Initiation: The Journey (2)

You think your wishes are about to be answered as the woman on screen appears to respond to your bidding, nudging almost shyly one forefinger until it sits half buried in her wet opening. Grateful, you mirror the action, your eyes starting to close as you think about drifting into reverie, but you are snapped back to your sense by the harsh bark of a voice.

“No! You will not touch yourself like that. Do only what you are permitted. Look inside the case.”

For a moment, you think the voice comes not from the screen but inside the car with you. Your eyes flash open, half-expecting to see the driver’s partition now removed, and him telling you what to do, as he smiles hungrily at the sight of your nude cunt, your finger buried inside it. The voice even sounds like him, you think to yourself. Is he watching? Has he been told to deliver this instruction? Is your Master making you expose yourself for this man? Does He know how your thoughts run, did He imagine you would fantasise about taking this man’s thick, hairy cock in your mouth, that you would wonder what it would be like to flash him a sight of your cunt? Is this why He is doing this, as a response to these desires he knows would lie within you, removing from you the guilt caused by agency, and choice, making you do what you had wanted to secretly, but never would dare without His permission? You remember the driver’s words as he closed the partition when you had entered the car. ‘Time to enjoy the ride? What had he meant by that? You are sure now there was something in his voice, more than just a polite request to sit back, and enjoy a pleasant and comfortable journey. He knows, he must do, what lies in wait for you when you finally reach your destination. He has done this countless times, delivered countless women in this way; why had you ever thought that you might be something different, someone special? His gratification is that of the voyeur, and it must please your Master to have you expose yourself to him like this, like some common slut who cannot stop herself, who must show her cunny to all who would look, who would whore herself not for money but just for the rapt attention men would give her genitalia, if not her mind. You smile as you think how clever your Master is, how well He knows you, and how this shameless behaviour turns you on, making you ever wetter for Him. Happily, you remove your finger from your sodden cleft, as the model onscreen matches your movement, and your eyes drift from the screen to above the seat, hoping to catch the driver’s leering gaze and salivating smile as he drinks in the sight of you.

The darkened glass still sits in its place, though, and you realise that the sound must have come from hidden speakers located somewhere in the cabin of the limousine. It is just a recording, and you blush instantly. How could you have thought that of your Master? How could you have imagined that He who adores you, He whose Will informs you, would so callously make you perform for another’s pleasure? The more so because now He cannot observe your compliance with His instruction, what benefit then is there for Him? And all is to His benefit, His pleasure, because that is how you derive your own. You bite your lower lip hard, not to stifle a moan of delight, but for the pain, to make yourself suffer for having tried to second-guess Him, and to help you concentrate once more. The voice had distracted you, and you need to return focus to the screen, follow what is done, and question no more.

You had not noticed that the woman on screen now holds a case identical to the one which contained the disc, and that a smile is drawn on her lips beneath the mask as she opens it. Repositioning yourself to match her, your buttocks just resting on the edge of the seat, your hips thrust forward, legs parted slightly and cunt on full view, you are struck by just how much her body resembles your own. You know you are attractive, and when your Master tells you that you are beautiful, it pleases you, but only because you please Him. You have never before considered your body like this, as external, detached from you, for you to study as a piece of art and a source of eroticism. You cannot stop yourself from looking up and down the splayed legs, marvelling at the tone displayed in the muscles, coming to rest and focus in almost gynaecological detail on your vagina. You wish narcissistically that you could pause the film, that you yourself were there to command this woman, this replica of you, to pleasure herself for your pleasure, to pleasure you. You want to study every part of your own body but from outside, from above, and above all, you want to wank furiously, be fucked furiously whilst you do it, a sensory overload of literal self-indulgence. You feel yourself drifting, and half-expecting the disembodied voice to command again (why did it sound so much like the driver?), you snap to: she has removed something from the box, and you know you must do the same.

Inside the case, nestled in a recess that had lain hidden under the disc, sit two metallic black balls connected by a thin silver cord, and beneath them, a short pyramid of blackened hardened rubber, on what looks like a stand or base. You watch as the woman on screen picks up the stump of rubber, wipes the tip of it alluringly across her mouth, then traces the same opening her fingertip had done moments before. You think she will plunge it straight into her welcoming snatch, but she does not. The tip moistened with her juices, she raises it to her mouth again, and sucks it in greedily, the flattened base protruding from her lips like a child’s dummy. You follow her actions like an automaton, unfeeling and unthinking, as your mind leaps steps ahead and wonders what the purpose of such movements might be. Her mouth thus blocked, she begins to suck noisily on the plug, slurping back her saliva as it threatens to drip from her mouth. You do the same, for you can do no other. Without looking her hand falls to the case and pulls from it the two metal attached balls, and you do you likewise. That they immediately start to vibrate and hum surprises you, and you can hear from the screen what you feel in your palm, the shifting, juddering sensation of the balls jiggling in your hand. Gratefully you comply as the on-screen you takes first one ball, rubbing the vibrating metal over the outer lips of her (your) pussy, before pushing it into the wet folds so that it disappears completely. The sensation of that small globe inside you, vibrating in every direction causes the muscles of your cunt to quiver with excitement, and in your already heightened state, you wonder just how long it will be before your body shudders with involuntary orgasm. Blissfully you match what is displayed before you, and if anything you are quicker than she to push the second orb deep inside you, relishing the feeling as your entire cunt seems to pulse around the eggs. You pull the thin silver cord gently, so as not to disturb the balls, but so that it hangs like a decorative chain from your trembling pussy lips. It looks so beautiful twinkling against the wet pink flesh on the monitor, and you know that yours looks just as enticing.

