Craving the Crop

February 15, 2022 Stories Comments (5) 1123

A Masters of The Manor story

The Manor is having a Valentine’s Masquerade! It’s Callie’s first time at the exclusive kink club, and when she collides with a masked, sexy stranger, she jumps at the opportunity to feel his crop against her skin and explore one of her secret fantasies.

This story contains elements of D/s, impact play, and graphic sexual content.

 

Title graphic for sexy short story "Craving the Crop", a Masters of The Manor story, showing man in jeans with a riding crop grabbing the bottom of a woman wearing lingerie and garter belt

Ninety minutes after entering The Manor for the first time, Callie’s heart was still pounding twice as fast as the beat of the music. Her friend Mina had dragged her to the so-called „open ball“ — that was still only „open“ to people with an invitation — even though Callie had neither asked for, nor wanted, the invitation. Mina had even organized and paid for a babysitter, leaving Callie with no real excuse to not come

So here she was.

Alone.

They’d entered together, but fifteen minutes in, after giving Callie a quick tour and a lecture about the rules — no phones allowed on the premises, no full frontal nudity in the main dungeon tonight (the private rooms didn’t count), no hanky-panky without consent, no unmasking before midnight — Mina’s boyfriend had dragged her off, likely to do unspeakable things together, leaving Callie to her own devices. In a ballroom full of masked strangers, with the snap of a whip punctuating the beat of the music.

The Masquerade was supposed to be a Valentine’s Day ball, but the decor lacked anything resembling pink hearts and roses. Golden light poured from wall sconces shaped like snakes, and chandeliers dripping with black crystals, onto the black walls and floors. Bouquets of real, black flowers surrounded the platforms set up throughout the ballroom and whispered of sinful pleasures. Leather couches scattered around the platforms invited guests to watch demonstrations of sexy torture techniques.

Callie’s pulse had spiked when a man had tied his partner up with rope, adorning her body with elaborate knots, and her stomach clenched at another couple playing with hot wax. It was so different from porn, and Callie felt a slight, sweet tug and a slow bloom of heat. But the exquisite connection between the people on the stages in the ballroom also drove a spear of loneliness between her ribs.

Her ex had bailed on her when Charly was two, and life as a single mom didn’t offer a lot of opportunities to date. Mina had been telling her for years to get out more, so she’d finally dragged her to a kinky Valentine’s Masquerade. As you do.

She could have told Mina that all the effort to glitz up Callie’s appearance for tonight was going to be a waste. Even with her usually frizzy hair tamed into sleek curls, and the rest of her primped and plucked, she felt frumpy compared to all the elegant sex-appeal crowding the ball room. At least her half-mask let her pretend she was mysterious rather than just broken and lonely, even with the ears. An anonymous kitten on the prowl.

If this hadn’t been a literal day from hell, Callie might have enjoyed the sumptuous atmosphere at The Manor. This was a magical night, a once-in-a-lifetime event in her dull little life, and it deserved to be enjoyed.

But no.

Sebastian Fucking Dante had had to ruin her day, and he probably didn’t even know he’d done it.

For him, it had probably just been a regular Saturday. He got up in the morning, doubtlessly rubbing his hands like a super villain, chuckling in devious anticipation of ruining the day for the rest of humanity. Callie would bet her last presentable cotton panties (which she was currently wearing) that he drew a name from a hat every morning, and then set out to make that specific person miserable.

This morning, he’d clearly drawn Callie’s name from his hat, and when she made it to the Rainfall Stables to pick up Charly, 30 minutes late, he’d unleashed the full force of his displeasure on her. As if it hadn’t been bad enough to arrive covered in muck, harried, and frazzled, after wrangling Mr. Hammersmith’s St. Bernard into submission at the dog salon where she worked one of her three jobs, she found her daughter sitting on a hay bale with her face red and streaked with tears and snot, surrounded by the Super Mom League. All of them beautiful, atomic blond, and rich enough to spend all the time in the world with their kids.

Callie hated them on principle.

Sebastian paced the yard between Callie and her daughter, making it impossible to snatch her kid up undetected and make a run for it. His ever-present riding crop tapped against his gleaming boots, reminding Callie of the flicking tail of a pissed-off tiger, and his expression resembled a thundercloud, dark and forbidding.

In other words, she was fucked.

