Andrés & Zo

Hi Kinky Reader - All players are 18+ years of age and practice birth control.

Have fun,

xxox Emm

ANDRÉS & ZO.

by Emmalee_Strict

© 2024

Lower Manhattan, midsummer 2026. Friday.

It was late afternoon when Andrés clomped down the stairs and saw his live-in slut-property kneeling at the foot of them. Keeping her head bowed, Zo couldn't see his face, so she could only go by the sound of his booted footsteps. They pattered to a stop and paused on the landing above -- catching sight of her supplication, she knew, hopefully recognizing she had a 'need.'

"Well," he said.

The girl whimpered as faintly as she could. She nudged her head toward the red sign hung on the rail. The one that had barred her from disturbing his work under any circumstances. She hoped he'd pick up the hint. For the past few hours, she'd heard her owner up in his loft studio composing, scribbling on his manuscript pad, playing back tracks. The last half-hour, she guessed, he'd spent playing through a whole piano sonata -- Beethoven, she recognized, the

Appassionta

-- before slamming the lid shut and calling it a session.

His voice came from the landing, "Something tells me I've forgotten something."

Zo chewed on the leather in her mouth, enjoying its sour tang as a balm for her impatience as she waited for leave to explain.

His footsteps on the stairs picked up again and his voice got closer. "We have a thing?"

Zo shook her head sullenly, hating the ambiguity of that, but forced by training to answer the question precisely as phrased. When he reached the foot of the stairs, Andrés began to read her correctly, and lifted her chin to look into her face.

He plucked the slave-collar out her mouth. "Ah,

you

have a thing. Voice, pet."

"I did book it in the app, Sir?" Why did she make it sound like a question when she knew it was true? She smiled sweetly, loving like the stern feel of his strong, pianist's fingers on her jaw.

"I admit, I haven't had a look at the schedule all day," her owner said in his subtle, educated Colombian accent. "Still, what's the penitence for? What's your need?"

"I haven't worn your slave-collar today, Sir." She nodded toward the blue leather band and the chain leash in his hands. "This stupid slut doesn't know what to do."

"I see. And what time is the appointment?" he asked, as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his cellphone. "And what is this, a Dom?"

"A Bull, Sir."

"

Cierto

, your pussy does need a good pummeling. I can't stand the way you've been climbing the walls lately. It's a fucking distraction," he added with a note of disgust.

Zo breathed a sigh of relief. She was certain she'd cleared the session with him last week, even if he was hazy on it just now. He had given the request a shrug and an indulgent half-smile, casually displaying his security in the knowledge that his aging manhood -- even as vital as it still was, and sweetly shaped and satisfying to her younger pussy in so many ways -- did not give her everything she needed. But given her panicky, penitent state at the moment, and his peevishness, she dreaded that his approval might be withdrawn. Happily, it was not.

He had his phone open and was fully apprised of the situation. "You're wanted at for use at seven sharp.

Huh,

a three hour session? That's some Bull. And what time is it now?"

"Quarter to six, Sir. You see my dilemma --"

"I see you dressed to go out, slut," Andrés cut her off. "Not naked and collared. And I see a dilemma of your own making."

"This slut has no --"

"No. Insatiable skank."

"This insatiable skank has no excuses, Sir. I want to do better."

He sighed, "You could have reminded me before I went up to work. But as I recall, you were in the shower at the time, despite knowing my schedule. We could've had you collared and owned well before this, you'd be ready, and we wouldn't have this problem -- would we?"

"Your insatiable skank's small mind lacks any sense for planning ahead, Sir. This skank has no excuses, Sir. Please train me to do better, Sir."

"You know what to do,

puta

. Join me by my chair."

As Zo hastened to strip, Andrés crossed the broad open space of the loft apartment to the living section, walking briskly, upright and with purpose as he always did... when he wasn't pacing in graceful circles like a jungle predator. He took a seat on the front edge of the black leather Barcalounger and moved the footrest aside. His back was to the brick face of the east wall with its three lofty windows looking down over the alley off Christopher Street.