The balls securely inside you, their gentle vibrato a constant source of trembling pleasure, you are guided to move your hands to beneath your ass, to part your cheeks and finger slowly the puckered flesh of your anus, circling the darkened whorl with first one finger then another, by the screened image in front of you. You hear the inhalation of the other you as ease one finger gently into the hole, circling all the while for maximal stimulation. You see her and feel your sphincter relax slightly, allowing her and your finger to sink slowly inwards until the nail, the first, and then the second knuckle disappear from view as the flesh closes around it. Nervous, excited, you work the finger in your ass mimicking what you see, trying hard not to gasp so that you drop the black rubber device from your mouth. You know now what this is for, and the thought alone is almost enough to bring you to instant orgasm. This is a butt plug, for you to wear in your anus, so that the flesh might be delicately stretched over time, ready to accept your Master’s stiff member when it might please Him. You remember with a frisson the promise He once made, to breach that most secret part of you, but to do so lovingly, tenderly, with great affection and care that it should not cause you undue pain. You remember how you felt when you told Him that He would be the first to do so, that you would welcome Him there. And you remembered that night how long He had administered to your pleasure there, on His knees with your buttocks clamped over His face as he worked His tongue deep inside your anus, awakening you to the possibilities of such love, and that first shocking penetration with just His little finger that thrilled you so much you had screamed involuntarily, but not without delight. He had to punish you then, a light chastisement, because you did not have permission to cry out, but no sooner had He finished the last of the strokes of the belt than He had returned to His caring role, rubbing soothing cold cream into the red welts His beating caused. You loved Him in that moment, and were secure in His love too, and you know that tonight will be more of that, a demonstration of your commitment to Him and His enduring love for you.

You watch dreamily as screen-you removes the plug from her mouth, its black rubber surface dripping with saliva, and places it at the entrance to her anus. You are almost unaware of your hands copying the motion, everything now automatic as you lose your mind in the pleasure waves coursing through your body from the vibrating balls within you. You inhale reflexively as if sucking the plug in, and you are a little surprised not just by how easily it enters you, but by the warmth it creates as it nestles in your anus. You clench your muscles around it reflexively, the action causing mini shocks that combine with the steady throbbing deep in your cunt, threatening to send you over into orgasm this minute. You are only stopped from throwing your head back, tearing off your coat, grabbing your tits with one hand whilst vigorously frotting your clit with the other, all sensations combining, collapsing upon one another in wave after wave of body-shuddering orgasm, by the screen abruptly turning black, and the car braking swiftly to a full halt. This time the voice is unmistakably the driver’s.

“We have… arrived, Madam.” The intonation is heavy, and arched. Although you still cannot see anything behind the smoked glass, you could swear he just winked at you.


Initiation: The Journey (1)

The moment the glass shifts finally into place, the light inside the car is illuminated. Soft, iridescent like a candle’s flame, it dances on the folds of the leather upholstery, on the glistening cashmere fibres of your coat, on the smooth denuded flesh of your revealed leg. The box between your hands, your fingers on the bow, tantalises, its perfect black exterior offering no clue as to which side might open first, yet when you pull at the silky tie, it falls from each side, to reveal a black card atop what looks like a jewellery case. You lift it in front of your face, examine it from each side, weigh it in your palm to try to gauge the weight, to gain an impression of what it might be before opening it. No clues are given, and you place it to your right-hand side, knowing that you will, you must, read the card before anything else.

You notice the tremble of anticipation in your fingers as you open the folded card, wondering what more delight could await you. You smile to yourself as you think of this treasure hunt of pleasure, at each stage a new clue promising to bring you ever closer to your ultimate prize. The script inside the card is beautiful, silver calligraphic ink shining forth from the pitch background, but surprisingly brief, curt to the point of rudeness in fact. Its instructions are numbered, and you assume are to be followed in that order. You inhale deeply, almost in preparation, as if you must complete the listed tasks before you can breathe again, and begin to read.

“1. Tap three times on the glass partition.

  1. Open the box, and remove the disc. (Disc?)
  2. Insert the disc into the player. (What player? The inside of the car seems empty except for you.)
  3. Follow what you see on screen.”

