Ciana Rose's Erotic Stories


I Will Not Fail

Lizbeth Dusseau

Copyrighted 2003

all rights reserved


I feel him near. It's now the quiet hours of the morning before dawn. The world around me is silent, shaded by the remains of night and a day beginning to crawl toward its birth. I can see this new dawn about to break as the horizon begins to pale in anticipation.

"There's unfinished business," he says.

I've been sitting at my dressing table, watching the sky's changing palette and now turn at the sound of his voice--mellifluous, but jarring in its rising vibration.

"Reg..." I speak his name, but then let it fall away. The house has been so voiceless since he left. There's been no mirth in my heart. "How do I pay for my negligence," I finally have the courage to ask, but I still can't face him. Chilling shivers run along my back in sensuous waves. With a whiff of his cologne and another darts up my spine. I finally turn in my seat.

He stands like a pillar of granite, bathed by the expanding morning. Disheveled blonde hair, suit jacket thrown over his shoulder. I wonder where he's been.

"Get out of my house," he says, coldly.

I shrink back with alarm.

His eyebrows rise mockingly. "You look surprised. You think I'd let you stay after what you've done?"

There was a time when I would have sunk to my knees at his feet, kissed his shoes as a lowly penitent and begged his forgiveness. But we seem so many miles, so many years beyond that now.

"I thought we might..." I start and stop. I can't even finish that thought.

"You thought wrong. I've been away. I needed time to collect my thoughts."

Of course. Time to brood as he does so well, to put on the cloak of despondency he wears with ease. There was a time when I could pull him from that gloom of character by my submissive presence. But so many years have come and gone.

"But what do I do, Reg? Where do I go?"

"I don't really care. Go back to your lover, walk the streets, sell your body for cash, whatever a slut like you does." His face entertains a twisted smirk. "Or maybe I should just let you stay here since you've ruined this house, this bedroom, this bed."

I feel my stomach clench as a remorseful pang of guilt stabs my gut.

He scowls derisively as he scans the rumpled sheets and tossed pillows where he found me with my ass bouncing on the breeze, as I wet-hot fucked the man beneath me. The screaming, grunting, groaning fiasco was not half as pleasurable as it must have looked to him.

"Is there no way we can mend this?"

"And what do you propose? I see no way that works for me. You're an easy woman. I'm sure you could find lots of methods for your redemption. But I'm not interested in redeeming you."

I'm losing him fast--the man, the lover, the master I have adored--and I feel my emotions start to spark with fear.

"No, Reg! Your heart can't be this cold."

He walks by me to the closet where he hangs his coat, and begins, hanger by hanger, ejecting my clothes, tossing them in a pile on the floor.

"I'll have a taxi pick you up in two hours." He consults his watch to see that it's nearly six am. It'll take you where you want to go, on my dime. After that, it's up to you."

What if I were to fall at his feet again? What if I were to beg?" My mind thinks so fast that my head hurts. Desire, need, remembrance flood my body, urging me forward like a prodding friend. "Do it, Sandra!" I hear that anxious friend scream. She is as desperate as I am now. But I still can't move. It is no use; he is immovable.

Hours later. I've checked into a cheap hotel; I've walked the streets; I've combed my thoughts, my life, my past, and what looks to be a bleak, unpromising future. The day lingers in this mood of weariness. How did I come to this sad end? What happened to take away the light, the mirth, the joy in my heart? When did my master lose his allure? When did I forget myself and the substance of who I am?

When walking fails to lift my spirits, I hail a taxi and direct it to the brick house near the water. Bright lights gleam from inside. Is this a sign? The mood of welcome I'm looking for? I know what this step means, this return, what Roger will demand--if he'll take me. The desire to surrender sweeps me again like it did in the bedroom with Reg, but this time, I won't let the cobwebs of doubt keep me from acting on impulse.


My former master, the man who trained me in the art of submission, who nurtured it in its infancy, is the only one who will understand me now and know what to do. When he answers the door, his enormous aura sweeps over me and I drop to my knees, sobbing. All the tears that wouldn't surface with Reg are streaming from my eyes.

"What the hell, Sandra? Not now. Get off your knees." He impatiently draws me to my feet and pushes me toward his study away from the drawing room and the sounds of laughter and music.

Before I have a chance to explain, he lets me know that he's already heard the news.

"You really blew it this time," he says with an edge of judgment in his voice as crisp and incisive as Reggie's cool rebuke.

"I know," I agree, my tone heaped with suffering.

