Twilight character names belong to Stephanie Meyer. All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the respective author. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without express written authorization.©2011 Emily Bowden. All rights reserved worldwide.
Thanks to Hibbleton, Neliz, Cutecanukgirl, and AJsilentvoice!
~ Betty Pledge ~
Some have called me a prude, but those assertions were made from the men I wouldn't let in. I'd been accused of being that unadventurous introvert. I was known as the smart one, the quiet one.
Didn't their mothers ever teach them that those were the women to watch out for?
I'd lived a good part of my adult life hiding behind a façade, keeping that carefully cultivated exterior in place. I had the expected career, the predicted shining future ahead of me, and the appropriately guesstimated amount of small, rat-like dogs to my name.
I rarely dated. Well, no one that anyone knew about at least. In my free time, I had my head in a book and my mind on analytical quandaries. I discussed with my peers the typical topics that concerned our demographic: politics, literature, and the occasional celebrity scandal that broke through the rigid exterior of the upper class; after all, the more fortunate in life should be immune to the vulgar entertainment that ensnared the mundane.
The life I lived was a lie, and yet I was happy. I was confident in who I was, content with leading the infamous double life. To me, it made me the woman I knew he'd want.
Some would say that what I craved made me depraved, twisted. That interpretation was spawned from ignorance alone, for all good things come to those who think outside the box.
I'd been instructed to meet him in a quiet, vacant room that lacked as much in warmth as it did any type of furnishings. The walls were covered in mirrors, almost like the rigid, straight-lined ballet studios I grew up in as a dancer. I found a black wooden stool in the center of the white marble floor and took a seat as instructed by my Consort.
The red silk robe I had on spread wide at my hips, revealing the long expanse of my slender legs. I was bare beneath, as also instructed, my heart in my throat as I awaited his arrival. The low, plunging neckline barely covered the swell of my breasts, rising and falling with every breath I took. The soft fall of my hair hung in a dark curtain, brushing up against the middle of my back as I sat rigidly, gaze held downward, waiting…breathing.
It felt like I'd been forever waiting.
He was the reason I was here, at the Cullen Mansion, going through the program. I had wanted him from the first moment I'd heard of him.
I knew of him in name only, catching tidbits from other girls he'd had before. I knew he was kind yet forceful, forgiving yet expectant. Total obedience was his mantra, his prize was adoration, respect, and unbridled, incomparable passion.
I wanted him. I wanted to serve him, wanted him to claim me.
And so I sat, nervous beyond measure, my heart in my throat, my palms a sweaty mess… I could not screw this up. I had to show him who I was…
I could hear movement from the hallway, a low, steady beat of someone pacing. Was it him? Did the moment come at last?
Slowly, the door across from me creaked open. I did not look up, keeping my gaze fixed on the ground out of respect. I was not his as of yet, and I didn't even know if he'd ever consider me. In any case, he deserved deference, and no matter how much pleasure I'd give him, that above all else would be my greatest gift.
"Angela," he said his tone sounded somewhat staggered at my posture. He had to have known what I was. I knew he'd read my file.
I didn't look up, wanting to show him that I was aware of what he was, yet not going as far as to assume that he'd play.
"Sire," I said softly, a slight smile curving my lips. I heard a sharp intake of breath at my choice of words, then the soft click of the door closing behind him.
"I have to say that I was somewhat surprised," he said in an authoritative, deep timber, dropping all pretenses. He started a slow stroll around me, his presence commanding and direct, the man I was desperate to meet making a slight appearance. "From what I've read of your file, your personality doesn't seem to go with the lifestyle."
"How so?" I asked, knowing that my challenge was a little ballsy of me. He hadn't asked me a direct question or given me permission to speak. The only reason I pressed him was the fact that I wasn't his, and I think a part of me wanted to shoot him that little reminder as somewhat of an enticement. Maybe the twitching palm at his side would urge him to take that step with me. My breath ceased as he stopped his slow walk; I could feel his eyes boring into me from several paces away.
"From what I know of you, I see you being timid and evasive in life, shying away from who you truly are and only coming up for air when you think no one is looking. I think you feel you are expected to be a certain way and you conform to what suits your secret."
I knew he would try to bait me, and I was ready for it. I kept quiet, the perfect picture of respect and capitulation. My gaze stayed downcast as he continued
"I don't see you as the type of person to give your body freely to someone else." He paused in front of me, his bare feet coming into my view, the tops of his ankles covered by the hem of his frayed jeans. "Based on the way you've conformed to everything that is expected of you, I wouldn't think that vulnerability would sit well with you."
