Saving a Lost Itten

Needless to say, all the characters described herein are over 18 years of age, fictional; and any resemblance between them and anyone, living, dead, or imaginary, is purely coincidental. The author hopes you enjoy reading it, and hopes you find it worthy of a goodly number of stars. Cheers!

- Ham Sandwich

***

"You useless, worthless fucking bitch!" I could hear him screaming at her all the way across the playroom floor as she cowered on her knees, trembling in fear and dread. He slapped her face, hard, then slapped her again. "You stupid cunt, can't you do anything right?"

Close to hysterical, she cried out, "I'm sorry, Master! I'm so sorry!"

I began walking toward them, slowly but purposefully. Doing scenes in our BDSM club was one thing, but this looked like out-and-out physical abuse to me, and as the organization's elected president, I needed to get it under control. When I was almost upon them, I could see that she was bleeding from her nose and mouth from the viciously hard open-handed slaps she had taken. The people nearby were frozen in a state of shock. I picked up the pace.

He yanked her to her feet. "You think you're sorry? I'm gonna show you sorry!" he said, and he cocked back his right arm in preparation to smashing his fist into her terrified face.

Only he didn't quite make it.

By then, I was just a couple of feet behind him and off to his right side, and it was a simple matter for me to grab hold of the inside of his elbow at the height of his backswing and pull it just enough to throw him off balance. If the situation hadn't been so serious, I'd have laughed at the comically shocked expression on the arrogant bastard's face when he spun around and hit the floor. On the other hand, he didn't find it very amusing once it dawned on him what had happened. He quickly got to his feet and puffed himself up in a rage. I was outweighed and out-muscled, and the big bully knew it. "Oh, you want a piece of me, pal?" he taunted, and started toward me.

And again, he didn't quite make it.

Once he was within range, I forcefully planted the sole of my shoe into his solar plexus, and this time, he went down and stayed there. He was winded and out cold. I borrowed his driver's license from his wallet long enough to make a copy of it to go onto the "persona non grata" section of the club bulletin board and to learn that I'd been dealing with one Mister Pluto Brown. Needless to say, I also relieved Mr. Brown of his guest pass. Several of our members carried him out to the parking lot and left him there, dazed and confused. If he had the slightest thought about causing any more trouble with us, we'd remind him that plenty of witnesses were ready and willing to testify that he'd assaulted a female, inflicting serious bodily harm, and he would go to jail at our earliest convenience. Later, I'd figure out exactly how he'd managed to finagle his entry into our exclusive establishment, as it was obvious his wasn't our kind of BDSM, but right now, my concern was his victim.

I found several of our ladies hovering over the poor girl once I'd gotten back there with the first aid kit. This is all we'd need, I thought, some injured woman who files charges against our club. Wouldn't the blue-blooded prudes look forward to an excuse like that to shut us down! She was still nearly hyperventilating as I gently swabbed at her wounds and attempted to calm her. "It's alright, baby. You're going to be OK," I assured her in my most soothing voice. "Everything's going to be alright."

"But he won't ever take me back now!" she cried. "Where will I go? What am I gonna do?"

"Listen, girl, the last thing in the world you'd want to do is get back together with him, believe me!" I answered.

"But I have nowhere to go!" she wailed, and I felt that all-too-familiar feeling I experience when I get suckered into being the knight in shining armor for some damsel in distress. It's happened to me too many times, and it's never turned out for my good in the long term, but what can I do? Despite my somewhat kinky sexual preferences, deep down I'm just too much the proverbial "good guy" by nature. It does make me feel respectable, though, at least at first - until it starts unraveling.

"What's your name, angel?" I asked her gently, resigned to being her protector, at least for the rest of the evening.

"Kitten," she answered.

"Well, Kitten, I'm Gary Dillon, the club president, and I guess I'll be looking after you for a while. Why don't we get off the playroom floor and go to my office? It's quieter there, and it'll be another hour or so before we'll be able to leave when we close down for the night." I helped her to her feet and supported her during the walk to the back of the mansion where my office was. "OK," I announced to the room in general as we exited, "crisis averted, so you can all return to flogging one another again," which was met with applause and raucous laughter.

She was still a bit shaky, but at least the bleeding had stopped. I was sure she'd have some facial bruises by morning, and it occurred to me that, quite likely, she would still be in my care at that time.

I felt some reservation about that. It wasn't because she was so homely that a reasonably handsome man would feel ashamed to be in her company. She was actually rather attractive in a subtle sort of way, not what you'd call gorgeous or voluptuous, but she had a very pleasing face and figure. Her hair was a nice shade of brown and came down to mid-length. If I had to describe her in one word, it would be "demure," a word which I rather liked.

