After All

I’ve been moping around for a few days, wondering at how much things have changed, when the phone rings. If I didn’t recognize the number, I’d have let it ring, as I have so often lately.

“Good evening, slave,”

His voice!

“Forgotten something, have we?”

Oh Jesus. He couldn’t mean it.

“Master, I . . .”

“D’you think that something has somehow changed between us because of this?”

My heart lifted and floating, the serenity he gives me in his chains.

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“I know what you thought. But you’re still my slave unless you beg me to release you. Do you want me to?”

“Oh

no

, Master. I’m yours. Your slave . . . do what you want to with me,

please

.” The old answer comes almost by rote. It’s been a long time, but my training is still there.

“Naturally some things will change. For example, tonight you will deliver yourself to my house, instead of me coming to yours.”

“Of course, Master.”

I hear the directions he gives me, I write them down. All the while my pussy is getting hotter. It feels as though a hot steel ball has been placed between my thighs, and my body bends at the knees. I sink to the floor by the telephone, gratefully.

He expects me promptly. I scurry upstairs on my knees—I figure it can’t hurt to practice. I like feeling as though he commands me, even when I’m away from him. I take off the grey wool skirt I wore to work. My panties are black silk french-cuts, but that won’t do for Master. I skin them off and toss them to the floor as I rummage around in the special drawer.

The wet-look thong he bought me is there. I close my eyes and finger it, holding it close to my face. It’s the smell of the leather that decides me. It’s been so long since it was on my ass that it’s lost that “living” feeling well-used leather gets. It smells cold and lonely—just the way I’ve been feeling. But I’m warming up.

I deliberate about stockings—Master hasn’t given me new instructions, so I am probably allowed a choice. I decide against it. I want to feel his hands against my skin. The thought of lying helplessly across his lap, bound and ready for punishment, crosses my mind.

Oh goodness

—I can’t go thinking about that now! Besides, I’m still not allowed to masturbate without his order, much less to cum. Not that that restriction’s figured much over the past few days.

Out of my blouse and into a slippery oiled leather bra. My nipples go hard as they meet the cool of the hide. The inside was left rough, like suede, to help keep my nipples hard and me excited. I actually find myself panting as I do up the clasp—it’s a front clasp to allow Master access.

Now what to wear over it all? Does it matter? I suppose not, really. After all I’m not going to be allowed into his house

clothed

, am I? I choose a practical black velvet dress, belting it at the waist with a red ribbon. Master’s present.

A tiny bit of lipstick—Master doesn’t approve of makeup, says lips should be lip-coloured, but I like just enough to brighten them. If he notices, he’ll punish me. Mentally I add

probably

. I wonder if things have changed that much.

Now for the bit I hate. Master always instructed me to do this last, kneeling and bent across the hassock in front of the big mirror angled above my fireplace, in which I have so often seen myself spanked, whipped, or begging for mercy from Him. From my demeaning position, I can watch as my hand reaches back to lift my skirt. I insert the fingers of my other hand beneath my underwear (such as it is) and massage the oil into my anus. It was Master’s gift to me, an evil mixture which involves chili seeds. My ass burns. Drops run down and tingle my pussy, but from long habit and experience I don’t try to rub them away.

Lubricated, I look into the mirror, one finger still in my burning ass. I’m thrilled by the dirty sight of a nearly fully-clad, apparently independent businesswoman resting across her hassock on her belly, her bare ass stuck into the air. Frigging my backside with my finger, I bring the other hand containing the butt plug around. It’s as though I’m trying to sneak it up on myself. But I know it’s coming.

This one is the big one; the one that Master, for a joke, labelled “medium”. It’s fully three inches in diameter, and incredibly uncomfortable. But Master will check—assuming everything’s still the same. And if it’s not in, I will be beaten. And Master knows how to beat His slave. It’s the exact way I want, need, to be beaten.

It takes a lot longer than it used to, but it goes in. Forcing the last inch of the plug into myself I rise from my knees. I stumble a bit—it’s been a long time since I had this in, and I’m finding it takes some getting used to. At the door I open my shoe closet. Grunting and puffing from effort I bend over and lean deep inside to find my dusty fuck-me heels. I don’t know how much Master will appreciate these now, but he used to like them. Out to the car, locking the garage door behind me; I open the door and pause, then go back into the house: can’t start the car without keys!