He paces before me, shaking his head despairingly. "You know this is a terrible time. I have fifty guests in the next room, and I'm here with you."

"I'm sorry, I'll go. I only hoped--"

"No," he cuts me off, "there's no hope for you, Sandra."

I slink into a chair despondent, then gaze up submissively, praying for compassion I do not deserve. He eyes me with a curious combination of interest and contempt and I fear the worst as he sums up his present dilemma: "So, what do I do with you? Deal with your deception or throw you in the street?"

"Oh, please, Roger! Give me the hell he won't. It will satisfy us both."

His eyes narrow. "Are you sure you know what you're asking?"

"Yes, I'm very sure," I say with unwavering control, even as every nerve in me trembles with fright.

"And you mean what you say?"

"I do, with my whole heart," I answer, as I lurch forward with the hope in my heart preceding me.

He wears a look of consternation as if in thoughtful contemplation and finally states: "The shame is, you really are a submissive woman."

"Oh, I am. I just got off track and I'm desperate now." I hadn't planned to say any of these things. In fact, I hadn't even envisioned the outcome I wanted before I knocked on Roger's door. But now I'm traveling headlong down familiar paths of sub-speak, forced there by regret and need--deep need that for reasons I can't even recall now, I put aside like a pair of worn shoes.

"Exactly how desperate are you?" he asks.

"Roger, please. Don't deny me." I'm ready to humbly sink to my knees, but that would be too contrived for this practical man.

"Deny you, hum..." He smiles darkly as the devious passageways in his brain light with inspiration. I know it's been a long time since he had a woman like me. Is he as needy for this as I am?

"You need to punished thoroughly before I consider anything further," he warns.

My body reacts in raw, tumultuous fashion, craving the retribution, my only salvation from my savage guilt. "I know that," I concede, "and I'll submit as you require."

His face lightens as he sighs. "But, my dear, there's a party going on outside these doors and you've interrupted me." He then stops. Zeros in on my humbled gaze. I can feel the tug of war inside him. And then, he suggests exactly what I fear the most. "How about you take your punishment in front of my guests?"

"Oh, dear!" I gasp. Yes. I should have expected as much. How inspired! How humiliating! How cruel a test! My mind races and my stomach sours as it tumbles nervously. My palms begin to sweat. I can feel my body heat soaring from the thought of a humbling exhibition.

Roger feels my hesitation. "I thought you were serious," he says to fill the silence.

"I am serious. And yes, I will do anything to reclaim even a small place in your life."

He laughs. "Don't get melodramatic, Sandra."

"But I will take my punishment before your friends, if that's what you desire. I have to." I can feel the demeaning scene drawing me to it with the force of an ocean tide submerging me in its dangerous waters. I spiral downward at a dizzying speed.

"But it won't be over in one night," he adds. "You'll serve me here, collared and naked. You'll accompany me decked out like the slave you are. You'll become the woman you try to hide from the world. You want the retribution you've earned, you'll show your truth like a badge of honor. It's about time, isn't it?" He pauses as I soak up his words. "But, you make your choice now; there will be no retreating."

He stares me down with a cruelty I've not seen from him before. Does he hate me, or is this just his version of master? And what has this hard approach done for me but turn my insides into jelly, reaffirmed the fact of who I am, and physically made my randy crotch stir in anticipation.

"What will it be, Sandra? I don't have time to waste while you haggle with yourself. You either know, or your don't know, no in-between."

I don't have time to consider carefully what I agree to. "I have to, Roger, I must," I say what he needs to hear, committing myself with words that are easily spoken.

He laughs like Satan's evil twin. "Ah! What else would I expect you to say? You always had the words down pat, the attitude, the persuasive line. You fooled a lot of people, Reggie for one. But me, you don't fool me. You're going to have to prove yourself with your body, in acts that speak loudly, that declare, announce, broadcast who you are with no reluctance, no dithering about as you did with Reg."

"I promise. I won't fail you."

His eyebrows rise, as if he knows something I do not. "Well, then, let's get started," he states coolly. "My guests are waiting for my return."

Roger did not lie. His massive living room vibrates with the sound of fifty opulently dressed guests mingling, chatting, sipping wine, reeking of elegant perfumes and expensive liquor. As Roger leads me collared, leashed and naked into their company, their eyes turn to me in wonder. Expressions of shock and curiosity break out across the room. Breathy gasps sweep all conversation aside.

My legs tremble, weakened by embarrassment, and yet I can smell the redolent aroma of my sexual pheromones as my body heats with lewd excitement.

