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Faithe and Salvation

By: SneakyDeaner



(c) Dean Askin writing as Aden Kains


Part one – Requiem

For an instant Morgan feared he had forgotten the small blue velvet-covered box. It had rested atop the bureau for almost two whole years, waiting, needing to be dusted regularly. Then he felt it bulging in the pocket of his tailored St. George slacks and his mind refocused on Faithe, within reach across the table from him. He knew instinctively that he'd at last found his kindred spirit again and that the time was right to offer her the collar of consideration. Tonight, on this damp late-summer evening, he felt Faithe would recognize her true desires. Soon, they would begin their journey together, willingly making dominance and submission the focus in their lives, devoting themselves entirely to their bond with each other. Just as he and Belinda had done a lifetime ago:

Morgan could still clearly remember how Belinda — he'd always called her "my beautiful slave Belinda" — had worn the chain heart lock collar in public with pride whenever she ran errands, or was permitted outings by herself, or accompanied him on business trips. And when she was within the privacy of Tremayne House and its grounds or their own property at the end of the lane, she had willingly obeyed his desire that she be collared and naked but for a leather chastity belt, with her nipples clamped, chained and erect, twenty-four seven. The black leather posture collar that had kept her head held high and her tongue respectful when she was addressed, had also enhanced her beauty. 

Humble pride still overwhelmed him whenever his mind recalled the mild spring Saturday afternoon of her eighteenth birthday. As she became a woman Belinda finally recognized her secret submissive desires, and willingly entrusted him with her life, body and soul. 

There had been an instant bond between them from the moment he said hello on the day her family had moved into the 1858 Shipwright's house at the end of the lane. She'd smiled shyly back at him, her seventeen-year-old blue eyes glinting in the October sunlight and strands of her long blond hair blowing astray in the autumn winds that swayed the branches of the oak tree in her front yard. Both of her parents were photojournalists, she'd said, and were often away in places like Afghanistan, Bali or South America. 

"Then who takes care of you?" he'd asked, and she said she'd mostly looked after herself since she was twelve. 

"I don't think I know my parents much at all anymore. In fact I don't think I remember what it's like to have anyone look after me. Maybe you could be my friend."

"I'd very much like to be your friend," he'd answered.

When, at dinner that evening his father asked the usual question about how his day of college classes went, he said, "Father, I think I finally found my kindred spirit today." He felt, he knew, that he needed Belinda as much as she needed him. Morgan knew he wanted her and longed to possess her mind, body and soul, and that he would be deeply devoted to her always. 

"Then it's time," his father answered, and smiled his understanding smile while his mother concentrated on finishing her meal, making eye contact with neither father nor son. A tiny morsel of beef fell off her fork and landed on the black Lycra full-body stocking in the channel between her breasts, and she dabbed at it with a napkin. The 20-karat gold chain clamped to each nipple that protruded from cut-outs for her areolas in the Lycra swished back and forth as she dabbed at the piece of meat. After their meal, while his mother wrote her blog entry for the daily slave blog she was expected to keep for the world to read online; while his college classmates were working their part-time jobs, hanging out at Pizza Haven, or drinking themselves to oblivion and fucking any willing girl at college parties; Morgan was at last taken under his father's wing and began learning the Tremayne ways. 

From that very first night of his initiation and instruction, his father had taught him that true submissives will eventually recognize their desires within, and so he simply courted Belinda, imagining their lifetime together and fighting the hardness of his cock each time he saw her. 

Through the fall and winter of their respective senior years, she taught him an appreciation of Ansel Adams, and olives with peanut butter; he made her read Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice, for all she read it seemed, was J.D. Robb novels, and photography books. Always slung over her shoulder wherever they went together was her Nikon D-7x, which her father had bought for her fifteenth birthday. Sometimes it annoyed Morgan that she could go nowhere without bringing the camera. But she had inherited natural photographic talent, and Morgan was always amazed at how she could capture a landscape, a bird in flight, or a sunset and create a stunning image. It made him crave her even more. 

Sometimes he would casually remark that she should try wearing her hair a certain way because he thought it would look good that way, and she would; when he told her he thought every girl looked hot in black, she would wear her black skinny jeans; when he told her her face glowed when she wore peach lipstick, she made it the color she wore on her lips most of the time. 

As winter gave way to spring and they watched friends break each other's hearts, their emotional bond only grew stronger; when her friends began going to second base and then all the way under the bleachers, they pledged to save themselves for each other when the time was right. Patience was a virtue of every worthy Dominant, Morgan knew.

And so he practiced patience until the day Belinda entered her womanhood. As they sat naked on his bed in the Tremayne House guest house, both feeling awkward about being naked with each other for the first time, she finally told him about the dreams that often made her wake in a cold sweat, fully aroused. He said he understood and that she shouldn't be afraid of the dreams; that maybe they were a manifestation of her inner self. Then Morgan confided to her the Tremayne way of life that had been so for generations, and confessed how long he had desired her, how he had longed to guide her, to possess her; to be her Master if she would have him. 

He explained how their lifestyle of submission, dominance and devotion to each other — their total power exchange — would be: He would be devoted to her, protect her, care for her, teach her, never punish her without cause; never intentionally cause her pain she could not bear simply for his own satisfaction; guide her on a journey of self-discovery. 

In return, she must be willing to surrender completely to him. He explained the rules of their total power exchange: She must be secure in deriving her happiness from his pleasure, sexual and otherwise; must be content with his being in complete control of her life; must never touch herself in a sexual way because her release would always be a reward gifted by him, when he chose to let her orgasm; must never wear undergarments because she must feel naked even when not so; be completely shaven of body hair, including the region between her thighs, because this too would make her feel more naked; would be completely naked all the time during her lifestyle training; would afterwards wear only a chastity belt, nipple clamps and a posture collar when they were in the privacy of Tremayne House and its grounds; and would only wear clothes he approved of that accentuated her breasts and all the curves of her body when they were in public. Most of all, she would never keep secrets from him. 

He would permit her to develop her photographic talent however she chose, her choices being subject to his approval, of course; might consider funding a gallery exhibition of her work with his trust fund; would even let her teach him the art of photography so they could enjoy it, discuss it thoughtfully and appreciate it together. 

He gave her the choice of leaving him now, if she wanted to, reminding her that there would be no turning back for either of them if she decided to accept him as her Dominant. "Of course, you'll have a few days to decide. I'm not expecting you to make this kind of life commitment immediately," Morgan said. "You'll need to think about it for a few days, I know. And, if you do decide to let me be your Dominant, you'll need time to get your essential things together, and explain to everyone including your parents that we've decided to move in together, because you'd live here."

"I have only my best girlfriend that I would confide in, and my . . . my parents are missing," Belinda had said. "They've been missing for two months. They were in San Francisco on assignment." That spring of 2012, the world hadn't quite ended but the entire North American continent had shuddered violently as continental plates heaved and shifted, and the entire coast of California finally broke away and crashed into the Pacific Ocean.

"Belinda, I'm sorry. Why . . . why didn't you tell me? It's secrets like this that you mustn't keep from me if we're to be together and trust each other faithfully for the rest of our lives." 

And as the summer sun beamed through his bedroom window, she planted a kiss on his forehead and relinquished herself to him, and both felt a sense of fulfillment and happiness. 

Spontaneously, like a cat completely comfortable in its surroundings and with its owner, Belinda settled back on the rumpled sheets and spread-eagled herself before him. His Tremayne instincts, and all that he had learned from his father, took over. Pinning her outstretched arms down as their palms melded together and their fingers interlocked, he drove hard into her with a rush of adrenalin surging through him, making her cry out for an instant as he took her virginity. Then he repeatedly eased off each time she was on the brink of orgasm, pleading, only to drive hard and deep again and again. He finally gave her release, sternly whispering "Come now, my Belinda" in her ear. A long, reverberating moan came from deep within her as her body convulsed under him. 

When the orgasm subsided, she rose to her knees and without instruction or hesitation, licked her nipples until they were erect again and cupped her breasts to receive his cock, forming a deep channel for him to drive through into her waiting mouth. Her flitting tongue made him explode quickly, and rivers of cum flowed over her lower lip, splashing on her breasts and areolas. She ran her tongue along her lip and then around the swollen areolas. With a finger she slowly massaged the other splashes of cum into the firm, silky smooth skin of her breasts while he watched part of him absorb into in her forever. 