I’m distracted. My pussy’s absolutely soaked; surely not the best situation for a woman driving to an unfamiliar part of town. On the way to Master’s house I earn several angry honks from fellow motorists when I make turns without signalling. I get lost for a few minutes, but manage to arrive in time.

The house is a white-and-green two-story, set slightly farther from its neighbours than other houses on the block. The front yard slopes steeply to the street, and I have to hike up the driveway to the right of the house, tottering on my preposterous heels. At the top is a concrete staircase leading to the steps of a wide wooden porch.

The porch light is on. None of the lights in the house are. I walk up the unfamiliar wooden steps to the front door. The inner door swings open behind the screen as I arrive.

Master

. Aloud: “

Master

.”

My heart rises in my throat. This is the moment I have imagined for all those weeks. I feel tears in my eyes. The figure inside the darkened house moves with a different confidence now from the familiar stride I used to think of as leonine. The confidence is still there, though; the unabashed certainty that the world will bend to Him.

I certainly will.

Opening the screen door He takes me firmly in his arms and kisses me. The burn in my ass and my pussy fan into flame at the touch, the taste of his lips.

“Welcome back, pussy,” he says “you’ll be punished for wearing that lipstick.” How the hell did he notice? He steps inside. I move to follow Him into the darkened house, but stop for a moment. Should I ask?

“Master?”

Too uncertain

I think. Master prefers boldness.

“Yes, pussy?”

“May your slave turn on a light?”

“If you need it.” Laconically, as though he couldn’t care less. But was that a catch in his voice?

My fumbling fingers find the switch, illuminating the front hall. I am overawed by the sumptuous, yet sparse, home He lives in. The hallway is old dark oak. A few feet from where I’m standing two doors give off right and left. Beyond the doors the entrance hall opens up all the way to the second storey. A massive, broad staircase spans the floor, narrowing as it ascends to the overlooking balcony. Master is climbing the centre of the broad treads. I am suddenly seized with absurd panic—what if he falls? Of course, Master is the epitome of safe and sane. With me under him, he has to be.

Reaching the top of the staircase He turns to face me, leaning nonchalantly on the balcony rail. His face is mostly unchanged since the last time I saw him; but what did I expect Him to look like? He looks like Master.

“Like it?”

“Oh yes, Master.”

“Good. I’m glad. Now strip and kneel; do it quickly.”

I am devastated that he hasn’t noticed the red ribbon, but I chide myself. Why should I expect him to?

“Master, will You undress Your slut?”

He looks skyward, considering, as though he could find meaning in the spartan chandelier that dangles unlit above him, refracting points of light from the hall.

“Very well. It’ll cost you, though. And come up the stairs on your knees.”

I crawl up the carpeted wooden risers. When I reach the top I feel Master’s hand in my hair, urging me to stand up. There at the top of the steps Master strips me. I feel like a huge candle burning, on flame for him. He sniffs at my brassiere—I know he loves the leather. His fingers trace my body, down over my cleavage and lower until they grasp the red ribbon wrapped about His slut’s body.

“Is this for me?”

“All of me; for You, Master.” I manage to gasp.

A gentle tug, and the ribbon lies on the floor. Equally gently my dress is pulled over my head. As He folds it lovingly over the balcony rail, Master reaches between my legs. Without thinking I grasp his hand to guide it to my pussy lips.

The expression on his face clouds over.

“Disappointing, slave,” He says softly “Apparently you’ve forgotten your manners almost completely since we were last together.”

“Sorry Master,” I say, secretly relishing my mistake and what I know it will bring “please punish me.”

“How should I punish such a disobedient little slut girl?”

“Please beat me, Master.”

There, I’ve said it. I’ve admitted my need (just in case he couldn’t tell). But he just stands there, toying with my pussy and driving me wild. My hands he holds firmly behind my back. Suddenly the thought crosses my mind, making my pussy seemingly freeze solid.

What if he doesn’t want to?

But a second later he tugs off my thong, then my bra. I step out of my shoes, which he places carefully by the railing. He forces me to my knees. From somewhere he produces a short piece of rope. He circles this about my neck, then around my torso to form a harness with a large loop knotted at the small of my back. Grasping the loop he orders:

“Forward. Down to the door.”

The door at the end of the short hall on this side of the stairway is a plain white wooden one. I wonder what’s behind it. Master pulls out an old fashioned key, which he fits into the oversized lock plate beneath the doorknob. It seems stiff, and he works it back and forth a couple of times before it snicks open.