She opened her mouth to rush an apology, but Sebastian didn’t wait for her. He whipped his hand up and zipped it at her. Zip.

“Let me stop you right there,” he said, in a voice so arctic it dripped icicles.

Callie snapped her mouth shut.

“This is the third time this month you’ve been late.” His crop went tap tap tap against his boot, then he slashed it up in a wide arc, pointing the tip at her in accusation.

How she hated that crop. She had dreams about it, and she wished she could claim they were all nightmares.

“You’re showing a distinct lack of respect. I am not your babysitter. But leaving your child unsupervised would be an insurance nightmare, so what do I do?” He paused, as if actually expecting an answer this time.

Callie opened her mouth and was promptly cut off.

“I watch her, naturally. It’s not like I haven’t anything else to do. Those horses don’t feed themselves.”

“She could help you with the chores,” Callie pointed out, reasonably, she thought. But no.

“Ah,” Sebastian said, crossing his arms and squaring his tall, fit body in front of her, looking down his arrogant nose, a cold, hard glint in his storm-cloud eyes. “Certainly, I could let her help. If she had boots to wear. Does she have boots on her feet?”

“Of course, she has boots—” Callie started, trailing off as Sebastian stepped aside and gave her a clear view of Charly. Her daughter, who sat on her hay bale, barefoot. Well, in socks, but the soles had holes the size of peaches; she might as well be barefoot. Callie remembered tossing those socks in the trash, but here they were, on her daughter’s feet. Mocking her.

“Where are her boots?”

“Are you referring to the boots she was wearing when you dropped her off? The boots that are so small Charly couldn’t walk, and consequently couldn’t ride, either? I’m not allowing a kid in so much pain and discomfort on a horse. It ruins their posture and hurts my horses.”

His contempt was so thick she could almost touch it, and her skin felt too tight and hot. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t known Charly had outgrown her boots; she should have paid attention. She should have known.

For once, Sebastian’s scorn was entirely deserved.

Callie’s insides burned with frothing, acid shame. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” she said.

One of the Super Moms standing beside Charly snorted, puckering her pastel pink lips into something that looked like the wrong end of a cat. Seriously, didn’t they have kids of their own to look after?

Sebastian, of course, didn’t even glance at the catty blonde. His gaze stayed locked on Callie, stern and full of disdain. It transformed him from handsome to terrifying; Callie wanted to hide from his eyes. “Your daughter needs new boots,” he said. “But that won’t matter if you come late again. I have a waiting list of students whose families know to appreciate my time. Come late again, and you’re out. This is your last chance.”

He didn’t wait for her to defend herself, or beg, or apologize, stalking off without another glance at her or her daughter. The League of Super Moms smirked and fell in line behind him, like a flock of geese. Charly, fuming,  hopped down from her perch and skulked past her towards the car.

Callie inhaled deeply, hoping to calm the churning sea of emotions clamoring to get away from her. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with trembling fingers.

What an asshole. Someone should have told him that being tall and handsome and sexy as the devil didn’t make up for a shitty character. He might look like he belonged on the cover of GQ, with his artfully wavy hair, his sharp jaw and full lips, but at the end of the day, he was still a jerk.

♠♠♠

With a deep sigh, Callie realized that another 20 minutes had gone by while the injustice and embarrassment of this afternoon’s confrontation with her daughter’s riding instructor assailed her, and she was still alone, at a Valentine’s Masquerade full of kinky people looking to get laid. Well, she clearly wouldn’t be one of them.

At least she’d gotten some new material for her spank bank. She considered finding Mina and saying goodbye, but dismissed the idea; her friend was probably up to something naughty, and she didn’t need any of those images in her head.

Resolved not to draw attention as she left, she fixed her eyes firmly on the floor and hurried towards the exit. She’d almost made it when, from a group of people she was slipping past, someone stepped backward and into her path. She didn’t have time to avoid him and collided with his back, planting her nose firmly between his shoulders.

“Oof.” The man staggered and whipped around, catching her biceps as she reeled back.

God, he was tall. And his hands were warm, and calloused, scraping against her skin and sending a rush of goosebumps up her arms and across her shoulders.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, off kilter.

“Are you alright?” His voice was raspy, like a night of campfires, whiskey and smoke, slightly muffled by his full leather mask.

