I will admit that I have fantasized about Pres dominating me. There are times he has a presence, and I wonder--

As I step into the shower, I. Shut. Those. Thoughts. Down. Stoically, I stand under the hotter-than-Hell water, hoping it will cleanse me of my dream and what I heard through the wall last night that caused my imaginative slumber.

Somehow, I managed to complete my shower and dress in a navy sheath dress with cream polka dots before securing my hair into a twist held in place by two haphazard pencils without thinking of the moans of Pres's newest conquest last night. Much.

Pasting a placidly blank smile--truly the best expression to greet my roommates' overnight guests--on my face, I approached the kitchen. Karen Jennings, Jase's new mutually beneficial friend (he's my brother--it's oogy to think of him that way), was wearing one of the radio station's tee shirts. I wish I could consign her to groupie status, but she is actually Jase's co-DJ.

The statistics upswing in both of their popularities and the increased listenership for the station means their relationship is good for business. Yes, Andrews Enterprises owns the radio station.

I wish I could hate Karen. I mean, how gross is it when your best friend and brother bump uglies?

Incredibly.

I gritted my teeth as I heard Lilac Carson's voice approaching. Voice is too generous. Her nasal whine grates on my nerves. The reality starlet is Pres's new fuck buddy. It is much easier to hate HER.

Glancing over at Karen, I saw her rolling her eyes. We shared a conspiratorial grin that only besties can share.

Pres strides into the kitchen in navy blue Armani. "Pres, you owe us all a set of earplugs," Karen joked, referring to Pres and Lilac's hijinks last night. "I don't know how Lynne can stand it, being right next door to the action."

"I didn't hear anything," I barked automatically but could feel the neon pink rise up in my cheeks to belie my words. Busted, Ms. Voyeur, Karen's expression read. Pres's expression was unusually taciturn, and Lilac? Who could read a natural emotion behind so much Botox?

Catty, I know. My snarky mental comment reminded me that I should try to go to the Kinkster's Ball on Saturday to try to find a new Dom.

To curb my behavior. To stop thinking careless "what ifs" about Pres.

Not to mention the dreams.

Luckily, Saturday was Karen and Jase's one-month anniversary, so my brother would be distracted if I stayed out all night. My other "guardian"? I winced as I looked over to see Lilac curving her signature lilac-enameled nails possessively around Pres's thigh. Pres would be occupied.

No one--not Karen, not Jase, not my parents, and certainly not Pres--knew of my submissive nature. And I preferred to keep it that way.

********

Numbers were safe. Numbers tended to be fairly predictable. And numbers, by themselves, never lied. Numbers were not, in fact, my ex-boyfriend and ex-Dominant who I saw cutting a swath through the office cubicles in his purposeful journey to my office.

Damnit.

Matt Lester, though very much a motorcycle-riding bad boy, was a very dominant---well, Dom. Even though I no longer wore his collar, I had worn it for nearly a year when things--ended.

Long before Megan leaked the video, Jase and Pres disliked and completely mistrusted Matt. After the scene went viral, Jase and Pres let it be known that Matt was not to be within sight distance of me.

Looking behind Matt, I saw Pres approaching, blue eyes snapping in rage, muscles coiled as if preparing for battle. Those same muscles had hunched and coiled as he fucked me in my dream last night. I stood in a rush to stave off the inevitable explosive confrontation.

"Matt, you need to leave," I seethed, speaking my first words to him in over six months.

Clad in a beat-up biker jacket and jeans, he appeared a disreputable, immovable force. "No."

My eyes darted nervously from Matt to Pres and back. "Why are you here?" I half-whispered, half-wailed.

"I'm here to tell you I will take you back."

From Pres's expression, I could see he had heard Matt's words, and they made him incensed. "Take her back? You have five seconds to vacate this office before Security arrives. She will have nothing more to do with you."

Matt turned but fired back at me over his shoulder, "This isn't over, Lynne." Then, his fulminating glare focused on Pres. "You just want her for yourself."

Pres's growl nearly made my ex scurry away.