Behind is the dungeon. I know he must have built this, or had it built, within the past few weeks, as he has said that he had no facilities at his house, before now. The smell of sawn wood, glue, and new vinyl is heavy in the air, and the chains draped over various racks and rails are all new-bright.

Master walks me eleven measured paces into the centre of the floor. He releases my harness and I put my nose to the ground. The floor is of patterned wooden tiles, and in the tightly-fitted join between the two under my nose I can see grains of sawdust.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes Master!”

“I had it built for you.”

The implications cascade over me. I flame, I freeze. I am unsure of what to say, of what he means.

“But we’ll talk about that later. For now, I think you need some old fashioned torture.”

Does He understand the glee in His voice, or the heat between my thighs at that suggestion? He takes something from the rack. From my position near the floor I can see only the dull shine of leather and the glint of chromed metal. Master turns and slowly walks eight paces back to me. Each footfall seems to race through my body.

“Kneel up”

Master seems to lose his balance for a moment as his hand brushes my shoulder. Then the blindfold settles over my eyes. Does he know how I appreciate his gift to me? The gift of submission, the gift of sharing his dark world with me? I can smell his scent, oddly bittersweet, wafting from his red shirt. I don’t think red looks good on him, but I’m the slave. He’s the Master.

My nipples are clamped with an unfamiliar type of clamp. Four sharp points press into my flesh, and little weights make them tug. Master ties a short belt around each of my tits, then cinches them tight. Pain, familiar yet somehow different, fills me where I kneel in harness. My mind rushes back:

“Darling, listen; All relationships are about power and control.”

This was what he told me. I am what he made me. In the end, what he made me beg to become. And to be here tonight, after I thought we might never come together again, is so utterly overwhelming I can’t help but let out a little sob of happiness behind the blindfold.

He stops, concerned.

“Do you need to safety, girl?”

“No Master,” my voice is choked with happiness, as well as a little pain—my tits are starting to ache badly “I’m just so

happy

. I thought you might not want me. . .”

“Shhhhhh,” He’s kneeling beside me, holding my face in his hand “You know I love you. And why would that change? I sent you away from Me because I needed time to readjust.”

I’m actually sniffling now: “I know, but I didn’t know if. . .”

“Be silent.” He’s not angry “You’re mine until I tell you that I release you. Have you forgotten that?”

“No!” How to tell him of the gnawing uncertainty, the listlessness, the meaninglessness of my feelings since he’d sent me away? But does it matter? Master answers me.

“The mewlings of slave girls are pleasing to Me. But remember: I accepted your submission, and if you leave here it will only be because I have released you. Even if you ask for release, I am free not to grant it.”

I know—and we both know that if I asked to be set free, he would do it. But I can’t think why I would.

He has been busy during this short exchange. He has put on me something that feels like a pair of high sandals, or perhaps boots without heels or toes. When I spread my legs farther apart to allow him to cuff and bind my hands, steel rattles. They aren’t ankle cuffs; I’ve never felt anything like them.

Once my hands are bound behind me, Master applies the finishing touch—pulling the rope harness harshly from my body, he lifts my hair and places His collar about my neck. This collar is a new one—a little round bell is attached to the steel ring at the front of my throat. It jingles when I move my head.

He replaces the cruel ropes with a tight leather harness that places pressure against my cunt and ass, while the strap he tightens between my legs denies access to either. He rocks the butt plug in my ass with a thumb, then tugs my pussy lips rudely out to either side of the strap.

“Lie on your back.”

Obediently, carefully, I lower myself as I have been taught. If I lose my balance and fall, he can’t help me.

And I do.

While turning my leg so that I can sit on my plugged ass, I have a sudden cramp and fall sideways. I think to myself

This is going to hurt—and Master won’t be pleased.

But he catches me. In the whirling free-fall I feel him grab me. It’s clumsy, and my full weight winds up in his arms. How did he know? How is it that he was there to catch me? He says nothing as he lowers me to the floor, on my back. Then:

“Legs up, straight.” Nothing about my clumsiness.

I bend at the waist, wincing as my stomach muscles take a strain they haven’t felt in a long time. Soon my ankles are linked to a spreader bar and pulled over my head. A piece of foam on the floor cushions my head and shoulders. Then I hear a rhythmic clinking noise.

