Wednesday, July 27, 2016

To all my readers: Thank you for your patience. I think the creative juices are flowing again. Almost 7000 words in two days!

The working title is still 'The Crucible' but I did a new first chapter and wrote the second. My heroine's name is Rose. Here are the two first chapters, subject of course to enormous rewriting:


I must get ready. In the bathroom I strip and look at my nude body in the mirror. The woman in the mirror looks back at me. She is gorgeous. Her green eyes stare at me; a spray of freckles over her nose add mischief to what would otherwise be a serene, almost spiritual face. The woman tosses her head; her wavy red hair shakes its tips lashing her back, between her shoulders and the bottom of her shoulder blades. She raises her hands to cover her breasts and touches my pink nipples that rise to meet her fingers.
That touch breaks my reverie. I must get ready. John, my master, will be home soon and, as I do every day, for the past two years, since I became his full time slave, I will be on my knees, before the front door to receive him.
I run the water in the shower and toss my sensible yet sexy cotton underwear in the hamper on my way to the closet. Cotton is all right for work, even though John could call me at any time and I must be ready to serve his needs or desires, hence even at work, my bra, panties, anything that touches my skin, must be designed for his pleasure. It is different in the evening. Now I am his, and everything I wear must proclaim it. Every stitch of lingerie is conceived to entice, to titillate, and in the end, to enhance his pleasure, with no thought to my comfort. Even my bathroom slippers are high heeled, to enhance my already long and toned legs. I haven’t worn flats or heels less than three inches in two years. Three inch heels are what pass for comfortable shoes in my world.
I fill a bag with the hot water that runs from the shower; I hang it from the shower curtain bar and pick up the nozzle that hangs from it. I dip the tip in Vaseline, squat on the floor of the bathroom and deftly insert the nozzle in my ass. I open the valve and try to relax as the hot water, about a quart of it, runs into my bowels. The woman in the mirror watches me, cowering on the tiled floor, my hands on my knees, the feeling of the hot water almost soothing. All the water is in and I remove the nozzle and stand up. Inside the shower, the water runs hotter as I expel the enema.
I refill the bag with two quarts of the hotter water and repeat the process. The hotter water is uncomfortable, and the larger volume provokes painful spasms in my colon. I endure them willingly; I never know if my master will want to use my rear entrance, as he often does, or allow it to be used. He never ordered this routine that I follow every day, but he knows of it, as he knows of everything I do, or every thought that crosses my mind. My colon reacts against the hot liquid that invades its recesses, but I ignore its pleas as the bag continues to empty its content deep inside me.
I empty my bowels and refill the bag with three quarts of almost scalding water I add a small amount of peppermint oil and the bathroom fills with its aroma. The peppermint makes the enema burn even more than the scalding water and, even though I do this daily, it takes all my courage to insert the nozzle deep in my bum and open the valve.
John, my master, knows what I do to prepare myself for him every day, though he does not know how much this part hurts, I think. I told him it does, of course, and also that I’m glad to prepare myself in this way for his pleasure. He did not forbid it.
The final peppermint scented enema expelled, I enter the shower. The hot water pounds my body, my face, my generous, C size breasts, my belly, and my sex. I lather my body; I pay special attention to the neatly trimmed triangular red thatch that adorns my pubis. I lean forward to lather my pussy and ass, rinsing the gel away with meticulous care. It has no fragrance, but its taste is bitter and there must be no trace of it on my lady parts. My master may want to eat them, or have them enjoyed by his friends or associates.
I step out of the shower and dry myself with an oversize, plush cotton towel. The towel wraps me in its tender embrace and I relish its comfort and warmth. I perform this routine every day, though I do not know what His plans for the evening are. We might go out, to dine, or to a play; we may stay in, binge watch something on Netflix or cable. On the other hand, he might want to play with me, to enjoy my body, and let me enjoy his, or he may want to beat me, or loan me to his friends. Whatever his desires are, I will be ready, I will not let him down, He will be proud of his slave.
I sit on a stool and, using a magnifying mirror; carefully examine my labia plucking any stray hair from them, as well as from the space between my moist sex and the puckered puce colored rose that awaits His pleasure behind it. I am sure that my anus is smooth as I visited my waxing salon yesterday as I do every week. The only hair on my body is the triangle on my pubis that He forbids me to wax.
