I first saw you from my bedroom window, tap-tapping along on your high
heels with your little tote bag on your back. Short black miniskirt,
shapely legs and a tight white blouse, over which a dark jacket was
draped decorously. Gaping wide to show the swell of your breasts.
Thick dark hair cascading over your shoulders, a perplexing mixture of
trepidation and what looked suspiciously like anticipation playing
across your pretty oriental features.
Pretty as a picture and far exceeding my wildest fantasies.
I felt my cock lurch in my pants and I resisted the urge to pump it a
little.
You were just the sort of girl I went crazy for. I’d just love to have
just been able to take you and enslave you. Binding you tightly with
my bonds. Bending you to my will, making you mine. Making you want me,
desire me, need me, beg me…love me. I could take you, mould you,
bring you pleasures beyond your imagining and pain, and pain and
suffering and pleasures. Until pain became pleasure and pleasure
became bliss. I could play your body like a fine instrument.
Your slim slim body. One that would never see 30 again but still firm
and supple like a dancer’s. Erect and tight like a model’s. And with
that smooth silky skin that only oriental girls possess.
Percy lurched again and I came down from my fantasy with a sigh. It
wouldn’t do to be seen gazing from an upstairs window sporting a huge
erection. Not around here, they’re suspicious enough as it is. A man
living on his own, hardly ever going out except to swim in his
secluded pool. A millionaire by all accounts, richer than Croesus,
rumoured to have made his money on a couple of dot coms, right as the
boom was cresting. Lucky fucker, so why ain’t he married?
Typical sour grapes. I was a man who had it all and they wondered why
I didn’t have this irresistible urge to give half of it away and fill
the house with kids.
Funnily enough I would. Given that I met the right woman. Which I
hadn’t up to then, wasn’t likely to either until I hit a few
newsgroups and a couple of fetish contact pages. I had a fling with a
few subs, tying them up, teasing them mercilessly, fingering them till
they came, even spanking them if we both felt it was right. Course I
usually fucked them too. If you’ve got a slave then you might as well
use all the facilities as it were. It’d be a cruel master that would
deny his sub a little harmless recreation through applied stimulation.
Technical terms again, I tutted. Once a scientist always a scientist.
Recreation through applied stimulation, I like it.
My mind drifted recalling them all. Corolyne, sweet sweet Corolyne.
Sharp, almost arrogant features but oh what a slave. What cunt control
you had. I swear you could peel a banana in there and how wet you got.
How you loved your crotch rope and that strategically placed little
knot. Sheila, short, plumpish – I nearly didn’t take you, I like my
slaves to be slim – but your eyes smiled at me and I relented, a real
softy at heart me. I just couldn’t let a girl down when all you wanted
was to be spanked and diddled to an outrageous orgasm across my knee.
In return for a blow job. Or Alice and your suspension bondage and
those dildos and those glorious long afternoon fucks while you
squirmed in your tight bindings. Writhing in lust or in humiliation
who can tell, but you always appeared on my doorstep week after week.
Tote bag over your back.
Filled with the toys that I would use on your body as you squirmed and
wriggled. Wide open so I could gain access to any orifice in your
body. And I did and you came and we fucked and we came and you went
home.
And the next week you were back again.
Then one day you vanished.
I turned when I heard the bell. I walked slowly down the stairs,
images running through my mind, of what I’d do if…. I flung open the
door.
“Is this er..” you tilted your head as you looked around the door
jamb, and I admired the auburn tint to your hair, “..number 29?”
I looked you up and down slowly before answering. “It is.”
“Then you must be er..” she stopped. Suddenly unable to decide what to
call me.
“Your Master?” I suggested mildly.
You stepped back a pace as I recall. Suddenly unable to work out if
this was such a good idea. You’d come half way across the country,
travelling with a small knot of pleasurable anticipation in the pit of
your stomach, knowing but unknowing of what was really going to
happen. Secure in your ignorance. But here you were suddenly faced
with reality, here you stood face to face with a real life Master.
I know what you were thinking, I look so ordinary. Not the sort you’d
expect to be a Dom. A little chunky from a lack of exercise, from
sitting in front of a computer, making a million here or a million
there. Most doctors would just look at my ever increasing bank account
and tell me to just sit there, take it easy, smoke a little if I
wanted. Just sign this medical insurance form, that’s right you know
what to fill in the space where it says doctor’s name.
Chunky, not beautiful, but a piercing set of grey eyes staring at you.