Slowly but surely I am lifted completely from the ground. I am dizzy, my mind and pussy seem to overload, my tits swing in an unaccustomed way, the little weights on my nipple clamps roll crazily up my body and fall, tugging on each nipple painfully.

“Like it?” He asks. He knows, of course, that anything that leaves me helpless and at His mercy is fine with me, but this is a long-time fantasy. My blood pounds in my ears.

“Answer, slut!”

“Yes, Master, I love it, Master.”

“Good. Now as for your punishment: I have a new toy. I’m going to break it in on your slut ass. But first you’re going to explain how grateful you are to have a Master who gives you the correction you need.”

“Oh yes Master, I. . .”

I don’t get the rest of it out. I felt him approaching, but I hadn’t heard his zipper drop. As I open my mouth to speak he grasps my head and shoves his cock into my throat. I’m terrified for a moment, worried I won’t be able to breathe. But of course his cock is still the same I’ve known and serviced for years, and he taught me to deep-throat him long ago. In fact, it seems as though it’s easier, somehow, suspended and helpless. His free hand holds my bound ones, and I know that if I can’t take it anymore I only need to squeeze three times in a steady rhythm.

He comes quickly—as excited, perhaps, as I am to be here. His come floods up my throat and trickles back out between my lips as I gulp and swallow. Some of it trickles stickily down my face into my hair. I feel a little humiliated at wasting even a drop of his gift.

He stands before me, holding my bound hands, while I lick him thoroughly clean. By the end of it, his cock is hard again, and I hope he’ll fuck me. Instead, he zips up and turns away. I hear a swish, and the first blow lands across my belly.

The flogger is suede. If you’ve ever been whipped with a piece of suede you know the abrasive feeling as the rough side strips your flesh raw. I cry out, but Master ignores it. He knows I like to yell. The weight of the blow sets me spinning, and he begins to lay into me, always avoiding my face by keeping the blows above my inverted tits.

Every so often he pauses to make certain I’m alright, touching me and calming me even as my tears start to fall. It hurts so much, and it feels so good to be here.

After thirty strokes or so, Master runs his fingers up and down my sensitized body.

“Had enough, slave?”

“Not unless You will it, Master.” My dangling tits are screaming for release from the cruel clamps, the strap in my pussy seems to be cutting me in two. And I glory in it.

Master releases the clamps, and I scream. Then carefully placing his arm across my chin he whips each of my already-painful tits fifteen times. Then he lowers himself so that his lips are by my ear.

“Will you come if I whip your cunt, slut?”

His hard, dirty words send shivers all through me.

“Not without your permission, Master.”

“Ah, that’s right. You don’t come without my permission, do you, pussy?”

“N-no, Master.” But now I realize

oh God—he knows.

Knows that I’ve spent the past few weeks pining for Him, masturbating to orgasm, heedless of my submission to Him. He knows that I need to be punished for that. And I know that I have to ask for it.

Gulping, my pulse loud and slow in my ears I say:

“Master, Your slave needs to be punished for coming without permission.”

“What a truthful little slut.” He says, sounding mildly amused “Will thirty across your pussy be enough, pussy?” He gently pushes me so that I swing back and forth helplessly.

“If Master wishes it.”

Master removes the strap between my legs. Drops of the hot red oil are seeping from my ass and up my back. He wiggles the butt plug, making painful pleasure stir deep in my middle.

I know my role:

“Please punish Your slut, Master.”

It’s painful. The suede tails seem to scrape across my clit and lips, burning my thighs worse than the hot oils which still irritate my anus. After ten, I’m screaming. After twenty I feel as though I might be bleeding, and behind the blindfold my tears are coming freely. And hanging upside down I realize I want, need, to come.

“Master?”

The flogging stops at twenty-two.

“Yes, slut.” He sounds gentle, almost resigned. Although He knows I revel in this; gentle is the last thing I wanted him to be, ever.

“Please make your slave come?” It’s a request, but comes out wobbly. I think I may be starting to pass out.

“Eight more.”

“Yes, please, Master, but afterward?”

The force of the blows seems to increase. Master beats my cunt so hard it feels like it’s coming off, becoming a separate part of me. Then suddenly it’s over. I feel myself lowered quickly to the ground. Blood flows into my toes and my tied hands as my shoulders meet the floor. His hands touch my face for a moment; then Master’s cock is in my mouth again, as he burrows his head between my stretched, welted legs and licks my pussy.