Callie’s nipples did the unthinkable, poking through her thin blouse and the lace bra underneath, as if they were trying to get at him. Something about tall men always got to her. She stared up at the smooth, blank mask, short of breath, her brain blanking out.

It wasn’t just his height; the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealed veiny forearms and his vest hugged a trim waist widening into a chest that hinted at his strength. His hair was slicked back, his clothes obviously tailored to fit and of high quality. Everything about him was sleek and sophisticated.

Out of her league.

He cocked his head, and she remembered he’d asked her a question. “Yes, sorry—”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry.”

He chuckled, his grip on her arms softening. “I think this was entirely my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s true.”

He barked out a laugh, his palms still on her bare arms. In the shadows of his mask, she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but she saw the twinkle of humor in them. It drew her in, hooked her, and she swayed closer as his grip grew infinitesimally firmer.

In the silence that followed his laugh, he tilted his head again and studied her.

“Is this your first time at The Manor?” The question was soft, almost seductive.

Callie chuckled nervously. “What gave it away?”

He shrugged, his thumb stroking in a slow, circling motion against her skin. “I think I’d remember you if we’d met before.”

Oh my God. Callie sucked in air, but it didn’t help the tingles spreading through her body. “Does that line ever work for you?”

“You tell me. You’re my first,” he said, and winced as the words registered.

Callie laughed, and this time, he was the one who swayed closer. Her laugh ended in a choked gasp, and the air between them thickened and heated. Beneath her half-mask, her skin heated.

“So,” he said, and his fingers slipped from her reluctantly, as if he had to force himself to let go of her. He didn’t step away. “This is your first night. Do you like what you see?”

Did he mean The Manor? Or himself? Because if so, then yes. So much yes. “It’s interesting,” she said, her voice embarrassingly thin. “I mean, I’m not sure if it’s for me. Hard to tell from just looking…” Oh, hell. She had not just said that.

By the way his head twitched, baring his throat, he’d definitely registered the note of curiosity and longing in her tone. “Are you interested in doing some exploring?”

“Depends. Are you offering to be my tour guide?”

Her heart leaped into her throat as he took a swift step and closed the distance between them, looking down at her with a hungry gleam. “Tour guide. Instructor. Test ride. I can be whatever you want,” he said, his husky voice brushing against her like velvet and luring her in.

Hook, line, sinker — he was all that wrapped into a delicious, irresistible package. She swallowed it all. “Yes,” she whispered, and caught a barely audible moan from beneath his mask.

He didn’t even spare a glance for the group he’d been with as he placed his palm on the small of her back and steered her away. Callie let him lead her, her pulse pounding and her chest tight. She’d never been so aware of her nipples; they tingled like they were connected to a battery sending a current of electricity through them.

They walked back into the ballroom, passing the first platform, where two people clad in latex were doing something involving a medical chair. Callie looked away quickly.

“Not your thing, then,” he said with a low chuckle, guiding her away from the disconcerting display. “If you see something that appeals to you, tell me. We can take a closer look.”

He headed towards the currently empty platform at the center of the room and pulled her down onto one of the couches surrounding it, angling his body to face her, his arm on the backrest. His fingers caressed her shoulder, playing with the short, puffy sleeve of her blouse, slipping beneath it and rubbing soothing circles into her skin. Shivers skittered across her chest and down her arm.

“I thought you wanted to guide my explorations.” She forced the words out past her tight throat.

A soft chuckle puffed out behind his mask. “First I have to know where you want to go, don’t I? Which path should I guide you down?”

“But I don’t know that.”

“Hm.” His hum conveyed doubt, and he slipped his hand out from her sleeve and up to her neck, twirling a dark curl around his pointer finger and giving it a light tug. “Do you really not, though? Most of us have recurring fantasies. Situations that turn us on like nothing else. Scenes in movies, TV, or books that get our blood pumping.”

Oh. She had all of those things, of course. But did she want to share them with him? Already?

He let the curl spring free and circled the back of her neck, settling his thumb ever so lightly against her throat. Callie swallowed hard, trembling beneath the slight scrape of his callouses. He was a man who worked with his hands.

Her heart wanted to punch free of her chest. “What are yours?”

His eyes twinkled, and he leaned closer, closer, until his mask almost brushed against her cheek when he spoke. “They are many and varied. Right now, for example, I’m imagining pulling you onto my lap until you’re pressed up against my aching cock. I’d undo those tiny, little buttons, one by one, and bare your skin to me and the room.” He pulled back and dropped his hand to the row of buttons at the front of her blouse, plucking one, rubbing the pad of his thumb against it.