"I have no problem letting go of my control as long as I feel safe," I replied honestly. He remained silent for several moments, unmoving. Finally, mercifully, he started speaking, his tone more formal now.
"Tell me, how many masters have you had?"
"None, Sire," I told him calmly, my posture remaining deferential. He balked for a moment, but seemed to recover quickly.
"How do you know what I am?" This time his tone had more speculation and wariness laced in the edges. Perhaps I wasn't the only one hiding away in a farce of an existence.
"I heard your name once or twice in the community. The man who trained me spoke very highly of you."
"I thought you didn't have a master," he said brusquely, his tone thick with reprimand.
"I don't," I answered softly. "I've never been collared, Sire."
"And this man didn't feel you worthy enough of his collar?"
"He believes as I do, Sire: collars are meant for a committed relationship. I would never have accepted one from him – from any Dom – until I had that understanding and feeling behind it. I'm not in this lifestyle for a momentary excitement. This is who I am, who I will be."
"Demetri is your trainer," he stated rather than asked, and I could hear the underlying respect in his observation. It was well known in the community that Demetri produced remarkable submissives, ones that were exceptionally disciplined and beautifully obedient. It was also common knowledge that he did not collar any of them. Having a strict code of distinction for that role in his mind, he'd only given those he was in a long term relationship that honor. I had not been his girlfriend by any stretch of the word, only under his protection, but I did adopt his belief, finding that it fit my own blueprint.
"He was, Sire," I told him. "I left his service several months ago."
"Did he dismiss you?" he asked, his voice demanding absolute truth.
"No, Sire. He did not. We left on amicable terms with the understanding that if I were at a munch alone, I would fall under his protection once more, provided his collar was not given to another."
"That is not a service he provides all of his former subs," he told me pensively. I didn't acknowledge the question in his statement. "I must say that your discipline is commendable. I do not understand why you show it to me, however."
"I have been taught that any Dom in my presence is worthy of respect," I told him. "But you most of all. It is my wish to show you that honor."
"And if I offered you a collar?" he asked, letting the question hang in the air between us. I hated the way he said it, implying that he didn't have just one collared to his name. With that small statement he revealed that he didn't have the same regard for his collared subs as I had. It made me sad inside, but I held my stature.
"I would not accept it," I told him honestly. "It would be dishonor to you and to myself."
"But you have no problem playing with a Dom," he said rather than asked.
"I have no issue servicing a Dom of worth," I clarified. "And more of a desire to serve you, Sire."
I could hear him approach me, the heat from his body encroaching upon me, stifling the air. My breath caught in my throat at his close proximity.
"Look at me," he told me, his tone demanding. I slowly lifted my head, my eyes traveling the contours of his jean clad legs. There were small rips in the fabric along his calf and on one of his thighs. The skin was visible underneath, and I could see the elaborate design of his tattoo that decorated the top portion of his muscular thigh. The pattern was extensive, and I could tell that the tail end of it finished at the higher part of his groin. I groaned internally, my eyes narrowing as they continued their slow trek up his glorious form.
He wore a black muscle shirt that hugged his corded arms and chest like a second skin. His strong biceps were visible, covered in tattooed sleeves of colored ink, the slick lines and edges of his rigid strength making my heart palpate all the more. I took in his large, thick hands, knowing the kind of pain and pleasure they could bring. I let out a slow hiss through my parted lips as I met his heady gaze, his lust and passion brimming through his patient exterior.
When my eyes met his, I could see the massive amount of control required to keep him steady. He'd complimented me on my discipline yet he had nothing on me. He was cultured in the art, refined in his ascendancy. Despite how practiced he was, the storm brewing underneath had my insides zinging, and my core moistening.
"I don't usually play with Betties," he said in a soft whisper, a hint of a curse beneath his statement. I remained silent, knowing that he didn't state that fact for a response. It was almost as if by saying it aloud, he was trying to reaffirm his stance in his mind. I felt my heart jump at it nonetheless, for if he had to state it, I knew he thought of breaking that vow. I didn't want to push him too soon, however. He was the one I wanted, he was the one I craved. So, instead of challenging him now, I would bide my time. It would happen at some point, and it would be my pleasure to wait him out.
"I don't wish to play," I told him confidently, my eyebrow lifting in a teasing way. "I only wish to serve."