That is it, all the instruction you are given. It excites you to be commanded in this way, dispassionately, when you know that the disc will contain something so personal and full of passion as a contrast. Perhaps this is some kind of training manual, an insight into what you might expect later. Eager to know more, you lean forward from your seat, aware that the coat, now unbuttoned at the top, is falling open to reveal your breasts. If you tap now on the glass, and the partition is removed, the driver will have full view in his mirror of your naked orbs as you bend, will see them hanging from your chest, swaying slightly as he manoeuvres the car around a corner, but you don’t mind. The thought excites you almost as much as the idea of flashing him your cunt on entering the limousine had done, and your hand moves to the button at your waist to release that too. If he is to see your tits in their full naked glory, why risk the coat getting in the way at all? You leave the buttons next to your crotch and thighs still fastened though; the sight of your upper half is enough to grant him, and you rap your knuckles hard on the divide between you, once, twice, three times as instructed. You sit back on the seat, ensuring that the coat frames your perfect swollen mounds, the colour of the flesh a delicious contrast with the deep rich black of the cashmere, and wait for the glass to fall, for the driver’s eyes to appear in the small mirror, to see them widen with surprise, pleasure and imagination as he takes in the bountiful sight you are most generous to provide him… But nothing happens, at least not for a moment. The glass does not move, and so dark is the smoked effect that you cannot discern any movement behind it. Has he even heard the knocks? Does he know what they are meant to signify? You consider shifting forward, knocking again, but you hesitate. It is inconceivable to you that your Master would give you an instruction requiring compliance from another and not instruct them too. He must know what the three knocks mean. Has he then not heard? The glass might be sound-proofed, as course, as well as protected from view. Why then the instruction to knock at all? No, that does not make sense. The knock must be audible, and must indeed signify something, but if the glass doesn’t move, then what? Confused by this, you reach for the card once more, as if expecting to find another instruction you had managed to miss the first time. As you do, your eyes see for the first time the screen that has emerged from behind the leather in the seat facing you. Whether risen or pushed forward you cannot tell, oblivious as you were to its appearance, but you know it must have come at your bidding; this is what the knock was intended to produce. You relax, and an involuntary sigh escapes you. Could you be disappointed that you won’t get to expose yourself to the driver, to tease him with the sight of your naked flesh, so that he can see what he cannot have, but which your Master will own? Has your sexuality been pushed this far already, that you now want to drive others wild with tantalising glimpses to turn them on? You stop yourself, and think, No. I do this not for me, nor for him, but always, ever and only for You, my Master. If it is Your will that others see me, so be it. I will gladly obey, but I will never presume to make that decision alone. You do not know whether you are glad or disappointed that the driver will not leer and letch over you, only that you do not consider it important unless it is commanded.

Now that the screen is apparent, you lift the case of the box, and open the lid. Inside its velveteen interior sits a solitary shining disc, unmarked by label or note, shimmering in the reflected light. You lift it carefully, fingertips on the edges, so as not to smudge the surface and prevent its playing, and intuitively search at the side of the screen for the slot in which to place it. Your fingers find it unerringly, and it slides in smoothly, almost sucked forth by the machine’s action, greedily tugged from your fingers. The screen flickers into life. As you settle back to watch (What? A film? An instructional video? A message from your Master? You can hardly wait to see what delights the disc might contain…) your hand falls absent-mindedly onto the open case, and you feel the firm curved shape beneath your fingers, but do not register what is there. Your gaze, your entire focus, is fixed on the screen, on the image on the screen, which if you did not know better, you could swear is of you.

There in the same black full-length cashmere overcoat, the same shoes, the same collar, is someone who could be your twin. Well, your body double at least; her face is obscured by the black satin mask she wears, but her hair bounces and falls like yours, her ankles, just visible beneath the hem of her coat turn like yours, her toes seem impossibly crushed in those painful-looking heels that match your own. There is only the mask that is different, the mask, and the location. Where you sit on leather blacker than the night, she reclines on an ivory chaise longue. It is only these differences that convince you that the person on screen is not you, such does her position and her poise mimic your own. You are sure that your Master has prepared this some time ago, but His eye is uncanny in creating the symmetry between the scenes. You know instinctively what is about to happen, and what you must do. You must watch what this woman, this vision on screen does, you must take note of every movement, every glance, every noise allowed to escape. This is how He will train you, so that when you arrive at his door, you will not disappoint. You determine immediately to copy everything you can, and to memorise what cannot be replicated in the instance, and your brow furrows slightly with concentration. To Him you whisper, as if the breeze outside could carry your words to him: I understand, Master. I will obey. As if to give truth to your words, you rebutton the fastenings on your coat and adopt the position you see her lie in now, ready to take your instruction.

