**
Just a clarification: King and Dove met when they were youngsters and, yes, there is a decade that separates them. But I must underscore that there is ABSOLUTELY NO UNDERAGE SEX IN THIS STORY. The passsages describing Dove as a minor merely underscore the fact that their friendship--and yes, there are relationships and marriages that have their seeds in long-term family friendships that mature into something more--began when our protagonists were young. That said, both characters are DEFINITELY in their majority when the sex between them happens.
(Part 2 of Learning to Fly continues the tale of a young woman's awakening as a submissive, told in the voice of King, her first love and Dom.)
Taking Dove
The picture is two decades old. It is in black and white. Dove was 19 then; by the morrow she would turn 20.
The sun's early morning rays slip through half-open blinds. On the huge bed, Dove's body is taut, her arms forced high, bound by silk ropes to post rings. Her breasts jut up, perfect cones. Her nipples are hard, surrounded by shadows of the bruises made by my hands and teeth.
Her legs are spread, her torso arched inches from the face of a woman. Fingers pierce her cunt. The camera has captured her scream – and her spray. Her eyes plead. Wild fire pierces through a blanket of tears. With Dove, shame and ecstasy were often one and the same.
She was insatiable. And she hated that.
She was too young. I should have known better. Chemistry is a poor excuse for seducing a girl barely out of childhood. Had I waited, she could have come to me more formed and empowered. Instead, she had to burn me to find her freedom.
But those two short years were days and nights of rapture or, following periods of separation, the desperate rutting of animals.
** Coming Home
I'd been away for four years. I left when she was 13. The tiny tomboy called me "kuya", older brother in our language. There was a ten-year gap in our ages. I was long-haired then. She sported a short mop of deep brown hair and a golden tan with red undertones.
Dove and my younger brother, Roman, were buddies. Since I left our hometown, phone chats were our only contact. She squealed out demands over the intercontinental static -- swimsuits, rare blues records, vintage posters.
Without mothers, Dove and Roman grew wild. Our widower fathers tried their best but their children were natural guerrillas, pausing only to recover and plot their next act of mayhem.
The brats liked updating me about their new adventures. They shared latters. She wrote; he took the photographs.
A photo of Dove leaping down a waterfall snapped my patience. They'd bribed a truck driver to take them to this remote site, 150 km from our homes.
I made a phone call and our fathers grounded them for a month.
The rascals accused me of "betrayal". This was in 1980. No Internet was available to ease their confinement so they spent their time writing angry screeds or drawing me as the devil in all his forms. It stopped only when I threatened to stop sending their Stateside goodies.
Over those four years Dove hadn't seemed to grow at all, except in the chest area. Always slim, she mostly wore shorts and t-shirts.
Then one day, I got photos from her prom: Straight shoulders and a long, delicate neck above a bustier and a ballerina skirt. Roman was her date, of course. They both looked elegant but spoiled the effect by affecting martial arts poses.
One picture punched me in the guts. Dove leaned back against the balcony rail, her arms spread out. The lighting cast shadows across her face and shoulders. Her top was cut really low; tight and breasts rose from a deep cleavage. A lopsided smile displayed her right dimples. Roman had scrawled at the back, "Eat your heart out, bro!"
I asked him if a romance was budding. He laughed. Soon after, he started taking an interest in alternative religions. And I came home to trouble.
Roman had joined a religious group. He started going around in hand-woven robes and sandals. Dove stormed and bitched and pined. But she soon tired of trailing after a would-be monk. When Roman announced he was leaving for Sri Lanka, she blew him a kiss and demanded he send her cotton cloth.
When you're 17-going-on-18 a ten-year age difference is huge. I may have been the idol of her pre-teen days but the day I stepped in for my brother Roman, Dove was very pissed.
Our fathers were great pals and very busy men. Dove was an only child. Her Nanny couldn't keep up with her. My brother and I had been her surrogate minders. And when I came home, there was just me.
Dove lost her temper. She stormed, that at almost 18, and didn't need a nursemaid.
She threw manners to the wind. "He's old," she accused, pointing at me. She claimed I'd scare off her friends.
Our fathers cooed and coaxed. They promised to bring back souvenirs and anything she wanted. I ignored the theatrics and ticked off the things we could do during breaks from work.
Her jaw dropped at "work".
Unlike our father, hers never thought of his princess learning life trades. I had my own business, which took me out of town to some quaint places. She was unmoved. I dangled a book allowance. The brat simmered down at the bribe.
Dove turned out to be a good comrade. She was kept pace with every physical and intellectual assignment. She did give my women friends the runaround but that was part of her job as general factotum. There was nothing romantic between us. I didn't want to make a mess in my backyard. At 17, she was jailbait and too young to be introduced to my lifestyle.