"I am yours, forever, my Master Morgan," Belinda finally said, her eyes darting lower when she realized she'd made eye contact and no longer should unless instructed or given permission to. As the evening shadows crept through the bedroom window, Belinda — his beautiful slave Belinda from that day on — accepted her punishment for the infraction willingly. He made himself comfortable in his grandmother's Khroler rocker, and gestured with a wave of his arm. "Please," Morgan ordered. Belinda stretched prone over his thighs. With her legs splayed, back arched and ass in the air for him to spread her cheeks and caress her rear opening, she never uttered even a whimper as they both mastered the art of fisting. 

Afterwards, he rewarded her for controlling the urge to cry out: He traced figure eights on the warm, soft skin of her bare back while he fondled her moist sex, rhythmically probing her in both openings simultaneously with curled thumb and middle finger until her glistening pussy oozed wetness and her muscles tightened around his digits. She came with a quiet gasp then drifted off to sleep, still across his lap. As Morgan rocked gently he too closed his eyes for a few hours. 

At midnight his eyes fluttered open and then he nudged her awake too. With quiet passion, tenderness and the authority of a caring teacher in his voice, he educated her about the collaring ceremony and its sanctity, finishing as the clock struck one-thirty. "Now at last it's time, my beautiful slave Belinda," he said. 

She knelt naked before him with her forearms resting on her thighs and her palms upturned, her head bowed and her eyes worshipping his sex as he had instructed her. In the glow from the circle of candles around her, they decreed their devotion to each other, each reciting the vows he had written in preparation for this night, and she accepted the chain heart lock collar that had been passed from Tremayne fathers to Tremayne sons for three hundred years. After locking the collar around her neck, Morgan embraced her tightly, not wanting to let her go as her complete surrender to and acceptance of him as her Dominant overwhelmed him. He planted soft, gentle kisses on each cheek and nipple, smiling into her eyes. 

"Now you must sleep," he said. "Please lay on the bed, and I'll get you ready for the night. Spread your legs wide, arms and hands at your sides, please." He locked each slender ankle into shackles attached to the foot of the bed, then secured her wrists to her thighs with the leather binders made to do so. Then he lifted her head gently, and secured the blindfold comprised of two large circular leather pads around her head, making sure the buckle at the back was not too tight. Then he pulled the light summer blanket over top of her so she would not catch a chill from the central air conditioning.

"This is how you'll sleep every night until your lifestyle training is complete, except the nights I desire you; and how you'll be left for periods during your training when I cannot be present because of my final studies or Tremayne Transportation Enterprises matters that need my attention," Morgan said. "It's for your own good, my beautiful slave Belinda. Not only will these periods of bondage help you learn relaxation techniques such as meditation that are so beneficial for one's mental health, but they'll also prevent you from succumbing to your natural sexual urges when I'm not present to grant you the release you so desire. I hope you don't find it too uncomfortable." He kissed her lips and erect nipples. 

"As long as you are asleep near me, I'm content, my Master Morgan."

"I'll be in the very next room. I'll always be here to guide you and protect you," Morgan answered. "You know I'm entirely devoted to you. You're my whole life. Now sleep, my beautiful slave Belinda. In the morning, our new life together awaits. When you awake, your submissive lifestyle training begins." 

Mid-morning, he brought her in bed a breakfast of poached eggs on toast and tea with milk and sugar that he had lovingly prepared. When she was done, he attached a training leash to the ring in the sterling silver collar. "Follow," he ordered. He led Belinda across the manicured, still dew-drenched lawns to Tremayne House, into which they moved, occupying the special suite of rooms on the very top floor that was isolated from normal guest rooms by a door at the base of the stairs to the third level and extra insulation behind the bead-board walls.

There, through the rest of that summer and fall, their faith and trust in, and devotion to each other, only grew. She spent her days with him learning, listening intently and then practicing repeatedly, consciensously, until she demonstrated to him — more importantly herself — perfection of everything she must know and do. He taught her how to present herself for daily inspection, and for sexual availability; how to stand, kneel and sit so that her sex was always visible to him; to come only on his command; to address him properly both in private and in public; to instantly be able to assume the correct position corresponding to a voice command; to enter and leave a room respectfully whether on all fours or on foot; what pleased him and what did not; to eat healthy and exercise with him every day; to walk with him and carry herself in public; to appreciate all of Jane Austen's works; to cook more artfully, so they could enjoy his passion together and so that she could prepare their meals when he chose not to. 

In turn, she taught him about photographic composition, and the use of light and shadows; to see the world around him in new ways through the lens; to laugh more often and not take himself so seriously; that he must hug her every day at least twice, and especially on the days he didn't require her to give him sexual pleasure or didn't desire to give her sexual release, because his touch alone was so important to her bond with him; to know when she was teasing and verbally jousting with him to make them both laugh, and not being disrespectful or disobedient.

One early November afternoon, as the first winter snows fell outside Tremayne House and they dined a late lunch of pasta amatriciana and a bottle of Atwater Estates Riesling in their third-floor suite, Morgan rose from the table and fetched the large gift-wrapped box he'd kept hidden in his closet for the past two weeks. "My beautiful slave Belinda, this is for you, in honor of completing your lifestyle training, and I so very dearly hope you'll accept it."

With graceful movements of her long, slender hands and fingers, applying his teachings, it took Belinda several minutes to tear off the gift-wrap and ribbon, and open the parcel. "Thank you, my Master Morgan. The new smell of the leather is intoxicating, and I look forward to its feel."

"Then, my beautiful slave Belinda, does this mean that you truly, boundlessly and unequivocally accept me as your Dominant for life?" his voice quivered.

"I do, my Master Morgan. With all my heart."

After he had fully outfitted her in the black leather garter-style chastity belt buckled snugly around her thighs and waist; the black leather posture collar that kept her chin held high, and the endurance nipple clamps that chained her breasts together and kept her nipples erect, he reached for his Nikon D900 (which she had helped him select after seeking his permission to discuss finer details of the latest models with the sales associate, and even negotiated a discounted price) and bade her pose in the natural light from the window, so he could capture her portrait. She looked exquisite in her attire, with her blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her lips made up in peach. His cock hardened as he pressed the shutter release. "You look so beautiful and desirable like this, my beautiful slave Belinda. My heart's racing and I absolutely must experience you this instant." 

She smiled at him and bowed her head affectionately, then turned to lean her palms and breasts against the cold glass and arched her back in a half-crouch, which thrusted her flared hips up and high towards him so he could unbuckle the chastity belt. He fumbled at first, his hands trembling, and then finally her thighs were unbuckled and she splayed them as the chastity belt fell to the floor. "The mere sight of your shaved, naked sex makes me so very hard," Morgan said, "And I find taking you from behind simply irresistible, because you are a lovely sight from the rear."

"I know it is your favorite way, my Master Morgan, and I am happy to present myself this way," Belinda said, feeling her heart racing too as she reached behind to open herself wider, and guided him into her with one hand. "All I ask, my Master Morgan, is that you always be as gentle as you can when you choose my other passage." 

After he took her to the brink twice and then orgasmed inside her, staying there while they both came down from the sexual high, she asked if she would feel him in her other opening today. "Yes," Morgan answered, and reached behind him for the bottle of salad oil. When she was lubricated and he was hard again, he pushed slowly into her ass and then found his rhythm as her rear passage opened for him. 


Faithe and Salvation



Afterwards, he ran a warm bath for her and gently soaped and sponged her whole body, then dried and re-outfitted her. They slept the rest of the afternoon away in each other's arms, spooning, he with his fingertips grasping the D-ring on the front of her chastity belt, and she with her hand on his.

When her parents were declared officially dead in the aftermath of the events of that spring, his father purchased the 1858 Shipwright's house and added it to his many real estate holdings. For his son and heir he financed the necessary renovations to the house and property so it was more suitable for Morgan's business needs and his and Belinda's lifestyle. 

Now that her lifestyle training was over, and she was no longer required to be completely naked and isolated with him in Tremayne House, and they had their own oasis complete with a six-foot wooden privacy fence around the rear of the property, they could begin socializing again. They began to entertain, and enjoyed being hosts. Both were humbly proud whenever Dominant and submissive friends alike commented on how beautiful and graceful Belinda was in her collar, nipple rings and chastity belt. 

