The Thing in the Basement (Rituals 2)

The Thing in The Basement (Rituals 2)
Jonathan Wright
Second Edition
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2014 Jonathan Wright
An Authorized Excerpt

Samantha Wallace, CFO of General Design and Engineering, named the city's Professional Woman of the Year twice in a row, walked in the door to her two bedroom loft on the north end of town at eight thirty. Troy slumped in the big chair, watching the Pirates beat the Mets.

"Hi."

He grunted in response. She knew he must be angry. He liked her home at a reasonable time, so he could get a hot meal. Feeling her insides tighten up, she went into the bathroom for an antacid. Not again. I don't need heartburn tonight. I want Troy to fuck me. The thought of his rough hands and his big, muscular body on top of her made her wet and weak.

Actually, he never got truly angry. She'd met him at a bar, a real dive that reminded her of the places she used to go to in college. She'd practically had to slug him and drag him home to get him to understand she liked him. He had such a nice disposition. She felt safe around him.

Not like Alan Drury. He ran the design department. Drury was trouble. Black Irish and full of fire. Uncontrollable in the long run. Her intensely logical mind catalogued him as a liability to the company.

Bob Jones, that scummy little balding guy over in Marketing, made her cringe every time he looked at her, but at least she could understand him. He only wanted anything he could steal. Fine, she could deal with that.

But Drury…

She needed to remind herself that Drury had a wife. A terrifically beautiful one at that. The kind who had probably always been beautiful, who had never had a care about whether a boy would ever look at her. The bitch.

Sam checked herself in the mirror and admitted -- again, as she forced herself to do every time she got ready for Troy -- that she had finally blossomed.

Yeah. Into a shameless slut. She smiled at that. Troy's slut. The fact that the words lacked complete conviction did not faze her.

She finished changing, and went out to the living room. Bottom of the fourth, 3-2.

Over time, and out of desperation, she had learned to take the initiative. She had also learned not to compete with sports. Along with her clothes, she discarded her company persona, left behind the cool, calculating Phi Beta Kappa Harvard MBA, and became Samantha the Sexy Witch. Naked except for bits of leather on her wrists and around her neck, she waltzed over to the tube and killed it. Then she turned back to Troy, who stared at her benignly, but with the beginnings of interest.

He'd better.

She wore a black leather collar set with a large white pearl, black leather wrist bracelets and anklets, and black stilettos with four inch spikes. In one hand she carried a chain that ran from the collar, in the other a whip. She carefully knelt on the carpet before him, and put the chain in his hand. She sat back on her heels so Troy could properly consider his property.

She lowered her eyes, but peeked out from under her fine brows to make sure he reacted properly. "I've been bad today, Master. I worked hard, but I stayed late…"

He looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Sam anticipated a hard evening. But she had learned persistence and determination.

You will beat me, Troy. You will beat me and fuck me until I scream. You will.

"Aw, Sam, honey, I --" He stopped when he saw her fiery look. "Aw, okay, you deserve to be punished, I guess."

He levered himself up to his full six foot three and took the whip from her hand.

She prostrated herself with her head at his feet. Her breathing slowed as she attempted to relax herself into a kind of nirvana state, a place where everything in the outside world faded away, leaving only the whip.

The lash fell softly, giving her a taste of pain. Only a taste. Then it fell again, a little harder. She'd worked with him, trying to get him to understand that she needed real punishment, but he kept easing off, making it difficult to feel the heat.

He's just too nice…

The fact that she could consider this threatened to make her angry, and if she got angry she'd take it out on Troy, and he didn't deserve that. On the contrary, she deserved to have the anger on her. Seething, simmering, righteous anger.

Unbidden, the image of Alan's hard face leapt into her mind, and she could not banish it. Today at the office he had snapped at her, had treated her as if he wanted to punish her for what she had done. She had displeased him, siding with Harry Dunbar, president and owner of the company, over proposed changes to a major engineering project. Siding, in fact, with that utter slimebag Bob Jones. Sam knew without much doubt that Bob's solution to the problem involved lining pockets and bypassing a number of city ordinances, but the fact was that his had been the best idea.

Drury had been very angry. She imagined his anger and the punishment he would give her. Instantly she felt wet with desire.

Stop that! Troy is your master.

The lash fell constantly, but without conviction. This time, Sam didn't care. Alan's face and form, his cruel features, his hard hands, kept intruding into her imperfect submissive experience. She finally imagined Alan with the lash, hitting her harder and harder, making her cry in pain and shame, bringing her to the point of screaming for mercy. Pushing her over the edge, but just so far, so that she fell into the White Well, the place where pain became a religious experience, an awakening, a powerful caress on her libido…

She came, stiffening, humping her hips and crying out. She bit her tongue as she almost gasped Alan's name.

Only rarely had she achieved orgasm this way, without the additional stimulation of her fingers. She avoided that, because Troy became even more uncomfortable when she ventured to please herself, as if she didn't think he could. Big macho guys are always like that, egos like glass.

She lay on the floor, quivering. "Oh, Master!" she moaned. "I'm so hungry for your cock! Please take me."

Troy picked her up easily, carrying her to their bedroom where, per her usual wishes, he tied her wrists and legs to the corners of the four-poster canopied bed. Then he stripped and crawled in beside her.

His lovemaking qualified as tepid, but the fact that she could do nothing about it added some spice. That and the fact that she loved the feel of a cock in her. God, I'm such a slut. "Please, fuck me hard, Master. Please."

He grunted in animal response and climbed between her legs. When his cock entered her she bit back a moan, but it got away. "Ah, Master, ah, I love you, I love your cock…"

She wanted him to make her suck his cock, make her bend over so he could fuck her ass.

Drury would do it, the bastard! Drury would make me beg, make me crawl…

Sam had gone through a large number of men and an immodest number of women trying to find the perfect master, then the right master, and finally a good master. She drove them all away, one after another (two in one case), and ended up with Troy.

Alan Drury had two major disadvantages. He already had a wife, whom Sam had seen and secretly envied because of her movie star body and face; and he had a well deserved reputation as a competent, fair minded manager who would stand behind his people one hundred percent. A leader, a man who could take charge but, like Troy, just too nice.

Troy lasted longer than usual, giving her time to have a second and third orgasm. Each time she imagined Alan Drury holding her helpless, robbing her of her will to resist him, she came. She managed a scream on the third one, inspired by the image of Alan fucking her on Harry Dunbar's massive oak desk.

Troy cried out as he came, "Oh, Sam, I love you!" which should have made her feel special, but instead made her feel like his mother.

But she liked the way her cunt throbbed as she thought of Alan.