He placed his hands on his thighs, collar in one hand and leash handle in the other, his boots flat on the floor.

Somewhere in the tussle of pulling off her threadbare black minidress and peeling off the raggedly run nylons -- her 'broken-hooker' look -- Zo snuck a glance at Andrés watching her. Stony-faced and impassive. Noting, unsurprised, that she wore no panties. Once she had her dress, nylons and garter, brassiere, slut-pumps and jewelry in a neat stack by the stairs, she crawled her naked body in his direction, face low, ass high.

Zo reached her owner's boots and lovingly kissed the toe of each. When he didn't move she leaned back in and licked the tops, laces and insteps longingly with slobbers and moans, feeling chastened and wet. When at last she heard the double-snap of his fingers, she came up off her haunches, hands behind her back, chin lifted high and throat bared.

Andrés wasted no time collaring the girl. "All right, you're on the clock. Let's review our situation, shall we?"

Zo's voice cracked on the verge of a sob, she groaned, "Two hours to go, Sir."

"Sadly," he sighed. He wound up the leash in his hand until his fist was at the ring of her collar. He cocked his head quizzically and squinted at her. "And what is your dilemma?"

"This insatiable skank must spend at least two hours each day naked and collared by Sir's hand to refresh her status as his property."

"What

is

she if she does not?"

"Unowned, Sir."

"And what must she

be

if she wants to leave the house?"

"Owned property, Sir."

"Then you're running late. The obvious remedy is for you to text your Bull and reschedule for later."

"I --

ohhh!

Sir, this, this --" Her voice dissolved into a heave of whimpers and she hung her head. "That's too short notice! It would reopen negotiations. And if I piss him off, he might just use my mouth and ass, Sir, or -- and, and --" Her voice broke into a sob.

"

Ssh-ssh-ssh,

I know, I know," he soothed her, tucking a knuckle under her chin and lifting her face. "I'm trying to work with you,

mi amor

. I want this for you. But rules are rules."

Her eyes brightened. "Could you 'quick-own' me, Sir?"

"There's my clever girl! A sound paddling and a rough three-hole fuck with extreme breath play would satisfy me. We could have you on your way in twenty-five minutes, tops. But that would be sloppy seconds for your Bull, wouldn't it?"

She frowned. "He wanted this insatiable skank five days chaste, Sir. Again, renegotiations..."

"Then what does that leave?"

Zo tried to sound regretful when she said it, "The cane, Sir?"

"Ah,

qué triste!

What a transparent mock-pout that was," he laughed. "It's a pity the talented actress you once were is now completely gone.... Will your Bull object to stripes?"

"Sir..." she blushed and gasped, batting her eyelashes, "they will

enflame

him."

"Well, then! Sounds like a win-win-win."

"Perfect, Sir."

He scowled at her. "You're so fucking jaded."

"Jade recognizes jade, Sir."

Andrés laughed warmly. He rose over her, let go of the leash and reached behind her head to undo the band that held her ponytail.

Zo grimaced; stupidly, she'd forgotten that she was not fully naked unless her hair was loose. If they were still playing the two-hour game, he would be within his rights to restart the clock now. But clearly her owner was in a playfully permissive mood this evening, and she adored him for that. Just as much as she hated herself for the tiny, fickle female brain she was stuck with, that lacked his acumen for details and forward-planning.

Recognizing her limitations and inferiority made her wet.

"Well, let

that

little impertinence be your last words before I beat you," Andrés went on.

He whipped the padded leather bit between her teeth and buckled the strap tightly behind her neck. "Your choice -- unrestrained?"

She nodded

yes,

and enthusiastically -- as much as she enjoyed her owner's bondage, she knew his leniency called for a show of self-discipline from her in return. This made her wetter.