Though they needed to focus on building their own D/s life together, Morgan and Belinda made time to visit Tremayne House regularly. His mother took to Belinda instantly, and the two often enjoyed long, barefoot walks around the Tremayne lawns, his mother in her bodysuit and Belinda in her outfit. The walks gave Belinda some female companionship, and his mother always looked forward to their conversations, Morgan knew. In his parents' total power exchange, his mother had for almost 25 years been committed to only speaking when spoken to, and otherwise, except for the necessity of eating, to opening her mouth only to receive his father's cock or cry out under his caresses of her sex. His father said that Morgan had indeed found his kindred spirit and trained her well, which was his way of saying that he was happy for Morgan and that he liked Belinda. 

For the times they entertained his friends or business associates who knew nothing of their lifestyle and from whom it would always be kept private, or when they were invited out or had to attend obligatory charity or business dinners, Morgan bought Belinda a black Lycra bustier and black chiffon dress. It hugged the curves of her body and was cut low to the small of her back and low enough in front to reveal the tops of her thrust-up breasts but not the nipple clamps and chain. The mere sight of her in it always aroused him. 

Over the next few years Morgan spoke not a harsh word to his beautiful slave Belinda; in fact there was rarely an evening that they didn't have stimulating discussion about photography, books and even world affairs over steaming mugs of tea, late into the darkness. She'd become widely read and he enjoyed hearing her opinions, even when he didn't agree with them. When he tired of conversation, she would take his cue and simply kneel silently and contentedly by his side, or listen to music from his mp3 collection but not so loudly that she couldn't hear him if he addressed her. Other nights, he would simply say "Present" or "Open," and she received him until he was spent; occasionally he would softly order, "You may come now. Come now," and she would cry out as her body trembled.

They agreed that when it was her time of the month, he would leave her to her own solitudes twenty-four seven, out of both necessity and respect, although she thought enough of his needs and pleasures to offer him her mouth or rear passage when he needed sexual release during those weeks. But he insisted that she take time to look after herself, and said they would make up for it; that he would be content to simply spoon with her in the night, feeling her skin against his. 

Eventually he learned to be a capable photographer though not nearly as good as she. He allowed Belinda to dress for their photo walks together, and the couple soon became a familiar sight early many mornings, when the light was at its best. Their first time out together, as she walked one stride behind him and to his right as he had taught her, she was unsure of herself. But with every public outing Belinda's inner strength grew. She learned to ignore awkward glances from people who were not in the D/s lifestyle and stared after her when they could see the outlines of her chastity belt and nipple clamps under her tight, revealing street clothes, and the chain lock heart collar she wore in public instead of her posture collar. 

At least once a month, he would ask her if she were happy with him and in their lifestyle, and she would inevitably reply every time, "With all my heart, my Master Morgan." Still, not wanting her to ever feel trapped by his control to the extent that she would ask to leave him, he granted her certain freedoms after they discussed the boundaries. 

He permitted Belinda to spontaneously wander about town on her own with her Nikon (as long as she asked his permission before leaving their property), recording life in the community, and to have her own flickr.com page for showing her photographs to the world. She was allowed to visit the shops on Main Street twice a week on her own, and to occasionally meet with friends and acquaintances from her life before him, as long as he approved her friends and the planned activity, and on the condition that she never discuss their lifestyle when he wasn't with her. All he insisted upon in return for these conditional freedoms was that she return to the estate and shed her street clothes by the curfew he designated or face a punishment.

Twice in five years they holidayed in the Southwest and rendered spectacular photographs of the Grand Canyon (which now extended all the way to Lake Tahoe at the western end of Nevada following the shifting of the continental plates), and eventually he decided they should exhibit her work at the Sanderson Gallery on Main Street. He was happy to see his beautiful slave Belinda excited about her magnificent landscapes of the Canyon selling for thousands of dollars, which went into an account he held in trust for her. He knew she was passionate about and committed to her photography, but never put it before attentiveness to his pleasures, passions and needs because she was totally devoted to him. One day perhaps, the funds in the trust account would be granted to her in appreciation of her devotion. 

Despite her artistic blood, Belinda proved to have strong business sense as well, quite efficiently taking care of the routine administrative affairs he chose not to deal with in his inherited role as president and chief executive officer of Tremayne Transportation Enterprises. And when he required it, he allowed, even happily encouraged Belinda to accept photographic assignments for TTE's annual report, or press releases that the company's public relations agency deemed necessary to do occasionally despite his and his father's desire to avoid the media as much as possible so they could continue living the Tremayne lifestyle without it being misunderstood and exploited in the press. After each job, Belinda would turn over the payment she received to him, as she knew she must do. Morgan secretly deposited each check into her trust account.

He himself never posed for any publicity photos, regardless that it was his beautiful slave Belinda behind the lens and he knew she would make him look perfect. While the media in the middle of this century had advanced exponentially in its use of modern communications technology, its mindset was still in the dark ages of the 1950s when it came to human sexuality. Both Tremaynes feared that an indiscretion could simply bring down the shortline railroad and trucking empire his father had worked so hard to build from scratch following the collapse of every major railroad during the second global recession of the twenty-first century. With the nation's economic and food transportation network at a stand-still, people had been jumping off bridges daily. His father was a hero, and Morgan knew he had a daunting responsibility not only for his beautiful slave Belinda, but also to his father. 

And so he ran the TTE empire from his fully wired study of their new home in the 1858 Shipwright's house, rarely making an appearance at the nondescript, unaddressed corporate headquarters downtown. It allowed him to have his beautiful slave Belinda naked (except for her chastity belt) by his side every day. Each morning she would dutifully ask if he required her to pleasure him, and more often than not he would say yes because there was such intimacy between them when he felt her moist lips around his cock. She had learned his weakness, and as her mouth tantalized his cock, she would massage his perineum and then tease his anus with her index finger, slowly inserting it as she pumped with her mouth. He would explode in her, and then they would begin the business of the day. 

When video conferences became boring, he would sometimes silently mouth "Come," and then "Present," and give her sexual release, unlocking the chastity belt and fisting her pussy slowly and rhythmically until he was deep in her up to his elbow and her body began to convulse and she asked permission to come, then growled a moan while her body heaved and her muscles went taught around his fist. Then he would withdraw slowly, refasten her chastity belt, and bid her back to her desk after she said, "Thank you for letting me come today, my Master Morgan." 

When he had to travel on business, she accompanied him, always the graceful and gracious companion at his side. He felt as if he were the most fortunate Dominant in the world whenever he secretly spied business associates, and even strangers, eyeing Belinda in her black chiffon dress and her black Lycra bustier. When asked her opinion on a subject during dinner conversations, Belinda would glance at him for permission to offer it, then confidently give it; when one of their guests sometimes commented on her collar, she would explain that it was a gift from and a symbol of her devotion to him; whenever her grace and charm left such an impression that they won Tremayne Transportation Enterprises new business, they would celebrate. In their hotel room, they would feed each other pink champagne with orange juice and strawberries, then she would present herself for him and try desperately not to orgasm when his tongue inflamed her clit and then he drove hard into her. 

Only twice more in the course of their life partnership did he ever have to punish her: Once when Belinda forgot to tell him about a photograph of the harbor that had sold at the gallery for fifteen thousand dollars, and once when her body went into orgasm so quickly she could not stop it in time. Other Dominants he knew would bind and whip their submissives for such infractions; but he had no desire to physically harm Belinda against her will. She was his submissive by choice; his equal in all other respects and perhaps better than he in some ways. Thus, for the first offence, he settled on lacing her prone in a leather body bag and hood for twelve straight hours of sensory deprivation. And for the sexual infraction, he removed her chastity belt long enough to attach to it two thick, seven-inch-long plugs that penetrated her deeply in both openings and caused her to be in a constant heightened state of sexual arousal while she wore the plugs twenty-four seven for ten consecutive days except for brief moments when she asked to relieve herself.

When he expressed his desire for them to eventually have children and carry on the Tremayne line, Belinda immediately stopped taking her birth control pills. He agreed to temporary fulltime release from her chastity belt so that she could be completely naked and accessible for him at all times, and she willingly accepted his cock from behind over and over and over, at any time of the day or night on his whim, until her periods stopped and they rejoiced in the knowledge that she was with child. 