********

Prescott

I knew that lying sack of shit hurt Lynne badly. First, there was the breakup. Admittedly, I was hedonistically reveling in the Dallas BDSM scene when it happened, but I surfaced a bit to observe the heartbreak that Matt Lester had visited upon one of my two oldest friends.

Matt Lester, several years older than she was, liked to prey on the young (as Lynne was), the innocent (as she had been), and the submissive (I stopped my thoughts here. Better to never contemplate THAT possibility).

Then, the video leaked and went viral. An acquaintance--certainly not a friend--showed it to me, knowing Lynne was the star of the show but not wanting to "spoil the surprise."

I did the right thing; I spared Jase the vision of his twin sister begging for Lester to fuck her harder. Take her deeper. And spared him the knowledge of my hatred and envy of Lester in those moments, the desire to be the one leading her to orgasm after orgasm.

You see, I've been head over heels in love with Lynne since I turned 17. And in lust with her since viewing that vid. Another secret that I am keeping from both of them.

But the biggest secret of all? The one that keeps me from yelling my feelings to Lynne every time we see each other or talk?

I am a Dominant. I have always been one. On my eighteenth birthday, my dad brought me to an underground BDSM club. By the end of the evening, I had insights into my parents' relationship that I wished I never had.

And a determination to never take Lynne down this path I craved to travel.

So, I turned to others, to drown out my other craving--for Lynne. I never kept any subs very long and certainly never collared any. But I used them to attempt to extinguish my desire for her.

It never worked.

Gazing into her clear green eyes--trusting, untainted eyes--I again repeated a promise I had made to myself. Lynne is not Mine. She is not My happily ever after. She is too pure (despite the sex tape), too good, too innocent to face My dark desires.

Absolute insurmountable proof existed that I was not her hero or knight in shining armor--and definitely not her Mr. Right. On nights when I was alone, or nights when Lilac or one of the others failed to sate my darkest needs, I jerked off to her vid, replacing Lester in my mind with myself.

It was my constant reminder that I wasn't good enough for her.

"Pres," she growled, finally grabbing my attention. "What the hell was that about?"

I schooled my features to be remote. Show nothing. "I don't know. Why don't you tell me? You know Jase and I both agreed that he is to be nowhere near you."

"I don't WANT him anywhere near me!" she proclaimed, shocking us both with her vehemence. "I-I'm sorry, Pres. I know you and Jase are concerned. I--learned my lesson, okay? No more reckless behavior."

Memories of her "reckless behavior" caused a visible reaction in me. Damn! I was going to have to watch the scene with her and Lester again soon. A curt nod was all I could manage. Then...

"Lunch today?" I offered impulsively.

She nodded, her green eyes huge in her pale face.

I turned and strode to my office, asking my assistant to hold all of my calls. Flicking the blinds shut, I attached earbuds to my personal laptop and cued up the vid.

As with every time I had viewed it previously, I had to battle down that feeling of desolate, anguished rage at the smile she smiled for the camera, for him, until I forced myself to imagine that smile was for me.

That I was the one ordering her to strip, causing her to blush and then teasingly remove her clothes. My eyes devoured her body as I began to stroke my aching cock through my pants.

Her perfect breasts that she always lamented were too large with their pink-crested nipples. Her pale expanse of skin that begged for my hands, teeth, and implements to brand as Mine. Mark as Mine--Do Not Touch! Her supple curves that culminated in her bare pussy, bald of honey-brown curls.

As she bared that tantalizing bit of flesh, I pulled my cock out, working the head rapidly as I watched her slide to her knees to take Lester's cock--my cock--down her throat, past her perfect pink lips. It wasn't a tease or a gentle sucking. Her throat was ridden hard, used for his pleasure. Gurgling and gagging filled my ears as her eyes and lips streamed on screen.

The cock was removed from her mouth, and Lynne reclined on her back on the bed, knees bent, legs spread, revealing her dewy pink cunt.

Then, the pleas, the begging began as he pumped into her. I lasted until the sound of her first orgasm before my cock released creamy fluid into my hand.