No, the problem wasn't with her. It was with me and my insecurities. If you had asked me to describe myself, up until about eight months ago, I'd have unhesitatingly said I was a Dom, which is to say, a "dominant." Which is to say, someone who's "in control" of a relationship, especially in a sexual sense. Since then, I wasn't so sure if I could claim that lofty appellation. Anne, the woman whom I'd thought of as my long-time loyal submissive had up and flown the coop in a nasty and vindictive way. It seemed sudden and shocking, but the tremors prior to the actual earthquake had been there in plain sight if I'd been looking objectively.

The whole affair had left me with a lack of confidence. And a Dom is never supposed to have anything less than supreme confidence, is He? Doms are always supposed to know exactly what to do in any given situation, or at least that's what's believed. We're also supposed to be masterfully resourceful if not downright wealthy, and we're all supposed to drive Aston Martin DB9s, neither of which applied to me. Well, I decided, maybe I can do what's needed to help this poor, lost Kitten get past this train wreck without the two of us getting tangled up with the emotional baggage of riding crops, nipple clamps, butt plugs, et cetera.

Anyway, I was thinking I'd need to devote some time to this case if for no other reason than to forestall legal action being taken against our organization. I took my responsibilities as president very seriously in spite of having been put in the post because I'd missed the board meeting on election month due to overindulging in self-pity. Years later, I was to discover that they'd elected me because they thought I needed something to keep me busy in my time of doubt and despair. Of course, they'd been right.

Kitten calmed down a bit once she was in the quiet comfort of my office. I pulled out a blank form from my desk and began filling it out. "Since your 'escort' has now lost his privilege to visit our club, you are now on the premises without permission, so I'll need to register you as my own guest," I explained. I had her give me the information required.

"Are you really the president of this club?" she asked.

"Yep, and it wouldn't do for the president to break club rules," I answered.

"Not even the president?" she gushed.

"ESPECIALLY the president!" I countered with a chuckle, and I noticed her guard drop just a bit. "Well, one thing the president CAN do is to keep a private supply of camaraderie in his desk," I added, as I reached into a drawer and fetched the bottle of premium "Black Bush" whiskey and a couple of glasses.

Two shots apiece later, I was attempting to defuse her anxiety with some background about me: "So, Anne and I had been together for several years in an M/f relationship. I was so stupid, I actually thought she was happy with all of that, even though she'd gotten cold feet and moved out a couple of times. She'd always come back, though. She was a classical musician, a harpist, actually. Concert harps are delicate and cumbersome, but the harp was nothing compared to that upright piano she owned. Every time she left, I had to help move the piano out, and every time she moved back, I had to help move it in. Hateful thing was back-breaking heavy, too! You know, they say your friends will help you move your piano once, and your REAL friends will help you move it twice. I think I ended up moving it five or six times."

The alcohol was helping both of us get into the mood of my story, and Kitten was listening with interest, no longer thinking about her own troubles.

"Then Anne managed to get hooked up with this idiot psychologist who told her I was psychopathic, dangerous, and would probably hurt or even kill her - can you believe it, after all those years - and that she needed to get out right away. Which she did. I came home from work one evening and found her and all her stuff gone, even the upright. There was a note she'd left, blaming me for all her problems when she knew full well it takes two to tango. Just like that, and she was gone for good. Well, there was one bright side to the thing: At least I wouldn't have to move that Goddamned piano any more."

Kitten giggled, then she quickly covered her mouth with a hand as if her laughter was somehow a punishable offense.

"You're cute when you laugh," I encouraged, and the hand slowly came down from her face but still displaying an expression of uncertainty . How unusual, I thought to myself, it's as though she's not sure she's allowed to be herself.

I went on to tell her a little bit about my present situation; how I was a freelance grant writer who'd managed to get a percentage on a few multi-million dollar proposals I'd written that had been approved recently, providing enough to pay off the mortgage on my modest home. The chosen business occupation enabled me to keep my own hours to a large extent, which was another reason the BDSM club presidency was a good match for me.

Just as I'd run out of conversation about myself, a knock on my office door informed me that it was closing time for the evening. My cohorts and I made sure everything was taken care of, and then we locked up. I escorted Kitten to my unpretentious and unassuming car and opened the passenger-side door for her, an action which she seemed to find unexpected and which made me wonder how badly she'd been treated up to now; and then we were soon on our way to my place.

