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Rendezvous [M/f, slavery, cons]
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.
Comments are welcome.
Rendezvous
by Salustra
The hotel is designed to accommodate the lengthy stays of out of town
businessmen. The luxury of its rooms is not in any particular size or
opulence, but the 'hominess' of the design: the kitchen, dining room, and
small living room that accompany the bed and bath. If the clerk who
checks my reservation and gives me my key recognizes the name of the
monthly guest who stays only one night, she gives no indication. "Have a
pleasant stay, Ms. Markheim," is all she says.
The room is familiar, and sets my blood racing. It's such a mundane
site for the intense drama we are driven play out, despite all risks. I
put the groceries on the shelf in the kitchen and take my single, small
piece of luggage into the bedroom. A portable CD player goes on the
decorative table between the dining room and living room.
I'm not much of a cook, but I have learned how to prepare a half dozen
or so light, tasty meals for you. My thoughts are full of the
possibilities of the night's later activities as I chop vegetables and
chicken, the mundanity of the chores a weird contrast to the intensely
erotic images in my mind. But that's part of the thrill of the role I
have accepted: that my service to you is not just in the realm of the
sensual and the erotic, but in the everyday necessities as well. You
come here directly from work. Should your slave _not_ have worked
diligently to prepare a pleasant meal and a relaxing atmosphere for you?
After finishing the basic preparations for your dinner, I set the
table, using the tablecloth and the single setting of dinnerware that I
have brought. I place a candle on the table, and flowers in a graceful
vase. The clock inches slowly toward four-thirty. My stomach is tense
with anticipation. I want you to be here _now_!
With the apartment prepared for your arrival, I go to prepare myself.
I take a washcloth and rinse my body, brush my teeth to rid them of my
own dinner, eaten on the way, then put on my outfit for the evening: a
red satin garter belt, sheer matching stockings, four inch heels, and a
red demi-cup bra which lifts and supports my breasts but leaves the
nipples bare. Tiny diamond stud earrings are my only jewelry. I curl my
hair and brush it out until it's soft and shining. A thin gold hairband
keeps it out of my face. Finally I anoint my body with the frankincense
oil you love.
The phone rings. I jump, then rush to pick it up. "Hello?"
"Are you ready?" Your rich voice teases me.
"Yes, master." My breathless tone is a stark contrast to your smooth
assurance.
"I'm leaving the office now. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
There are so many things I want to say to you, but all that comes out
is, "Yes, master."
You hang up. I exhale slowly and place the receiver back in its cradle.
My last task is to prepare the bed. I free the coverlet, blankets and
sheets from the too-efficient tucks of the housecleaning staff, and fold
the coverlet all the way down. A sprinkling of scented oil on the sheets
and pillows reduces their institutional feeling.
I go back into the kitchen and dining room and lean against the
refrigerator, waiting. At four-twenty I light the candle and turn on the
music.
I try to be calm, but I can not help pacing.
Eleven more minutes pass, then I hear footsteps, a key. I swallow,
and my body straightens instinctively.
There is a soft rattle of keys and locks and the door opens. You are
here. Even fifteen feet away, I feel your presence as a physical
impact. Your eyes don't leave me as you close the door and set down your
briefcase. (We match: your briefcase and your slave both decorated with
the same bright color.) I blush under your scrutiny. The 'clothing' I
wear is little more than ornamentation, enhancing the nakedness of my
breasts, my cunt, and my face.
There is an eternal moment as you take in the sight of me -- so
different from my usual casual appearance -- and I am in an agony of
tension as I wait for your approval. Then you smile, and the
anticipation is lifted, and in its place is light and warmth. I smile
back. "Good evening, master."
"Good evening."
I go to you and help you remove your coat, then hang it in the
closet. As I turn again to face you, you favor me with another smile.
"Everything looks wonderful. Especially you. Come here, slave." You
make the word an endearment.