She starts undoing the coat from the bottom fastening, and you follow suit, neither of you moving the fabric deliberately, but allowing it to fall open under its own weight. Ankles, then calves, the narrow knee joints, the expanse of thigh; all is revealed gradually, naturally, until the coat is unbuttoned to the waist, and your and her mons lie equally exposed. Her flesh, like yours, is smooth of hair, and you match the movement of her fingers to her quim with your own, parting and folding back the flesh, knowing that your own slightly swollen pussy looks as pink and as engorged against the surrounding flesh as hers does on screen. My God, you think to yourself, her cunt, my cunt, is truly beautiful. You will her to slide a finger inside so that you might do the same, pushing it hard against the soft wet wall of your flesh, but she teases you, tracing the faintest line along the slit, with barely her nail penetrating the gap. You know you will comply, yet still you wish for some unseen force to grab your wrist and plunge your fingers knuckle-deep into your snatch, turning the moisture inside to a torrent that will flood out of you, over your hand, soaking the palm with your juices. Still you harbour the thought, the delicious idea that she will be allowed, and allow you in your turn, to fuck herself (yourself) properly, to give herself (you) the orgasm you both crave, the orgasm you need. To come a second, perhaps a third time before the evening has properly begun; oh, what a pleasure that would be…

Initiation: Departure (2)

Knock! The sound of the brass weight colliding heavily with the plate beneath snaps you from your thoughts. This is it, you think to yourself, this is the last moment you can call your own. (Or is it? Has any moment truly been your own since you first met, since he looked at you and you felt yourself melt beneath the white hot steel of his gaze?) You do not need to look at the clock on the wall to know that that the clack! of the brass came just as the minute hand finally ticked over to the place where you have willed it for most of this day. Six twenty. The words mean little, the time itself means little, but what it signifies is momentous. From now, this is his time, and you mean to please him, to pleasure him and yourself, until such time as it is over. You reach for the full length cashmere coat, slipping it from its hanger and sliding your bare arms inside, enjoying the brush of the silk lining on your skin. You button it completely, from knee to neck, and anyone who were to see you would never know your naked vulnerability that lies below. Pulling your hair up from inside the neck of the coat, you adjust the lapel, your collar beneath visible against the soft skin of your throat, and you open the door.

The driver is already descending the few steps to the pavement before you, and you follow, pulling the door shut behind. As he reaches the car, he pauses and turns as he opens the rear passenger door, and for the first time, he speaks.

“Good evening, ma’am. The journey should not take us longer than fifteen minutes. I trust you will have a comfortable ride.”

You think you can detect the hint of a smile on his lips, as if he knows what awaits you, and it excites him. His mouth is full, lips set together, and there is a hint of cruelty to the sharpness of his jaw. His eyes though are hidden beneath the black peak of his chauffeur’s cap, and you cannot tell if the upward curl of his corner lip is replicated by a friendly light in his eye, or whether, the orb cold, it is more of a sneer. Perhaps he despises you even as he brings you to his employer; maybe he is jealous of what he cannot touch. How much does he know of what your Master has asked you? How many times has he been tasked with this very job? Does he know, for example, that you are naked beneath your coat, that your flesh has been rent of every last hair? Does he understand the symbolism of the collar you wear so proudly, or does he enjoy the thought of your feet being crushed in those shoes? Does he think of you presenting yourself before your Master, your body alive to his every touch? And when he does, does he grab his cock, masturbate it furiously, murmuring, eyes closed, as he imagines covering you with his jet? Amazingly, you find yourself excited at the thought, the idea that your body, your sex, could drive him to such action. You want him to want you, but never to have you. You want to hear, to smell his lust, and then take the prize away.

Could you, as if by accident, afford him a glimpse, a sight of your core that he most desires? It would be easy. Allow the buttons of the coat to fall open as you step into the car, the satin cloth rising over your inner thigh as you extend one leg to enter the vehicle, showing knee, and then thigh, then higher still, impossibly high until he is sure it can go no further, until you know (and so does he) you are showing him your cunt, the sight of it enflaming his passion uncontrollably, until it spills over and he drops to his knees, fastens his mouth on your centre, parts your lips with his tongue, and works feverishly to bring you to almost instant orgasm, right here, in the street… Another day, another time, he might even have been a lover; you cannot deny that his mouth is attractive. But you would never think to offer yourself to another, and your Master has never commanded that you do. You do not know whether you could, whether that would be a command too far, whether even in acquiescence you felt his betrayal as another lay claim to what you wanted to be his. Would he ask? No, not ‘ask’; would he command that you lie there as another man gave you his cock to suck, to grip with you muscles, to work and coax the come from him? Would he expect you to wait beneath the jerking cock for the gift of another man’s semen, and thank him for it? You do not know. Part of you hopes not, that you will be ever and only his, and part of you knows there is nothing you would refuse. In this, as in all, you trust him, though; you know he would not order something which distressed him, and you feel in his love that this might. “I am not a whore,” you would remind him. “I am your whore.”