At the end of her first trimester, they began thinking about names, and what color she would paint the nursery he would build, and how they would talk about their lifestyle with the child as soon as it was old enough to begin to understand. He hoped for a son and Belinda hoped with him. 

But the thing neither of them could control was the second swine flu pandemic that swept suddenly and rapidly across the globe in the late summer of 2023, taking lives swiftly and at random as the Spanish influenza had done more than a century earlier. The Sunday morning had begun the way all their Sundays began — he prepared them both poached eggs on toast, and tea with milk and sugar. After washing up the dishes, she knelt silently at his feet while they watched the sun rise. 

Pregnancy had made her even more radiant in the early morning sun, and it seemed, had increased her appetite for both receiving him and her own sexual release to the extent that she was exhausting him. As he was finishing scrolling through the Sunday edition of The New York Times on his laptop, she spontaneously presented herself on all fours (which was the most comfortable position for her these days), raised her hind quarters in the air and spread her thighs as much as the chastity belt would allow until he removed it. "I am yours my Master Morgan . . . take your pleasure with me, and let me come. Please my Master Morgan, I beg you, take your pleasure with me this morning, and let me come." 

He released her from the chastity belt, and freed his cock from his sleeping pants. His hands caressed her bare back and growing belly, and his fingers flicked her nipple clamps, and much to their surprise they came simultaneously not once but thrice, and both of their appetites were finally satiated as the sun rose high in the mid-day sky. 

Soon after, she complained of not feeling well, and asked permission to lay down for a while in her room. By mid-afternoon when he went to check on her she had a fever of one hundred and four; by sunset his kindred spirit and unborn child were taken from him. 

"My Master Morgan, I . . ." Belinda tried to utter weakly, reaching out to him with fear in her eyes, not wanting to be released. He held her hand tightly, not wanting to release her, and silently cursing his complete inability to control her fate. "My dear, beautiful slave Belinda," he said softly as her chest stopped heaving and she died in his arms. He planted gentle kisses on her still-warm breasts and forehead, and stroked her pulled-back hair, and simply stayed kneeling at her side until he had to let her go when the paramedics arrived, simply too late. He insisted on unclasping the chain heart lock collar before they took Belinda away mind, body and soul, and gently placed it back in the blue velvet box on his bureau. 

At the funeral, everyone told him she was a beautiful sight in her black chiffon dress. For the solemn occasion, the rules of obedient silence and eye contact were waived by his father. And so his mother spoke softly to him, trying to comfort her son. "My Morgan, think of your years together, and take comfort in knowing Belinda loved you, loved pleasing — and pleasuring — you, respected you, and was devoted to you, with all her heart. She was so utterly happy in her bondage to you. This I know for certain. She told me so often, on our walks. You did not fail her, my Morgan." It was the first time he had ever heard his mother speak freely in her loving voice, and he wept. 

But grief, melancholy and a sense of complete and utter failure to uphold his vow and protect his beautiful slave Belinda from harm overwhelmed him as the casket was lowered. It consumed his life, and Morgan cared about nothing, and simply existed for the longest time in the 1858 Shipwright's house at the end of the lane, without living. 

Until he found Faithe by pure chance.

Part two — Awakening

Morgan eyed Faithe's glossed lips as she spoke, and decided the color — a peach tone she'd chosen to go with the outfit, suited her the same way it had his beautiful slave Belinda. He imagined it would look pleasing on her nipples and labia, as well. For she would be required to keep these made-up should she this evening release the desires he sensed she kept locked away in secret, and accept that they were kindred spirits.

"Isn't it a bit unusual to date your guests?" she was asking.

"Yes, I suppose it is," he said, sipping his latte. "But I've been alone and have cared about little for a very long time. Not even the family business empire I was entrusted by my father to oversee. And I must say your sudden appearance — and your beauty, if I might be so forward, has roused my senses back to life. Besides, I thought you might like some company for an evening, since you've been here all alone for the past three weeks."

"I'm flattered. And you're charming. And right now I'm thinking you're trying to charm your way into my bed, on the first date."

Morgan looked straight into her eyes. "I do feel there's a connection between us, yes. I felt it the moment you set foot on the porch of the Shipwright's Inn. But I'd never do anything to you against your will and desires, Faithe." His heart pounded, his mind raced. He wanted so much to tell her that he wanted her naked, right then and there, and wanted to thrust into her, and to have her want to be his cherished submissive for the rest of their lives. 

"Ooooooo, take me, I'm yours," Faithe teased with a touch of sarcasm.

Morgan frowned for an instant. If we're truly meant to be together, I must teach her to speak more respectfully, he thought. 

"Did I speak out of turn?" Faithe said. 

Morgan chose his next words carefully, testing her response. "One might say I should punish you for being cheeky," he said.

"Ooooooo, that might be fun — not. I'm not into being chained to the bed and whipped, thank you. And besides, it's only our first date," Faithe teased.

He found himself invigorated by her spirit and impertinent sassiness. It was becoming clear her lifestyle training would take time and patience. Perhaps she was his kindred spirit indeed, for he was enjoying the jousting with her. She made him feel alive again. 

He'd wanted Faithe from his first sight of her three weeks previous when, without a reservation, she as if by fate appeared at the porch step of the Shipwright's Inn while he was having an afternoon cup of tea with milk and sugar, enjoying quiet solitude in the fresh air and light southerly summer breeze drying the perspiration at the back of his neck. It had taken him more than a year to even begin getting over Belinda's death, and he'd kept himself locked away from the world. 

He was only now just discovering some of the remarkable things he had missed while he mourned and tuned out from the world around him for nearly two whole years: The war in Afghanistan was finally over after thirty years and no more young men would be coming home in flag-draped caskets; the space shuttle Explorer3 and its crew had successfully landed on Mars in just two-hundred and tren days and the world was awaiting their return following the astronauts' two-month exploration of the red planet; there finally would be no more runs for the cure — it was a twenty-five year-old heretofore unknown researcher at Johns Hopkins University Hospital who'd literally stumbled on the cure for breast cancer, and received the Nobel Prize for Medicine.

When he had finally awakened from his stupor of grief, Morgan began coming to terms with how he had failed both his beautiful slave Belinda, and his father. He vowed never to succumb to failure — to lose control of things he could control — again. It wasn't the Tremayne way. The TTE empire, which had been started out of a burned-out livery in Yorktown at the end of the American Revolution, very nearly came tumbling down when Morgan abandoned everything following his beautiful slave Belinda's untimely death. Only his father's sharp business mind and ability to make things happen seemingly overnight, saved that part of the family business empire from disaster. He'd come to the house and after asking after his only son, suggested that perhaps it would be better if Morgan stepped down as president and CEO of Tremayne Transportation Enterprises. He should find something else to do, at least until he got his life back in some semblance of order. 




Faithe and Salvation



"Perhaps look to your great-great-great uncle Samuel for inspiration," his father had said. "The man began as a lowly innkeeper in Boston over two hundred years ago. Today his legacy is a world-wide resort chain that earns the Tremayne Corporation billions every year. Perhaps this empty house can be your start of your own Tremayne legacy. Think about the possibilities, Morgan. You must get on with your life. You will find another kindred spirit to be part of it with you," he reassured. "Perhaps when and where you least expect to do so."

And so the 1858 Shipwright's house at the end of the lane had become the Shipwright's Inn, but renovation delays, and delays in receiving permits and licences, meant he'd missed the height of this year's tourist season. 

It was the late afternoon of his thirty-fifth birthday that Faithe had shown up on the porch. Strands of her mid-shoulder length, tousled auburn hair blew gently in the warm August breeze; her captivating green eyes looked up at him hopefully from under long, black lashes; the corners of her lips turned up in a nervous smile. Her voice was soft and sensual, but saucy at the same time. 

"Hello, I'm really hoping you have a room available," she'd said, "because I've come a long way and my butt's killing me from all the sitting at the wheel, and it just can't drive all over town looking for a place to stay."

She'd carried nothing but a Swissgear backpack over both shoulders and a Loweprowe Slingshot camera bag slung around her neck. She was dressed in an oversize turquoise t-shirt that hid her upper-body curves and was tucked casually into blue jeans that hugged Ruebenesque hips and derriere, and long, inviting legs. The t-shirt swelled tightly over her breasts but hid the rest of her upper body curves and ignited Morgan's imagination about what awaited him underneath the cotton. He hadn't felt this alive since fate forced him to let his beautiful slave Belinda go.

