A Breeder's Tale Vol. 01

A BREEDER'S TALE

Volume I

Chapter One

Day Zero

The DSM-IV excluded nymphomania as a clinical diagnosis, replacing it with "hypersexuality," in which sexual activity is an insatiable need interfering with other areas of everyday functioning. Hypersexuality's disruptive manifestations include frequent and compulsive masturbation, unsafe sexual practices, and interference with interpersonal relationships. Many, if not most, hypersexuals find sex impersonal, with no emotional intimacy. Despite frequent orgasms, from one source or another, sexual activity is generally not satisfying.

Much to my last pshrink's consternation, I still prefer the term "nymphomaniac," perhaps because of my luck in meeting Mistress and thereby — against all diagnostic expectations — finding a sturdy and fully satisfying interpersonal relationship. Until meeting Mistress, my "insatiable needs" certainly did "interfere with other areas of everyday functioning." I finally managed to get an English B.A.,

summa cum laude

, but then struggled in grad school. I'd always found it difficult to keep up with schoolwork. It's impossible to concentrate on abstruse but influential works of literature, and obtuse but required scholarly journals, when not an hour passes that you don't desperately crave to stop whatever you're doing and get yourself off. Three-hour graduate seminars became almost impossible to bear!

The pshrinks tried treating me for ADHD and various depressions, manias, and personality disorders, but to no avail except myriad pharmaceutical side effects, each less pleasant than the last. Mistress saved me from all that. Now I ingest nothing but the healthy organic vegetarian fare Mistress provides.

To the extent that prescriptions used to help me focus on schoolwork, that doesn't matter. I dropped out of graduate school a few weeks after meeting Mistress.

* * *

Day Zero minus 78

* * *

"No," she'd simply replied on that Sunday of our second weekend of the most satisfying sex I'd ever known when I asked permission to leave her condo to go home and study. Despite my surprise, I kept my face tilted down and gaze steadfastly to the floor, as she requires of me in her presence.

"I beg your forgiveness, Mistress, but I have over two hundred pages to read to be ready for class in the morning." Feeling both sexually and emotionally satisfied, perhaps for the first time in my life, I knew I could finish

all

of my overdue and pending schoolwork if I left right then.

"You won't be going to class tomorrow," she informed me with her consistent steadfast confidence that makes me feel so wholly secure when around her. "In fact, you're never going back to school."

She declared this as such an obvious and incontrovertible fact that it never occurred to me to doubt its truth. I simply asked, "Why?"

Mistress sighed, and I've no doubt she rolled her eyes at my idiocy, but with charitable patience she explained, showing that her Cytherean body contains a Socratic intellect. "How do you feel when you're in class?"

"It gets awful," I admitted. "Just sitting there, I want to touch myself so badly I can't stand it."

"Of course," Mistress affirmed. "After all,

everyone

now knows what a 'shameless little slut' you are."

"Yes, Mistress." I could feel the blush heating my face as I recalled how, on the evening we met, Mistress tied me face up across her livingroom coffee tabletop and used a smooth plastic vibrator to keep me just short of an orgasm. She said she'd neither untie me nor let me climax until I screamed my name and declared as loudly as I could that I was a "shameless little slut who would do anything just to come." She'd opened her patio door, and I still remember my reprehensible confessions and salacious begging echoing around her neighborhood, but not caring because moments later my even louder screams of consummate ecstacy publicly substantiated my base divulgences. At the time, Mistress said I was lucky none of the neighbors had called the police, because she would have simply turned me over to them for disorderly conduct and disturbing the peace with my obscene outcries, pornographic pleas, and lewd wailing. I winced with the lingering shame as Mistress continued her colloquy.

"So 'it gets awful' in class, you say — 'it' being your tawdry lust. Does that mean it's easier to study at home?"

"No, Mistress. I usually have trouble getting anything done at home. Once my mind gets fully focused on whatever I'm reading or studying, my hand just automatically goes, you know, down

there

, and before I realize it, my eyes are closed and I've slipped my fingers inside my pants, and then, well, you know..."

"Don't tell me what I 'know,' slut! If I ask you a question, I expect a full answer; 'and then' what?"

"'And then' I... touch myself."

"'

Touch

yourself'?