You can hardly believe these thoughts are your own; since when did you fantasise about being taken in the street? Since when has the thought of bathing in another man’s seed for his pleasure taken root? Since when did you want someone to make you feel dirty? The answer is obvious even as you ask yourself the question, as if the answer were a day, time and hour that is fixed in history. Since him, you tell yourself, happily. He has already made you more aware of your body than ever you were, he has opened your eyes to the possibilities for pleasure it contains. More, he has awakened the desire within you to explore every part of the sexuality you had kept hidden, afraid of its power and control over you. You are his marble and he is your Michelangelo, working you to reveal the exquisite art within. You banish the thought of the chauffeur’s rough mouth massaging your soft folds, teasing forth your juice, and coat still fully buttoned, you step into the car. As you duck your head below the door frame, you cannot stop yourself from glancing, just for a moment at his crotch. The impressive sight of his tumescence straining in his trouser makes you smile, unconsciously. Another day, another time, perhaps I would enjoy sucking the length of his cock, you muse, but not now. Now, you settle back into the plush leather of the limousine’s interior, and the chauffeur shuts the door with a gentle click.

The car is silent inside; you do not hear the sound of the chauffeur walking around to his door, and when he speaks to you from the driver’s seat, it is almost a surprise.

“You will find a small package on the seat next to you, ma’am.” That hint of lip curl, that cruel smile once more. “He said for you to open it.”

He pushes a button on the console, and the smoked glass partition starts to rise. What is this? Yet more instruction, and for a fifteen minute drive too? Or is it to indicate what you should do on arrival? Nervous fingers play with the bow that fastens the package, and the glass slips into place, finally obscuring the driver from your view. Just before the dull clunk of the glass reaching its position, you could swear you hear the chauffeur chuckle, almost to himself, “Time to enjoy the ride!”

Intiation: Departure (1)

At exactly eighteen minutes past six according to the clock in the hallway, you stand behind the door to your place, your breathing shallow with anticipation. Your body, as he has instructed, is newly denuded, every last hair carefully removed from your pubis, and elsewhere. You sense it as you move, feeling each breath of air so much more keenly, the skin beneath the depilated hair now more sensitive than ever to stimuli. Even the sensation of a breeze, created as you walked across your bedroom after finishing with the wax, was enough to cause your loins to stir, and you could almost feel your labia moisten and part, the better to welcome the warm current of air between your thighs. You have never felt so completely, so entirely naked before, as though a barrier between you and the world outside has been lifted, but you do not feel cold, or uncomfortable in the least. Rather, you welcome this new-found exposure, the feeling that every inch of your body is now hypersensitive to any stimulus you can imagine, the surface puckering and pimpling with nervous anticipation of more to come. Your nipples are permanently stiff, erect and slightly sore to the touch, but not unpleasantly so, and your belly flutters with excitement, the gentle ripples just visible as if a summer wind were caressing a mill-pond’s water. Your epidermis is alive, warming, but still cool to the touch (or is that your finger, as it traces lazy pathways between your most sensitive zones?), and contrasts with the warmth, the glowing heat emanating from your core. You have not understood fully the meaning of being ‘in heat’ until now, and as you hold a hand between your legs, inches away from your opening, you are almost shocked at the feeling, the warm current that seems to blow from within you. Moving your hand closer, the heat grows, as if with your palm you can block its flow, push it back inside you, into your vagina and up, to your belly, lungs and heart, where it can consume you from within. Your legs, although still, do not feel that way, as tremors seem to run up and down the muscles of thigh and calf, threatening to take away your balance should the oscillations grow, and for a moment you reach out one hand to steady yourself should you fall.

The shoes into which you have somehow forced your feet cannot be helping your balance, you think, but it is only the nervous thrill which makes you seem to wobble. Otherwise, you stand firm in the viciously spiked heels, far higher than you would ever choose for yourself, four and a half inches of gleaming chrome descending from the softest patent leather you have felt. On tiptoe and with arch almost vertical, you worried when putting them on that your toes would break or be crushed, and you tried not to think of the pain you would feel when you stand as you fastened the miniature padlocks to the clasps on each ankle strap, but when you did rise, your outfit of collar and shoes now complete, you were surprised by the feel of the shoe, the support of the heel. Even the first steps were confident, unfaltering, as you rose from the dressing table to admire your form in the full length mirror. Then, when you finally saw yourself for the first time as he had instructed you to be, you gasped quietly. And you understood. There, more naked than you had ever felt before, you looked over yourself with a critical but still appreciative eye. From ground to head you raised your gaze, twisting slightly your upper half to see the lift of your cheeks. Your legs looked longer, more slender than before, the firm muscle tone visible beneath the skin rather than bulging through it, taut and lean, not overworked. The shape of your ankle, the turn of your calf, both were accentuated by the height of the heel, and your eyes drifted on upward, over toned thigh to where your cunt was displayed in all its glory, unobscured, untainted by hair. You could see clearly the clitoral hood, jutting forth, asking to be played with, rubbed or kissed, and with a slight parting of your feet you could see the edges of your lips as they folded together, securing your wetness inside. Turning to the side, you were amazed at the shape of your buttocks, lifted, plump, and firm like a Latina pop starlet. Continuing, you took each cheek in one hand, pulling apart, lifting further, separating, your head cocked over one shoulder as you studied your rear, the deep cleft between the two perfect hemispheres, the bronzed and puckered flesh of your anus. You clenched, enjoying the sight of it closing and opening and you wondered for the first time what it might feel like to be penetrated there. Not with a cock; you were not sure you could take that, but a well-trimmed finger perhaps, or slender prosthetic. The thought made you blush slightly, but was also not an idle one. You knew even then that this night, your awakening, might include that and so much more. You did not know what to expect, only that you would submit without question to your Master’s commands, trusting that what he chose for you was for your pleasure as much as his.