His mind came back to the moment and conversation at hand. "I would chain you — but only if you consented to my doing so, of course — but I promise I would never whip you," Morgan responded. "Dominance and submission is based on devotion, trust and caring, it's not about abusing the woman whose life is in your care and control, and whom you love."

Faithe coughed up a mouthful of her latte. "I'm really not sure I heard that quite right."

"I simply said — "

"That you get your rocks off on chaining women to the bedpost." 

"While I confess I do have a sexual appetite and that I would expect to be pleasured by you whenever and however I desired to have you, it would be consensual," Morgan said. "You would only be chained if you allowed me to chain you." 

Faithe struggled with herself. She should end the conversation and the date right now, and get up and walk away. Maybe even run back to the Inn, pack her things and leave. But instead, she took another sip of her latte. And felt her nipples rise. "The old 'take me master, I'm yours,' is what you're saying, then?"

"A rather crude interpretation," answered Morgan, "but essentially right. Let me put it another way, perhaps one you can better relate to. When you're photographing with your Canon, what shooting mode do you use? Aperture priority? Shutter priority? Full Manual? Program? You have so many choices."

"Most of the time, I shoot manual," Faithe responded.

"Why?"

"Because it allows me to have complete control over exposure and shutter speed, so I can have total control over the lighting, and make the photograph come out the way I pre-visualized the scene, the way I want it to," Faithe said. "It's what . . . I . . . get your point."

Morgan laughed softly. "I thought you might, when I put it in those terms. Perhaps some days you should let the camera do more of the work for you, instead. Experiment. Give up some control and see whether you like the results."

He knew by the way she raised an eyebrow that she caught the double entendre, and so continued, "Allowing oneself to give up total control to another requires great inner strength and courage, and complete trust in that person. And it's a huge responsibility to have someone's entire life and well being completely under your control. A D/s relationship is not something to be taken lightly — if you're ever trying to decide whether it's how you want your life to be."

"Right. If I'm ever thinking about being a sex slave, I'll let you know. I must say, Morgan, you're an interesting man. But I'm going to feel kind of awkward seeing you in the morning."

"The lifestyle is not merely about sex," Morgan said. She really was being impertinent now. She just didn't seem to understand that he was trying to connect with her, not merely talk with her. "As I said, it's about being able to give up control, finding inner strength, discovering your inner self and true desires, and trust and devotion. And there are the sexual pleasures, naturally."

Outside the café window, the single, two-lane main thoroughfare of St. Andrews was all but deserted even at this early hour in the evening, and the shadows were growing long as the sun went down. The days were growing short. Labor Day had come and gone; the tourist season was over. He hoped Faithe would stay on, so he could devote his full attention to her. So they could both discover whether there was a true bond between them and whether they were truly kindred spirits who would be completely devoted to each other's passions, pleasures and desires for the rest of their lives. For he still sensed that her sass was merely her way of hiding from true desires. 

Steam spiraled from the frothy surface of his latte as Morgan brought the over-size mug to his lip. He gazed silently at Faithe over the rim, four fingers of his long, slender manicured hands clasped fully around the porcelain and a thumb hooked through the handle. 

He'd left the parcel and note at the foot of her door while she was out photographing covered bridges in the area that morning, and it appeared she had followed his request precisely. There was just enough cleavage showing in the deep vee-cut of the tight, black satin dress, and he could see a hint of the black lace bra peeking through the trim of the vee. The dress fit her perfectly, hugging the desirable curves of her body and pressing against her breasts enough to make the tips of her nipples visible in the material. The black stockings encased her legs and feet; the overall black aroused him. 

The amber earrings dangled just below her earlobes and swayed back and forth, making quiet swishing sounds every time she brushed a loose strand of auburn hair away from her eyes or moved her head. Other than the lip gloss and a mere hint of color on her cheeks, she wore no makeup, also part of his request. He desired to see the bare, soft, supple skin of her face in its naturalness. Soon, he still felt, she would bare much more than her face — she would bare her body and soul to him, and herself. 

"Tell me . . . what are your pleasures, Morgan?" 

"I have many pleasures," he said. "One of the simplest is just sitting quietly, watching the sun rise. And, through the love of my life — my kindred spirit — I came to develop a passion for photography, and very much enjoy photographing seascapes early in the morning. Perhaps one morning the two of us will drive to St. Martin's, where the shores are rugged and — "

"I was thinking more in terms of your sexual pleasures," Faithe interrupted.

"I always found great pleasure in taking my beautiful slave Belinda from behind," he said, "and it was her favorite way of presenting herself to me."

Faithe wriggled uncomfortably in her seat. "So then you have kept a sex slave," she said.

"Belinda was not my sex slave," Morgan countered, feeling offended and that she still wasn't understanding. "She was my kindred spirit and we were completely devoted to each other. She was happy with all her heart in our relationship. And I was happy with all of mine. There was a bond between us from the first day we met."

"So why aren't you with her now?"

"Because she died. She died in my arms, during the swine flu pandemic two years ago. I grieved for over a year."

Feeling suddenly guilty, "I'm sorry, Morgan," was all that Faithe could manage.

"I accept your apology."

In the moment of awkward silence that followed, both looked away and tried to think of something else to say. 

Finally Faithe redirected the conversation. "I know the tourist season is over, but I hope you won't mind if I stay for a few more days. I was out photographing some of the wonderful old buildings on Main Street the other day, and passed by the real estate office. There was a posting about a wonderful little blue house down by the harbor that's for rent. I'm considering it. It's got a great room with a big window overlooking the harbor that would be a perfect studio. Great lighting."

"Then you're planning to stay?"

"Yes. I think so. I'm a newly single, thirty-two year-old woman who hasn't known what to do with her life since my divorce came through, and I need to find myself again. And I'm beginning to think this is the place to do it in. It's been so refreshing, just being alone with my camera somewhere completely different and concentrating on shooting wonderful landscapes in the early morning. I guess you could say I'm on a bit of a journey of self-discovery."

He raised a blond eyebrow.

"But don't get me wrong, Morgan," she quickly interjected, "I'm really not interested in letting you chain me up and fuck me from behind whenever you like." 

"We shall see," he said.

"No, we won't."

"I'll be most unhappy if you decide to leave the Shipwright's Inn," Morgan said. "Your very presence brings the house — and me — alive. I'll have to convince you to not rent that little blue house down by the harbor." 

"Good luck with that," Faithe teased.

Morgan gestured at her with his mug. "I really like that color of lip gloss. Peach. It's very attractive on you. Enticing, even. Goes very well with the outfit, I must say."

"It's called Enticing Rose, by Lancome. And you're trying to flatter me again and get in my pants."

Morgan half-smiled. "In any case, you should wear it again on our next date — all the time, in fact; it suits you perfectly. I think it's the only color of gloss you should wear."

"Our next date — well you're an optimist, aren't you? Actually I'm enjoying your company. Though I must say this conversation hasn't been what I was expecting for a first date with the innkeeper. Well, since you seem to like my lip gloss that much, I'll have to make a point of wearing it again," Faithe said.

"It goes splendidly with black. Black's my favorite color on a woman," Morgan said. "On the right woman, with the right figure, black is very sensual and erotic. On you, for instance — you look stunning. I'm glad you accepted my gift, and my request to wear the outfit this evening. I assume you're also wearing the high-cut panties and garter underneath?"

Faithe's face flushed, her shoulders tensed and her green eyes darted around the bistro to see if anyone had been in earshot. "I . . . er . . . um, yes," she stammered quietly, squirming in her chair, the dress rustling. 

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Morgan asked. 

"Let's just say now you're being a little bit too forward on our first date," Faithe answered. "A nice girl doesn't like to talk about her undies with a man she hardly knows."

"Why not? The tourist season's over, and there's nobody here except us and the barista. And she's quite busy reading a book. I think it's a Kathy Reichs novel. Even now, in 2025, some people still read books, it seems. I mostly prefer to sit quietly and browse on my laptop, and watch webisodes, although I still enjoy the classics — Jane Austen, The Bronte Sisters, Updike, Hemingway. But I digress. Honestly, she's paying no attention to us. But very well, if you're not yet comfortable with me, then I'll let it drop for now."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, my Faithe. I see your cup is empty. Please, I'd be most disappointed if you didn't let me buy you another latte. The evening's still early, and we're finding so much to talk about between us."

