Free The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey by Claire Thompson

meaning. Though she was no masochist, and took no direct pleasure from erotic pain, as the giver of that pain she felt intimately connected to the one who received it. It was, in fact, what kept her going as a pro Domme. It wasn’t the money, or the ego strokes from being admired by so many men, but this thing, this moment when she brought a client from greedy masochist into something loftier, something sublime.
    “That’s it, yes,” she murmured encouragingly, thrilled as she watched Owen’s fingers loosen and felt the tension draining from his body. Moving to his side so she could see his face, Sylvie continued to heat his skin with the leather, slapping hard against his ass, less hard over his back and shoulders.
    His head had fallen back so he was looking upward, as if toward the heavens, except that his eyes were closed. He almost looked as if he were sleeping, but Sylvie knew better. His cock was still erect, but the rest of his body was completely relaxed. He was riding the wave, flying high on wings of masochistic ecstasy. Sylvie grabbed on, the slapper her conduit into what he was experiencing. She felt powerful and alive, joy surging through her being as she continued to strike him, though each stroke was now softer than the last.
    Finally she stopped altogether, dropping the slapper and moving to stand in front of this man who had submitted with such grace. Slowly he lifted his head, his eyes opening, though they remained unfocused. His lips were still parted, and they curved slightly in a surprised smile. He was breathing deeply and slowly, still half in a trance.
    Without thinking what she was doing, Sylvie took Owen’s face in her hands, feeling the stubble of his five o’clock shadow beneath her fingers. Leaning forward, she touched her lips to his, slipping her tongue between them.
    He responded in kind, his tongue rising to meet hers, his lips pressing hard against her. Sylvie felt herself tumbling into that hot, sweet kiss and all at once she realized what she was doing and pulled back as if burned.
    Her hand flew to her face, for a moment covering the lips he had just kissed before she dropped her arms to her sides. Stunned, she blurted, “ Je suis désolé ,” before catching herself. Switching to English, she reiterated, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. That was wrong. I don’t do that.”
    Owen was staring at her, his lips still parted, his eyes blazing. Sylvie moved away so he wouldn’t see the scalding blush she felt rising on her cheeks. What in hell was the matter with her? She never kissed a client. Never, ever, ever .
    Quickly she retrieved the stepladder and climbed it, releasing Owen’s wrists in short order. Crouching in front of his legs, she unlocked the ankle restraints. She wanted to order him from her presence, and quickly, but she knew that wasn’t fair, not after the intense session she’d just put him through. Aftercare was crucial, and it wasn’t about her , she reminded herself. Owen was the client. Owen came first.
    “Sit a moment,” Sylvie said, waving toward the loveseat with the specially fitted sheet she would later remove and wash. He appeared none too steady on his feet, and Sylvie took his hand, guiding him toward the loveseat.
    Once he was seated, or more accurately, sprawled on the small sofa, Sylvie said, “I’ll be right back.” She hurried to the bathroom off the office and wet and wrung a washcloth, bringing it and a hand towel back into the room.
    Kneeling in front of her charge, Sylvie gently washed his body with the wet cloth, more to soothe than to clean him. She brought him a cold bottle of water and handed it to him, watching him drink. He’d need a long, hot shower after such an intense session, but he could take that on his own time, in his own space.
    His cock, she couldn’t help but notice, was still erect, hard and thick above his balls. She patted and stroked the shaft with the wet cloth and moved the washcloth carefully over his balls,