Tarnished Knight Pt 01

Prologue

We were a clutching, pawing knot of hungry lips and stumbling limbs as Sarah and I crossed the threshold of our third-floor apartment. She was pulling at the collar of my peacoat, fumbling with the buttons as I shrugged free of the weight of my seabag. It'd been nine months almost to the day since I'd been alone with her. Tonight, we'd make up for lost time. Her purse hit the floor. I kicked the door shut. She abandoned her struggle with my uniform coat and pressed her body close; the scent of roses and vanilla engulfed me as she pressed her lips to mine. One hand in her hair, I picked up the struggle with the buttons on my peacoat. Stepping back, she opened her red wool trench coat, and allowed it to slip from her shoulders.

As it pooled around her ankles, I froze. My mouth hung open and my eyes were wide, fixed on her.

At twenty-four, she had blossomed into a breathtakingly attractive woman. When I met her, Sarah was a stunningly beautiful girl; a willowy blond as comfortable in jeans and flannel as in a formal gown. She lowered her face, tilting her head slightly to the side, yet her gaze stayed fixed on me; peaking at me from under her brow. It was a move she'd mastered long ago. One she knew would strike a chord in me and boil my blood. Except for her favorite ankle boots and the cashmere scarf she loved, she'd been naked beneath the heavy winter garment; she obviously had been since she'd rushed into my arms on the pier.

"Sweet, Jesus..." I groaned.

I let my gaze sweep over her, drinking in the truth of the memories that had both comforted and haunted me for the last nine months. Golden hair cascaded down her back and over the pale, nearly alabaster skin of her shoulders. Her figure was classically beautiful. I felt my tongue pass over my lips as I let my gaze settle on the dark flesh of her aureoles.

God, I loved her tits.

She brushed her hair behind her ear and bit her lower lip as she allowed me to look at her naked form.

"You're beautiful." My voice was little more than a whisper. "And this," I shook my head, looking for words. "Wow."

A smile lifted the corner of her mouth as color filled her cheeks. She caught the edge of her scarf and slowly drew it from around her throat. As it dropped to the floor, I saw the delicate chains that circled her throat; five loops, exactly as she'd requested. I'd locked it in place the night before I'd shipped out. I didn't even notice that she'd unzipped her boots until she stepped out of them. Barefoot and naked except for the chains, her "slave chain," she stepped close to me, her breasts pressing against me.

Her cheek against my chest, her arms around my waist, she whispered, "This girl has missed you, master."

Wrapping her in my arms, torn between the raw desire for my lover and the sweet joy of being once again with my partner, I kissed her cheek and whispered, "I missed you, too, baby."

She looked up into my eyes, a playfulness lighting up her face. "May this girl show you how much you were missed?"

"Always," I cupped her face in my palm and enjoyed the passion in her eyes.

Stepping back, her gaze still holding mine, she slowly dropped to her knees; carefully assuming a very specific posture on the floor in front of me. She'd explained to me several times that in all things - especially this - there was an importance to form and precision. Her hands on my hips, she leaned forward, brushing her cheek against the front flap of my trousers. She held my gaze even as she took the first of the thirteen buttons into her mouth; well-practiced, she used her lips and teeth to unfasten them. When the last button was undone, she sat back, her gaze holding mine, then reached into my trousers and uncovered my already hard cock.

Her fist worked my shaft slowly, she groaned as she recognized the pre-cum oozing from the tip. She pumped her hand along my straining cock slowly, then took me into her mouth. Her hand slowed as she began to stroke my length with the warmth of her moist lips. I felt my knees go weak as the head of my cock bumped the back of her throat. She drew back, only the tip between her lips, and raised her face toward mine again.

Fuck, she looked incredible with my cock in her mouth.

I ran my fingers through her hair, closing my fist around a handful of her hair.

"Mmmmm," she moaned around my dick.

She bobbed her head on my cock with a confidence and skill that only familiarity with your lover's body can provide. She knew me, knew exactly how to push me toward losing control. Her mouth was an instrument of wicked magic and she used it with great skill. I was rocking my hips against her; thrusting into her willing mouth each time she lowered her lips around my cock. My breathing was ragged and I felt my balls tightening. I was close. She recognized it too, and pumped her lips along my length faster. She knew what she wanted and she intended to coax it from me.