Callie could hardly breathe. It was so hot all of a sudden. Her skin felt too tight, too alive, tingly and slick with sweat, and the air caressing her where he’d lifted the fabric away from her wasn’t enough. She wished he would undo her blouse. Undo her.

But he released the button and cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb against her bottom lip. The tip slipped into her mouth, dipping past her teeth.

She licked his skin, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“See, I’m a bit of an exhibitionist. I want you writhing on my lap, with your tits out and your skin flushed, rubbing against my cock until you come. Right here, where everyone can see.”

Oh God. Oh God.

Callie had a vague notion that she should be shocked. Outraged. After all, they’d known each other for, what, twenty minutes? And he was talking about his cock. How he wanted to make her come in public.

Instead, her body was a single, thrumming coil of need. She wanted that. She wanted to let him do whatever he wanted. A whimper slipped from her, and his eyes sparked with something feral. Ravenous. He pushed more of his thumb into her mouth, pressing down, forcing her to open it for him.

“Christ, the things I want to do to you,” he growled, and the blatant hunger in those words stopped the embarrassment from taking hold. And when he pulled his thumb back and painted her lips with the wet pad of it, she didn’t close her mouth.

He slipped his long, calloused fingers around her throat and leaned close again, close enough to scorch her. “Your turn.”

Her turn? For a moment, her mind was blank. He’d turned her to mush, and all she could think of was how much she wanted him to make good on his words. Pull her onto his lap and show her his hardness, his hunger — she dropped her eyes to his crotch, and yes, there it was: an impressive bulge, straining against the dark denim of his jeans. Straining for her.

He chortled softly, and Callie whipped her gaze away, realizing that she’d been staring at the man’s erection for a long, endless moment. She searched for something to distract her and found that the platform in front of them was no longer empty. She hadn’t even noticed the two people stepping onto it, but now she did, and she sucked in a sharp breath, choking on air.

The white-blond man on the stage swished a riding crop in his gloved hand, making the kneeling submissive at his feet flinch. But instead of the lean, predatory blond clad all in black, her mind cast back to that afternoon, back to Sebastian Fucking Dante and his crop flicking like the tail of a tiger.

The heat pooling low in her belly surged up and flooded her. She saw herself, the end of that crop placed delicately beneath her chin, lifting her face to acknowledge the power contained in that single, small tip, the power that belonged entirely to the man wielding the crop.

“That,” she breathed, “I want that.”

The mask tilted sideways, considering her, considering the stage. His thumb brushed against her throat in lazy strokes. “And at which end of the crop do you see yourself? Would you rather give or receive?”

Callie dragged her gaze from the stage and found him focused entirely on her. It was a heady experience. Intoxicating.

“Which end do you prefer?” she asked, her throat bone-dry.

His shadowy eyes sparked with humor. “Generally, I’m flexible. I’m more drawn to the giving end, but with the right person, I enjoy the receiving end as well. With someone who’s so new, though, I’d rather be the one holding the crop. Less chance of losing an eye.” It was said without meanness, a fact and not a judgment on her lack of experience.

Callie licked her lips. She wanted him to wield a crop, to show her the pain and pleasure of it and put her in her place, but the words wouldn’t come. They built and built, until what she wanted was too big, too personal, to put it before this literal stranger.

She didn’t even know his name — but maybe that was good. That way, he could be her fantasy, be whatever she wanted him to be, and this could stay just another dream, like the ones she had late at night, when she was so tired from work, from constantly struggling to be a good mother and from day-to-day drudgery that the walls she put up around her secret longings crumbled with her exhaustion, and allowed him to slip in and torment her.

“I want that,” she whispered, and it was all she could say. Her heart was pounding like it was going to explode. Each beat a bang.

“You want me to lose an eye?”

Callie sputtered a laugh. “No! I want to… receive.” There. She’d said it.

Something in him shifted, a change sweeping over him, ripping away the thin veil of sophistication and baring the wild, hungry creature underneath. He cupped her throat, moving closer, suddenly looming, and her limbs turned weak and soft for him.

“You want me to use a crop,” he said, in a low, rough voice that fizzed through her like champagne.