Cleaning myself up as best I could, I noticed the missed call notification on my phone. Ryan Smith, my co-host for the Kinkster's Ball on Saturday. I checked the voicemail message, knowing it must have something to do with the ball, and my blood ran cold.

Following Ryan's instructions, I reviewed my texts from him and clicked the link in the one he sent five minutes before.

A video.

Another one.

On a fetish porn site.

On a BDSM site.

Lynne.

I saw red as blood rushed to my ears.

Lynne, leashed, paraded by Lester before the camera. Lynne, ordered to kneel and present. Lynne's soft voice, hesitantly but sweetly beseeching Lester to please clamp her nipples, a blush staining her cheeks.

Then, I watched in mute fascination coupled with rabid fury as the clover clamps were cruelly applied, her face contorted in wincing agony as juices contrarily moistened her pussy lips, shadowed in the dim room.

"Why do you plead with me for this punishment, slut?" Lester thundered down on her, twisting the chain connecting the clamps in his fist and yanking. His voice, rough with desire, laughed, but it was her yelp of aroused pain that speared directly to my groin and made me hard again. Fuck.

Yanking once again, Lester prompted, "Well, slut?"

Lynne, her glazed eyes exposing her ride on the edge where pain amplified pleasure, offered, "Because I have been bad. I have violated the collar you honored me with. I played with my pussy and orgasmed while thinking of another, Sir." Her lip trembled at the last, heralding the tears that spilled from her eyes and down her ashen cheeks.

A sharp ringing slap snapped her head to the side, his handprint visible. Then, two fingers beneath her chin brought her up to face both him and the camera. His spit landed on her cheeks and forehead as she looked up at him, unflinchingly yet blankly.

"Him again," Lester mocked derisively. "You realize, of course, that he will never want you, a subpar little painslut. Not worthy of affection or love from a nice guy like he is. After all, your little masochistic self requested this punishment session, this confession session."

Her deadened voice and even more soulless eyes terrified me even as my cock craved and coveted to witness the depths of her depravity. "Yes, Sir, I am unworthy of it all and unworthy of your collar."

"That's a good start, pet," his sarcastic tone did little to alleviate her unease. "Why don't you tell the camera what you are and what you deserve. Make it believable, and I might still allow you the protection of my collar--though you do not deserve it."

Eyes, unwavering yet empty, focused on the camera lens providing the illusion that she was addressing me (and anyone viewing this). "I am a submissive. I am a masochist."

"Don't pretty it up with the big words, cunt. Let them know how low you truly are," Lester sneered, yanking on the chain so hard that it was amazing that the clamps did not rip off. Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

After a few minutes, she composed herself to begin anew. "I am a pain whore. I crave Sir's degradation above all else. I am a depraved cunt. I am a thing. I am unworthy of love and gentler emotions. I am a fucktoy to be used to slake my Master's darkest desires."

To my eternal shame, my cock felt the pumping of my fist as I witnessed her confession. I would store her words away to be unpacked later.

"What do you deserve, cunt?" he jeered when Lynne faltered.

"I deserve pain. I deserve humiliation. I deserve to be treated like the scum I am. I deserve to be whipped until I bleed and forced into a corner." Her unemotional recitation remained devoid of hope.

"Which hand did you use to touch yourself?" Lester stepped out from behind the camera to menacingly coil a leather strap around one fist. Her eyes followed the movements with anticipatory dread.

She gulped audibly before answering. "My right, Sir," she whispered, offering it up, palm down.

"I warned you what would happen if you thought about him again, if you masturbated to him, didn't I?" His voice rained down harder on her than the lash soon would.

Tears magnified her clear eyes. In a tone clogged with tears and remorse, Lynne elaborated for the benefit of the camera as he clearly intended her to do. "That you would break me, Sir. That you would beat any desire I had for him out of me."

"Exactly, whore." With his other hand, he slapped his erection several times over her face, laughing sadistically when she struggled in vain to wrap her lips around the leaking head. "Oh, no, cunt; you will receive no pleasure from my cock. I will go visit Megan for that after I leave you here. Oh, didn't I tell you?" Malevolence shone in his eyes. "Her holes have been keeping my cock company lately. She's much better at--everything--than you are."