The silence while driving was awkward, and I thought about asking her to tell me about herself, but I decided it might be too soon for her comfort, so I didn't. Instead, I gave her some preparation about my house. "My place is small, and there's only one bedroom, so I'm not sure how we'll work out the sleeping arrangements while you're staying there. But I want you to know that nothing sexual will be expected of you." She actually seemed to be a bit surprised to hear this, but she just nodded her head in understanding. I wondered, was she disappointed? Well, I knew I was! She was a flesh-and-blood woman, and it had been a while for me, but part of being a Dom was self-sacrifice in deference to your partner's best interests. And Kitten's best interest, even though she wasn't my partner, was for some personal space, or at least as much space as my residence could provide.

When we arrived, I hopped out and, consistently the gentleman, opened the car door for her, which once again was met with an expression of unexpectedness. Up the path we walked; I fumbled with my keys, finally finding the correct one, unlocked my front door and ushered her inside. Now, as I said, my house isn't grandiose by any means. Yes, it's clean, and, yes, the furniture matches and, yes, there's some semblance of the place having been "decorated," but, judging from Kitten's reaction, you'd have thought it was the Plaza. Her eyes swept from here to there with a look of awe about them. Where in the hell has she been living, and under what dire circumstances, I wondered!

The "grand tour" could wait, but I escorted her to the bathroom and adjusted the taps so she could shower, got her several clean towels, and left her to her own devices. Once I'd shut the door, it occurred to me that she had no change of clothing, so I went to my closet and found the longest jersey-style t-shirt I could find and discreetly exchanged it for her dirty clothes once I heard her in the shower. Those, I threw into the washing machine and started it running. First thing tomorrow, we'd see about expanding her wardrobe options.

In about half an hour, she emerged from the bathroom squeaky clean. I had to admit, she sure looked cute in that jersey, and it was a good thing for my self control that it came down as far as it did and covered up her most intimate features. I showed her to the bedroom, selected some stuff for myself and told her to make herself comfortable. I had some email and my own shower to catch up on and would check in on her after a while. She thanked me for my kindness.

It took me another hour before I'd gotten my own chores completed and went to the bedroom to see how she was doing. I knocked gently, and when there was no reply, I quietly opened the door to discover that the bed was empty. Where had she gone? Then I saw that she was asleep, curled up on the floor next to the bed.

"Kitten!" I said urgently but softly as I made my way to her. "Why are you down there and not in bed?"

She looked up at me sheepishly. "The floor is where I always sleep. Pluto told me from the first night I stayed at his place that the floor was where cunts belonged, not in bed. That was for their masters."

I was at this time regretting not having given the asshole a couple of swift kicks in the head while he was down on the ground.

"Kitten, baby, come up here and get into bed. Come on," I urged. "it has a wonderful Memory Foam mattress and will be so good and restful for you to sleep on!"

"Where are you gonna sleep?" she asked.

"There's a perfectly comfortable reclining chair in the living room that'll do just fine," I replied confidently.

"I can't sleep in your own bed if you're going to sleep in a chair," and I could see she was going to be firm about it.

"Well, I'm not going to let you sleep in a chair or on the floor, either," I retorted, and that became our first confrontation.

You've probably already figured out that we compromised by both sleeping in the bed together. I swore I wouldn't take advantage of her, although she hadn't expressed any concerns, but we ended up going to sleep with me holding her and her melting into my arms. It was rather uncomfortable for me to go to sleep with a raging hard-on, but if it was any consolation, I woke up the very same way!

In the morning, she was still sleeping, and I was still horny as I slipped out of bed and stepped into the shower. There was some urgent business to take care of that had to do with Mama Thumb and her four daughters. I'd gotten well on my way to self-satisfaction when another hand reached around the shower curtain and took over the job. And then, another naked body had joined me under the warm water, and this body had a wry, feminine smile attached to it.

It took Kitten just a minute or so to finish what I'd begun, only her handiwork was a lot more satisfying than mine would have or could have been. I let loose with some husky moans as I forcefully released my accumulated man-juice against the shower wall.

"Ohhhhh, thank you! Thank you so much!" I exclaimed.

"Did you think I didn't know what you were suffering through all night?" Kitten asked. "I know about men and their needs."

"Well, I'm sure not suffering anything any more and cannot imagine needing anything else," I replied, "but what about you?"

"When you ask, 'What about you?' what do you mean?" she said.

"Well, what I mean is, what about your orgasm? Wouldn't you like some satisfaction, too?" I asked, and what she said next knocked me right down to the ground. After she said it, if I'd had the slightest compassion remaining for the jerk who brought her into my club, it was replaced at once by a burning hope to see his name obliterated from the roster of human males.

"I don't know. I never had an orgasm, nor was allowed to," she replied in all honesty. "Pluto used to say that bitches weren't allowed to come. That, and maybe also because I'm still a virgin."

(to be continued)