“Yes,” she said, more a gasp than a word.

“Hurt you? Dominate you?”

Those shadowed eyes were staring down into hers, intense and powerful, pinning her down and dismantling her. Her throat moved against his palm as she swallowed. His touch was careful and gentle.

“Yes.”

For a sweet, endless second, his grip tightened, hinting at the power in his hands, then he released her, brushing his thumb once more against her lip, his callouses dragging against her skin, as if he wanted to learn the shape of her by touch.

Then he stood and took her hand, pulled her to her feet and laced their fingers. She’d almost forgotten how tall he was. He pulled her towards the ballroom exit and out into the spacious entrance hall, and from there, up the sweeping stairs with its stunning banister made of writhing, gleaming brass snakes.

Upstairs, he paused briefly, checking in with the security guy seated at a desk on the circular balcony.

They followed a corridor leading off the balcony; like downstairs, the walls were black, with the same snake-shaped wall sconces as below, and in between the light fixtures and doors, decadent paintings showing scenes of seduction – and flowers – decorated the walls, framed in ornate, golden scrollwork. Small, golden lights beside the doors showed if a room was in use.

He stopped at an unoccupied room and faced her, his fingers tightening briefly on hers. “Alright?” he asked. “You can turn back anytime.”

“I’m ready,” she said, embarrassed when her words ended on a squeak. Ready, yes, but quivering inside.

“Good.”

He opened the door and pulled her through into a glittering dream of opulence and dark desires. Despite the extravagance of the halls and the ballroom, she hadn’t expect the luxurious, tasteful interior of the private playrooms.

Her companion didn’t give her time to take in more than the dark walls and the enormous bed before he whirled her around and pushed her back against the door, caging her and commanding her full attention. Her heart fluttered against her ribs like a frenzied bird. She had to tilt her head all the way back to meet his eyes, and it made her feel vulnerable and small.

He brushed his knuckles against her neck, then threaded his fingers into her hair, tracing her earlobe with his thumb. “You can stop this anytime. If you’re uncomfortable or not sure you want something, or you’ve just changed your mind, tell me and I’ll stop. Alright?”

His gentleness shattered something inside her. It had been years since anyone had treated her with care, with tenderness. She’d missed this for so long. Her voice felt thick and wet when she answered. “Okay.”

“Good. Now—” He hesitated, the pad of his thumb returning to her lips, and his fingers fiddling with the edge of her half-mask. “I’d really like to kiss you, but with the masks, that’s going to be awkward. Can we take them off?”

“No. I want to keep them.” Her answer was quick, and urgent. She wanted this to be a dream. His featureless face was disconcerting, yes, but taking it off would make him real. This would be real, and Callie sensed this night could be something devastating, from which she couldn’t return. As long as it remained a dream, going back to her drab, every-day life wouldn’t hurt as much.

“Okay. We’ll keep them for now.”

She couldn’t read his tone. Was he disappointed? She didn’t want to disappoint him.

“How do you feel about sex?”

“Um. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

His laugh was a quiet huff of air behind the mask, and he shook his head. “No. We’re here to have fun with a crop. I won’t lie. I’m desperately hard for you, and I’d love to fuck you into next week, but if you’re not interested in sex, I’m okay with that.”

“Oh.” A shudder ran through her and she could feel him, there, pressed hard against her belly.

He dropped his head, his forehead knocking against the door, and groaned into the crook of her neck.

She moved again, deliberately this time, a long, sinuous roll of her body against his, and she turned her face into his neck and kissed his throat. The sensation of his rough skin scraping against her tender, sensitive lips was dizzying. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, fuck me.”

“Oh, thank God.” With that, he stepped back, dropping his hand to play with her blouse again, plucking at the first button. “Take this off,” he said, taking on an unmistakable edge of command. Of dominance.

And Callie responded, fumbling with those tiny buttons, until she lost her patience and whipped the blouse over her head and dropped it to the floor. His gaze flicked to her chest, growing hot and heavy, and Callie’s nipples hardened, responding to the weight of his smolder. Because there was no mistaking that he wanted her.

“The skirt, too.”

Callie shimmied out of her tight, faux-leather skirt and stood in her underwear, the bra black and lacy and not at all matching with the pink cotton panties. It betrayed how little she’d really believed she’d had a chance with anyone tonight.

