The Accidental Master

Note: This is a work of fiction/fantasy. But who knows? Someday the gods may be kind…

I’ve never been a lady-killer. As far back as high school, I was one of the straight-arrow good guys that almost always got the fatal, “I like you as a friend, but…“ brush-off from the girls, which I am sure most of us - the males, anyway - remember receiving at one time or another from someone they wanted to date.

At the maritime academy where I went to college, my nickname was “Sir Galahad.” You’ll remember from Malory’s Morte d’Arthur and Monty Python that Galahad was the true and perfect knight who never got any.

After I graduated and went to sea as an officer, I had a relationship for awhile with a frigid bitch that wanted the status of fiancée and eventually wife without the inconvenience of sex. When I finally figured this out, after a nasty shouting match I broke the engagement, threw her out, and tossed her clothes after her. Shortly thereafter, what with the collapse of American shipping companies, I moved to an old rural farm I’d bought and went into the on-line antiques business.

This means traveling a lot to find stock at auctions and estate sales. It also limits the chances of meeting available women. I had to make do with “escorts” whenever one of my trips took me near a city and I had a chance to satisfy my urges. I hated the fact I had to pay for sex; but it was better than nothing, though not by much.

Up to then, my closest approach to BDSM had been at the academy. Once, during my plebe cruise, a sadistic upperclassman tortured me. There’s always harassment of the newbies by the upper classes and you expect that, but this went past hazing all the way to violation of the Geneva Convention.

First he coldcocked me, then he cut my shirt off and tied my hands to an overhead valve in the engine room and sprayed seawater on me from a hose continuously for an hour and a half. At the same time, he whipped me with an electrical cord and screamed questions at me. The only reason I didn’t die of hypothermia (the sea temperature was 64 degrees that night) was that one of the officers pulled a snap inspection. An upperclassman who did not approve of what the first bastard was doing cut me loose and got me out of the engine room, bleeding from the gashes on my back and chilled so badly that I couldn’t even shiver. I still have the scars.

I swore then that no one would ever do that to me again or to anyone else without their consent, if I could help it.

I was on my way home from a successful buying trip one Saturday night when I decided to stop in at a strip club for a drink and to watch the girls for awhile. From the bar, not Perverts’ Row fronting the stage. While I appreciated their beauty and sensuality, given my lack of success with women I didn’t think it was worth trying to approach any of the dancers. Even if they didn’t already have boyfriends or significant others, I doubted girls this sexy would settle for anything less than a rich lawyer, so why even try to start something?

One of the strippers caught my attention as she came onstage. Nordic features, blonde hair in a ponytail, wasp-waisted, about 5’7” or so with legs that went all the way up. She came strutting out in a schoolgirl outfit of book bag, blue blazer, tight white blouse filled to bursting by at least D-cup breasts, gray pleated miniskirt six inches shorter than any schoolgirl would wear, white fishnet knee stockings, and black patent leather pumps with stiletto heels that enhanced those already exquisite legs.

She went into her routine, shedding first the book bag, then the blazer, her blue eyes and pouty red lips teasing the audience. Gyrating to the beat of her music, she slowly unbuttoned the blouse and worked the sides of the stage, the men seated there caressing her thighs as they stuffed bills into the fishnets– a switch from the usual garter, I noted. The last button came undone, and she danced backwards almost out of the spotlight. She whipped off the blouse, spun it over her head and threw it backwards. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She high-stepped forward into the light again, shimmying, those magnificent tits with their deep cleavage completely exposed, the pink, erect nipples poking proudly forward, inviting kisses and caresses.

Dropping into a crouch, she crawled her way across the front of the stage, presenting herself for the attentions of the lust-filled males in Perverts’ Row, tormenting them by keeping just out of reach until they stuffed money into the stockings, then permitting them to squeeze her boobs and kiss them. That surprised me; usually, it’s “look but don’t touch.” I saw one black-haired, balding man, bolder than the rest, catch her pebble-hard right nipple between his teeth and bite down while cruelly pinching the left.

I expected a scream from the blonde and a slap to the perv’s face followed by the bouncer giving him the bum’s rush. Instead, she threw her head back, moaned dramatically and moved on to the next creep, his hands already up and waiting eagerly. Very odd, that the manager would permit this to go on. The audience hadn’t acted like this with any of the other dancers.