"And how are you planning to do that?" he challenged, his gaze holding mine steadily. Without breaking eye contact, I slowly shifted from the stiff, wooden seat and knelt to the ground. The hard, cold marble bit into my knees, but I didn't care. I was used to being uncomfortable when I pleased a man. To me, the pain melted into the pleasure, heightened it to the point of exquisite torment.
My eyes traveled the length of him, taking their fill of all his glory. He stood before me, a tall statue of the most masculine beauty: Hard lines and sinew shaped and honed into the perfect specimen. I wanted to put my mouth on him, please him to the point where he was panting. I let my eyes reach his once more, and I saw such an intense look about them, zoning into me like he could will my clothes off just with his stare alone. It melted me on the spot, and hardened my resolve to show him what having me as a sub would be like.
I held his gaze as my steady hands reached for his jeans. He watched me as I released the buttoned fly, revealing his silken skin one inch at a time. He didn't wear anything underneath the hard fabric as I expected he wouldn't. It was beneath a sexual creature like him to have something so confining upon his sex.
I let my fingertips spread his parted jeans further, revealing his glorious erection. He was hard and long, the tip of him weeping a pearl of molten liquid. My hands rounded his bare ass, pushing the fabric down until he was completely unveiled to me. Without any further preamble, I set my mouth into motion, wrapping my lips around his mushroom head and taking him to the back of my throat.
I heard him groan, and that sound coming from such a man of worth made me hot. I worked him over, plunging and retrieving, licking and devouring, until he was rigid with restraint. I could tell by the slight movement in his hips that he was holding back the urge to thrust forward. I didn't want him holding back. I wanted all of him, his passion and his strength, his command and his unbridled domination.
If he wouldn't play with a Betty, perhaps he would give me just a small glimpse of the master within.
With my hands on his ass, I pulled his hips forward slightly, encouraging his movements. I heard his breath hitch in his throat, but yet he did not move as I wanted him to.
And so I teased him.
I held my lips just over his blunt head, only penetrating deep enough to give him a hint of warmth my hot mouth could offer his rigid cock. My tongue licked under the ridge of his plum-like tip, teasing and making him all the more stiff and engorged. I let one hand travel to his sack, playing and kneading the soft skin while the other stayed on his firm cheeks. He still wouldn't move his resolve firm in keeping his stature.
I pulled my mouth from him completely, but I allowed my hands to continue their subtle game of tug and pull. I leaned back on my haunches, glancing up at him with hooded eyes. He was staring at me with the same molten expression, and I wondered what I looked like to him: on my knees before him, my robe parting, barely keeping my naked form covered. Was I the picture of supplication? Or was I some hopeless, pathetic girl who wanted a master of dominance for her own?
"Why are you here?" he grunted through a clenched jaw. "You obviously have no need for training."
"The same reason you are here," I told him in reply, my fingers dancing along his skin, tracing the edges of the tattoo that encased his groin and hips. I kept my touch soft yet present, ever keeping him on the edge of that well balanced control. And in all honestly, his talking was becoming a distraction.
I leaned in once more; this time my mouth touched everything but his rigid length. I ran the tip of my tongue along the black ink along his thigh all the way to his groin, paying close attention to the defined dimensions of his lower abdominal muscles that angled into the glorious, firm sex standing at attention due to my torturous nurturing. Out of the corner of my eye I could see it twitch, making my lips turn up in a smirk across his heated skin.
"Enough," he said gruffly. "I thought you said you wanted to serve me, not torture me."
"Yes…Sire," I whispered with poorly hidden valor, proud that I was able to rattle his polished, golden cage. I plunged my mouth over his hard length until I felt the rosy tip hit the back of my throat. Hollowing my cheeks, I pulled back slowly, allowing the tip of my tongue to run under the length of him, teasing the protruding veins that supplied his cock with such rigid ferocity.
"Shit…" I heard him mutter just as his hands threaded through the hair at the nape of my neck. I smiled around his dick, glad that he was finally letting the sensations take over. I glanced up through my lashes to see his jaw set in a tight clamp, his eyes fixed on the image of what I was doing to him reflecting from the mirror across the room. Countless angles surrounded us, each offering him different view of my mouth on his sex; the curves and contours of my body positioned in such a way the visions of my homage to him shone with distinct beauty.
I wanted him to get lost with me, to forget all the implications my being Demetri's former mentee could mean, and let him feel how good I could make him feel.
I sank him into my mouth over and over again, taking him as deep as I could, my fingertips playing with the parts of him left untouched by my lips. Bringing my mouth to the edge of him, I let my tongue tease the head of him in a circular motion, earning myself a deep-seated growl from the one I pleased.