He didn’t seem to mind the mismatched underwear. While his gaze traveled the length of her body, he couldn’t seem to help himself, cupping the straining bulge of his erection through his pants and squeezing.

“Take it off,” he said, and God, he was hoarse. The rasp of his voice was like a touch, sending goosebumps skittering across her skin.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the clasp of her bra on her back. Cool air kissed her skin, prickling over her eager nipples. She let her bra fall to the hardwood floor and quickly shoved her panties down before reaching for the clasp of her heels.

“No,” he said, the command almost harsh, drawing something taut in her belly.

She straightened, biting her lips. Naked, in heels, she was out of her element. Like an impostor in her own skin.

He walked away from her and opened an armoire, clearly familiar with its contents, as it took him only a moment to find what he’d been looking for. When he turned to her again, he was testing the flexibility of a slim crop.

“Come here,” he said, pointing it at the floor in the middle of the room, and a shiver wracked her as she obeyed. He was going to use that crop on her.

A mixture of need and trepidation swirled inside her as she stood where he’d indicated, while he tucked the crop under his arm and began unbuttoning his vest, unhurriedly, before slipping out of it and doing the same with his shirt. Unlike her own careless disregard of her clothes, he placed the vest and shirt, neatly folded, on a chair. As if he had all night, and his clothes deserved his undivided attention, while she stood, and waited, and watched.

His chest had a light smattering of dark hair, leading down in a narrow trail to his navel, and down, to disappear inside his jeans. He moved about with lazy grace, as if he knew that her mouth was watering at the sight of him.

Her breath stuttered in her lungs as he stepped to her and knelt, circling her right ankle in his long, strong fingers to steady her, while he unclasped the ankle-strap of her heel and carefully lifted her foot from the shoe. He did the same with the other foot, and even though he was the one kneeling before her, the power was all his. He took her heels and stood, placing them beside the chair with his shirt and vest. Through all of it, he held the crop beneath his arm with the thoughtless, casual ease of long familiarity.

Now, he gripped it in his hand again, and tapped its tip against his calf. The gesture sent a thrum of anticipation straight to her core.

“On your knees,” he said, and Callie obeyed, because she wanted to be on her knees. At his feet.

There was a whistle of air, as if he’d sucked in a breath. “Gorgeous,” he said, so softly it was barely audible.

Somehow, Callie could no longer look at him. It was as if he was seeing too much. She only realized she’d looked down when the crop came to her chin and tilted it up, the small leather flap at the tip tickling her skin.

“Never look away from me.”

“Okay.”

“Want to try that again?”

Oh, god. They hadn’t talked about it, and she’d never done this with anyone, but she knew what he was asking for. Of course, she knew.

“Yes, Sir.” She’d thought saying it would be silly. Instead, it felt… right.

“Good girl.”

Oh, fuck. That. She’d always thought that praise would feel patronizing. Ridiculous. But the warmth blooming inside her was as real as it was unexpected. She wanted his praise, and she wanted to please him. Fuck, she wanted to be his good girl.

“Mmm, you like that, don’t you?” He trailed the tip of the crop down her throat, down between her breasts and up again, following her collarbone to her shoulder. As he circled her, slowly, he brushed the crop across her skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until he stood before her again, tapping her thigh, ever so gently.

“You want to be a good girl for me?”

“Yes. Sir.”

“Spread your knees.”

Callie shuffled her knees apart, reluctantly; it made her vulnerable, and she hadn’t been vulnerable with another person in a very long time. Somehow, her eyes must have drifted to the floor again, because she didn’t see it coming: with a soft whistle, the crop whirred through the air and struck at her inner thigh, just above her knee, leaving a red mark on her pale skin. She hissed, more in surprise than pain.

“Look at me.”

The mask revealed nothing, but his body hummed with power, making it impossible not to do as he said.

“There. Now, spread them wide. I want to see that body.”

Callie made a sound halfway between a gasp and a whimper, burning with embarrassment as she spread her knees apart as far as they would go, wobbling for a second as she found her balance. She hardly dared to breathe as the crop traveled up the inside of her thigh, stopping just short of her softest parts, then wandering down again and repeating the journey on her other thigh.

“Such a pretty little pussy. And it’s all mine for tonight, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The crop came down again, and Callie gasped in shock. It left another mark halfway up the inside of her other thigh, and it took a few seconds for the pain to unfurl.