When she got to the end of the line of groping men, she came back to her feet and swayed for a moment as the music changed from driving rock to a sensual samba. Picking up the tempo, she swayed back to center stage, slipped most of the bills crammed into her stockings into the book bag and began to move to the samba beat. Every man in the room had their eyes glued to her as, ever so slowly, she toyed with the waistband of her miniskirt, easing it up, down, running her fingers beneath it, her hips bucking and churning. Without warning, she ripped it off and tossed it behind her. She wore no panties. Without missing a beat, this marvelous female animal glided to the edge of the stage where waving hands clutching greenbacks awaited.

Even from the bar, I could glimpse the juices that glistened on her pussy lips as she worked the line, the eager hands fondling and probing her pubis, coming back wet. Her head thrashed on the slender column of her white neck without ever dislodging the choker she wore, apart from the heels and fishnets her only adornment. This girl was a real exhibitionist and looked like she enjoyed her work.

At last, the greedy apes sated for the moment, she moved to the pole that some of the other dancers used in their routines. The samba beat faded as the lights darkened to a single spotlight on the pole. The dancer bent to her book bag, swiftly shedding her stockings and their loot, then stepping back into the pumps while withdrawing two objects. One she left on the floor; the other she held in her right hand as Donna Summers’ “Love to Love Ya, Baby” began pulsing from the speakers.

Standing with her back to the audience, her legs spread wide, she grabbed the pole, then brought the limber cane she held in her right hand down onto her small, round buttocks, lashing them to the beat and throwing her head back in time to Summers’ moaning. By the end of the song, her perfect ass glowed red in the spotlight.

A new number came on, the generic fuck-music you find in a well made porno video. The spot irised out to take in the object she had placed on the floor. A dildo, a big, realistically molded rubber one. Without hesitating, the wench began fellating it on hands and knees, her ass elevated, her head bobbing to the music. No man in that club could have taken their eyes off her even if they’d wanted to. As the tempo sped up, so did her strokes. When the piece reached its climax, her head came up and liquid spurted from the tip of the dildo, splattering her face as she screamed in 'orgasm.'

The watching crowd split the air with applause, whistles and howls as the stripper, white fluid dripping down her face, stood up, made a slow, hip-swinging circuit of the stage to collect still more money, smiling at the audience, then grabbed her costume and props and disappeared through the same door by which she’d entered. I shook my head to restart my brain and beckoned the bartender over, laying a couple of fifties from my money clip on the bar.

“Another one for me, a double; and I’d like to ask if you can do something for me,” I said, tapping the bills on the bar.

“If I can,” said the bartender, noticing that these weren’t tens as he’d first thought.

“Will this cover your sending a bottle of champagne to that dancer who just finished? With my compliments?” I asked. (I knew he’d probably send her a bottle of ginger ale at champagne prices and split the difference 50-50 with her, but what the hell – it had been a very successful trip.)

The bartender disappeared. I sipped my drink and looked at the stage. The oiled, sleekly toned body of the black stripper working the crowd should have commanded my undivided attention, but after that blonde’s schoolgirl-slut act she just didn’t attract me. I turned away and contemplated my snifter. A gentle touch on my arm turned my head to the right. The luscious dancer who had changed a clubful of men into a mob of would-be rapists was standing at my elbow.

Up close, in a low-cut, short white silk dress that looked as if the silkworms had spun it onto her, she was even more stunning than she’d been onstage. Somehow I knew that she was the only thing under the dress. She’d changed into a pair of white stiletto heels, not as extreme as the pair she’d worn onstage A black leather belt emphasized the narrow span of her waist and her flaring hips. Her beautifully shaped legs were tanned and bare. At this range, I could see that the choker I had noticed onstage wasn’t a piece of jewelry. About half an inch wide, it featured a pattern of steel lozenges, with four letters centered on the front: “SLUT.” She held a tray with a pair of glasses and a bottle of champagne.