Suddenly, I felt myself being lifted off the ground. His rock hard sex disappeared from my mouth, his strong hands grabbing my under my arms. His glare was fierce and demanding, his strength unparalleled. He gripped me under my chin, his long fingers wrapping around my jaw and angling my face to his. Without mercy, he placed his lips on mine, demanding and seeking. We danced, he and I; our tongues mingling, our breath mixing, until we were both dizzy with need.
His mouth disappeared a moment later, just as abruptly as it had appeared, and then he was pulling me toward one of the mirror covered walls, his pace measured, his steps echoing across the empty room. I was about to ask what he was doing, but the intrigue heightened his mystery. My Consort put his hand on a part of the mirror and pushed. Slowly, a part of the wall gave way, revealing a hidden room behind the glass.
He pulled me into the darkness beyond, closing the thick door behind us. I did not see a handle in the disappearing light shining in from the vacant room as the door shut. I twinge of fear shot through my heart at the sight, but it quickly turned to a heated ache, the uncertainty turning into something from an erotic fantasy.
We were plunged into pitch black; the only sound was my panting breaths and the beating of my frantic heart. My eyes widened as they adjusted to the lack of light, trying to make out the ominous shapes around me. I heard movement but couldn't pinpoint where it came from. The extended of silence was daunting yet intriguing, and I only hoped that this marked a beginning for the both of us: Hidden in obscurity, laced with captivation, spiked with a passion insurmountable to anything I'd experienced, or would experience again.
A soft light came on with a quiet click. In the center of the hidden room stood my Consort, his form cast in white light from a wide barreled lamp hanging above him. The shadowed shapes around me took form, and with a sudden gasp, I realized that the room I was in housed several items used in the BDSM lifestyle: Whipping benches, a large row of hooks, chains and whips, a wooden cross hung on one of the walls across from a large gilded mirror.
Before I could take in the vast display, he closed the distance between us; his large hand clamped down on mine with sharp demand. He pulled me across the room without a word, coming to a wide bed laced in black silk sheets. He flung me down upon it, the red robe I wore flaring out to reveal my long legs to the top of my bare sex. I heard him growl at the sight before he approached, a hunger in his eyes I'd been craving to see.
"This is how it will be," he told me, his voice hoarse. "When you are with me you will serve me. If I see fit, you will submit. If I feel like fucking, you will oblige. I know you are not here for training; that has been made clear."
"I'm here for you," I told him honestly, my eyes imploring him to see the truth.
"Further, you will not speak to me unless given permission," he said sharply, all but ignoring my telling statement. "You will greet me in the same manner, in the same attire, as you did this evening. You will not utter a sound until told; you will not come until told. I want to see how far your discipline spreads."
I did not reply, for it was unwanted. He seemed to be pleased with that fact, for he let out a small grunt of approval.
"Shall we see how well you harbor your control now?" With that, he tore away my gown, revealing my nude body to his viewing. My breasts were swollen, tipped with erect and throbbing nipples. My waistline was trim, stomach flat, my falling around my shoulders in deep chocolate waves. "I want you in the center of the bed, legs wide, arms above your head. Now."
I complied without hesitation or sound. My legs spread apart, my core moist and ready, my breasts heaving with every breath. I watched him as he climbed onto the bed, his pace as slow as a panther's prowl, eyes lock on my flushed body. He took me in from trembling toes to my quivering bottom lip, his gaze going from hard disciplinarian to concentrated lover in an instant.
He bent toward me, his lips grazing the skin on curve of my right foot. He placed small kisses along my calf and up my thigh, his tongue darting out now and then to tease my body even further. I didn't move, didn't squeak a sound. I just watched his careful movements, reveling in the sensations his mouth brought me.
As he worked his way up, pausing just above my slick, pulsing core, he whispered one final command.
His tongue was first to taste me, his lips following quickly after. He lapped at me, sending the pulsing threads of electricity creeping across my limbs and down my torso. My fingertips twitched with need to grab the sheets, the mattress, anything to keep me grounded in position he'd demanded: spread wide, my Consorts mouth attached to my dripping sex like he was drinking from the fountain of youth. Despite the nagging desire, I kept still. Only the movement of my chest as I breathed gave any indication that I was riding along the edge of an incredible orgasm, and yet my Consort persisted on challenging my limits.