I go to you, and you pull me close, claiming my mouth with a fierce
kiss. I melt against your body, my bare nipples rubbing against your
sweater, and return your kiss with equal intensity. My hands go to your
shoulders, but you take my wrists and pull them behind my back and hold
them there with one hand. You pull me back slightly, and use your free
hand to pinch one of my nipples. I moan in pleasure and pain, and you
smile down at me, savoring your power, then bend claim my mouth again,
kissing me tenderly as you torment my nipple. I groan, and my hips
thrust toward you. Any self-consciousness I felt at your arrival is
gone, replaced by complete awareness of your mastery over me. Everything
is exactly as it should be. My body is already aching with desire, but
my hungers are irrelevant. My body has not been washed and oiled and
ornamented for my pleasure, but for yours. In fact, it is an error for
me to think of it as "my" body. It belongs to you. If it pleases you to
quench the fires in it, you will -- but you are under no obligation to do so.
I am your slave. You will use me as you please, and I will be
grateful for the privilege.
You finally end the kiss and release me. I catch my breath and
balance, then say, "Are you hungry, master? Can I get you anything?"
"Beer. How soon will dinner be ready?"
"It can be ready ten or fifteen minutes after you tell me to begin,
master."
"The beer first." You go into the living room and settle back in the
easy chair. I pour a bottle of microbrew into a glass and bring it to
you, kneeling first, then holding it up. "Thank you." You take the
beer, then caress my hair. "You are so beautiful. . . . "
"I am yours, master. . . "
"Yes, you are." You stroke my hair a little longer, then withdraw
your hand. "Go finish dinner."
"Yes, master." I bow my head, then rise and go back to the kitchen.
We are both silent as I finish the meal. I can feel your gaze on my
body as I work. I wear an apron to protect my flesh from the cooking
oils, but by backside is bare except for the thin bands of the garter
belt and bra. I imagine that you're looking at my bottom and shoulders,
anticipating the blows you will inflict on them later. When the meal is
finished I go back into the living room and kneel at your feet again.
"Dinner is ready, master -- if it pleases you."
"Thank you, my dear." You stand up and go into the dining room,
taking the half-glass of beer with you.
I go to the kitchen and get the serving bowls. I bring them to the
table and serve you, then set them on the other side of the table. You
compliment me on the dinner, and when you want seconds, I refill your
plate. Afterward, I clear the dishes and quickly clean them while you go
back in the living room and watch the evening news, letting your dinner
settle.
When I've cleaned the kitchen (a task that takes no more than
fifteen minutes), I again go to kneel at your feet.
You give no indication at first that you are aware of my presence.
You watch the television as if you were alone. After a few minutes, you
lower your hand and idly stroke my hair and shoulders. I tremble with
pleasure at your touch, but do not try to kiss the hand that is petting
me. Your attention is focused elsewhere, and it would not be appropriate
for me to try to draw it to myself. I must wait, patiently, for you to
acknowledge my presence again. Finally the news is over, and you say,
"Turn the television off."
The set is only a few feet away. There is no good reason for me to
rise. I cross the room on my hands and knees and return the same way.
You lean forward to receive me, and tilt my face up as I kneel before you
again.
"You're becoming a very good slave, Salustra. I'm very pleased by what
you've done this evening."
"Thank you, master," I whisper.
"And you've behaved yourself very well when we were together the last
few weeks. I checked my notebook before I left work, and you've done
nothing to merit punishment since the last time we were here."
I smile, pleased and relieved.
"What kind of reward do you think a slave should get for such behavior?"
You're smiling, and your eyes are gentle, but I see the test in the
question.
"A slave deserves no particular reward for doing her duty, master.
Your pleasure in my behavior, and my ability to take pride in having
pleased you are the only 'rewards' I seek."
Your smile widens, and you bend and kiss me. "You _do_ please me, my
dear. And you have learned very well indeed. Tell me what would please
you."
"My only pleasure is pleasing you, master." The words are not just
the only correct answer for your slave to give, they are the truth. At
this moment, on my knees before you, I want nothing more than to serve
you, and know that you are pleased with my service.
