Stirring beneath the downy layers of covers, I stretched out luxuriously, reveling in the shelter of his body, pressed ever close to mine. While I slept, he had nudged his erection between the red cheeks of my ass, only to taunt me with the notion that he might allow me to have him soon.
He was wide awake, and staring down at me as I opened my heavy eyelids. I was still a filthy mess from the events of the day, but he smiled as he helped me to sit.
"We need to clean you up before we leave this evening," he said, giving me my cue to follow him to the bathroom, where he had already filled the huge tub with warm water and fluffy bubbles.
Immediately, I spotted the enema he had placed on the marble vanity, its bright green bottle and thick nozzle now so familiarly inviting. Behind me, I could feel his presence, and I waited patiently for him to speak.
"Chin up, precious. I want to look at your pretty eyes this evening" he said, catching my gaze in the mirror. "Now, tell me what you want right now."
"Will you give me an enema?" I asked quietly, thinking of all the time he had spent trying to convince me that I would adore the sensation -- even come to embrace it. For so long, I had rejected consideration, and, sweet Master that he was, never forced me to engage in any activity I deemed uncomfortable or intolerable. However, after he had continuously expressed the pleasure it would bring him , I hesitantly acquiesce to the activity.
Now, even with my astute recollection of the pain that followed every administration, I craved the primitive gratification brought forth from the clear liquid in the bottle. "Please?"
"That's a request I can't resist," he said, his finger tracing the crack of my ass deep into my dripping cunt. "Lean over the vanity."
As I bent over, my breasts hung into the bowl of the huge sink. I parted my legs, and opened my ass to him, finding great delight in the joys of my subordination. Teasing me with the white plastic tip, he caressed my tiny hole, then pulled it away so that he could apply a thick gob of jelly against my most tender spot.
The nozzle slipped easily inside, and the cool rush of water comforted me. His right hand squeezed the bottle with an even pressure, filling me slowly as his left hand held me still. I breathed deeply, taking slow careful streams of air into my lungs, just as he had conditioned me to do so long ago.
After emptying the contents inside me, he pressed his finger over my hole. As we waited for the cramps to begin, he reached around to rub my tummy, soothing the pain before it even began. My body tensed with the sudden effects of the enema, and I clenched every muscle in my anus tightly to hold my bowels inside.
"May I shit for you now?" I winced at the pain, which was minimized by steady, circular pressure of his palm against my stomach.
"Yes, you may."
He held my arms as I squatted to the toilet, then reached down to stroke my clit as I filled the bowl. Rocking against his finger, I felt so open, so exposed to his domination. The spark of my orgasm, fluttering into my belly against the cramps, liberated of all my senses to his desire.
"Cum now," he commanded. "That's my good girl -- cumming and shitting for me." His finger moved faster, holding me on the brink of absolute completion. "Keep cumming for me, my wet little one."
My bowel was now hollow, but I suddenly felt my bladder enlarge with the pressure of its fullness.
"May I pee...please?" I heaved, my breasts jiggling as I humped against his hand.
"Go ahead," he said, without bothering to remove his finger from my clit, "but keep cumming for me."
"Ohhhhhhhhh..." I rocked against the steady jolts that had seized and surged through every muscle in my cunt -- from which flowed a steady yellow stream. Gyrating, pumping and grinding, I squinted my eyes to hold back the unexpected tears. "Still cumming..."
His middle finger plunged inside me. Then a second. And a third. All slapping against my G-spot as I began to tip over the edge, succumbing to the tensely exquisite release that radiated through my core.
Catching me against his chest, he kissed the beads of sweat upon my forehead, while I quivered in his arms. But I couldn't rest for a second, uncertain of when we might have the chance to share another unexpected evening like this -- alone together -- again.
Sitting back on the toilet seat, I brought his hand to my mouth. "Your fingers," I whispered, my breaths stilted. Suckling gently at the tips, I drew each finger between my lips to taste the gewy wetness of my arousal mingled with the sour taste of urine. He had so generously allowed me to revel in my own pleasure. Now, I wanted to demonstrate my respect by licking his fingers dry.
His cock was still hard, the veins gorged with his own desires, but I knew he wouldn't allow me the privilege of taking me in whatever manner he chose just yet.
When at last he drew me up, he led me over to the huge bathtub, and braced me from falling as I stepped carefully into the shallow water. For a moment, I wondered how I could possibly leave this hotel and have dinner with him in one of the glamorous restaurants he fancied in the clothes I had worn earlier in the day, but I was prepared to swallow my chagrin -- for him -- if he chose to continue my punishment.
As he lathered the soap all over me, bathing me as a father would a child, I found myself falling into his trance, coasting closer to that tiny corner of the universe where my only concern was to please him. Seeing me sink into this blissfully agitated state, he knew that I was incapable of questioning or reasoning. The strength of my trust in him surpassed all of my fears.
His soapy hands, which roamed in slick caresses all over my body, intended to gentle me, but he knew very well that even the slightest brush of his fingers easily ignited every spark of sexual tension that heated my veins. My breasts, my clit -- even the tiny red bud of my ass -- burned with a fire that soothed as it raged.
Finishing up, he shampooed my hair, washing away the traces of the men who had used me entirely for his satisfaction, then after a thorough rinse, he helped me to stand.
"I've got a surprise for later hidden in the bedroom, so I want you to dress in here," he said, rubbing the thick velvety towel over my breasts, pinching my nipples through the heavy, soft material just hard enough to edge me closer to cumming again. Then, he abruptly moved on to my arms and legs, systematically avoiding the trembling lips of my sex.
"You're so wet that it just doesn't matter," he said, turning away from me to hang the damp towel on the rack. Then, he left again to retrieve my clothes.
Sitting alone on the edge of the tub, I opened my knees, and placed my hands on my thighs. Upon his return, he held in his hands my outfit for the evening, so carefully chosen in his simple elegant tastes: a tiny black cocktail dress, accentuated with a short pleated skirt, a pair of thigh-highs with a slip of a fine lace garter belt to hold them in place, and a pair of black paten heels. "You may dress now." Again, he left me alone so that he could dress for dinner.
With an air of reverence, I rolled each stocking over my leg, then snapped the fine silk coverings into place before stepping into the shoes. As I slipped the dress over my head, I could feel the material teasing my bare nipples once again, and I reveled in the delight of dressing in the clothes he deemed me worthy enough to wear. Ever so carefully, I dried my hair, then fastened my tresses on top of my head -- just as he so adored -- with the handmade silver clip he had left on the vanity for me.
After finishing my make-up and spritzing myself with his favorite perfume, I opened the door slightly, and asked for his permission to enter the salon.
He sat on the couch, with a Scotch in hand, and surveyed every inch of my body with his unreadable eyes. Then, he waved his hand, beckoning me to move closer.
Again, I began to worry. I hoped I had fulfilled his expectations of me wearing the dress, and I began to fret that something just wasn't right. The guilt of disappointing him twice in a matter of hours would leave me shattered.