Turning back to the side view, you looked at your whole body, taking in for the first time just how the shoes made you stand: legs firm and straight, ass jutting proudly out to the rear, an invitation as blatantly sexual as the swollen red protrusions of some wild primates, your swollen (or so they felt) pussy lips clearly visible from behind between your thighs. Your torso leaned forward infinitesimally, as though to maintain balance in the shoes required a counterweight, and in doing so, pushed your breasts out in the opposite direction to your ass, forward and up in equal presentation. Just standing here like this, you longed for someone to cup them, hold them, squeeze them roughly, pinch your sore nipples until needles of pain shot through them. If you thought you had time, you would have done so yourself, grabbing and twisting the bud this way and that, mauling them into heightened excitement, but you did not. You knew that to start would mean not to stop, that teasing your nipples would mean in short time that you were vigorously plunging your fingers inside you once again, manhandling your clit, reaching up for that most sensitive front wall, pushing, reaching, stroking, one hand between your cheeks, maybe, your smallest finger working its way inside you from behind…

Just as you started to drift in this reverie, almost making yourself come you’re your thoughts alone, the clock caught your eye. Six seventeen. Thankfully, you did not have to dress more, the coat you would wear already hanging in the closet in the hallway. You scented the air about you with his (and yours? How could it not be?) favourite perfume, walked through it, and on through the bedroom door, and down the spiralled staircase to the living room. There you stood for just a moment, illuminated in the large bay window, wondering (hoping?) that someone could see you there naked, was transfixed by the vision, absorbed by your beauty and your candour as you displayed yourself to them. Then you extinguished the light, and walked through to the hallway, standing nude before the door, awaiting the knock of the chauffeur before retrieving your coat.

And this is where you are now, still waiting for the moment when this stops being a dream and becomes the only reality you have ever known. The second the knocker sounds on the other side of the door, when you open it, when the chauffeur stands there before you, looks at you, sees you for what you are, a naked, collared slut wearing nothing but an overcoat, that’s when this becomes real. Until then this could remain a delicious fantasy, a creation of your imagination and your own dark desire, but not afterward. You toy with the idea of not answering the knock, of playing this out in your mind rather than his bed, but the thought is a fleeting one, departing as swiftly as it is conceived. You might enjoy the power of your own fantasy, and welcome the fact that you can think of such things, where perhaps before you met him, your tastes, your boundaries, your horizons were all smaller, more limited somehow, but the idea that these dreams should not be fulfilled, should not be made flesh so that you feel through every cell in your body the pleasure overload you are sure would exist in your mind, is anathema to you. The knock on the door, now surely seconds away, was not simply where these thoughts, these plans take shape, this is where you yourself become real. This is where you become whole. This (you almost hear your Master whisper) is where you discover who you are.

Preparation (2)

The sound of an alarm coming from your room breaks through your reverie. You stop, two dripping fingers on your lips, paralysed by the sound. You had set it the moment you received the package so that you would not miss a second before opening it, and now here that time was. It was six o’clock, and lost in frenzied masturbatory fantasy you have lost track of time before and after your bath. You know you cannot hurry the waxing, which you had hoped to have done before opening the box, but you know too that you will feel your betrayal of him should you not lift that lid as the chimes are striking. You race from bath- to bedroom, one hand slapping the alarm into submission as you pass. You sit before the box, fingers shaking with nerves and desire, and just as you touch the lid you turn to the clock beside the bed. The digital read-out still shows 18:00, winking as the alarm time continues to flash. Good, you think. If he were watching me now (and who knows, he might be. You would like that, you think, his secret gaze on your nakedness as you prepare yourself for him…), he would know I have obeyed. He would be pleased with me, and would reward me as he saw fit.

You lift the lid of the box to reveal the ivory envelope, see the familiar shapes of his beautiful calligraphic script, and the black velvet case upon which it lies. The words on the envelope are not a greeting or an address but another instruction: Open me first. You comply, for why would you even think to do otherwise? And as you begin to read, you feel the fire growing once more between your legs.