His hands traveled the expanse of my abdomen, his fingertips teasing me as if he was reading Braille etched into my skin. He reached for my breasts, his hands teasing and twisting my budded peaks, adding a sting to the exquisite torment his mouth was producing. I had an urge to move, to arch my body in order to present my breasts to him as if on an alter. And yet, I didn't. I kept to my training, steady in my determination. And my Consort seemed to feel that was when the true torture would begin.
"This is what I want from you," he growled into my sex. "You dripping for me, hot and slick. Deliciously dirty and ready to fuck."
His words spawned the ache inside of me to another level, urging my hips to move, making my fingers itch to grab his head and push his mouth further into me. I held my steady position, my teeth clamping shut against the strong impulse to move despite his direct order not to.
I could feel my orgasm building deep within me; spiraling and tensing, clenching and quivering, I fought for control. I slowed my breath and I closed my eyes against the sensations, trying to keep my mind occupied with something other than the fact the man of my dreams was between my legs, coaxing the greatest climax I'd ever had. My toes wanted to curl yet I kept them still; my head wanted to lull to the side but I kept it centered. Most of all, I wanted to scream his name, beg for him to release me from this blessed torment, yet I kept silent.
"God, this is beautiful," I heard him say, his fingers rubbing my clit as he pulled back away from my center. "You are beautiful."
He alternated from my throbbing, engorged nub, to plunging those teasing fingers deep into my pussy, curling upward to entice me further. I could feel his eyes on me, watching his fingers move, gauging my body's response to his play.
"I'm going to take you now," he told me without preamble. I could feel him jostling on the bed, and despite the fact that my orgasm would be that much harder for me to restrain, I had to see him. My eyes flew open to see him kneeling before me, his entire form completely nude, encased in corded muscles and sinew. The ink on his skin offered a heady contrast to his flushed appearance, each design strategically placed to accent the curves of his beautiful body. His thick erection stood proudly in front of him, and I choked back a moan at the sight.
He slid between my legs, his body going horizontal, perpendicular to mine. I could feel his arm snake beneath my lower back, angling my hips toward his.
"Don't scream," he told me with a wicked smirk before pushing into me balls deep. My body locked down, every nerve igniting. He was relentless, merciless, as he continued to pound into my swollen, tight channel. I wanted to scream, I wanted to pull my hair and shout and clamp down on him until my eyesight disappeared altogether. His warm lips clamped down on my breast, his teeth pulling on me to point of pain. And yet, I remained silent. He thrust his hips upward, the tip of his cock hitting that place deep inside me that had me riding the precipice, and still, I did not let go.
My Consort was above me, sweat covering both our bodies, making for a delicious lubricant as he slid along me with ever move he made.
In the next moment, just as I was about to give in to the delicious call of my release, I felt his fist wind into my hair. He tugged my head back, exposing my neck. His lips were on my soft skin, right below my pulse.
"I can feel it inside you, my Betty," he whispered, his hips unrelenting in their steady, pounding beat. "The power, the beauty. It's building, climbing. Do you want to let it go? Do you want to scream as it rips through you?"
My only response was a shuddered breath, but he must have taken it as a yes. He sat back onto his haunches, his hands surrounding the swell of my hips as he lifted me onto his lap: a perfect angle for deep penetration.
"Now," he told me as he thrust forward, sinking into me and sending my orgasm rippling through.
"Fuck…" he growled his pace becoming more urgent, desperate, as he plowed right through my release and sending me into the edges of another one. "Yes. Fuck, yes."
I could feel his movement stutter, every inch of his muscles tense. His own release was coming, and now that I could move at my leisure, I wanted to send him not only over that edge, but soaring over it. I widened my hips, bringing him deeper into me. Pushing into him, I felt a rumble of power emanate inside of him, starting with a deep growl inside his chest. His eyes locked onto mine and with one final plunge, he jetted into me, the intense groan of pleasure from him sending me into my own spiral.
We both collapsed into a sated mess, the mix of sweat and fluids filling the air around us. My eyes closed by their own accord, and I could feel the bed move slightly as he crawled to lay beside me. I felt his hand wrap around my waist and my eyes flew open to meet his.
"Tomorrow?" he asked, and for the first time, I sensed some type of apprehension, as if I'd tell him no.
"Tomorrow, Sire," I agreed. I saw a satisfied smile curve his lips, and with a final sigh, he closed his eyes.
"Call me Seth."
AN: Betty should be back on schedule. Thanks for all of you who read Sing For Me Sweet. It was a work from the heart and I met a great many of you through that story.