Faithe scratched at an itch on her left breast. "Excuse me," she blushed. "I had an itch that was driving me crazy."

"You needn't be afraid to touch yourself in front of me," Morgan said. Faithe blushed again. "In fact, when I desired to see you do so, I would expect you to touch your body in the most intimate places, in front of me — if you were to do me the honor of accepting me as your Dominant, that is." 

She started to say something in response, but raised a palm to her cheek when she felt her face flush yet again. "Another latte for you then," Morgan smiled. "I'll be back in a moment or two."

When he clunked another steaming mug down in front of her, gently pushing the empty cup aside, Faithe smiled a polite thank-you, and wrapped her hands around the sides of the cup as though they were cold. Seeing the inquisitive look in his eyes, she said, "I felt a sudden chill. I suppose it's the air conditioning."

Morgan scraped his chair as he stood up, then wrapped his light jacket over her shoulders. "I wouldn't let you catch a chill," he said. "I hope this makes you more comfortable."

"You are a gentleman after all," Faithe teased. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome, my Faithe. I find myself feeling . . . devoted to you." She didn't back away when he planted a kiss on the top of her head.

"You're being charming again," Faithe's voice cracked as he sat down again. "Now stop that."

Morgan laughed softly, then looked in her eyes. "You said a few moments ago that you're on a kind of journey of self-discovery. I sensed from the moment you appeared on the porch of my inn that you were lost and empty. And yet full of hope that there was someone who would care for you, devote himself to you, perhaps even love you; someone with whom you would find your way again." 

He continued while he sipped another mouthful, "And, I have been alone too long, and shut out the world for too long. So I've decided to take a chance on

. . . both of us. I hope to help you find your way, and make you ready for many wonderful things to experience in your life. You're a very beautiful, intelligent, desirable woman. Any man would, or should, be happy to have you as his life partner. Let me guide you; possess you, be your Master for a time even — if I may put it that way; so that you may eventually be your own master, and know yourself intimately."

Faithe shifted in her seat, tensing her shoulders. This conversation was getting uncomfortable again. He was making her think about the coffee-table book she'd come across in the guest salon of the Shipwright's Inn. 

"I see from your body language that you're not comfortable talking about this," Morgan said. His steel-gray eyes were fixed upon her, awaiting a response and she found herself unable to resist his quiet insistence. 

"I was thinking about . . . there was a book I found in the salon the other morning with cover art that intrigued me, and I started flipping through the pages," Faithe said. "I was curious."

"Ah. Yes. A Portrait of Sensual Slavery. Of the books I do have in my library, that's one of my favorite ones." He caught the look in her eyes immediately. "But not for the reasons I see you're thinking, my Faithe."

She tried to avert his penetrating eyes and scratched at her cheek. 

Morgan continued: "You see, my beautiful slave Belinda inherited magnificent natural photographic talent. It was her behind the lens for that wonderful book. I have an old college classmate who became a very successful horror writer, and lives in a very fine apartment on the Upper West side of New York City. Of course living in New York, one encounters many interesting characters, especially in Greenwich Village. David became intrigued by the D/s lifestyle during the initial research for his latest novel, and decided to write a book about the D/s and bondage community. I recommended my beautiful slave Belinda to photograph the book because she was in the lifestyle as well as a talented photographer, and I knew she would be perfect for it. She of course accepted the assignment because I wanted her to. And it was very exciting for her, knowing that her work would be in a published work by such a well-known author. It was so was stimulating, I might add, that Belinda often had to concentrate very hard not to constantly orgasm while she was photographing the subjects. I was very proud of her, both for her work, and for controlling her orgasms. I rewarded her afterwards. She came on my command numerous times, until she was completely exhausted." 

Please stop now, Faithe thought. She felt her pussy tingling, and a wet spot in the black panties under her dress. She tried to think of other things, but the book's pages were etched into her memory — the full-page photos of women, and men, in all kinds of leather get-ups and positions and scenes. And in every photo, they were looking intensely at the camera, like they were content with being tied up spread-eagled, or bound to crosses, or standing there laced up in leather body suits with hoods over their heads. "Too much information now," she croaked to Morgan, feeling a sensation between her thighs again.

Morgan chuckled. "Very well. But tell me, what was your impression of David's book? I'm always interested to hear my guests' thoughts. Some have found it intriguing, others have been appalled. 'Why would anyone want to be a sex slave?' they ask. They simply don't understand the emotional and mental commitment involved in a total power exchange relationship between two consenting adults who care about each other very much." 

Faithe remembered how she'd felt embarrassed to look down and see her nipples making two clear impressions in the material of her t-shirt, and feel moistness in her panties. She'd suddenly dropped the book on the salon coffee table, and glanced nervously over her shoulder to see if Morgan had seen her browsing through it. "It . . . er . . . was an interesting book," Faithe said.

"I sense you're not being completely truthful with me, and I wish you would," Morgan said. "If we're to have any kind of lifestyle relationship it must be based on mutual desire and trust. I wouldn't mock or think less of you if you said you found it arousing, for I imagine that by your hesitation in answering my question, you did. Am I right, my Faithe?"

"Yes," she finally admitted, looking away from his piercing eyes and out into the evening. "I did. And I was terribly embarrassed at myself."



Part three — Salvation

"I did glimpse you browsing through the book that morning, as I was passing the salon doorway on my way to the cellar for a bottle of wine. You were completely engrossed in it, and didn't notice me standing there for a few seconds," Morgan confessed. 

"I think," Morgan continued with compassion in his voice, "that in discovering A Portrait of Sensual Slavery by accident, you were at last in your life starting to discover your own true sexuality. I think that book made you realize that you've always had a secret desire to be tied with your legs spread wide and your sex accessible at any time; or dressed in nothing more than a collar and corset; to be dominated by your lovers, at least to see if you would actually enjoy it and find it emotionally and sexually fulfilling. But you've either never found a lover who appreciated you and all your needs and desires; or you've always been afraid to ask."

"So charming and so direct, too," Faithe said, pressing her legs a little more tightly together under the table. "And so wrong about some things."

Morgan ignored her remark, and continued with his insights. "I'm thinking there have been men in your life who have treated you with the utmost disrespect, but you've felt powerless to do anything about it," Morgan added. "That's not dominance and submission, Faithe. That, in any form, is pure abuse of a woman and I detest that."




Faithe and Salvation



Faithe could feel her temples pulsing and her brain felt like every neuron was super charged, and she couldn't think clearly of how to respond to his monologue. 

Morgan pushed his chair back against the wall and towered out of it. His broad shoulders were two whole heads above the bead-board wainscoting that ran around three walls of the café. "I'm in the mood for another latte myself. Excuse me. I'll be right back. Please don't leave," he said authoritatively. 

Faithe shivered when a rush of September evening air wafted through the café as the door opened and a teenage couple sauntered in. They were arm in arm and putting on a public display of affection that didn't belong in a café where other people could watch. Faithe tried to look out the window instead but their reflections were clear in the glass. The young man's whole forearm was up her black leather miniskirt as soon as she sat beside him. Above her leather halter top, the girl, not more than sixteen, wore a blue-and-white lace collar with three large stainless steel o-rings sewn into it. The girl, her eyes downcast, didn't seem to mind what he was doing to her. 

Faithe finally turned away from the scene before her at the sound of another mug clunking on the surface of the table. "Come — so to speak," Morgan smiled, "It's not that late. Let's stay awhile and talk some more. I'm enjoying your company and our conversation."

Faithe felt herself flush at the suggestiveness in his choice of words. "Maybe we could talk more quietly now that there are other people around us," she said. 

"They won't disturb us, but very well," Morgan said. 

Faithe opened her lips, but before she could think of what she wanted to say, Morgan said, "Do you mind if I ask you another personal question or two? I'd like to ask, but I'm not sure you'll answer given your reaction a few minutes ago to my question about the panties and garter you're wearing."