"You don't think perfect service should be enough to keep the whip
from your lovely white skin?" You smooth your hand over my shoulder.
"Master, I know that it is not my behavior which determines whether
you whip me or not, but your own desires. I can neither compel you to
whip me, nor prevent you from doing so. If it were otherwise, _I_ would
be the master and you my slave. . . and I don't believe such a thing
would be possible."
You shake your head. "No, it is not. Nor do I think it would make
you happy if it _did_ happen."
"No, master."
"What if I offered you the choice between being bent over the table,
tied hand and foot, and whipped with the riding crop, or being my
mistress tonight while I served you?"
My stomach knots in sudden fear. The first option is infinitely
preferable to me -- and I can not believe you actually offering the
second -- but my preferences and ponderings are not the issue. I lower
my eyes before you, then raise them again. "If it pleases you, master,
tell me which _you_ prefer, and I will choose that."
You laugh out loud at that and settle back in your chair, regarding
me with pleasure and amusement. "It is so good to have an intelligent
slave." You shake your head. "I love you, Salustra."
"I love you too, master."
You continue to regard me in pleased silence for a time, then lean
forward and put one hand under my hair at the base of my neck. "Come."
You stand, drawing me to my feel with your grip on my hair, and escort me
back into the dining room. You walk me to table and release me. "Don't
move."
I remain still as you take the vase and the candle and move them to
the kitchen counter, blowing the candle out before you set it down. Then
you come behind me, grip me in the same manner as before, and gently
force me forward and down, bending me at the waist until my upper body is
flat on the table and my bottom sticks up in the air. "Extend your arms
toward the corners," you command quietly, and I obey. Your booted foot
taps the inner side of my ankle. "Step wide."
When I am stretched out over the table you ask, "Where are your cuffs?"
"In the bedroom, master."
You leave the room, then return. I can't see you, but I feel your
hands on my ankle, then the cuff tightening. There is a click as a leash
is attached, then pressure as you pull my foot just a little further out
before tying the leash strap securely to the table leg. You repeat this
procedure with my other ankle, and with both wrists, so I am tied down
securely. The table is longer than I am, and there is a good four feet
between my head and the far edge.
My hair is falling over my shoulders and face. You carefully gather
it together and spread it out to one side, where it will interfere
neither with my breathing nor your view of my shoulders.
Your fingers move to the center of my shoulders, and I feel you
release the hooks on my bra and spread the fabric out, further exposing
me. The gentleness of your touch only intensifies my awareness of the
torment to come.
I hear you go behind me, then feel your fingers on my inner thigh. I
can't help flinching as the sensitive skin has a tickle response, and I'm
glad that the bonds hold me securely in place, so I'm not guilty of
actually moving away from your touch. You snap open the garter clips and
roll the stocking down, exposing more of my flesh. Your hand smooths my
other leg, then it too is bared.
My breath is already ragged with arousal and anticipation. Your
movements are unhurried. You retrieve your briefcase from its place by
the door and set it on the table in front me. You open it, withdraw the
riding crop, and set it on the table. Then you close the briefcase and
set it back by the door, leaving the crop in front of me.
When you return you stroke my head. "Did you bring dessert?"
I swallow hard. "Yes, master. There is ice cream in the freezer,
and strawberries and chocolate in the refrigerator."
"That sounds wonderful."
You turn and go into the kitchen. I watch, helpless, as you fill a
cereal bowl with vanilla ice cream and another with strawberries. You
set them both on the table in front of me, on the other side of the crop,
then bring the squeeze bottle of chocolate topping.
You sit down, cut three or four strawberries in half, drop them on
the ice cream, then squeeze chocolate over the whole thing. Then you
begin to eat slowly, savoring more than the taste of dessert.
I can do nothing but wait and watch, feeling my body pulled taut by
the cuffs and leashes, feeling my pussy dripping like melted ice cream,
only hotter. You take a strawberry from the bowl, dip it in your ice
cream and chocolate, and extend it to me across the crop. I open my
mouth and you place it between my lips, smiling at your own generosity.