“Inside the black case is what I require you to wear this evening. You shall wear this and nothing else, barring shoes and a coat, and you will be waiting in twenty minutes at your door. I have sent my car to collect you. Open the case now, dress, and when you have done so, turn over this card.”

So there is something more, you realise. You could flip the card easily, or let it fall so you could see, but why spoil your surprise when it is your pleasure too? Instead you place the card carefully, delicately on one side, so that there is no chance even of an accidental glimpse, and you lift the gold clasp that fastens the black velvet case. There lies your attire, your costume for the evening. You smile, as you imagine your journey to him wearing this. It is not as you had thought a corset, bustier, or lace-trimmed French underwear, not even a leather bra with cups removed so the straps cut painfully under your breast, and knickers with a zipped crotch so he could command you to display yourself. No. What lies before you now, what you are to wear is a simple collar, of leather, and silk-lined on throat’s side, from which hangs a large metal ring, and from that, a solid platinum padlock, inscribed with a symbol. It lies open, with a buckle fastening at one end, and you know before you touch it, it will be the perfect fit. You fasten it around your throat feeling it constrict slightly, not enough to hamper breathing but so that you could never forget you are wearing it, and when done, you admire yourself in the mirror. The symbol is that of eternity, appropriate you feel, for since knowing, loving and being loved by your Master, you have the feeling of being timeless, of this always having been. You continue to admire the fall of your breasts as you raise then drop your arms, before remembering the note. Curious, excited, passions already enflamed, you turn it over.

“As I said, the car will be here for you in twenty minutes. I suggest you use that time to complete your grooming, for I know you will have found it impossible whilst preparing not to touch yourself and make yourself come, for me. This pleases me, and so I have calculated the extra time needed. You will not be late.”

That is it; no sign-off or expression of affection, but none is needed. How much more clearly could he show just how well he knows you, better even than you might know yourself? And why wouldn’t you place your pleasure in the hands of one who knows you so completely? As you stir the wax ready for its application, you think on this and smile.

“For all that you help me to be, my Master, I thank you.”

Gift box

To be continued, with


Preparation (1)

The box sits on the dressing table, unopened. It must remain that way until six o’clock. Why? You don’t know, but the instruction is clear: do not open this box until six p.m. Tempted though you are to disobey (and how delicious would it be were he to find out? What sweet punishment would he devise for you?), you cannot do it. This is what you have agreed, for what you have searched; the chance to place your pleasure in another’s hands, to submit yourself entirely to his will, knowing that he will carry you, guide you to sensations that until now you could only dream…

There are other things you need to be doing anyway, before the time to open the box is here. Directions you must, you will follow, to please him and yourself. First, grooming: the noise of the water filling the tub rises in pitch, letting you know it is ready for you to slip into the soft silken liquid, rich with moisturisers and musk. You walk quickly, light of foot to the bathroom, turn the taps to stem the flow, trail lazy fingers to test the temperature. Steam rises from the rippled surface as you draw your hand back and forth. You inhale the aromas, feeling minute beads of perspiration form on your skin. Standing, you let slip the robe from your shoulders, down your back, over your hips and thighs. Eyes closed, you imagine it is he who slides the smooth fabric down your skin, revealing to his sight the curves of your breasts, the nipples high and proud as the air touches them. Down to the gentle swell of your belly, over hips and thigh, catching slightly on your pert behind as he pauses, breathing over your mons. You can feel his whispers, Italian sweet nothings aspirated into the fine triangle of hair that sits just above your naked lips. You long for his tongue to dart out, to pierce between your soft folds, the tip firm and strong as it flicks across your clit, but you know that he won’t, not yet. Such is not his style; he must drink in every part of your flesh with his eye before he will grace it with the electricity of his touch. Sometimes it is more than you can bear, him kneeled before you, his gaze mere inches from the centre of your being, mouthing hot words that caress you like a velvet mistral, opening your thighs gradually, opening you, so that he can see better, study better the rich pink opulence of your secret desire. Ages he will spend almost-but-never kissing, breathing his love and making you wet, making you squirm with desire, shifting your feet wider still, wanting to pull his head into you, grind his face into you, but you would not dare. You cannot even raise your hand, using your fingers to open yourself completely, present yourself to him for inspection, and approval. You know that to do so would displease him. You are his to control in these moments. You want to, you must be guided by him to your own pleasure, for you know that the crescendo this maestro orchestrates, allows to build in your loins, in your beating heart, in your lungs, in every muscle of your body will make you scream with frustration, and with gratitude in release, when finally, as you plead with him for what you crave most, he, most generous Master, acquiesces, and whispers, “Yes. Now you may come for me.”