I stand in front of the mirror. I am not tall at five feet on my bare feet, though I am never barefoot. I am proud of my body, toned but not muscular; I am a woman after all, not a male bodybuilder. My belly is almost flat, but with a curve below my belly button to suggest feminine softness. My skin is white, the fruit of sunscreen and an almost compulsive avoidance of the sun. Against that milky white background, my fiery thatch calls attention to my female parts. My finger unconsciously wanders down there, through the curly hairs, reaching the knob that peeks out from its hood of flesh; I feel moisture inside and can smell myself. It is always thus, when I am preparing, getting ready for Him, I cannot help but be aroused by the most routine, the most ordinary step of preparation. But no, there is no time for this.
I must get ready. Usually this is where I select the lingerie I will wear to receive my master but today, as it happens sometimes, He left instructions. Lace push up bra, boy cut thong, garter belt and pull up hose, all black. I put on the brassiere first. My skin, enhanced by arousal, senses the faint roughness of the lace, whose touch on my bare nipples, as light as a butterfly, makes me gasp. I use a tissue to wipe at my slit. The flimsy panties will not hold much moisture and I do not know whence we shall go, nor what will be required of me. I put on the black garter belt and the boy cut thong that partially covers the upper third of my buttocks leaving the rest tantalizingly bare. The garter belt follows and then I unroll the sheer nylon hose over my legs and halfway up my thighs. The caress of the nylon as I snap the garters on feels as the hands of a lover. And are they not? I wonder. Is it not by His will that the soft, clinging hose rises to hold and envelop my legs?
These are the extent of His instructions. Just the lingerie he wants me to wear tonight. I select my shoes, six inch stiletto sandals. It is mid October but the warmth of summer still lingers; this is probably the last time I will be able to wear sandals and, I must say, the red of my pedicure looks smashing in these strappy, and uncomfortable, contraptions.
My make up takes little time to apply. Waterproof mascara that won’t run with my tears, and the tiniest hint of light gray eye shadow. A touch of red lipstick and I’m done.
I head to the entrance foyer. The black riding crop lies where I left it, on top of the little table. I pick it up and kneel on the hardwood floor, knees apart, taking care not to ruin my hose. I hear His car on the driveway. Unconsciously I spread my thighs a fraction of an inch wider. I lay the crop across my upturned hands and extend them forward, towards the door through which He will enter. I lower my head submissive and wait.
That is my routine to receive my master unless he calls me to forbid it, as when he has guests that should not know of our relationship. I created it; it is my daily gift to His pleasure. I always choose an instrument of torture, the crop, a whip, sometimes, if I feel especially daring, a thin cane. I lean forward with the proffered instrument across my hands and wait for His pleasure. He may use the instrument on me, or not, that is his prerogative. He may choose a different one, as whim may strike him. But He will be in no doubt of what I am, and what my relationship to Him is.
I am His slave.
I am the instrument of His pleasure, His to use and abuse, as He sees fit.
I would have it no other way.
The door opens and He enters. I do not raise my face and keep my eyes down, on the chestnut colored hardwood. I see the shiny tips of his oxfords and feel the crop taken from my hands.
“Good evening Rose,” He says.
“Good evening Master,” I reply.
He kisses me on the forehead; His fingers caress the side of my face.
“Come,” He heads to the bedroom. I follow him.
He doffs his pants and shirt tossing the first on the bed and the shirt on the hamper. I pick up his pants to hang them. His hands embrace my waist setting my insides on fire as He kisses my lips, briefly.
I follow Him to the closet. I dare not ask what His plans are, of course. I watch as he picks up his formal shirt. I reach for his tuxedo, a black subdued alpaca outfit. He puts on the shirt and I help him with the stud buttons and cuff links. He slips on the pants and I help Him fasten the black sash. I hand Him the black bow tie and tie it on for Him. He taught me, among other things, how to tie on a bow tie and now, I always do it for Him. I fear He will go out without me; it happens sometimes, some of His formal meetings are men only, or He simply sees fit not to take me. He could, of course, call me in advance and let me know but I’ve begged Him not to do so.
“Would you inform your car of your intention not to drive it?” I said, “Would you tell your horse you do not intend to ride it?”
“Then do not tell me. I am no more than your horse, or your car, nor do I want to be.”