I could be one of them--the make-up laden, silk dressed snobbish nouveau riche, who delight in the unusual, the eccentric, the bizarre. Truth is, I have been one of them in my other life, the life I wrecked.

"If you'll indulge me, my dear friends," Roger speaks. "I have a necessary task that must be attended to. This woman has committed a grievous act against the man she loved. She is an adulteress, a headstrong, incorrigible harlot in need of castigation." He pauses to allow the stunning announcement to sink in. "But she begs absolution and so I've agreed to begin that task tonight, here, in your company.

"For those of you offended by corporal punishment, I urge you to move into the dining room now for coffee and dessert. But the rest of you, even if you're just curious, I welcome you to witness the act. This woman will be hurt. She may scream and she may well beg me to stop. But, she has also put herself in my hands with the understanding that I may attend to her disgraceful behavior as I see fit. This is her choice. She came to me." He turns my way. "Isn't that so, Sandra? Tell them."

"Yes, he is correct," I answer softly. My body quakes as I speak; I lust for the humiliation I've earned.

I note that not a single soul is headed for the door.

As Roger pushes on my shoulder, I drop to my knees and crawl at his command, until I'm poised before a leather footstool placed in front of the fireplace. The fire roars heating the room, heating my skin, making perspiration collect beneath my breasts and between my thighs. He taps me with the toe of his Italian loafer and I move forward, draping my torso on top of the stool. My arms and breasts dangle on one side, while at the other end, my bare, exposed posterior waits for the cruelty to begin. Clenching in fear, I hang on to the footstool's stubby legs and try to breathe calmly.

But there is no calm for a woman on the verge of punishment, on the verge of awesome pain, on the verge of a new beginning. I hear the familiar rustling sounds that precede a punishment, but I close my eyes so I see nothing of his preparations. Does he remove his coat and roll up his sleeves? Does he address the crowd with his eyes or remain focused solely on me? And what weapon does he choose? I imagine the smell of leather--perhaps a whip, a flogger, a tawse. Or perhaps I'm wrong and he chooses a wooden paddle.

I feel him near as he readies himself, and then my master of the hour reigns blows in perfect cadence against the flesh of my ass. He's chosen a leather tawse; its biting intensity is unmistakable. What is instantly warmed turns hot, starts to sting, then begins to burn within seconds. I squirm, bite my tongue and prevail as the good submissive. He punishes not just my flesh, but a soul long in need of such chastisement.

Even as practiced as I am in the art of silence in the midst of pain, I can't contain the cry that lurches from my mouth in a garbled sob. My entire body heaves with anguish. I'm barely hanging on as his scourge scorches my skin.

And then he pauses.

I think the worst is over as Roger puts his tawse aside. But how naive I am to think I'd get off so easily!

Forced by curiosity to peek, I spy his cane from the corner of my eye. The thin rattan cuts air, cuts skin, cuts through to the core of a rebuked submissive like nothing else can. I close my eyes again, hold onto the legs of the stool tighter still, then send my mind away, while praying that I'll contain myself like the good submissive I once believed I was.

Despite what follows, I manage to keep my wits about me. There will be no all out mutiny, no rebellion of any kind, no screaming for an end. That would defeat my aim here. I may whimper with each cut that sears my ass and wish myself elsewhere, but once the third cut slices my skin, as if in the twinkling of an eye, that cut transforms me, his cane transforms me. The succeeding strikes become my friend; they give me hope. I can feel them work out the anguish, the guilt, the self-torment and touch what really matters in my life. At least for this one hour, the remorse that makes my heart ache will be satisfied.

Roger finishes his work leaving me poised over the footstool to contemplate my punishment.

"What will happen to her now?" someone asks.

"Ultimately, that is up to her," he replies. "But if she places herself in my care, as she's sworn to do, she will become my slave. She'll start over where she began with me some time ago and relearn the rudiments of submission. She'll be chattel and nothing more to me for months before I offer her even the slightest kindness or simple reward."

"And she wants that?" another someone asks.

"She needs that," he returns. She'll face tomorrow differently than she did today, seeing through the eyes of her surrendered self. The power of her submission is what she lost and what she must reclaim. Without it, she'll continue to hurt herself and those she loves. I consider her wise to have realized the truth. And it is my job as her master to keep her closely contained so that she can be the woman she was meant to be."

His words caress me as surely as the touch of his hand soothes me. I am, again, where I belong and I will not fail this time.






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