“Try again. Say, ‘This pussy belongs to Sir.’”

Callie gaped up at him, mute. Another snap of the crop against her thigh knocked her tongue loose, however, and she hurried to repeat the words he demanded, no matter how strange they sounded.

“Good girl,” he said, and the rush following his words left her dazed.

He lifted the crop and traced a terrifying, leisurely path around her nipple. “Whose tits are these?” he asked in a silky drawl that made her stomach swoop.

“These tits belong to Sir,” she said, and held her breath when he chuckled.

“That’s right. Hold very still now.” The little leather flap of the crop brushed across her nipple once, twice, and Callie desperately needed air.

Everything narrowed down to the threat of that leather against the pebbled tip of her breast. When it moved away the third time, she inhaled, and cried out when he flicked his wrist with lethal precision, swatting her sensitive nipple.

Her brain took a second to catch up with the blooming pain. It wasn’t bad. As a heated sting pulsed out from the abused bud, until her entire breast throbbed with it, Callie marveled at the hot, needy hunger it ignited.

And the tip of the crop circled, circled, circled her other breast, closer and closer to her nipple, until it brushed against it, once, twice, and — swat! — came down on it, with the same true aim that resulted in the same throbbing, biting sting, and left both her nipples tender and swollen.

Callie whimpered as he crouched down before her, scraping his calloused thumbs against her nipples before squeezing them between his thumbs and the shaft of the crop, pulling.

“Up you go,” he said, a tinge of sadistic joy in the rasp of his voice. Callie stumbled after him as he led her to the bed by her nipples, her legs wobbly from kneeling and unbearable arousal.

He positioned her on the long side of the bed, facing the vast expanse of the mattress, pressing close against her back with his arm across her chest, holding her in place. She could feel his cock, hard and hot through the denim of his pants, pushing against the small of her back. The leather of his mask was cool against her cheek.

“You’re going to be my obedient little fuck doll tonight, aren’t you?”

The mouth on the man!

“Yes, Sir,” she panted, rolling her hips against him. He growled in her ear, sending a flare of primal excitement through her.

“Good.” With that, he stepped back, cool air replacing his heat. He tapped the crop against the inside of her ankles. “Step apart and bend over.”

She did, tilting her hips and presenting herself, spreading her legs obscenely wide as she leaned forward to rest her elbows on the dark gray comforter.

There was a moment of silence, when the air around them seemed to contract and time stopped and sparklers went off inside her and fizzed through her veins, until she was a single, tingling nerve — then the crop cut through the tension and cracked against her ass. With a gasp, she went up onto her toes, tossing her head back, and his laugh was bright and full of devious delight.

“‘Thank you, Sir’,” he prompted, amusement brimming in his voice, and Callie huffed and thanked him. “I see we have to practice this,” he said, planting another strip of fire across her backside.

Callie choked out another thank you, and another one, with each new stripe he laid on her ass, and then the backs of her thighs, until each thank you was a groan, and each new crack was like kindling to the flames swirling at her core.

She held her breath as he paused, dragging the tip of his crop along the swollen lips of her pussy, slowly, deliberately. Oh, he wouldn’t, would he?

“Fuck, you’re dripping wet,” he said. He sounded choked.

The crop tapped against her clit and Callie tensed, prepared — cried out when he swatted her, ruthlessly. Not hard, not the way he’d beat her ass, or even her nipples, but still, stars exploded across her vision and white-hot sensations rushed through her.

He dropped the crop and grabbed her legs, pushing her up on the bed, until she was kneeling on the mattress. She heard the purr of his zipper, then a crinkling of foil, his calloused hand cupping her nape and pressing her down into the comforter. And he was there, behind her, nudging her needy, wet pussy with his cock.

“You want my cock inside your sloppy little hole?” he taunted, hovering just out of reach, denying her.

“Yes! Sir, please!”

He shoved in, mercilessly, like he couldn’t bear to be separated from her any longer, a long, desperate groan rumbling from deep within his chest. His fingers on her nape tightened, squeezed, and his other hand grabbed her ass, torturing the strips of pain from his crop with a hard grip.

He sank deep and paused, his pelvis flush against her ass, giving her a moment to adjust because, fuck. He felt enormous. Thick.