His dress shoes on, He turns to leave the walk in closet. I feel my heart sink inside me. He would not take me with Him. I would stay in the house waiting for His return, if He returns tonight.
“Put this on,” He hands me a short, black beaver coat that reaches the top of my thighs.
My heart soars in my chest. I put on the coat and look at myself in the mirror. It was indeed possible that I wore a mini skirt underneath the black fur. A very indecent one. I pick up a small patent leather purse, put my lipstick, compact and driver’s license, as well as an extra hose for emergencies, inside and stand at the door waiting like a dog waits at the door for his master to take it out for a walk.
He checked his watch, “It is time.”
I follow Him out of the house. His Mercedes is parked on the driveway but we pass it by. A stretch limousine glides in to park at our curb. The driver opens the door for us and I enter, He follows me in. Outside, in public, He allows me to pass first, or holds the door open for me. This has, of course no meaning yet it makes me feel uncomfortable. I’ve asked to be punished for these lapses of respect but He refused.
As soon as He sits, facing forward I slide to my knees facing Him and open my coat, so he can see my lingerie clad body at His leisure. He says nothing and the car starts moving.
I know better than to look outside when riding like this. Had He wanted, He would have tapped lightly on the seat next to Him to indicate that I should sit at His side. I keep my eyes lowered, looking at the crotch of his formal pants. I wish He would take out His organ and allow me to kiss It, to suck It, to coax It to its full, mighty length and when sated, take His seed in my mouth and closing my eyes, swallow it all.
But He does not allow me to do that. His hand caresses my hair playing with the wavy tresses, twirling them on His fingers. The car drives on to a highway, and then on to a mountain road; I can tell from the curves and the popping in my ears as we ascend. We drive for quite a while, how long, I do not know.
“We are going to see a show,” he says.


I hate shows. It’s not the public display of slaves or submissives that I abhor no, I like and envy that and them, I envy the trust their masters have on their pets, trust that they will comply with the instructions given, no matter how perverse or degrading, trust that they will tolerate whatever indignities their masters, or master’s friends will force on their bodies, trust that they will endure tortures without taking recourse to their safe word. That I enjoy and envy, and wish that my Master would trust me enough to allow me to participate.
What I hate about shows are the many masters who rather than revel in their pet’s submission or pain tolerance, enjoy instead inflicting pointless degradation on their slaves. Spitting on them on stage, kicking them viciously when the slave is lying on the floor, calling them worthless cunts, even tattooing insulting epithets on their faces. If a slave is a worthless cunt, what does that say of the master? I want to be a degraded slave, a receptacle for my Master’s passion, a tool for his use, but certainly not worthless.
I always fear in these shows that John, my Master will offer me up to be defiled by one of these abusers. Deep inside, I know that fear is groundless. My Master would never do that, I know. I have seen His face when these kinds of things are going on and noted the displeasure in his demeanor. He’s loaned me to others of course, but whenever He’s given my use to one of these brutes He’s always remained present and, while he seldom had to intervene, the brutes always remained within the confines of decorum.
The tuxedo is new. The dress code for the shows that we attend is more informal, more like golf course or business casual. His wearing formal clothes made me curious to know and see what this new outing would bring.
The limo finally stops and the chauffeur opens the door. Here, I know I should let my Master leave first and follow him out but: Should I button my coat or not? I look up at Him for guidance but He says nothing.  Uncertain I leave my coat open and step out.
We are at the entrance of at the largest log cabin I’ve ever seen. Actually it is not a cabin; it is a mansion that just happens to be constructed out of logs with pillars of stone at strategic places. Light shines out of picture windows on the first and second floor illuminating the entrance where a succession of limousines unloads a series of masters and slaves or subs. All the Masters wear formal clothes, my eyes are naturally drawn to the ball gowns the Mistresses wear and I am reminded of scenes in those BBC series like Downton Abbey. The subs that follow them wear outfits that, like mine could, if worn carefully, be only scandalous instead of illegal.
I follow my Master, walking to His left and half a step behind, heeling Him. My black beaver coat is heavy enough that, unbuttoned, it almost meets in the center, so I appear, at first glance, like a stylish escort. Of course, anyone within say five yards will notice that I wear only lingerie underneath.