I became aware that she was looking at me, her light blue eyes wary as she studied me with the same intensity I apparently was focusing on her. I groaned inwardly, knowing what she was seeing: an average-looking guy six feet tall with light brown hair cut short, a carefully trimmed mustache, in good shape but no bodybuilder god, casually dressed in khaki slacks, sport shirt and plain, spit-shined black cowboy boots, my one concession to vanity. And doubtless goggling like an idiot with drool dripping off his chin. Off to a great start, aren’t we? I untangled my tongue and spoke.

“Please forgive me for staring, but it is seldom that a woman as beautiful as you materializes next to me like a genie.”

She relaxed slightly. “May I join you, sir?” She made no move to do so. I stood and motioned to an empty table behind us, walking to it and holding a chair for her. She followed and sat gracefully, as she did all things, I guessed. I sat and reached for the bottle, but she forestalled me by picking it up.

“Permit me, sir,” she said, working the cork free with a pop, and expertly filling our two glasses without spilling a drop. She set the bottle down and handed me my glass, but made no move to pick up her own.

“What is this?” I thought, my brain intoxicated with her beauty and nearness. Then I realized if that collar was what I thought it was, she might not drink or even talk unless I told her to. Well, if that’s how she liked to play, I could play along.

“Please join me in a glass… I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name. And please feel free to speak.”

“My name is Susan, sir,” the blonde said, picking up her glass. I clinked mine to hers.

“To all the ones who weren’t as lucky,” I said, offering my all-purpose toast. To my surprise, those lovely eyes filled with tears. I covered my concern by drinking half the glass, giving her a chance to recover. She gulped down the whole thing and poured herself more, her hand trembling.

“Matt isn’t going to like this at all,” I thought I heard her say.

“He’s not here,” I replied. “Everyone is entitled to an occasional night out, even me. Even you. It will be all right.”

“You really think so, sir?” she asked, her eyes shining, though whether with excitement or fear I couldn’t tell. I reached over and stroked her hand.

“I’m sure of it,” I said.

We sat there, drinking the champagne and talking as two people newly met in a bar do. I saw the bartender eyeing us and frowning, but thought nothing of it. After we’d worked most of our way down the bottle, Susan looked up at me with half-lidded eyes.

“Would you care to dance with me, sir?” (Although we had exchanged names, I had not been able to get her to use mine.)

Dance with her? I’m not much of a dancer, but for a chance like this I’d have walked a mile in bare feet on broken glass.

“Yes,” I said, standing up and helping her with one hand from her chair, which action earned me a startled glance, swiftly concealed, from Susan. She indicated a small side room, to which I led her. Just as we were about to pass the threshold, a slight pressure from her fingers stopped me. Although in those heels she was only an inch or two shorter than I was, she still looked up at me.

“Sir, I am afraid I must explain to you the rule of the house for this room. Men must pay to play, as it were…" She hesitated, not meaningfully, but out of fear. Of me?

Then I saw the direction in which she was looking and followed her gaze. The bartender was looking at us, disapproval in every line of his face.

“Fuck him and the horse he rode in on,” I thought. I located the money clip in my front pocket by feel and extracted a couple of bills.

“Will this be sufficient, pet?” I asked, showing her what I held.

She nodded, replying, “Kindly place your deposit in the First Valley Bank, sir. Nothing but the best for our customers,” thrusting her chest forward to bring her bounties into even greater prominence.

“She has a sense of humor,” I thought with an inward smile, gently sliding the folded bills into the cleavage of those awesome breasts, stopping when my hand just grazed her flesh.

Susan reached up with her free hand and pressed mine firmly to her, guiding it down across her exposed boob to rest on the hardened pebble that was her left nipple beneath the dress. I instinctively squeezed gently; she sighed and pushed forward, tightening her hand over mine, tipping her head back, eyes closed, clearly enjoying the sensations my hand was evoking. With a shiver of pleasure, I led her into the room and onto the dance floor. She flowed into my arms.

From things I had heard, I knew that if a dancer chose to dance with a customer, she was likely to close-dance; but Susan was much closer than I expected. She pressed tight against me, swaying her hips and rubbing her crotch against mine. Well, it was obvious that I was interested. The heat from her suffused me. I could just feel her nipples through the clothing separating us, and as her breathing quickened I could feel her nails as she dropped her hand to my butt to pull me closer.