Sizing you up, deciding where to start. To test you to find your
limits and then take you beyond. Far beyond where the pleasure tree
grows, its fruits bursting upon your body showering you with golden
sensations, the rustle of the leaves in the wind snappling and rubbing
while shards of white hot pleasure dance inside your body. My fingers
playing a symphony.
Pain, pleasure, pleasure, pain, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure,
blisssssss.
We stared at each other, you and I. I waiting for you to make that
decision, you wondering whether to flee. There is no use denying it I
knew you were, I could see it in your eyes. You wanted to flee, to
tear away, to escape back to reality and boredom and certainty and
planning and orderliness and..and..
Our eyes broke and you looked down in submission. Staring at my shoes.
“You must be my master,” an affirmation and an interrogative in one
short sentence.
“Must I?” I tried to be sardonic and I saw you briefly lift your eyes
in confusion. Was I teasing you? You had just offered yourself to me
and I was questioning whether you would be worthy. This certainly
wasn’t what you had in mind. This was panning out much differently to
how you’d pictured it in your head.
We mentally tussled briefly, our eyes locked in mortal combat as the
electricity flickered between us. We knew what I wanted, I waited, you
tussled, cheeks fetchingly flushed then your eyes dropped.
“Please be my master.”
You really were a sweetie you know. Standing there, hands clasped in
front of you, tote bag swinging by its strap near your feet, looking
down at my shoes. Looking ten, no fifteen years younger than we both
knew you were. What a Popsicle. I was going to enjoy sucking you,
licking you all over, nibbling you with my teeth while you pulled on
your bonds and moaned from behind your balled up panties.
How could I turn you down. Damn I’m much too soft sometimes, Call me a
fool but I just can’t turn down a pretty woman who was willing to
submit to my every whim. And all you could ever possibly get out of it
was ecstasy of almost biblical proportions.
“Follow me,” I said and led you inside, calling over my shoulder, “and
shut the door.”
I heard it clunk shut, I almost looked over my shoulder to see if
you’d run but I sensed you hadn’t. I led you up the stairs and into
the back bedroom. Which I’d had newly decorated, just for you. You
never knew that did you? You thought I brought all the girls up here.
Nope I got a cellar for that. But then again you knew that as well
didn’t you. I mean you did get introduced. That’s where the chains
were.
This room was different. It was your room. Done up in a style I knew
you approved of.
Kinda big and messy with a huge bed with big brass bed ends that could
be used to secure a girl tightly while her body was molested.
I turned to see you looking around as you nervously entered, your tote
bag clutched to your chest, your eyes nervous.
I sat on the bed and looked at you.
You looked down, your flush crimsoning your cheeks so delightfully,
feet daintily together. I gazed in awe at you for several minutes. You
were so perfect.
“Close the door,” you started when I spoke then did what I asked.
“Put down the bag and take off your clothes.”
I believed in brevity of speech with slaves. There can be no doubts as
to the purpose of my orders. It helped a slave if she didn’t have to
think too much.
I remember a flicker of a smile twitching my lips as I watched you
struggle. Eyes cast down, little hands wringing at the level of your
crotch. Willing yourself to obey. You had wanted this remember. You
had better do it or you’ll be made to leave. To undertake the reverse
journey with the bitter tange of spent adrenaline burning in your
mouth as you contemplated how it might have been. If only you’d done
what your master had ordered by now you could be……
I watched you fingers struggle with the tiny buttons on the blouse,
teasing each one free exposing more of your silky skin as your jacket
lay crumpled round your feet. Slowly you unburdened yourself of your
persona as the buttons popped free, one by one they opened and one by
one your inhibitions dropped away.
Finally you were done, standing there wantonly, your snowy white bra
gleaming against your tan as it peeked through the gap in your blouse.
A slight moment of pause then you started to pull the blouse from your
skirt. Giving me tantalising glimpses of your bra as you wrestled with
the smooth cotton of your broider anglais laced blouse.
You held you sleeves in front of you as you popped your cuffs,
then….Then you pulled off the blouse, pulling it free of your arms
then balling it and holding it in front of your breasts.
I knew you could feel the heat of my gaze. I willed you.
And you didn’t fail me.
You dropped your hands and the blouse fluttered free. I could detect
no indecision in you as you selected the next garment. It was the bra,
inevitably the bra. A girl will always remove her bra first. Well my
girls did. Maybe not Stephanie. Stephanie was always different. I made
her cum on a bus once, chewing her orgasm into the lapel of my jacket
as she tried to suppress her shrieks of pleasure. Funny little thing
Stephanie……
I watched as the clasps came undone. With a fluidity of motion that a
ballerina would have been proud of you brought your hands to your
chest, cupping the cups which cupped the breasts that…..You showed
me.