Then he moved, a slow drag out of her and a forceful, cruel thrust back in, slamming against a spot that sent a cascade of blinding sparks through her. Callie had no control over the sounds she made as he did it again and again, no control whatsoever. She could only clutch at the comforter and hang on for the ride.

She hadn’t known sex could be like this; it never had before.

His breath came in a loud staccato from behind the mask, and his fingers dug into her muscles, hurting her and making everything better. More.

He consumed her, in ways she hadn’t known she wanted to be consumed, reducing her to senseless bliss, and sweeping her away in a tempest of need.

“More,” she sobbed, and he reached around her and slipped long fingers between her legs and pinched her ravenous clit, never breaking his pounding rhythm.

Callie shattered, burst into stars and glittering shards of glass.

He followed her with a roar, pulsing deep inside her.

Neither of them moved for a minute, their panting the only sound. Then he slipped out of her, gripping the base of his cock to keep the condom in place, and collapsed on his back beside her, his arm thrown across his face.

His face.

Not his mask.

His face.

And – no.

No.

Callie jerked and fumbled, searching for her own mask. It had been knocked askew, but it was still covering her face, and she frantically readjusted it.

He must never, ever know who she was. What they’d done.

“You alright?” He peered at her from beneath his veined forearm.

Callie was most definitely not alright.

She’d been in blissful sex-heaven a minute ago, but he’d had to take his mask off and now she was in bed with Sebastian Fucking Dante, and nothing would ever be alright again.

“Your mask,” she croaked.

“What? Oh, sorry, I couldn’t breathe with that thing on. I must have knocked it off in the heat of the moment.” He grinned sheepishly and reached over as if he meant to touch her mask.

Callie flinched away from him and his face fell.

Fuck, his disappointment shouldn’t hurt.

“Sorry, I…” I don’t want you to find out you slept with the woman you can’t stand? The woman you berated just this afternoon for being a terrible mother? I don’t want you to go back to hating me?

“No, that’s alright. I mean, I would love to get to know you, because this was… amazing.”

Her heart stuttered, constricting in her chest. “It was,” she whispered. Which was exactly why she needed to keep the mask on. And why she needed to get out of here, now, before this got any more awkward.

Her knees nearly buckled when she jumped out of bed. Sebastian had fucked the strength right out of her, but it didn’t matter.

He watched her with a furrow between his brows as she darted around the room, collecting her clothes and throwing them on, cursing when she realized she’d put her blouse on inside out.

“Look, this has been everything, a dream, but I need to go…” She paused with one hand on the door handle, her shoes clutched in the other. Sebastian hadn’t moved, sprawled across the bed like a god of debauchery, watching her with a mixture of confusion and sadness.

“Did I hurt you? Was it too much?”

“What? No! You’ve been amazing. Best sex of my life. I just…”

She just couldn’t bear to lose this. Him.

“At least tell me your name?”

Callie closed her eyes and leaned against the door. He hadn’t recognized her. He didn’t know.

“Bess,” she said, and swallowed a groan. Of course, the first fucking name that came to her mind had to be Mr. Hammersmith’s St. Bernard.

“Bess,” he said with a soft smile. “I’m Sebastian.”

For a moment his smile tempted her. He didn’t look like Sebastian Fucking Dante now, cold-hearted riding instructor and asshole par excellence. This man looked… sweet.

But this version of him wasn’t real. It was an illusion.

A dream.

“See you around, Sebastian,” Callie said, and slipped out the door.

 

 

Want to read more about Callie and Sebastian or other couples of The Manor? Subscribe and get notified when I revisit these dorks and release new stories and books, and download the Masters of The Manor Novella Rainfall & Rope for free.

 

 

5 Responses to :
Craving the Crop

  1. Christina says:

    You left me hangin’ and I want more. Will you finish this story? Expand on it? I vote for a whole book.

    1. Jo Henny Wolf says:

      I will definitely expand on it, because honestly, these two wandered in and made a home in my brain.

  2. Megan says:

    Hi Jo! I basically binged all your books on Kindle last week and I cannot wait for more Master of the Manor! Please never stop! ❤️

    1. Jo Henny Wolf says:

      Thank you so much, Megan! I’m currently working on Holden’s story, so there will be more. Knowing that someone out there likes what I’m doing keeps me going ❤

      1. Megan says:

        Oh, that’s exciting. I was hoping either Holden or Rourke would be next. Can’t wait to read it!

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