"Not yet," I growled, stepping back from her.

My cock made a popping sound as it slipped from the suction of her mouth. She twisted her face in a disappointed pout.

I pulled her to her feet, taking her ass in my hands and lifted her, pressing her back against the foyer wall. Her arms wrapped around my shoulders, her legs around my hips. Her body was pinned between me and the wall. My dick, hot and hard, pressed against her sex; she felt like an inferno. Arms and legs holding me tightly, she pressed her back against the wall. She used the leverage to rock her hips, pressing her clit against my shaft and smearing her desire along my length.

"Master doesn't like the way this girl sucks his cock?" she pouted even as she teased me with her wet heat.

"There's only one thing I've thought about more than your talented lips, and that's this girl's tight little pussy."

She rested her forehead against mine, "Then master should use this girl's tight pussy to sate his hungers."

She rose in my arms, shifting until I felt the head of my cock slip between her wetness. Relaxing her thighs, she lowered herself onto me. I couldn't resist the shudder that wracked my body as her velvet walls engulfed me. She moaned as her hips rested against mine. I leaned into her, kissing her throat, her shoulders, wishing her breasts were within reach.

My hunger. She wasn't wrong. I wasn't just horny, I was hungry, hungry for the other half of me. And here she was, naked in my arms. My hips moved as if with a mind of their own. I thrust into her, forcefully, jarring her in my arms. She'd taken me close to orgasm with her skilled mouth; it didn't take long for her tight, hot pussy to drag me right back to the edge. She worked her clit against my groin with every thrust.

Her hands clutched my face, dragging my gaze to hers. Our eyes locked and our breathing, ragged and panting, became one.

"May this girl come, Master?" She managed between gasps for air.

I could only nod as I felt myself falling over the edge. My cock swelled, twitching inside her. I felt the floor falling away. As it did, I slammed into her, driving our hips together violently. Again. Again. Again. She dug her nails into my shoulders as her body shuddered and contracted against itself. With a final thrust, I felt the first jet of cum explode into her. Her pussy clamped down onto me, pulsing, working me, it attempted to drain every last drop from me.

Her lips found mine. Her tongue opened my mouth and taunted me to thrust mine into hers. I struggled to hold her balanced against the wall as I drove my hips against her a few final times.

Both of us were out of breath. We broke our kiss rather than suffocate.

Her head dropped onto my shoulder and I felt her breath hot on my skin, "Welcome home, Master."

Chapter One

It was quarter 'til nine on the first Wednesday in February and I was killing time on the third floor of Atwood Hall. Two years after my enlistment and I was in college on an ROTC scholarship, which meant formation at 05:30 and PT at 06:00 three days a week. Living off campus, I didn't have time between being dismissed from formation and my first class to go home. So, I'd hit the shower, put on the uniform of the day, drop by the cafeteria, then make my way to the third-floor lounge. I usually had the place to myself, so I'd relax and crack open a book.

That morning the book of choice was an old favorite and one Sarah had introduced me to, a tale of parallel worlds with a dash of debauchery by a fellow named Norman. It was just one of... I'd lost track of how many she had owned. She'd started reading the series when we were in high school. For her, they'd been a revelation, they'd struck a chord deep inside her and she'd studied them with a near religious zeal. For me, they'd been a guilty pleasure, a little something extra we shared. Now they were a way to remember.

I was in the midst of Norman's assessment of modern men verses the men of his fictional world when I was interrupted.

"Mr. Mearns," she began. Her voice was strong, her diction precise.

I knew who had interrupted my reading before I looked up, Doctor Ellen Cabot.

Bundled in a black-wool overcoat and burdened by an overstuffed leather attache, she was standing just a few feet away.

Did I miss an assignment?

"Doctor Cabot," years of habit brought me to my feet.

She smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling. She was a decade older than I was, but it was impossible to miss her beauty; delicate features, the faintest touch of make-up, and silver-blond hair rolled tight in a bun at the nap of her neck.

"Every time I see you outside my classroom, you're reading that same series of novels," she gestured toward the paperback in my hand. "And from the looks of them, not for the first time either. You must be a true fan."

I glanced at the ratty paperback in my hand, then looked back to her. "It's a long story."

"The author's themes are not exactly commonplace." Her gaze drifted over me.

