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Arryana (bd)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Archive Name: aRRyana.txt
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@1993 by Robin Roberts and The BackDrop Club
This story may be reposted and/or reprinted provided the story
and this header are transmitted unedited, in their entirety.
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aRRyana
I have recently become an advocate and spokesman for the sparkling
apple juice industry; even more vocal than Karl Malden is for American
Express. Apple juice is something close to paradise.
Today started like many other mornings at our home. Since aRRyana
usually sleeps bound and blind-folded, we tend to take many, long,
enjoyable minutes to make the transition from night to day. When we
leave our bed, we take showers together, dress and have a late and
leisurely breakfasts. This morning, we were to share our breakfast with
another couple who live a Master/slave relationship, so aRRyana took
special care with her makeup and to wear a cute little outfit with a
nearly see-through blose, short skirt and high-heels.
After breakfast, we returned home. Since we were to be home for the
day, I had her change into an outfit that would enhance her already
great looks and to remind her that she wears a collar.
A friend of mine wrote a book about a year ago ("Perfection" by
xenaRRa). In her book, she described me as someone who was:
"No prize Average height, bottle-bottom thick glasses, even a
plastic pocket protector in my plaid shirt. A scruffy blue
sweater hung loosely from his shoulder - the slight bulge at
his middle probably made buttoning it uncorfortable. Truly, a
nerd. But the women who attend him, through their unspoken
words and actions, paid him honor as though he were a god."
When I read that account, I had heated words with the author: I never
wear plaid shirts.
aRRyana, on the other hand, is quite attractive. She has deliciously
brown hair and a warm smile that would melt glaciers. Although we have
lived together for nearly four years, we have only been married for
three. I am twenty-one years older than she, but we have not found that
at all deliterious. We have been living in a Master/slave relationship
almost from about the day that we met.
But back to this story. She was wearing a white, lacey outfit. At
thirty years of age, and five-foot-six and quite buxom, she was not
quite what I would call "street legal".
She knelt at my feet, with a white bandanna rolled and placed between
her lips as a gag, massaging my feet as we watched a pre-recorded video
tape. I only half-watched the movie since I was much more interested in
the sight of this beautiful woman kneeling between my legs. After our
afternoon movie, I moved to the floor beside her and spent a very long
time getting to know her in the way that a Master knows a lady.
We spent a lot of time (and a lot of energy) and we were both getting
hungry. I tied her wrists together in front of her, placed a floor
length cape over her lingerie-clad body, and I walked her to our car
parked in front of our home. We drove to a local "fast food chicken
place who will remain unidentified" and ordered our meals to go. The
"friendly man" at the window took our money and told me that it would be
a five minute wait. aRRyana sat very still, trying to keep her cape from
opening and presenting him with a view that I would call dessert. We
chatted quietly, exchanging words that lovers often exchange. Many
people walked very close to our car but they didn't notice her bonds,
her white leather collar, or the enticing outfit beneath her cape.
Arriving back at our home, she removed her cape and made ready to
serve dinner. I busied myself returning the house to its normal state of
orderliness; it seems as though someone had left a LOT of rope lying all
over our living room floor. (Must have been a burglar who broke into the
house and strewn all of our toys all over the living room floor!!) After
a short while, I walked into our dining room to find a very pleasant
surprise. She had replaced her earlier gag and she was kneeling on
the floor next to my chair. I removed her gag, and hand-fed her part of
my dinner using my fingers. If you have never hand-fed your slave (or
been fed) in this manner, you will NEVER understand the phrase "finger
licking GOOD chicken".
As a side note, I might mention that on our first date, aRRyana and I
had gone to the Mennarah Morrocan restaurant in San Jose, California. We
sat on the floor beside each other and spent an evening feeding each
other with our fingers. It has become something of a "family tradition"
for us to find new Morrocan restaurants so that we can re-experience
our first evening together. We often take close friends to these unique
places and spend an evening with them explaining why we live the life
style we have chosen. (If you ever wish to explore the Master-slave
lifestyle, visit a Morrocan restaurant, sit on the floor, and have your
slave eat from your hand. Have them lick your fingers clean. By the end
of the evening, you will wonder why it took you so long to decide to
become a Master or Mistress. But I digress.....
After our noticeably quiet dinner, she cleared the dining room table,
rinsed the dishes and we returned to the living room. We spent a short
while discussing the days' events and our feelings about our
Master/slave relationship/life-sty;e. Her short white "dress" inspired
me to repeat the afternoons floor exercise performance in true "Olympic
Fashion". As we lay in each others arms, I suddenly noticed that I had
also developed an Olympic thirst; a thirst unlike any I had ever known,
even though I had lived in both California and Nevada deserts. aRRyana
went to the kitchen and returned with a wine goblet filled with
Martinelli Sparkling Apple Juice. She glided to a position on the floor
in front of me. In one fluid movement, she delicately held the glass
with both hands, knelt on the fllor in front of her Master, bowed her
head, and proffered the glass (and her body) in a manner that leaves
this writer with only the thought that apple juice is like paradise.
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