I taste the sweetness, the red juices of the strawberry, the thick
coating of the chocolate, and shiver. "Thank you, master."
"Thank you for providing such a wonderful dessert." I'm certain that
you intended me to hear every one of the multiple meanings in that sentence.
You offer me no more of your sweet meal, but make me watch, and wait,
as you savor it. The crop lies there too, reminding me of what will
follow dessert. I want to beg you to hurry, but I am long past such
displays of pride and selfishness.
Finally you finish. You leave my sight for a few minutes, and when I
return I do not see you, only your hands as you stand behind my head and
place a cock gag in front of my mouth. Ordinarily you enjoy hearing my
cries, but this place is not as private as it could be. It requires a
severe gag to contain my involuntary noises, and I suspect that you have
come to enjoy exercising your power over my voice. Obediently I open my
mouth to receive the rigid plastic phallus. You pull it in firmly, but
are careful not to cause me real discomfort. I feel the straps
tightening behind my head, holding the plastic shield close against my lips.
Being absolutely silenced like this frightens me. You know it, and
take pleasure in the way I accept the gag without protest. You stroke my
head, then put a large metal spoon in my hand. In the unlikely event
that something happens I can not handle, I can drop the spoon to let you
know something is wrong. I clutch it, more anxious about letting it slip
accidentally than I am about actually needing to let it go.
You pick up the riding crop. My body tenses. What I've been yearning
for is almost upon me, but I am as frightened as I am eager. You are an
exacting master, and only a thorough flogging will satisfy you. You take
me to the limits of my endurance, playing with me, testing my boundaries,
seeing how far you can push them, knowing that I will take all that I
possibly can, for love of you.
The first strike is almost gentle, almost a handshake between the
riding crop and the curve of my bottom. You toy with me, making me wait
still longer for the pain that I have known all night would come. You
tease me with the crop, increasing the sting slowly, a little bit at a time.
And then I feel your fingers in my cunt, stroking and teasing.
This, not the sting of the crop, causes me to scream and jerk against
my bonds. The phallus fills my mouth, catching and smothering my cries,
its unwelcome presence a mockery to the empty ache in my pussy. My
backside twitches and twists, trying to rub more of itself on your
flesh, and I feel the sudden pain of the flat of your other hand hitting my
bottom. A punishment blow. "Be still!" you growl.
Gasping, I try to comply, try to be still as the fingers in my cunt
continue to tease. I try to channel the instinctive motion to my arms,
where it can do no harm. I am moaning, and the sounds from low in my
throat _are_ audible, despite the gag.
"Is my slave hot?" you whisper, thrusting your fingers into me.
I can't help arcing as I'm penetrated, and a desperate wail rises
against the gag.
You jerk your fingers away. "Obviously too hot to be obedient. I
told you to be still."
And the riding crop falls again -- _hard_ this time.
Pain makes me cry out, but your gag easily masters my mouth. The
rigid phallus interferes with my tongue, and the plastic shield, cinched
tight to my lips, prevents any sound from escaping. My body twists as I
strain at my bonds, but they hold me down securely for you.
Anyone watching would think I was desperate to escape the cruel
punishment you are inflicting, but the truth is I am lost in a haze of
voluptuous pleasure. Each slash of the riding crop is a new and more
intense pain, as my skin reddens and welts rise, and each new blow falls
on more and more sensitized flesh. But at your hands pain and pleasure
are one to me, and equally welcomed. With the gag in place I can beg for
you to stop, to have mercy on your slave, and not have to worry about you
listening to me and offering that mercy. I don't want you to stop.
Being spread out and tied down on the table in a hotel room so you can
whip me at your leisure, without fear of interruption, is ecstasy.
When you're finally done, it feels like my back, thighs, and ass are
on fire. You drop the crop on the table and come around in front of me.