I've told you before not to waste my time with that namby-pampy Catholic school shit! Say in plain words what you 'and then' do."

"'And then' I mas... m..." I took a deep breath and nearly shouted my non-euphemistic acknowledgment. "'And then' I

masturbate

"

"For how long?"

"Um... it depends."

"On what?"

"On how quickly and how many times I come."

"Well, regardless of that, why don't you just go back to your schoolwork afterward?"

"But even if it doesn't take long, it's still almost impossible to study when you're stopping every hour or so to m... m-m-masturbate." I felt the blush on my face growing ever redder. Mistress already knew all of this, but she had learned it from me over time, as part of comfortable pillow talk. Having to confess it all together, in plain words, and in the full light of a Sunday morning, grieved my innate modesty. I tried to use Mistresses wholly merited pride in her sexual virtuosity to agree to my request. "That's why I need to go home now, Mistress. The joy and ecstacy you so mercifully bestowed upon me over the past 48 hours should calm me enough to get all I need done tonight to catch up in school."

"But if school is that important to you," Mistress chuckled at my transparent attempt to manipulate her. Then her voice became icily serious, warning me that she had reached the crux of the lesson. "Shouldn't you always be able to stop masturbating long enough to sit through class or finish your homework."

"I know I should," I sighed with shame and felt a tear slip from my right eye. "But, it's like... you know, an illness. Dr. Mur..."

"Don't give me any of that headshrinkers' mumbo-jumbo!" she growled. "The human brain is too complex, and human emotions too explicit, for anyone to make an

honest

living by telling someone why they think certain things or what makes them feel the way they do. Every shrink is just a con-artist with a Doctorate."

Mistress stepped forward, cupped my chin in her palm, and permitted me something I'd craved all weekend. "Look into my eyes, pet. Don't I already know you better than any shrink ever could?"

I lifted my face no faster than Mistress's gentle finger coaxed. Her large, beautiful eyes — usually like cold steel — now sparkled with the inviting blue of the warm Caribbean. I knew she spoke the truth. From the moment we'd met ten days before, it seemed as if she could look right into my mind and read there my every thought, from what I wanted to drink, to my most secret emotions and suppressed desires.

* * *

Day Zero

* * *

I finally stopped trying any drugs when Mistress explained I'm just too stupid for any more school. Mistress makes things so much easier.

And Mistress lets me touch myself almost every time I need to! She encourages me to use my toys. Mistress lets me be far happier than the pshrinks ever did. They tried to teach me to stop touching myself so much.

I cannot remember the exact age at which I started masturbating, but it was well before high school. I always assumed I had made myself a nymphomaniac by getting myself off so many times each day as a teenager. All the pshrinks said no, I frigged so much during and since puberty because of some underlying psychological condition. Chicken or egg, I don't care. Vices become habits. When a habit releases all that endorphin and the other wonderful side effects of orgasm, a habit becomes a compulsion, even after addressing any "underlying psychological condition." My life now works much better for me since I stopped seeing any pshrinks. Mistress takes care of me. I have no need to change it.

Mistress confirms what I guess I've always known deep down, despite what the pshrinks all said: I can't stop touching myself because I'm a dirty little slut. I'm just lucky that she took pity on me and let me start to serve her. I finally have a purpose and goal in life more meaningful and permanent than trying to find an excuse to slip into the bathroom for a quick frig.

I would do my best to resist that tonight. I would need to be as horny as possible to accomplish what Mistress wants of me. Fortunately, men have always seemed to find me attractive. Even Mistress said I am "pretty enough." I'm not sure if I have ever been prouder than when Mistress said that.

Dressed tonight in my best black mini, with my long brown hair cascading down my back, I had attracted plenty of notice from various men all over the nightclub. I have preferred girls since my first lesbian experience as a college freshman. Thus, I had no trouble remaining aloof until I spotted the right "stud." I smiled at the private joke, thinking the word had never been so apt.

He stood tall and solid, his back against the bar. His

Eddie Bauer

chinos and chartreuse

Ralph Lauren

polo practically screamed lawyer or CPA. The tight, smooth muscles rippling underneath just as loudly proclaimed him a swimmer or bicyclist, probably both.