"They're different," I agreed.

"You're majoring in political science?"

I nodded, "Yes, ma'am."

"So, what is it that appeals to you; the socio-political dialog or, perhaps, something else?" The corner of her mouth lifted in a wicked, knowing grin.

I'd never really thought about the societal commentary in the books. "Let's say... it's something else."

"In that case, we have some time before class, why don't you come to my office and we can discuss it further," she paused for a moment, "I might have something a tad more interesting for you to read."

I wasn't looking forward to surrendering my little bit of quiet before the day started, but I wasn't sure I had much choice, either. Doctor Cabot was a notoriously difficult professor and while I didn't want to risk my GPA by stacking even one card against, there was something about her that demanded compliance.

"Yes, ma'am," I agreed.

She pivoted on her heel and started toward her office while I gathered up my overcoat and messenger bag. Following a few paces behind her, it was difficult not to appreciate the fierce nature of her walk.

She paused only briefly at the door to the pod of offices she shared with the other English professors and their assistants; just long enough to toss me a conspiratorial grin.

"Good morning, Doctor Cabot," the greeting was chipper, but it carried with it the overture to the day's responsibilities.

"Good morning, Ms. Wright," Doctor Cabot responded, breezing into her office.

"Good morning, Carter," a broad smile swept over Ms. Wright's face.

Ms. Wright, Cammie, was Doctor Cabot's teaching assistant; a graduate student in the English Department and someone I'd known since we were in grade school. She'd been two years behind me, and while she'd been pretty in high school, she'd only gotten prettier with age. Dressed in a white blouse, black skirt, and lace stockings, her copper red hair was pulled back; she looked professional, yet kept an air of her raw beauty to her appearance.

"The dean moved the faculty meeting to 3:00 PM," Cammie fell into Doctor Cabot's wake and launched into her version of morning reports."The department mixer has been postponed; broken pipes in the student union, the print shop called there's--"

"A moment, Cammie," Doctor Cabot cut her off. "That will wait. I'd like to discuss something with Mr. Mearns."

"Of course," Cammie stepped out of the office and returned to her desk.

"Have a seat," Doctor Cabot motioned to the chair opposite her desk as she eased into her own.

I adjusted my gear and eased into the seat.

"Tell me about the something else?" Doctor Cabot sat back, her gaze appraising me like a veteran poker player. "What is it that you find appealing in these particular books?"

I knew exactly what it was that I enjoyed; they were the root from which Sarah's sexuality had blossomed. Her interests had made a huge impact on me, on how I preferred intimacy. What I didn't know was how -- or if -- I should explain that to the professor. I found what I hoped was the least objectionable answer. "It's something my wife and I shared."

"Shared?"

I nodded.

"You wife is..." Doctor Cabot's question hung unvoiced.

"Deceased, ma'am."

"I'm so sorry. How did you lose her?"

"Car accident."

We sat silently for a moment.

"She was the real fan of the work," I broke the silence. "I'd never heard of them until I met her. Never read them until my first deployment."

"Why then?"

"Sarah put two of them - the first two in the series - in my seabag when I was packing," I couldn't help but smile. "She always tucked something in, something private and meant to have meaning. With the books, from the first time to the last, she tucked in a reading schedule; the day she'd start chapter one, the number of pages she'd read and the time she'd start reading. And with a little luck, the two of us would be reading the same words at the same time."

"A variation on the lovers gazing at the same moon from hundreds of miles apart." Doctor Cabot smiled.

"I guess so."

'How long ago did she pass?"

"Two years."

"And you're still reading them, is it merely for the memories, or is there something more?"

I blushed and I knew it. "We're back to that something again." I laughed. "Have you read the books?" I asked, trying to take control of the dialog.

"I have." The brevity of her answer was frustrating, and likely calculated.

"Then you're familiar with the overarching theme within world the author created?"

"If you mean the themes of male dominance and women only being truly happy when submitting themselves to the men around them; then yes, I am familiar." That wicked grin once again touched her lips.

"Those would be the ones, yeah," I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, unable to look her in the eyes.

"And your late wife enjoyed those themes?"

The memory of my last homecoming, of her naked in the foyer of our apartment rushed fresh and hot into my mind.

"She did," I answered. "They were... very much an expression of who she was; who she wanted, even needed, us to be to each other."