Andrés took the leash and led her face-down-ass-up across the carpet to the wall and the middle window, where he grabbed her hair and lifted her to her feet.

"Mmfff?"

Zo swooned at her awareness that she was buck naked and he was fully clothed, and firmly in charge of her. His fine silver hair showed his age but advertised his experience, contrasting her youthful, flighty waywardness. She liked how, even tippy-toe, he was nine inches taller and how she felt very small and fragile in his grasp; Zo was short for Zero, and that's what she felt like she weighed. She liked the manhandling. She liked the vulnerability and exposure.

Once settled on her feet, she reached up and took hold of the steel ring set into the heavy horizontal casement. She spaced her body back from the window and spread her legs wide, arched her spine and jutted her perfect, tight young ass out into open space.

"Just so," he cooed approvingly. He fondled one cheek teasingly just to make contact, then walked away.

Zo saw in the reflection on the window pane that he crossed the room to the glass-faced tool cabinet on the opposite wall to fetch his weapon of choice. Wanting to be surprised by his selection, she turned her eyes ahead and refocused on the outside.

"

Mmmm,

" she sighed through gag-parted teeth, licked the leather that pressed down her tongue, and felt the subspace haze start to wash over her vision. The evening dusk had crept up on her during the hours she'd been kneeling by the stairs -- which was why she hadn't switched on any lights -- and the place was now in near-darkness.

She pouted, realizing that the only illumination was the wall sconce by the stairs, faint and far away on the opposite side of the room. She wished her exposure could be backlit and her surrendered body displayed in bright, sharp relief to prying eyes lurking in the windows across the way. But she had a sinking feeling she'd be putting on a show for no one; so she closed her eyes and put one on in her head.

To an outside eye, looked like she was strung up and gagged like a captive. Which was close enough to the truth, and a pretty hot way to be seen, but what she liked even better was knowing inside herself that the gag was there by choice and the rest of her was free -- willing, resigned, open to her owner's punishments and perversions. And that, in her mind and her belly, was way fucking hotter... steamy hot and dripping wet.

Lost in all that, she hadn't heard her owner approach. She only sensed his return when he pushed her long black hair forward over her shoulder and took hold of the back of her collar. The ass-percussion began without a word,

tap-tap-tap-tap,

and from experience she quickly recognized the thin, flexible fiberglass rod.

Zo giggled into her gag, already picturing the fine scarlet lines it would draw on her flesh.

The

tap-tap-tap

danced playfully all around her wiggling cheeks, tantalizing in their unpredictability, before without further warning --

Whirrrr

-THWICK!

Zo sucked in her breath sharply, a recoil from electric impact across the top of her ass-crack. Quickly behind the stroke, the wave of agony rose and crested, she moaned through it, and the wave ebbed into ecstasy. Her pussy pulsated and gushed and she whimpered her way through that.

"By the way, I do note you booked drinks afterwards with your subbie club. A little 'snitch 'n bitch' session about your Doms, from what I hear. That's fine, I know that means there's no telling when you'll be home."

Andrés' grip tightened on her collar and Zo felt the teasing constriction on her throat.

"But it won't be as if I'll be sitting here reading Joyce and pining away for you. Since you're so keen on the app, you saw I have plans as well. 'Mitzi @Algonquin,' that's drinks with an old friend from Vegas."

Tap.

"But that's my nightcap..."

His firm, musical voice calmed her as the percussion resumed.

Tap-tap.

"Earlier, my 7:30, the cryptic 'Leticia M.' -- that's a newer acquaintance. She is a delightful young pro domme in Brooklyn. I'm doing a favor..."

Zo reset her feet, lengthened her legs, and evened out her breathing.

"Ms. Leticia has a client she says needs to be cured of his nagging homophobia. So her plan is to tie him up, beat him into submission, then spring a surprise -- force-feed him a taste of Dominant cock and punish him for each drop he doesn't swallow."

Tap-tap-tap.

