The Assistant pt 6

There you go, now. Time to wake up, little one.”

The voice pierced the darkness around her. Wha? She sat up, or tried to. Someone was pressing her back down onto a bench or something. And wasn’t that just the most annoying? Little one? She was not a little one. She was average. She was middle-aged. She was plump. She wasn’t a little anything. Unless it was under-sexed, she amended.

Yet, somehow, every time HE said ‘little one’…she had this…feeling. A warm, tender feeling. A warm, tender, wet feeling, to be perfectly honest. And as a reporter, that was her first responsibility…honesty.

“You’ve not had an orgasm in a long time, have you, little one?”

How rude.

How unspeakably rude, she thought. To say that out in the open like that. Really. All the warm tender feelings evaporated under her immediate outrage.

She opened her eyes, prepared to give Him, whoever He was, a piece of her mind. And when she focused, fully, on his face, his eyes, the half-smiling mouth, it all came flooding back to her.

“Experiences on the cross can be intense anyway, and when we factor in that you’ve not had that kind of release in some time, as you body told me…well, it’s not at all unusual for  a submissive to faint.”

His hand slicked across her cheek, cupping her chin for a moment. He looked at her eyes, just…absorbing her, it felt like.

“Better. Come, let’s go get a snack and we can talk while you sort things out. We really need to talk about this newfound submission and pain slut, don’t you think?”

She blinked.

Never in a million, trillion years would she consider herself a “Pain Slut” though she had heard the term since starting her research on BDSM.

It was another word for a masochist.

Which she wasn’t.




Not her.

She was shaking her head even as he helped her to rise, and walked with her through the dungeon. The door even closed like a dungeon door should, with a thick and heavy thunk.

How the fuck was she going to write about this in a “G” rated way? She pondered that, and tried to ignore the wetness seeping down her thighs, and the trembling of her limbs.


She sipped her coffee and ate one of the cookies that he had put out for her. Slowly the tremble eased from her legs, her hands.

Her breathing leveled out, and she felt herself again.

Herself….only better.

Gods she’d needed that orgasm.

Hard to deny the intensity of the pleasure. Harder to admit that a great deal of that pleasure came with a prequel of pain, judiciously applied.

For a long while they didn’t speak. It was as if he totally understood that she needed to process what had happened to her.

She glanced at her watch, forgetting that she’d removed it in the first room.

“How much time do you feel has passed here, little one,” he asked. There was a smile in his voice.

“hmm, I have a pretty good sense of time…so about 90 minutes?”

He smiled, and a small snort of humor puffed through his nose. She looked at him, wondering what was so funny.

She wanted to ask, knew that he wanted her to ask. She waited. He waited. She wasn’t sure when it became a contest of wills, but it progressed. She should have asked. She didn’t want to now.

“How long?” she blurted at last.

“Three hours and 20 minutes. That includes these last five minutes while you tried to prove you aren’t really a submissive.”

She stared at him.




“And twenty-two minutes now,” he said with a smile.

She hadn’t realized that she had spoken aloud. She shook her head.

“Many subs say that time stops, shuts down, folds up, little one. You wouldn’t be the first, and not the last, to lose track of time. Scenes play out as they will, and when you are immersed in it…time becomes irrelevant.”

“It’s everything else that becomes terribly, wonderfully relevant,” he finished, leaning back in his chair with a smile.

‘Wasn’t that the truth,’ she thought.