A Question of Semantics

After dinner they took their drinks into the den, where she sat quietly, sipping her wine and listening to the men talk.

"I dislike the term

slave

." Her lover was a tall man with stylishly cut gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He stood near the fireplace, cradling a brandy snifter in his right hand. "The word is obviously inaccurate in this context. Elizabeth's servitude is not coerced, but quite willingly given. Slavery—true slavery—is involuntary. Whether a slave is pleased or displeased with her state is a matter of no consequence. She has no say in the matter. Clearly, however," he swirled the liquor around the glass, then held it close under his nose to breathe in the heavy scent, "our mistresses can choose to break off the relationship if they are unsatisfied. That can hardly be called slavery."

"Technically you are correct, Christopher," said the other man, who was sitting in an armchair near the window, legs comfortably crossed. He wore a tweed jacket over a light blue Oxford cloth shirt, with gray slacks and burnished tassel loafers. His beard was heavy and dark against his olive skin. "But the concept—or illusion, if you prefer—emphasizes the exchange of power in the relationship. Command and obedience are essential components of that exchange."

"Play-acting, George. Silliness." Elizabeth heard the contempt in his voice. "Do you really think of yourself as a Master who

owns

a slave?"

"Yes, I do," said the bearded man. He drew slowly on his cigar. Its tip glowed red. "Of course I do. I would describe that as the nature of my relationship with both Susan and Diane. If they were here, I'm sure both would agree with me. Since you are arguing against the reality of ownership in these cases, I'm curious. How do you describe your relationship with Elizabeth?"

Christopher turned and stood looking down at her, lips slightly pursed. Though she lowered her eyes, she could sense how his gaze roamed over her body, taking in the thick and unruly red hair, the pale skin, the curves displayed so subtly yet so well by the low-cut black dress she wore. Her cheeks warmed slightly as she blushed. She smiled half to herself.

"She is my submissive," he said simply.

George snorted. "That's a fine distinction."

"An accurate one, though. She submits her will to mine—consciously, voluntarily—and in turn expects me to satisfy her needs, which are," here his mouth crooked into a slight grin, "plentiful. I express my desires to her and she satisfies them. My responsibility, for both of us, is to ensure that my wants align with her needs."

"That doesn't sound very dominant to me."

"Oh, but it is. It is very dominant." His long and delicate fingers gently raised her chin until her eyes met his. "I have complete control over her satisfaction. She has ceded that to me as part of her trust."

His friend wryly shook his head. "As I've said many times before, Christopher, you are a Romantic. Not a closeted one, either, I'm afraid. I suspect it comes from too many years of teaching Keats and Shelley to sulky undergraduates."

"I would hope I am Romantic," he replied, seriously, "certainly I would not be ashamed of the label, but I trust that I am a gentleman too. Which reminds me that I shirk my duties as host." He gestured to Elizabeth. "My dear, we should thank Dr. Goldman for the pleasure of his company and conversation this evening."

Elizabeth set her wineglass on a terracotta coaster, rose, and crossed the room to stand in front of George Goldman, Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences in the University of S—. Her eyes were shining, as if slightly wet. A mild flush had begun to spread across the lightly freckled skin of her chest and shoulders, accompanying the familiar rush of heat she now felt emanating from her core. Her nipples stood out prominently beneath the thin fabric of her dress. She knelt before the chair and asked demurely, arms at her side, eyes avoiding the dean's face, "May I be permitted to please you, sir?"

George glanced with bemused inquiry at his friend, who nodded. "She's very good, George. Absolutely loves cock. Has almost something of an obsession about it, in fact. I enjoy indulging her on occasion." He opened a drawer on the sideboard and took out a large black dildo that he began to anoint with lubricant. The dean gave a short wave of his hand in consent and Elizabeth, leaning forward, unbuckled his belt and began to open his fly. As he replaced the cap on the lubricant bottle, Christopher said: "I do, though, have to remind her with the crop sometimes to whom it is that she belongs."

George laughed as a soft and pliant tongue began to lick the underside of his still stiffening shaft. "Christopher," he sighed, as his cock disappeared into her eager mouth, "just listen to yourself. You said

belongs

. That," he groaned as Elizabeth took the whole of his length deep into her throat, "sounds very like a claim of ownership to me."

His host paused, having pulled up the lady's skirt, exposing the roundness of her bare ass, her taut thighs, the damp cleft between her legs. "It does, doesn't it?" He shrugged and began to press the slick head of the toy into Elizabeth's cunt. She spread her knees some slight bit and the dildo entered her smoothly. "Perhaps you're right, after all, George," he said, settling into a steady rhythm. "Do come on her face, though—she likes that. And pull her hair a little, too."