Faithe glanced to make sure they weren't being overhead. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the boy and girl were now on the far side of the café, completely engrossed in each other. She was half over his knee, in fact. "I suppose I don't mind," she said. Her dress had ridden up and her thighs were chilled and sticking to the leather chair. She lifted her buttocks off the seat and wriggled the dress back down.

"I hope you didn't do that on my account," Morgan said, gesturing his steaming mug at her, "because your derriere was a very pleasing sight when I was standing waiting for this latte." 

Faithe stifled a choking cough with one hand and managed to set her own mug down with the other. 

Morgan laughed softly. "You certainly have a journey ahead of you," he said. He leaned in close, and brushed her bangs gently away from her forehead. He traced his index finger down her cheek. "When, my Faithe, he asked softly, "was the last time that you had an orgasm and experienced sexual ecstasy, either by your own hand or at the hands of a lover?"

Faithe quivered. Jean-Franco had never spoken to her like this; in fact they had barely spoken to each other at all over their last year in the suburban Montreal townhouse. And when he did speak, it was only to willingly hurl verbal abuse at her on the nights that he wasn't out until four a.m. with his "friends," as he would phrase it. Whenever she tried to find out what he was doing in another life that she knew was being kept from her, he attacked her with words.

When he'd gone to France for six weeks last summer, he refused to let her go with him, and he'd come back . . . different. And wouldn't tell her about the trip. From the evening he'd returned from Europe, until the day last month that their separation papers came through, he hadn't touched her in any way. He had only found fault in everything she did. He was no longer the man he'd appeared to be the afternoon five years ago that he'd seduced her at a convention she'd been hired to photograph and at which he was a simultaneous translator.

That spring afternoon . . . the afternoon he'd charmed his way right into her panties the second day of the conference, during an hour-long break. Before she'd known it, they were in his room with a king bed and she was wearing nothing but a garter belt and seamed stockings from Linda's Love Lace, and Jean-Franco was binding her wrists to the corners of the bed with Pierre Cardin silk ties, and she wasn't resisting him. Then he'd spread her thighs and pressed his face into her. And she'd gasped as his forefingers peeled her outer lips and his tongue roamed all over her clitoris before probing as deep as it could go into her while she writhed and ground her hips into him. Faithe had long since put the hotel-room encounter out of her mind. Until now. Until Morgan Tremayne. Under the table, she pressed her thighs together. The black Lycra high-cut panties were damp and sticking to her.

"Gawd, why am I telling you this?" Faithe asked both Morgan and herself. "If you must know, I haven't had any in two fucking years. Because the last two years of my life have been hell. When a man goes from ripping your clothes off to constantly tearing you down, and doesn't want to have anything to do with you, including sex, it tends to leave a girl feeling kind of worthless. Christ, Morgan, I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know if I'll ever fall in love again. Maybe if I do, the next time it'll be with a woman. At least women understand each other's needs."

"I think I'd desire to watch you making love with another woman — perhaps bound together in a sixty-nine position," Morgan said. "If you desire me to let you do it." 

He could see her sassy exterior slowly breaking away. Morgan brushed her lip with a forefinger and sat back in his chair. "There are some men who do understand a woman's needs," he said. "I understand your needs, and your desires. Perhaps even more than you do. Even though you haven't spoken of them yet. Two people understanding each other's needs and desires, this is the very essence of a fulfilling D/s relationship. What are you desires and needs, Faith? Receiving carnations every day? Quiet walks together in the evening as the sun sets? Walking around naked just because you desire to do so, or because you are told to do so? Cunnilingus? Being taken from behind? Being bound and ravaged by your lover? Coming on your lover's command? Taking him in your mouth?"

As he finished speaking, Morgan's mind focused on a mental image that made his cock instantly hard: Faithe stood before him, legs wide enough apart to expose her sex and allowing him to probe her with his fingers; and her full, round breasts swelling out of a black leather corset, nipples erect and chained with the endurance clamps and chain Belinda had worn because it was specifically designed for the purpose of stimulating the sexual senses and generating waves of erotic pain and pleasure. Her head was thrown back; her eyes closed; her breathing heavy. 

"Take me master, I'm yours," Faithe jeered. 

"Please don't mock me, Faithe," Morgan said. "I'm being sincere and I wish you would be truthful with both me, and yourself. I want to help you find yourself again, Faithe. In so many ways. I'm very attracted to you. I desire you, as I have already confessed. I believe we're kindred spirits. I hope you'll let me be your teacher, your guide, your Dominant. There's chemistry between us, Faithe — not to mention we seem to have more than a few interests in common. I'll be devoted to you, and to our relationship. I believe you'd be devoted to me. We found each other, Faithe, by chance. I'm choosing not to let you go — you're my salvation after two years of lifelessness. And I hope you'll accept me. And yourself. You must remain with me at the Shipwright's Inn. I'll allow you to continue your photography and perhaps open a studio; I'll train you to come on command — only on my command — so you can have the sexual release you haven't had in two years; you'll help me run the inn — I know you'll be a lively hostess when called upon; I'll reward you with breakfast in bed on Sunday if you've earned it that week; I'll protect you from harm. I think eventually, you'll be a different person, with a different outlook on your life. Maybe I'll be a different person, as well."

"I have to say again, I don't think I've ever met a man quite like you," Faithe said. "You're choosing not to let me go. And what of me? Do I have the choice of telling you to go fuck yourself? You're sitting there telling me you want me to be your sex slave at your beckon call." 

Morgan laughed and took a sip from his mug. "I can see I'll have much to teach you, if you accept me as your Dominant. On the contrary, I'm merely asking you to recognize what you really want out of life, and choose your destiny. It would be entirely up to you."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Faithe? Pure, raw, sex alone, is no basis for any kind of devoted relationship, let alone ours that would be a lifestyle. We Tremaynes have always been men of honor. Never, ever has my father treated my mother as nothing more than an object to be used purely for his own sexual gratification. Yes, she committed to never speaking unless spoken to or opening her mouth at all unless it's to eat a meal or swallow his cum or cry out when he fingers her pussy until she comes. But he is entirely devoted to her in their total power exchange. He's always made sure she is looked after in every way, because that's his responsibility as her Dominant. Her cares for her deeply, and she for him," Morgan said.

"And they lived happily ever after," Faithe interjected snidely. 

"As a matter of fact, they have," Morgan retorted. "For almost 30 years now. My mother was running her own very successful public relations consultancy when she met my father. They met when she was bidding on a proposal to represent Tremayne Corporation." 

"Don't tell me — your father charmed her right into his four-poster bed with the shackles attached to each post."

She was being impertinent again. "No, Faithe. And please don't be impertinent about my family. He simply courted her awhile, and helped her recognize her true submissiveness."

"And that's what you're hoping I'm going to do."

"I believe you will, yes." He reached into his pocket for the velvet-covered box and flipped the lid open. "This collar is a symbol of devotion," Morgan said. "It has been worn by eighteenth-century debutantes; suffragettes; secretaries; prominent business women. For three hundred years, the submissives chosen by my ancestors have worn this collar with pride. I'm offering it to you." 

Faithe sipped the last of her second latte and gazed at the chain heart lock collar. She felt uncomfortable, yet at ease in his presence, at the same time. She closed her eyes and tried to gather her thoughts, but her brain was racing as the confusing emotions swept through her. 

"I can see you're wrestling with your emotions right now," Morgan said. "Yes, there will be sex and you'll learn how to present yourself; to come on my command or only when I permit you to; to never touch yourself sexually because that's reserved for me. But you'll also learn to discover your own true sexuality and your own limits, and what in life makes you truly happy. And to revel in life's simple pleasures together — like watching the hummingbirds in the garden in spring; the sunset over the harbor; sitting with me, naked, silent and still, doing absolutely nothing on a Sunday afternoon."

He would give her a day or two to think it over, he said, because he knew he was asking her to make a lifelong commitment to him and the decision must be hers. "Spend tomorrow shooting some seascapes," he said, "and the ocean air will clear your mind. And the ocean shores will make some magnificent photographs."

The sun was down and dusk was giving way to a chilly September night. Faithe gazed out the window. "It's getting late, Morgan. We should be going. I need to get some sleep if I'm going to get up early and photograph those seascapes when the light's just right."

They walked silently along the dark streets to the Shipwright's Inn. She was a full stride ahead of him the whole way, but he knew that she would eventually learn she must walk behind and slightly to the right of him when they were in public together. 