A liveried attendant offers a glass of champagne to my Master as he enters the mansion, stepping into a foyer where masters and slaves congregate and the din of multiple conversations assaults my ears.
A master approaches us. I’ve met him before though not as a slave. His sub, a beautiful girl of mixed ancestry follows him demurely. She wears a metallic silver dress with a plunging neckline that reaches her navel, the fabric barely covering her nipples leaving the center half of her firm breasts bare. Her legs are encased in black hose and the hem of her dress is short enough to reveal the garters that hold up her stockings. She wears high heeled shoes like mine but walks much better than I do in them. She doesn’t really walk, she glides on them. She raises her eyes while keeping her face down to look at us shyly; she catches my eyes and gives me a quick, timid smile which I return.
“John, glad to see you,” the man says, his voice a booming baritone.
“Sholto, always a pleasure,” my Master replies, then he adds, “Melanie is as beautiful as ever.”
Master Sholto takes his sub by the waist, “Yes, she looks good,” he spins her to his chest.
I observe that the back, or absence thereof, of Melanie’s dress, reveals enough derriere to show that not only her bra is absent tonight. I admire her firm and pert rump and wonder what it would feel like to daddle with her should our masters order it. A little squirt deep inside my nether regions announces that such instructions would be most welcome.
“And this is your Rose?” he says, “a beauty.”
My Master’s arm surrounds my waist, “You can have her anytime you want, you know that.”
I feel my face flush and am embarrassed that everyone can see me blush, enhanced tenfold by the fairness of my skin. Why do I blush at this anyway? Of course master Sholto can have me if that is my Master’s wish. That is no secret.
“Look at her blush,” Sholto says, “how sweet!”
My face burns. Master Sholto hand cups my chin and raises my face. A good natured smile parts his neatly trimmed beard.
“Do sit with us for the show John, it’s been a while.”
“Will do Sholto,” my Master replied.
Master Sholto and his pet Melanie walk away and a distinguished looking, tall lady wearing a flowered ball gown approaches us. A petite black woman wearing a micro mini white dress heels her. The lady wears her auburn hair mid length with an old fashioned curly do that suits her fifty something face remarkably well, her pet wears her natural curly hair trimmed short despite the simplicity of the style it, too, fits her young face with perfection. I notice, around her neck a simple black velvet choker with a single bright red ruby dangling from it. Such jewelry is unusual on subs, at least those I’ve seen until now.
“Margaret,” my Master greets the lady, “As charming as ever.”
“John, you are so welcome,” she replies.
I stand slightly behind Him, my eyes cast down submissively. She does not compliment or ask about me.
“Is she new?” My Master asks, “I haven’t seen her before.”
“Yes,” Mistress Margaret says, “I acquired her only a month ago. Adorable, isn’t she?”
Mistress Margaret takes her pet by the hand and has her twirl in front of us. While the girl keeps her eyes decently down, she holds her face up with a hint of something that I dare not call haughtiness, but is quite close to pride. She wears black leather sandals that wrap around her calves and, for once, do not have the uncomfortable high heels most slaves are required to wear. Perhaps, I think, her mistress wants to emphasize her petite stature. After she spins a full 360 degrees she ends up her twirl with an amazingly polished curtsy.
“It’s time to start the festivities,” Mistress Margaret says.
A bell rings and in the silence that follows she announces that it is time to proceed. The crowd moves towards a double door on the right and I follow my Master through it. I expected a theater setting but find instead an irregular array of couches or divans surrounding an empty area that would serve as a stage. The arrangement gives the salon an intimate feel; the occupants of the couches able to see, hear, and even smell the action in the center stage. Each divan has a small side table at its side. Ice buckets hold open champagne Moet Chandon bottles and a tray with crystal flutes. From one of the divans Master Sholto waves at us, Melanie kneels at his left side. My Master reclines on the divan on the left and has me kneel beside Melanie. I pour champagne into one of the flutes for my Master. He takes it from my hand, sips it and brings it to my lips. Without touching the flute I drink the bubbly liquid that he pours into my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye I watch master Sholto doing the same with his own slave.
After a few moments the clamor of conversation dies down. I look around but fail to see mistress Margaret and her slave. Perhaps they are behind us. The room lights dim and bright lights bathe the stage in stark white. The show is about to begin. I feel a frisson of excitement and sense that this show will be different from all the other shows I’ve witnessed with John, my Master. An audience as sophisticated as this will not be satisfied will not put up such a huge production for the same trite entertainment that is on offer at other gatherings.