Standing naked at the side of the tub, eyes closed and mind lost in this pleasurable reverie, you almost do not notice the movement of your hand as it strokes one nipple, circling it, teasing it to beautiful sore prominence. Even as you pinch it between thumb and forefinger, rolling it until perfectly erect, your bottom lip caught in your teeth as you draw in a sharp breath, it is his touch you feel, not your own. You are not conscious of shifting your stance, opening your legs, or of your other hand as it moves quickly, stealthily down. You do not feel the fine brush of your pubis on your fingers, but could swear those were his fingers that now cupped your heat. Your mouth drops slightly as you press between your bare lips, pushing the tip of the digit onto your nub, and the first moan escapes you as you rub. Already slightly damp from the moisture of the bathroom, your finger slides easily down from the crown, parting you, causing waves of sensation through thigh muscle, on through your legs, making you tremble. You sit before you fall on the cool marble edge, one hand still grabbing, now starting to roughen as it squeezes and pulls your soft mammary flesh. It is hard, will leave pink finger marks, but you know that you like that; you wear traces of his touch like a badge of honour or a brand. Between your legs your thumb presses insistently on your throbbing, two fingers, now three thrust deep into your cleft. The pace starts to quicken as you move your hand back and forth, still in your mind enjoying your Master’s touch. Deeper still slide your fingers as though being pulled into you, as though the muscles have gripped and tightened around you and will not let you go. You can’t be sure, the electricity now coursing all over, but you swear you can feel his whole hand inside you. When have you ever been so wet, so welcoming, so ready to consume his touch? You want to engulf him ever deeper, feel his fist grow inside you, and his (your) fingers start to work on your most sensitive inner flesh.

Dear God! This is more pleasure than ever you have known; your head throws back, your hair falls, tickling behind you, one hand grabbing one, then the other, then both breasts, the second wedged inside you as deep as it will go. You work more furiously, whispering your Master’s name. Every drop of your juice is produced just for him; you long for him to possess, to control your pleasure, and in that moment it is he, playing your body like the keys of a piano, each stroke contributing to the glorious orchestral whole.

“Oh… FUCK!” You moan out loud as the wave of orgasm breaks, from your clit and within you, spreading like fire through belly, breast and limbs. You feel the welcome contractions of your wall around your still-playing fingers, each one bring a new lap of pleasure, and you breathe, quick, short and shallow inhalations as you try to replace the oxygen spent in your delight. As the waves subside, each one like the ripples of a dropped pebble in a pond, a weaker, more gentle caress of your body, you remove your hand from its sodden hiding place. Raising your fingers from one set of trembling lips to the other, you taste the juice of your orgasm, and you smile. “Thank you, Master.”

Although now what you crave is your Master’s sweet cock, rigid and pulsing with his own desire, you would like nothing more than to bow before him, take the purple swollen head in your mouth and warm it with your tongue, sucking his hard length into you, you know you must bathe, and comply with his requests. That fine triangle of hair, now gently matted with your sweat and your juice, is to go; he has been quite clear on that score. Tonight when you present yourself before him, your body must be smooth, entirely free of hair. Your peach and your armpits of course, but even your forearms; all over, in fact. He has been explicit, and has explained why – for it is only on truly naked flesh that touch is felt, that the slightest trace of his finger nail becomes almost unbearable, promising as it does the feeling of much more. He mentioned too something about wax, but that is what you always use, not wanting the feeling of being shaved. So first you will bathe, to soften the skin and open the pores, allowing the short hairs to be pulled more easily, then you will do as he bids, removing every last hair until you are as naked as can be. A tempting smile plays once more on your mischievous lips as you toy with the idea of leaving one hair, only to see his reaction. Is your desire for the sweet torment of his chastisement so much to you? Or is after, when he caresses and soothes those red marks, when he rubs the ointment into your cheeks with what can only be described as the tenderest love, is that when you know that he loves you? That you are so much more to him than a plaything, that in his heart as well as his cock he beats for you? No, that’s not it, you admit to yourself. It is because when he whips you, you adore him. When he caresses you, you worship him. When you please him, when you give yourself to him, you become stronger than he… That is it! You realise now your submission is your strength and your transgression your weakness; to annoy him, as you sometimes choose, is to fulfil your own desire for that most sexual punishment. But to hand yourself completely to him, and watch as your submission dictates his passion and his own pleasure, that is your control.

You rise from the still warm water, impatient to comply with his requests. First the shower, to rinse the last of the bubbles from your body, yet alive from your earlier actions; you shake the head so the water cascades like fine rain, over your beautiful tight breasts, soaking the fine hair now to be removed. Twisting the head so that the fine spray becomes a jet, you turn it up, a fountain’s faucet racing between your labia, and you can feel immediately the familiar sensation of another orgasm building. You have no time to think how ridiculous this is, how just your thoughts about he and what he can do, can make you so wet in an instant; no time because even before you can form the idea, your free hand is plunged once more between your thighs, and you masturbate even more furiously than before, semi-conscious that you are running out of time. Time is not needed, though, such is your state; and you cannot be sure whether it is the speed or the intensity of the tsunami that surprises you most. You sink to your knees, still grabbing your cunt, trying to coax the last drops of juice from within before smearing your lips to taste your pleasure once more.


To be continued…