"Goodnight, Morgan," she said, holding on to the banister. "It was . . . quite an evening."

"Goodnight, my Faithe. Sleep well. Think about all that we talked about. Begin your journey of self-discovery. The pleasures will be many, and intense. I'll expect your answer tomorrow evening, then. We'll dine here. I'll make you a calamari salad, accompanied by some fine Australian wine."

The following evening, the box was at the foot of the door to her second-floor room when Faithe trudged up the stairs at the end of a long day that had started at four so she could be up and out to catch the sunrise. Morgan had been right; the coastline was rugged and magnificent, and she'd captured some outstanding shots. The only thing was, it'd mean hours of sorting, and then editing the best ones after transferring the twelve-hundred images from the Canon's memory card to her MacBook Pro. She'd even given up some control of the camera and shot a few images in Auto Program mode. It would be interesting to see the results in those ones. Becoming a photographer was all she'd ever wanted to do. It was a creative outlet, but concentrating to make her compositions also really helped her keep her mind focused, and relax. Except today, nothing would quell the confusing thoughts and emotions racking her brain and body, and it had been hard to concentrate on her image composition.

Faithe unfolded the note slipped underneath the red ribbon wrapped around the box that said "Sonya's Fine Lingerie" in stylized silver lettering. Black is your color. Wear this. I'll look forward to seeing all of you at dinner, was all the note said. She lifted the lid. 

The sheer black bodysuit with a thin neckstrap was crotchless, and also had openings that would completely reveal her breasts. I'm not wearing this, she was thinking when she heard a latch and Morgan appeared from a door at the end of the second-floor hallway, dressed in casual gray slacks and a pale green sport shirt that offset his complexion and early graying around the temples. He looked . . . attractive.

"I see you've received my second gift," Morgan said. "I do hope you like it and I know you'll look stunning in it."

"You expect me to wear this to dinner? I'll be half naked."

"Precisely."

"Morgan, please. You can't make me wear this. I already told you, I'm not interested in being your precious sex slave."

"Are you sure about that, Faithe? Honestly? I'll see you at dinner in 30 minutes," was all he said, and brushed past her, treading down the stairs and then she could hear sounds from the kitchen. 

Her street clothes and underwear fell to the bathroom floor in a heap and the shower head spewed steam when the hot water started to jet out. Faithe stepped, hesitantly at first, into the tub and drew the curtain. She closed her eyes, and breathed deeply as the hot shower water soaked her hair and ran down her shoulders. 

The rushing hot water ignited images: The naked, gagged and cuffed blonde staring into the camera in A Portrait of Sensual Slavery; Jean-Franco thrusting into her and her cries as her bound wrists pulled on the headboard in the hotel room; blurred images of last night's dream that had make her wake in a cold sweat with her hardened nipples sticking out a whole quarter inch. Her whole body quivered, and she went off balance, and had to lean against the cold tiles of the shower.

She lathered her body in slow, circular motions with her hands. When the flowing water had washed away the last suds clinging to her skin, Faithe squirted an extra palmfull of body wash into her hand and reached for the razor. When her entire lower body was completely lathered, Faithe moved the razor in long, slow, careful strokes until every inch of skin, from her ankles to her bikini line, was smoothe; then shed the stubble under her arms. She would be more naked, totally shaved. But was she ready to relinquish herself completely? As unbearable as life had been for the last two years with Jean-Franco, it was hers. 

Her body trembled in both fear and anticipation as she climbed out of the shower and slowly, deliberately patted her skin dry with an over-size towel. Faithe took a deep breath again, and felt the quivering charge from her toes, to her pubis, to her areolas, to her earlobes. From the medicine cabinet, she grasped the twist-top tube and carefully applied a hint of Enticing Rose to her lips and pressed them together to work in the color. Then with trembling hands, she gently cupped one breast and then the other, and added a touch of color. With a forefinger, she massaged the Enticing Rose until the skin of her erect nipples and areolas glistened peach. 

"You look stunning and so very desirable in your outfit and Enticing Rose," Morgan said as she joined him in the dining room. "Please, you may sit," he said. "I'm so very pleased you've joined me. I really do enjoy your company, my Faithe. I hope you don't mind me calling you that."

"No," she answered, "I don't. Because I am. Yours. I think."

Morgan looked into her eyes and reached across the table for her hand. "Are you mine, Faithe? Are you truly mine?"

Orange-pink sunlight from the setting evening sun bounced deep shadows on his face. "A pink sky at night is . . . a true submissive's delight," Faithe quipped.

Morgan laughed, and kissed her nipple. "You, my Faithe, are sassy and I will have to teach you talk to me more respectfully. You may even have to be gagged, at least for a while, I think. But you make me feel so alive."

"May I speak, at least sometimes?" Faithe asked. "I don't know that I could bear a vow of total silence."

"Yes, of course, my Faithe. While from this night on I'll expect your obedience at all times, you shan't be kept silent. I'll only gag you if become impertinent or disrespectful. This house has been quiet, empty and lonely for too long. I will enjoy our conversations as much as your body. In fact, I must have you right now, for I can't resist the sight of you in black. Please present yourself."

He allowed her to cry out at his every thrust from the rear. By her own admission, she hadn't orgasmed in two years and he felt that she deserved to this night, for in the morning her lifestyle training including orgasm denial would begin. He found his rhythm as she tightened her arched back and rocked her whole body to and fro in unison with the motion of his cock, and the sensation was intense for both of them. As their sexes moved in unison with each other, he spread her buttocks and gently massaged the outer surface of her rear opening with his thumb in steady circular motions.

Faithe crushed her face into the cushion he'd put under her head and quivered as the motions of his thumb unleashed new sensations for the first time. Morgan drove into her at a furious pace, and then slowed, then drove hard and deep again and again, taking her to the brink once, twice, three times. "Please my Master Morgan, let me come," her muffled lips said into the cushion. His sex slapped against her sopping pussy and he felt her muscles starting to contract around his cock and then he felt himself so very hard inside her and then he exclaimed, "Now it's time, my Faithe!" Their desires met head on in unison as her body convulsed and he drew on his inner strength and let his body control him, and felt the rush of his warm liquid filling her, and their voices echoed in the darkness as they cried out as one.

After he withdrew, and her orgasm had subsided, they held each other and lay with their legs intertwined. He stroked her sex-tousled hair gently, and spoke softly as he explained the collaring ceremony and how their life together would be, and that now that her decision was made, there would be no turning back for either of them. He felt her heart beating, and put his palm on her breast. "Are you happy to stay with me at the Shipwright's Inn, my Faithe? Truly happy?"




Faithe and Salvation



"I am, my Master Morgan. But I am frightened as well."

"You needn't be frightened," my Faithe. "I will guide you, teach you, help you find your inner strengths on our journey together, and I will never cause you any pain you can't — and shouldn't — bear, purely for my own satisfaction. I cherish you, Faithe. You already know I'm completely devoted to you, for I told you so last night. And I know you'll teach me many things, too, and will be devoted to me." 

"I know, my Master Morgan." And as the antique grandfather clock that stood watch over them chimed half-past eleven, Faithe relinquished herself completely to him. She knelt naked before him, with her forearms resting on her thighs and her palms upturned, her head bowed and her eyes worshipping his sex as he had instructed her. In the glow from the circle of candles around her, they decreed their devotion to each other, each reciting the vows he had written that afternoon in preparation for this night, and she accepted the chain heart lock collar that had been passed from Tremayne fathers to Tremayne sons for 300 years. After locking the collar around her neck, Morgan embraced her tightly, feeling overwhelmed by her acceptance of him as her Dominant just as he had felt with Belinda, now a faded lifetime ago. He planted soft, gentle kisses on each cheek and nipple, smiling into her eyes. They were kindred spirits. 

"Thank you for finding me by pure chance, my Faithe," Morgan said. "Because you are my salvation."

"And you are my salvation, my Master Morgan," she responded as he left her shackled naked and spread-eagled to her bed for her first night, making sure her bindings were not uncomfortable and that she wouldn't catch a chill. In the morning, her lifestyle training and their journey together would begin. He vowed to always protect her from harm, and he would not, could not, fail her. He knew for certain that they would forge a new Tremayne legacy at the Shipwright's Inn.

-The end-