Two attendants extend two chains and a thick rope across the stage. Pulleys on each side raise one chain until it is about seven or seven and a half feet above the stage. The rope rises to waist size and the third chain remains stretched across the floor. I feel my master’s hand in my hair and rest my cheek against the fine alpaca of his trousers. A man, dressed in black slacks and a black tee shirt walks to the center of the stage leading a tall barefoot woman by the hand. The woman wears a hooded robe made out of silk or satin held closed at her neck by a clasp of some kind. A discreet ovation greets them as they reach center stage. The man bows while the woman remains standing in front of the rope and chain. We are close enough that I can see her trembling, or at least see the edges of her robe shake. I feel her fear. Does she know what will happen to her?
The man opens the clasp and removes the robe which he places on a stool. The woman’s blond hair falls in wavy tresses on her shoulders and her fear filled blue eyes dart here and there among the divans as if she was looking for something or someone. Of course, with the stage lit so brightly, the spectators would be almost invisible, certainly unrecognizable from the floor. She wears a white bustier that leaves her midriff bare and white panties. She keeps her hands crossed behind her back as if tied but I know they are free. The man walks around her his hand caressing the bare skin of her shoulders, her arms, her tummy, and fondling her breasts over the white fabric of the bustier. When he’s done a full revolution around her he stops and addresses the audience.
“Honorable guests,” he says, “welcome to tonight’s show. For our first number I introduce Lisa,” his hand extends towards the girl. A short round of applause encourages her and she responds with a wan smile and a, rather clumsy, curtsy. I can tell she is terrified.
“Lisa,” he continues, “is the slave of Master Leo who has graciously loaned her to us for the night.”
A greater ovation follows and, among the couches, a tall man rises and acknowledges the applause with a curt bow of his head.
“Your slave seems quite afraid,” the man says, “perhaps you would deign to comfort her for a moment?”
Then to the public he explains, “She has never participated on a show, not as a protagonist at least.”
“Give me just a second George,” Master Leo says.
Master Leo walks on to the stage. He is a strong man of about fifty, with dark brown hair combed back and a dark goatee speckled with gray. He approaches the girl and takes her by the waist. I can see her eyes relax. He kisses her on the mouth claiming her, affirming his ownership, his mastery and then whispers something in her ear. She nods and her lips form the words “Yes my master,” although whether she actually says it, or just mouths it I can’t tell as her words are inaudible. Master Leo returns to his couch where another slave awaits on her knees. Does he have two slaves? I wonder, or perhaps the house loaned her one in exchange for Lisa’s participation in the festivities.
Lisa’s face seems calmer now, her eyes less wild. I envy her.
George takes Lisa’s right hand and ties a length of black cord to her wrist attaching the cord to the chain overhead. Lisa watches him in silence as he does this and repeats the process with her left hand. I watch mesmerized.
He deals with her feet in a similar fashion, leaving her spread eagled her hands tied to the chain above her head, her ankles to the chain on the ground. He steps to the side while we are given a moment to observe her almost naked body stretched like a giant X in the center of the stage. George took his time tying her in this fashion, creating a degree of drama out of proportion to the actual intensity of Lisa’s ordeal.
George approaches Lisa again, caresses her breasts through the fabric of the bustier and kisses her on the neck all the time fondling her boobs. When he pulls back I see that he has raised the bustier exposing her breasts. Her small areolas are crowned by nipples pierced by gold barbels. He returns and rapes her lips with his again. His hand moves down fondling her sex, first through the fabric of her panties then sliding inside. I feel moisture gathering inside me and feel the weight of my arousal deep inside my pelvis. An involuntary moan escapes my lips.
“Stand up,” my Master says.
I do so.
“Take off your coat.”
I remove my coat and fold it over the side of His couch. My nipples rise from the cold, air conditioned air, or so I tell myself. I resume my kneeling position and turn my head towards the stage. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a movement and turn my head to watch Melanie pouring champagne into master Sholto’s flute and, at his gesture, refilling my Master’s too. How dare she?