You unstrap the gag and gently pull it free -- then brush the involuntary
tears from my cheeks. "Are you all right, my love?"
"Yes, master," I sob -- not from pain, but release.
"Are you sure?"
I concentrate on making firm eye contact with you. "I'm sure, master."
"Good." You stroke my hair. "You have to learn to keep still when I
tell you to."
"I do try, master -- but sometimes I can't help it."
"Don't tell me you can't." The tone in your voice sends shivers
through me. "I realize that it's hard sometimes, but I'm not going to
settle for anything less than perfect obedience. Now, this is something
we're going to work on, and I expect to see improvement."
"Yes, master," I reply humbly.
You kiss the top of my head and move behind me again. I long to know
what you're doing, what will happen next, but it is not my place to
question you. I feel your hands on my ankle, then realize that you're
easing my stocking back into place. You smooth it all the way up my leg,
then refasten the garter clips. Shortly both legs are recovered, and my
bra has been hooked back.
"Can you use your breasts?" you ask -- and I believe I can feel your
presence between my legs.
"No, master."
"Why not?"
"The table, master. My nipples are crushed between the table and my
weight."
"And your toes?" Your fingers slide across my pussy again.
I let out a little cry, then gasp, "The shoes are holding them,
master. I can't straighten them."
"Do you want to use your magic?"
My words are a groan. "Yes, master! I hate having it contained
like this. . . "
"What would you do, if you had it?"
"Escape!" I lie. "I'd rise in the air and escape from you!" I
pull against my bonds, trying to free myself.
"You aren't going anywhere, slave!" you growl -- and I feel your
hard cock pushing at me. "Your magic isn't so powerful. I can take it
easily."
I moan as your lubricated cockhead rubs my clit.
"I can take it as easily as I can take you. . . "
And my moan becomes a groan of pleasure as you thrust yourself deep
into me, my hot body hugging and enveloping your cock, gripping it as it
slides easily down the soft, slick path I can not deny you, do not want
to deny you. But, faithful to the fantasy, I cry out, "No!"
"You're _mine_!" You reach around and pinch my clit. I scream,
swallowing half of the sound. "Say it!"
"No. . . " I groan.
"Say it, Salustra!" The pressure on my clit increases, and I feel just
the suggestion of a nail against the tender flesh. "Tell me you're my
slave."
"Yes! Yes, I'm your slave. . . . I'm yours, master. . . ."
"Say it again." Your voice is more gentle now, coaxing.
"I'm your slave, master. . . ." I cry softly.
Your fingers leave my clit. I feel your hands on my thighs, sliding
over the scarlet stockings, as your body pumps mine. "Try to use your
powers!"
"I can't!"
"Try! Tell me how it feels!"
I can barely talk. The drive of your body in mine leaves me
breathless. But you have given me a command, and I must obey.
"I try to pull the power in, but it's blocked. I can feel the table
hard against my breasts, my own weight pushing down. I need the power to
lift, but I can't lift enough to reach the power. . . . I try to point
my toes, but the shoes hold my feet still. They're arched, so they're
almost in position, but the shoes hold my toes in place. I can feel the
magic around them, in the air, but I can't move those last two inches to
make it possible to draw it in. I'm straining the muscles, trying to
force them to straighten --"
And I feel your body shudder, and your fingers tighten around my
thighs, as you cum. I feel the spasms shaking your body, and the
sensation increases my excitement. Your pleasure sets free my own, and
I'm racked by orgasm, jerking helplessly against the cuffs.
When we've both recovered you untie the leashes from the table legs
and help me stand. I shiver as I see the four black straps running from
my wrists and ankles to your hands.
"Come over here." You lead me back to your place at the table.
"Kneel." The straps slip through your fingers as I sink to the ground.
You crouch behind me. "Put your hands behind your back." I comply, and
you gather the leashes together close to my body and knot them, then pass
the ends around the table leg again. When I'm tethered again, you move
in front of me. "Are you thirsty?"
"Yes, master."
"Would you like some ice cream?"