You dropped the cups slowly, breathlessly, hoping I’d like them. Don’t
lie I knew you were. I remember the darted little glance when you
thought I wasn’t looking. Trying to gauge my reaction as they hove
into view. They were perfect and you damned well know it. Perfect,
perfect, perfect.
Nicely rounded, not too large with firm pointing nipples, that looked
far too fragile to take the pinch and the weight of a nipple clamp.
But they could couldn’t they? We had some fun, me and those nipples.
Yes and those breasts, but this was just a foretaste of what was to
come. They were mine, you were offering them to me.
You little minx, you knew exactly what you were doing didn’t you as
you held you hands under your breasts scooping them up into delicious
handfuls, offering them to me. As your eyes stared submissively at the
ground.
I cleared my throat and your hands flew to your skirt. It was tight
and short, jet black against the tan of your stockings. You twisted it
around slightly and undid the catch. The zipper buzzed harshly in the
silence of the room and I watched as the tightness of the fabric gave
way. You pulled it down so daintily. I just loved that about you, you
were always so dainty in everything you did.
Your panties were white, which surprised me a little. Maybe it
shouldn’t have done, given your bra. My little slave girl, wearing
white panties. I mentally tutted. You wouldn’t be entitled to them
much longer.
Nice girls wore white panties but howling screaming orgasming
sexslaves wore black or none at all. White. Oh no no no, they won’t do
at all.
Is there a school somewhere where they teach advanced panty removal
classes? If not where do you all learn to do it the same way. Some
faster, some slower but all the same technique. Maybe there is only
one way to comfortably remove your panties. Maybe when I do it I don’t
use the same techniques, especially when I feel that a certain set of
buttocks needs a little discipline or a vagina requires a serious
seeing to.
I know what it is, you use two hands. And you choreograph the movement
of your upper body to the sweep of the panties as you push them down
over your tan thigh highs. Personally I prefer to let the panties go
last. The penultimate sacrifice as you bare your body and offer your
secrets to me in one smooth motion. Standing on one leg then the other
as you pull them free.
You stand with your crumpled panties bunched in your fist, uncertain
of what to do next.
I let my eyes slowly traverse your body as you quivered in
embarrassment. Beautiful, absolutely stunning. What an instrument of
pleasure you had yielded up to me. Now I must tame it.
I held out my hand and you must have caught the movement out of the
periphery of your eye. You looked up then stepped forward handing me
your bunched up panties. I grasped them and felt their damp heat,
before dropping them.
I took your hand and pulled you towards me, indicating that I wanted
you to stand with your legs straddling mine.
Gently I took your hands and placed them on your head.
“We are going to conduct an interview,” I said.
“An interview?” you were obviously puzzled.
“Yes an interview. I want you to tell me why you want this job and I
don’t want you to stop or get distracted. Whatever I do. Do you
understand?”
“Job?”
“Yes as my slave, tell me why you’re worthy.”
“Oh,” you murmured. Again that unexpected test.
You paused then started speaking, slowly with a tiny voice. Telling me
how much you wanted to be my slave and how you wanted to be dominated
and…
Using only the fingers on one hand and touching only your gushing
little pussy I made you cum. You squealed delightfully as you came and
your writhing just drove me mad.
It was the first orgasm of many.
Your body was mine.
And so, despite the fact you never finished the interview, I
graciously gave you the job.
(*********(c) 2000 www.tspoonbender.com ******************)
It was a glorious first weekend wasn’t it?
I touched and learned.
How you like having your neck kissed and your earlobes nuzzled and how
you liked the burn of the rough hemp rope that was tied tightly around
your breasts imprisoning your nipples.
I learned so much about you that weekend.
Learning to spank you, softly at first, hands almost fluttering on
your quivering bottom. Then the slaps and the writhing and the musty
smell of your sex. And the orgasms. Once I didn’t even have to touch
your sex, you just came as I cracked my palm meatily across your
silken cheeks. With you grinding your crotch into the rough denim of
my thigh.
And those ropes lashing you into various poses. Making you cook my
dinner and serve me while that vibrator buzzed purposefully inside
you, held in with a cruelly tight crotch rope. Then making you kneel
under the table and blow me as I ate my dinner.
While the vibrator ground away.
And we came. And I was a kind master because I’d let you cook enough
such that there were sufficient scraps for you to eat out of your dog
bowl. As you knelt with your hands tied behind your back and I flicked
a light whip over your asscheeks as they thrust up invitingly at me.