Of course she dared. How could she do otherwise when her master ordered her to? It was my fault, of course. Rapt watching the events on stage I failed to realize that my Master had drained his glass; anxious to return to my station on my knees, and to resume watching the spectacle, I did not notice that His glass was empty. Master Sholto did, and acted in accordance.
I lower my head, tears filling my eyes. I wonder what punishment John, my Master will dispense for this lapse and in front of his friends too. I turn my head to look at Him and find Him watching me, a faint smile on His face. He slaps my face twice gently, almost playfully. I make the gesture of getting up while watching Him and he nods His permission. I rise reaching out to embrace Him, kiss His neck, His scent drives me wild, and whisper in His ear:
“You must punish me severely for this fault. I beg it of you Master.”
I am about to return to my knees when His arm guides me to lie alongside him. It is a weird position for me as the couch is not large enough but I manage to twist my body into the corner and rest my torso along His side. He takes my hand and guides it into His pants.
He is erect, of course, and I begin to massage His cock. I would prefer to eat It, to suck It, but it is not for me to decide how to please Him.
One advantage of pleasing Him this way is that I can do so while continuing to watch the stage. George is still fondling Lisa’s pussy inside her panties and, judging by her contortions, he is doing a pretty good job of arousing her. I can tell she tries to resist her arousal, but fails to do so. Her moans fill the stage. I think I can smell her musk, but it is not possible, perhaps it is my own arousal I smell, or perhaps the collected juices of all the slaves that watch this show. I glance at Melanie. She still kneels, back on her heels, her thighs spread, by her master’s side. His hand underneath her dress fondling, I presume, her firm pert breast. Her lips are partly open but she hides her own excitement well. Her dark eyes shine in the gloom. 
George kneels in front of Lisa and, using a switch blade he cuts her panties off of her. Her pussy hair has been trimmed into a short fuzz. He leaves her there, exposed, while he picks up a cat of nine tails from a stool. He folds the belt on itself and stands behind the defenseless slave.
He begins to lash her buttocks. Lisa quivers with each stroke but does not cry out, not until the fourth stroke, and then it’s only a whimper.  George strikes harder now, and Lisa can no longer control herself. She screams, she screams with every stroke of the cat. The strokes fall faster now, and she quakes and struggles within the tight limits of her bonds.
And then, it is over. George turns aside and deposits the cat on the stool.
“If any of you, ladies and gentlemen care to examine Lisa’s buttocks, now is the time to do so.”
He took a drink of water and offered some to Lisa who drank greedily through a straw while a few of the men strolled along the stage examining her buttocks. Some touch her derriere with their hands to feel the heat her lashed skin. The intermission does not last long. Enough for some of the masters and mistresses to take a potty break if they want to, while their slaves and subs refill the glass flutes and wait on their knees. Attendants bring new champagne bottles and refill the ice buckets. Master Leo approaches Lisa and kisses her on her lips. What he says to her, and what she replies, I do not know.
The show continues.
George reties Lisa arms straight above her head. He takes the rope and forms a loop around Lisa’s belly drawing it tight, very tight. Lisa grunts from the squeeze of the rope. George again flogs Lisa’s already sore bottom, and she squeals with each lash, but I feel this is just a desultory, pro forma torment, meant just to connect the next part of the torment with the one that immediately preceded it. He continues to whip her however until she screams as loudly as she did before the intermission, and he does not stop. He hits her harder, and harder, until her screams stop and turn into faint, desperate whimpers.
I glance at Melanie and see that her head is buried in her master’s crotch. I look at my Master with expectant eyes but He does not allow me to service Him. I can see the erection tenting His pants yet He does not allow me to relieve Him. I sense frustration rising among the myriad emotions that this show elicits in my heart. I shake my hips almost imperceptibly, I whimper with need. I need to be touched but dare not touch myself, I need to serve, but am not allowed to do so. I whimper again, more loudly.
He slaps the back of my head, not ungently, “Quiet!” he says.
George releases the tension from the chain holding Lisa up. Without its support, she tumbles to the floor, her legs unable to sustain her. He releases her wrists and reties them together. He lays her prone on the floor and connects the chain to which her feet are bound to two pulleys that dangle from a bar that hangs from the roof. He raises her feet, higher and higher until Lisa hangs, dangles, from her bound feet. Her arms stretch helplessly below her head. He half kneels to kiss her before raising her until her buttocks are level with his face.