"Yes, master, if it pleases you."
You fill another bowl with ice cream, swirl chocolate on it, and
return to the table. You sit in your chair and have a few bites, then
lower a spoonful to me. I take it as carefully as I can. "Thank you,
master."
"You're welcome."
You feed me most of the bowl like that, then kneel next to me and
hold a glass of water while I drink. When that's done, you untie the
leashes from the table leg and lift me. You set me on top of the table,
still in my kneeling position. "Spread your knees as wide as you can,"
you say.
I obey, feeling my dripping pussy gaping over the tablecloth.
You sit down again and lean back. "What did I tell you you were
going to have to improve at?"
"Not moving when I'd been ordered to be still, master."
"That's right. You're overdue for another training session."
My heart begins to pound again. I both yearn for and dread these
lessons, in which you tighten your control over me and make me more truly
the slave you want me to be. I desperately want to please you, and I
crave the sensation of being subject to your will, of having you set more
stringent rules and boundaries for my behavior. But deep inside my pride
still flares sometimes in rebellion and shame at my submission to someone
who has no automatic right to my body and soul, only the sovereignty I
have freely yielded to you.
But I _have_ yielded to you: eagerly. . . . gratefully. And never
regretted the choice. You are a stern master, but it is that sternness
which was missing in all the others who played at dominating me. I am
very strong, and the other ones who loved me either lacked the will or
the strength or the confidence to truly master me. You have the
strength. You have the confidence. And you have the willingness to
discipline me when I fail to obey you or to please as I should. And you
do it without ever crossing the line into abuse.
And so I remain quiet, kneeling on the table in the hotel room, as
you go to the kitchen and take out the ice tray and empty it into yet
another bowl. You pick up the bowl in one hand and the candle in the
other and return to the table, setting both in front of me. The crop
joins them a moment later. Then you bend forward and kiss me again,
deeply and tenderly. "I love you, my slave," you say as you pull back.
"I love you, master."
Our eyes meet in silence for a long time, then you say quietly, "I'm
going to touch you in different ways, with different things, and I
command you to remain absolutely still until I say you can move."
"I understand, master."
You pick up an ice cub and run it down my side. I flinch, and draw a
long, shuddering breath, but there is no movement that you will call
defiance. Then you hold it against the aeurole of my left breast and
begin to move it in circles. Soon the cold begins to burn. I am
fighting to remain still as the ice continues to circle. "Please,
master. . . ' I whimper.
"Shhhh. . . ." you soothe. "Just a little longer."
'A little longer, a little longer,' I tell myself -- but then my
shoulders twitch back.
Almost before I realize I've moved, I feel your hand crack against my
cheek -- not hard enough to bruise, but smartly enough to bring tears to
my eyes.
"I'm sorry, master!" I gasp.
You glare at me, but say nothing.
I bring my body back into position. You raise the same ice cube to
the the same breast. Holding my gaze, you begin to rub it in circles. I
keep my eyes fastened on yours, concentrating on them, on pleasing you.
You want me to remain motionless, to feel the ice and be able to move but
to choose to remain still, obedient to your command. You are my master.
I am your slave. My body is yours, to use as you please.
I am so lost in your eyes I almost don't feel the ice cube pulled
away. But then you lower your head and take the nipple in your mouth,
warming and soothing it. I almost sway into the warmth, press closer to
you, but just in time I remember that I am not to move at _all_, until
you tell me otherwise. A sob breaks from my lips. You raise your head
and smile at me. "See, you can do it."
"Yes, master."
"But your lesson is far from over."
I nod.
"Your indiscretion earlier was in another place entirely. One which
I don't think is as disciplined as it might be." You pick up another ice
cube and, holding my eyes, extend your other hand to my pussy. You part
my labia and hold them open, and then bring the ice cube up between them.
I lurch up and back -- and receive another slap. "If you move again,
I'll turn you over my knee and paddle you thoroughly."
"I'm sorry, master. I'm trying!"