I was already an experienced Dom. I learned the ropes from the wife of the president of the local chamber of commerce. She introduced me to the pleasures of domination when she visited New York City on my university freshman year. She was just playing – the lash, the belt, nipple clamps. Mostly, she was an exhibitionist who liked being told to take two men at the same time.
I soon tired of her. But in the club I met Mindy, ten years my senior, a Domme, and her sub, Mary. Mindy had a mantra: Every Dom should know how it is to be a sub. Or, at least, know how it is to be on the receiving end of Domination.
Both women were bisexual. It was an arrangement that pleased everyone until they relocated to the wilds of Midwestern America. I raised my skill level with a series of other subs, most of them older women. Then I went home to my Asian country.
Dove and I had seven months to grow closer. After protesting my zero-tolerance for underage drinking, she kept to the narrow on the nights my jazz band smuggled her to watch our shows.
She always wore jeans and white floating blouses with deep necklines. Her sultry voice and her sensual movements gained a steady following. But nobody dared approached with me around. I'd already grabbed the shirt of some Lothario, hissing he had one foot in jail.
**
The platonic warmth slid into a sexual blaze the day after her 18th birthday.
Maybe it was the day. Maybe it was the air. Maybe, I was just a bastard taking advantage of a sheltered girl. Within a week, she was screaming in my bed.
Indigo shorts barely covered her bum cheeks. Tanned legs ended in ankles I could encircle with a hand. Dove was on her belly, head on her arms. She sang along to "Black Coffee". Her legs were raised, flipping in time to the slow blues beat. Her hips rolled to the music. At "blaaaaack", she pressed breast and loins to the grass.
Two hours later, we were at my farm and I was kissing her for the first time.
She was pliant, offering her lips and body to my touch. But she zigged and zagged from bratty to ultra shy. I saw emotions rush across her face. I knew she felt vulnerable. I feasted on that.
Before that day, I wouldn't have believed it of this pampered, assertive daredevil. With physical contact, I knew: A natural sub: the best kind, feisty on the outside.
I kept on turning her face up, turned on by the mixture of fear and a desire to give in to my demands. But we were in the open. And I wanted to savor the experience. I wanted it to simmer. I wanted her frustrated and wanting. I wanted her to beg.
Later that day, in her home's huge library, I pressed harder. I sat her on my lap. I tested her limits. My thumb traced her lips. I slowly pushed it in and stroked her tongue.
I saw panic in Dove's eyes but she opened up with a moan and suckled. She pressed down harder, with shallow breaths, as my other hand trailed down to the deep V of her dress. I slipped my hand in and softly rubbed nipples barely covered by a lace demi-bra.
Dove broke off first. She was gulping air in, almost hyperventilating.
"It's okay, it's okay," I comforted her. "You have some growing up to do."
But we knew a line had been crossed. While no words of love were spoken, we were no longer just friends. That day, Dove dropped the "kuya".
I dialed down tension and slid Dove off my lap, teasing that she'd miss her afternoon jazz lessons. I also had to get back to landscaping duties.
As the chauffeur drove off, I spied Dove's dad frowning at the window. He'd seen the kiss. Later, I learned he'd called up Dove's grandmother, fretting his daughter was too young. There was no question about my eligibility. We moved in the same circles, though I had other secret ones he didn't know about.
Dove's Nana told her son not to come down heavy. The forbidden is more enticing, she warned. She had more reason to be nervous. She knew but kept mum about how her women friends tittered over my exploits.
When she sat me down for a talk, she mentioned my insistence at protection. I raised a brow but said nothing. It wasn't a question. Nan was wary but accommodating. She died before Dove walked away.
It was after dinner when I phoned Dove.
"What are you doing, Babe?"
"Taking a bath," she blurted out. I choked on coffee. She sputtered apologies.
My cock swelled. I tried not to imagine Dove in that moment.
I cleared my throat.
"How are you?"
"I'm okay." The whisper was shaky. Dove never did shaky.
"Scared, baby?"
Dove mumbled, yes. I asked if she wanted to slow it down. She said it was up to me.
I sighed. It would be a balancing act, coaxing out the wanton without scaring the tomboy away. I veered to more normal topics, keeping the conversation light. After ten minutes, I ordered Dove out of the cooling water, telling her to call when she was getting ready for sleep.
Her husky voice came on the line an hour later. I tried to ignore the sexual tension. But after 10 minutes of talking about nothing, desire flared.
"I want to be with you, watch you sleep."
Dove gasped. I pushed. "Would you like that?"
"Yes, King," she confessed.