He takes the flogger to her back which she endures without complaint. I refill my Master’s glass and am finally allowed to take him in my mouth. His girth fills me and his potent aroma invades my nostrils. I am now unable to see what goes on onstage and must imagine the action only from the sounds.
The sound of the cat’s tails hitting the firm flesh of her back. To my surprise, I can tell when George switches back to her buttocks, the thud of the straps burying themselves in the flesh of her buttocks is completely different from the splat of them in the solid muscle and sinew of her back. And her screams as her already tortured bottom receives another round of punishment.
A different tone and a shrill, desperate scream announce a different target and I can well imagine what that target is. I suck harder and reach inside His pants with my hand to cup His balls. I feel them retract and immediately swallow all His length, until my nose hits His pubic bone. I contain my gag reflex and feel Him, His rod, spurting deep inside my throat. I swallow feverishly, desperate to milk Him of every last drop until, when His rod stops throbbing, and my need to breathe is desperate, I pull back and lick my lips. He smiles at me and I replace His cock inside his pants. There is no need to clean it. I’ve swallowed it all. I smile back and thank Him for his gift.
“Thank you my Master,” I say.
He gestures to the floor at his side. I kneel besides him, not before refilling his flute. Melanie is straddling Master Sholto’s waist, his prick buried deep inside her, in a reverse cowgirl, is too occupied so, with my Master’s permission, I return her favor and refill master Sholto’s glass.
On the stage, George kisses Lisa’s dangling face comforting her. Two attendants wheel a heavy oak table and place it underneath her body. George lowers her to lie supine on the table. He invites master Leo to approach his slave and announces a short break. I feel the urge to go but know better than to ask for permission. My Master will allow me to go when he wants me to go, not before. I can tell that Melanie is in the same situation; worse for her perhaps as I believe she did climax from master Sholto’s use. At least her eyes have the same dreamy appearance that my Master calls the ‘well fucked look’
Act three is about to begin.
George ties Lisa’s arms and thighs to the legs of the table leaving her helpless, vulnerable, arms and thighs spread, on top of the heavy oaken surface. He encourages her with a kiss to her mouth and some fondling of her sex. He may have told her what he planned for she nodded agreement, or perhaps he did not. I could not hear.
He appears bearing two thick, lit, white paraffin candles. I’ve had that done before. It can be mildly uncomfortable, or terribly painful, depending on how far from your skin the candle is. Far and the molten wax has the time to cool down some before splattering on the skin. Near and the burn is unbearable. I fear that George will not hold the candles high over Lisa’s exposed flesh.
I am right and Lisa squeals, tosses and writhes in her bonds, as the hot wax falls on her belly, on her breasts, and finally on her nipples. He stops, gives her a break. She breathes deep and collects herself. He resumes. A veritable torrent of molten paraffin falls on her nipples, the twin candles but inches from her skin. She remains almost immobile, only the clenching and unclenching of her fists and toes witnessing the pain she endures until with a ragged scream her body jumps up, almost hitting the burning candles.
It is not over yet. George spills more and more wax on her belly, on her belly button and above her pubic bone. She screams and writhes, helpless, until her belly and breasts are almost entirely covered with wax. She continues to writhe and whimper even after George blows out the candles. He lets her recover her senses, or her sanity before he wipes the solid paraffin off her body. He releases her from her bindings and helps her to her feet.
She stands, nude, beside him. George steps aside and gestures, his arm outstretched towards her and the audience gives her a standing ovation. As the applause dies down master Leo stands up.
“Lisa,” he says, “don’t you think you should thank George for this?” she nods.
He looks at George, “She is a great fellatrix you know.”
George lies on the table and looks at Lisa. She smiles at him and unbuttons his pants. She pulls them, and his briefs down exposing his engorged sex. She kneels on the table between his thighs, bends down and takes his rod in one hand, her other one caressing his balls. She takes him between her lips. Her eyes stare into his face. Her mouth moves up and down, she sucks, blows, licks. Oh my God, I wish I could suck my Master like that! George thrashes on the table and we can tell he is coming a fraction of a second before his seed erupts all over Lisa’s face and down her hands. She licks it all up, even gathering the jism from her face and licking it off her fingers. Her smile never leaves her face as the stage lights dim and the room lights come on.

No comments:

Post a Comment