"That's not good enough. When I tell you not to move, I expect you
not to move!"
"Yes, master," I whisper.
This time I lock my muscles as I feel your fingers opening and
spreading me. When the ice touches me I groan. I expect you to simply
hold it there, but you push it deep into me, then release my labia so the
entry is closed behind it. I whimper as the cold pushes inside me, but
remain still. You watch me intently, then begin to rub your thumb
against my clit.
"Please, master. . . . " I moan, frightened that the intensity of the
sensations will overcome my control.
"Obey me." Your voice is inflexible.
My hips are screaming their desire to rock up, to push against your
hand, to expel the burning cold invader. I concentrate on being heavy,
of pushing downward. I think of Kaela, overcome by desire, using the
dildo on herself despite Alex's commands. I will _not_ allow physical
sensation to make me disobedient.
You remove your hand. Relief makes my shoulders sag forward. Your
eyebrows go up, and I shrink back, realizing what I have done.
"Master. . . " I whisper.
You shake your head. There will be no mercy. You stand and unknot
the leashes with abrupt efficiency. "Get down."
Fighting tears I slip off the table. You pull me down across your
lap and begin to spank me, hard. The ice is still in my cunt, burning
cold, intensifying my punishment. I lie still.
Twenty hard swats later you set me back on my feet. I would drop to
my knees, but you have not given me permission to move again. "Get back
on the table."
I scramble back into place, and this time you simply clip my wrist
cuffs together rather than knotting the leashes. "Let's try this again."
You test and discipline me for an hour, until you can see that the
strain is beginning to effect my ability to obey. Most of the time I am
able to hold still as you touch me with ice, or drop wax on me, or strike
me with the crop or fondle on my breasts. But my cunt remains unruly,
prone to unauthorized motion, or provoking it in otherwise
well-disciplined limbs. "Uppity," you say dryly.
"I'm sorry, master."
You shake your head. "I'm not disappointed with you, my dear.
Overall you did very well. You just require more intensive training.
I'll send you some homework, so you can keep working on this."
"Thank you, master."
You pull me against your body. "You're not uppity anymore, are you?"
I smile. "No, master."
"Not at all?"
"Well, a little. . . ." I confess. "But I try to let it out only
when its appropriate, master."
You set me back a step. "Strip, slave, and then kneel."
I feel a deep shudder as you prove to us both how true my words are.
Immediately I lift my hands up behind my back and unhook my bra, setting
my breasts free. In seconds I've stripped off the garter belt, stockings
and shoes -- and set the diamond earrings on the table.
I kneel before you, naked except for the cuffs on my wrists and
ankles, bowing my head humbly, then looking up at you, as is your
desire. I am trembling.
"What are you?" you ask softly.
"Your slave, master."
"What do you want?"
"To bring you pleasure, however I can."
"It pleases me to have you go on your hands and knees into the
bedroom and wait there like that."
"As you wish, master." I go to my hands and knees and turn and crawl
down the hall. I hear your footsteps behind me, can see your legs as you
follow me. In the bedroom, I move to one side and remain on all fours.
You go into the bathroom, then come out a few minutes later. You
kneel next to me. "Do you need to use the restroom?"
"Yes, please, master."
"Go ahead. But stay on all fours going and coming back."
"Yes, master." I lower my head and kiss your hand.
You stroke my head. "You please me very much."
"I'm glad, master."
You give my bottom a light smack. "Go on."
When I return, still on all fours, you are sitting on the bed naked.
"Come here." You pat the mattress beside you. I remain in position as I
climb up next to you. "You're such a lovely pet. And so obedient. You
have no idea how much your obedience pleases me."
I lower my head and begin to kiss your hand again. You allow the
gesture, then use that hand to catch my face and raise it. "I love you."
And then your lips close on mine, and you raise me up, and your
fingers close on my nipples, and I feel the blissful combination of the
pleasure of your kiss and the torment of your fingers pinching my nipples.
We still have hours before we must return to the world.
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