While the vibrator ground away.
And the callisthenics, helping you to stay slim and beautiful just
like I wanted you to be. Dancing and jumping.
While the vibrator ground away.
You orgasmed in the middle of a routine once. Do you remember that?
It was absolutely scrumptious to watch. I wish you could have seen
yourself, frantically rubbing your breasts and your crotch as you
moved slowly to the pulsing music. Sinuously dancing and writhing as
the orgasm built in your body. Then the tsunami as you dissolved into
a mindless jelly as the orgasm burst fully upon you. Scrumptious I
tell you, you were scrumptious.
And our sex was the best, beyond belief and human understanding. Power
and joy, coarse ropes and soft flesh and hot, wet cataclysmic pleasure
all served up raw on a bed of satin sheets.
Then those other weekends. Do you remember those too?
You didn’t tell me what to do, it wasn’t a slaves place to propose. I
proposed and I disposed. But I learnt. It was like understanding a
deep and complex piece of machinery that must be thoroughly
investigated until I could coax the most from it.
We never even needed a safeword did we? The subject never came up.
Somehow I just knew when I was pushing too far and too fast. Like a
driver lost in a maze of country roads I just backed up and took a
different direction. It was so much fun wasn’t it?
I rejoiced the day you moved in. Funny really but I never even
considered that you had another life. A life where you were an
executive, a clerk, a whatever you were. One day it didn’t matter.
There could only be one job for you then. You were mine, my slave, my
foil, my temptress, my muse…
I loved you, I’m sure you knew that. Loved you deeper than the deepest
ocean. Ok so I punished you, when you deserved it. I loved your little
pouts and your dewy cheeks as I made you stand in the corner, your
bottom raw and aflame. But I was never cruel now was I?
You wouldn’t have stayed would you? You were a slave but you were
free. It was freedom that only a dedicated slave could enjoy. Freedom
from inhibition, freedom from stress, having a single focus in your
life. To make me happy and if I was happy you were happy and what was
the occasional sore backside when you had a life of ecstasy and
unmitigated happiness.
Can you remember when I used to take you to the mall? Making you wear
those ultra short skirts with those tiny little panties? I used to
smile as I watched you pulling down your skirt while I drove, trying
to protect your innate modesty. Didn’t do you a lot of good though now
did it? I nearly laughed when that gust of wind raised your skirt. I
didn’t of course, its very bad form for a Master to laugh at his
slave. Humiliation is one thing, cruelty is another. A Master should
care for his slave, not poke fun at her.
That was the secret wasn’t it? That’s why Doms and subs have almost
sublime existences. And why vanilla couples are always at each other’s
throats. It’s the nature of the relationship. They could never
understand it could they? The feminists curling their lips in disgust
when they saw what you had become.
We never met a happy feminist did we? Not truly happy. With their
pathetically downtrodden husbands or dungareed girlfriends. It used to
amuse me as you tried to explain what you were about, why you were
ecstatically happy. But they just didn’t understand. Poor things, we
both used to commiserate on their bad fortune.
A true Dom makes it his job to learn all about his sub. And that is
the key to their mutual happiness. He has a far deeper understanding
than any vanilla partner could ever have. Because that is the secret
of this type of relationship.
I knew what made you tick. How you loved to have sex in the shower or
the pool, how you loved it when I manhandled your breasts or teased
you, holding off your orgasm until you thought you’d go mad.
Then the release.
A muted power that arched your back and almost stopped your heart. I
know you told me once. The little death you called it. I remember. I
remember everything. The sweet, the honey, the very essence of you.
God I loved you.
And then one day, thirty years nearly to the day that I met you, you
left me.
I will never forget you. Cannot forget you. You were my slave but you
were my life.
Thank you my love. I’ll miss you always.
Tears ran down the old man’s cheeks as he leant forward and kissed the
lips of the woman lying at peace in her coffin.
“Bye my love,” he whispered then turned as an arm snaked around him.
“Come on dad, its time we were going.”
He turned and looked at his daughter, “You think she was happy?”
“Mum? Happiest person I ever met,” it was true too, everybody
commented on her cheery smiles and carefree personae.
“Think she’s happy now,” he let his eyes wander upwards.
“I think she’s living in a wonderful place and I’m sure she’ll be
really happy.”
He started to shuffle towards the door and his daughter did a double
take. She was sure he muttered “I hope they got big dildos there. She
always liked a big one.”
She shook her head, not her dad. It couldn’t be, it was too far
fetched. She must of misheard.
I mean who has ever thought of their parents having sex?