"And who was that?" Doctor Cabot asked, leaning forward, chin on her palm.

"She thrilled at being naked, in chains, knowing that she was the most precious thing I owned, but knowing that I recognized that she needed that, to be owned." I tried to explain. "Don't get me wrong, she was a very strong person, creative, an excellent photographer. And the... props, for lack of a better word, that we used, she made most of them. It kept her busy while I was at sea."

"Props?" Doctor Cabot's interest was piqued.

I looked for the safe answer. "Costumes, cups..."

'A whip, a collar...'

I kept that to myself.

"She spent hours with the books, digging out the details of how they whould look." I felt myself getting lost in images of her in that little apartment, surrounded by craft supplies, copied pages from the books underlined and scattered about.

"But now she's gone," Doctor Cabot pulled me back, "And you're still reading the books."

I nodded.

"Why? Is it just the memory of your late wife?"

The question hit me hard. My gaze found Doctor Cabot's for the first time in several moments.

"Or is there more to it for you than memories?"

"Six years of my life," I began, "even though we were apart often... I guess it's hard to put away."

"Do you want to put it away?"

"Sarah's gone," I answered. "Not sure I have much of a choice."

Doctor Cabot smiled, her eyes narrowing slightly. I could almost see her mind assessing the conversation. With a sudden burst she stood, turning to a set of bookshelves behind her desk. "How's your French?"

"My Russian is better and it's not great."

"Alright," she responded as she quickly zeroed in on the book she sought. "I have a self-guided study assignment for you."

She pulled a book from the shelf and turned, leaning across the desk to offer it to me. Dark blue with silver lettering and details on the spine, it was old, the binding showing wear. I took it from her and read the spine. I'd never heard of the title, but the author I knew,

de Sade

.

"Do you know it?" She asked, easing into her seat again.

"The author's name is familiar, but no, I don't think I do."

"Take it with you, read it and we'll discuss."

"How does it relate to..." I looked for a polite phrase, "What we've been discussing?"

"It may not," she answered. "But then it may offer you the key to a great many doors.

"Thank you," I didn't know what else to say.

"Don't thank me," she smiled. "There will be a test."

Chapter Two

"He was a sadist, hell, he was

the

sadist." Not a sentence I ever expected I'd utter.

It was a quarter past six on Sunday evening and I was sitting on the sectional that dominated my living room. My plan of the day had been to press my uniforms, order a pizza, and watch the episode of '

X Files

' I'd missed on Friday night. Instead, I was engaged in a deep philosophical conversation with Cammie Wright.

"Oh, he's certainly not one to be emulated, but the thesis of the text is unrelated to his personal proclivities." She spoke with a passion that reached her eyes.

Cammie was the last person I'd expected to see that evening. Though we had history, and I'd seen her every day for over a year, we'd not done so much as catch up over lunch since I'd first bumped into her. We had few friends in common and our schedules were usually at odds. When she showed up on the threshold of my fourth-floor apartment, I was more than surprised. She'd made a hell of an impression when I'd opened the door; bundled in a white fur coat that fell nearly to her ankles, the collar was turned up, framing her porcelain skin and ruby red lips, and contrasting with her copper hair and deep brown eyes.

She'd asked if I'd read the book Doctor Cabot had lent me; said she needed to pick it up. Doctor Cabot had forgotten that she needed it for a French literature class on Monday. It sounded like a thin excuse to drop by when I heard it. My suspicions of Cammie's motivations were only heightened when she shrugged out of that coat... as I took her coat; I was overwhelmed by the lines of the black pencil skirt and white oxford -- which did nothing to hide the black lace beneath it -- that clung to her incredible figure. The high-heeled boots -- laced from ankles to knees -- cast her figure in a calculated manner that lifted and accentuated all the very best pieces of her already stunning silhouette.

"So, what am I missing?" I asked, picking up my beer from the floor beside me.

"In the book, he's challenging the church's teachings that sex should be reserved for procreation only."

I took a hurried sip of the beer and set it aside. "But his primary... interest, still carries through. He so much as says that true pleasure requires pain."

"As was his predilection," Cammie agreed. "But that raises an interesting question in itself." A wicked smile graced her mouth and lit up her eyes as she settled back into the deep cushions.