I responded by sliding my hands down to her ass. As I tightened my grip, I took a chance based on what I suspected and whispered in her ear, “Cum for me, pet.”

Susan’s back arched. I felt her shuddering against my body as she dropped her head to my shoulder, muffling her cries in my neck as I daringly slipped my hand under her dress and inserted a finger into her. As her shudders slacked off, I brought the finger to her lips. Without prompting, she took it into her mouth, her tongue flicking sensuously over it as she sucked it clean. I guided her to a loveseat in a dark corner of the room and we sat down. Her legs weren’t the only ones that were shaky. She huddled against my chest as I stroked her hair and back.

“Oh, he’s definitely not going to like this,” she whispered.

I tipped her head back with the same finger she had just cleaned. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I took her chin gently between thumb and finger and forced her to look at me.

“Susan, you are a marvelous, giving, sensuous woman. How could anyone not like anything you do?” I was surprised to see tears in the corner of her eyes.

“He will be displeased when I get home tonight, sir,” she whispered. Was that fear I heard?

She didn’t say anything more but was content to rest next to me, not displaying herself as she had onstage, but still open for inspection to my eyes. My caresses seemed to soothe her and she did not object to my eyes devouring her beauty like a desert plant sucking up rain after a drought. After one of those indeterminate periods had passed where time seems to have no meaning, she at last stirred, rubbing against me like a friendly cat.

“Sir, you are kind, to be gentle with one such as I,” she said softly. “I hope your lady appreciates you.” She pulled herself up to lean against the arm of the loveseat, stretched across my lap, those tremendous melons of hers with their lustful nips inches from my yearning mouth.

“No lady,” I managed to croak. Susan paused, and settled back on me, pinning me where I sat and holding herself in that position with her right arm behind my back.

“No man ever has a woman in his life when he’s in a place like this,” she said, sounding hurt. Obviously she had heard this line before and had expected better of me. I could see disappointment and reproach on her face.

One thing guaranteed to piss off an officer, even one that no longer wears the uniform, is to imply that he is lying.

“Susan, I’m telling the truth,” I said, insulted. “I’m not in any kind of relationship at the moment. Nor have I been, for longer than I care to remember.”

I looked away, feeling a combination of self-loathing for my inability to attract women and anger at this wench for rubbing my nose in the fact that females would only spend time with me if they were paid for it. She shifted on my lap, and a tentative hand on my cheek brought my attention back to her. She met my eyes.

“I’m sorry, sir, I did not mean to hurt you. Please forgive me.”

During her shifting, she had popped her breasts out of the dress’s confinement. She took my hand and squeezed it tight on her nipple, as if seeking atonement through pain. I caught the nipple in my fingers and twisted, offering what she wanted. A mixture of pain and pleasure washed over her face, followed by remorse as I changed my grip to a gentle squeezing of her stupendous tits, teasing the erect nipples with my thumb. When I spoke, it was gentle firmness.

“Susan, in this job you probably hear all sorts of rude comments and come-ons from the men that come to watch you dance, especially the wannabe studs that sit down front. But there are those like me that come to admire your beauty and wanton sexuality, wishing they had a magnificent woman like you, thankful for your merciful calling that offers us the illusion of hope.”

We stayed like that a little longer, Susan watching me, her breathing ragged, my hand teasing her to arousal. The feeling of her buttocks grinding against my leg was pleasant.

At last she said, “I have to dress for the finale.”

She caught my hand, brought it to her lips and kissed the palm lingeringly before using me as a fulcrum to get to her feet and rearrange her clothes. I stood as well, noticing that we were alone in the room.

She stood very close, head tilted down, then without warning threw her arms around my neck, kissed my cheek and whispered, “I wish I deserved someone as nice as you.” With a final pressure of pubes against my aching cock, she was gone.

The bartender gave me a hard look as I left the dance room. I was sure he could see the smear of lipstick on my face, but just what was his problem? Not wanting to overlay my memories of Susan with one of her dancing with the other strippers, I walked out the door and climbed into the truck I used for my business trips. Getting behind the wheel, I locked the door and settled in for a nap to sleep off the alcohol I'd consumed. Tapping on my window interrupted my very pleasant dreams some time later.