The barely discernable pattern of his hair on his shaved head only slightly darkened the deep mahogany skin, so perfectly set against his green shirt and bright, white smile. His eyes were even a darker brown than mine, and sparkled with intelligence and a bit of lust as I walked up to the bar next to him and ordered a Cosmo.

"Please, allow me to pay for that," he offered with a rumbling voice that suggested Ivy League. "Then, perhaps, you'll honor me with a dance."

"You're a foot and a half taller than me!" I laughed. "We'd look ridiculous together on the dance floor. Let's just find someplace quiet to talk."

As I expected, "someplace quiet" became — by way of a quick

Starbucks

cappuccino — his small but luxurious eighteenth floor condo with a partial water view. We'd both understood our mutual intent within thirty seconds of meeting, so neither of us spoke, although he whistled appreciatively when I pulled off my dress to reveal all I wore underneath was the black lace garter belt holding up my sheer ebony stockings. I didn't bother to remove my patent leather ankle strap pumps. I didn't plan to stay that long.

He took no time undressing himself, and retrieved a condom from the drawer of his night stand. I took it from him as I sat on the bed and drew him into my mouth. I love that salty nectar that gathers on the tip of a fresh erection.

After that one quick lick, I pulled my face away and put the condom on him. Any disappointment this might have caused him immediately vanished when I tuned around, got up on all fours on his bed, and sighed, "I want it in my ass."

I needed an excuse to get the condom off of him in a few minutes, and this would provide it. Besides, I absolutely adore anal sex!

I almost forgot myself when he squirted some baby oil on my bung hole and worked it loose with his thumb before pressing the head of his penis into it. It opened readily for him as I bit the satin bedspread to keep from crying out in the unique excruciating ecstacy of being buggered. About half his length had forced its way up my bum when he reached around with his right hand to start fingering my bald womanhood. I groaned as his finger brushed my clit hood. I think he meant for us both to come that way, which would have ruined everything.

"Not yet, Baby!" I managed to gasp and crawled forward to get him out of my ass. I rolled over onto my back and spread my legs. "I want you to fuck me."

He climbed up between my legs, eager to comply, and I made my move.

"Ew... You can't stick that in my pussy, not after where it's been." I reached up and rolled the condom off his erection. He hesitated, but I took hold of his now bare organ and pulled him over me.

"Don't worry, Honey; I'm careful and clean," which was true. "And I'm on the Pill."

That last claim was a lie. In fact, according to the calendar in my purse and the thermometer on my sink back home, I couldn't have been more fertile. I closed my eyes, feeling a little guilty for deceiving him. None the less, the anal sex and the sheer perversity of this had me incredibly horny and wet. I screamed with unexpected pleasure as his length slid into me in a single, steady thrust.

I fucked him like a wild woman. I dug the stiletto heels of my pumps into his muscular little ass and slammed my hips against his, clamping down with each counter thrust, barely conscious of my intent to milk every last sperm from him.

It didn't take long. I felt him swell just a bit just before he ejaculated deep inside me, and I immediately started to come, more from the knowledge that I'd carried out Mistress's wishes than from the physical pleasure itself. I used my sharp heels to hold him in place, trying to drain every last drop before he withdrew.

"My God, woman!" he groaned when I finally let go and he rolled off of me and collapsed across the bed. "Where you been all my life?"

I glanced over, glad to see his eyes closed. That way he wouldn't notice the uncomfortable way I had elevated my hips to tilt up my vagina. I wanted those little swimmers to have a good head start.

I stayed in that position while I counted slowly to 500. By the time I reached that mark, he had started snoring softly next to me. I slipped out of bed and started to dress, suddenly realizing I hadn't quite thought of everything.

I rarely wear panties as it is, and wanted to leave myself as available as possible tonight. I had forgotten how messy men leave you. I wiped myself with his polo shirt, then put on his white cotton briefs. At least now I wouldn't have anything embarrassing running down my leg.

As I slipped out of the condo, I wondered when it would occur to him that he'd never asked my name. Not that it mattered; I'd have lied anyway.

I took the elevator to the lobby and the doorman called me a taxi. I couldn't wait to get home to tell Mistress I'd done as she'd asked. In a few weeks, we'd know if it worked.