"Generous of me to donate my time and sperm, I know. But it's really a bit more cynical of me. I'll ask a favor of her in return. Not to get ahead of ourselves, though... you'll find out all about that next week."

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

"Okay, deep breath," he said.

Zo sucked in air around the gag and through her nostrils, filling her lungs. Andrés tightened his fist, choking her with the collar, imprisoning her breath in her throat. She felt a prickly, anxious heat suffuse her face almost right away.

He went on, "Other than that, I just want you to know my pleasures will be nicely attended to in your absence. So your conscience can be clear to indulge your own..."

He added cheerfully, "Aren't I good to you?"

Whirrrr

-THWICK!

A sharp intake of breath. Followed by a muted squeal. The wave. Moan, pulse, gush, whimper.

He released the collar.

"

Huhhhhhh,

" Zo exhaled, wilting a little in her stance. Swimming in subspace. Smelling herself. Starting to sweat.

The next round of percussion began without a pause. This time the taps didn't dance around -- they told her exactly where the

coup de grâce

was going to land: razor-fine across the joint of her upper thighs and buttocks; and if the stroke was laid in strong enough, she'd feel the exquisite bite sink into her labia. She was pretty sure when that happened, she was going to squirt.

Then the tapping stopped. Her owner let the sense of quiet sink for a few moments before he went on.

"Here's where I was going with my evening plans,

puta

. I realize I have to restrict your marks to the real estate above the hemline, which will leave me somewhere short of satisfied. So between my two engagements this evening, I'm slotting you in the middle to do something for me that will square up our deal," he chuckled.

"Nngh?"

"If you agree, I'll pronounce you 'owned.' And we can get you on your way in a jiffy..."

He tightened his fist brutally on the back of the collar, this time capturing her breath before warning her to inhale.

Then he leaned close to whisper the proposition in her ear.

Zo heard what he said. She grunted. She smiled. She nodded

yessss.

Then, without a prelude of percussion --

Whirrrr-THWICK!!!

Soundlessly, she screamed.

"Just so," her owner said.

#_#

The stupid Lyft driver had approached the address in east Midtown on the wrong end of a one-way street. Zo growled at Mahmoud/2025 Silver Ford Taurus/Plate # ending-034, and got out there. Her Bull Declan's apartment was at the far end of the street. It didn't bother her that she would have to take the block-long walk of shame in her beat-up streetwalker dress and garish makeup --

that

part she loved -- it was that she was close to the "seven sharp" mark, and there'd be consequences if she was only a few second late to the doorbell.

As she took the cellphone out of her clutch to check the time, just then a text came in. It was her broker Darryl, saying he'd just gotten a tip about Yum! Brands, asking if he could dump her shares. "Fuck," she muttered.

>> Whatever,

she replied, not giving a shit at the moment. Last she checked, though, that was still about a $60,000 capital gain. So she thumbed out,

>> Sure

Midway up the block, Zo saw a cordoned-off worksite along her side of the street, six MTA workers in orange and yellow vests and hardhats, doing something around a steaming manhole. Her pussy pinged.

She had a special fetish for groups of men at work. She could trace it back, quite consciously in her head, to the sight of a neighbor dad working under the hood of his car in his front driveway, while other breadwinners from the cul-de-sac circled around him, watching and kibbitzing. One of that gaggle of docile masculinity was her own father. Zo remembered thinking at the time, the man under the hood, her bestie's dad, was handsomer and stronger than her own, and much nicer to her.

By college, the diffused meaning of that image had sharpened into a vivid scene: a work crew of suntanned, soiled and sweaty men would stop what they were doing upon seeing her sexy body, come at her, overpower and strip her, then drag her somewhere close by for a long and violent gang-rape. One involving all three of her holes, sometimes simultaneously. She tittered nostalgically.

As she walked directly past the crew, she exaggerated the click of her hooker heels on the pavement, coughed, and glared pointedly at the men. One of the workmen looked up and vaguely smiled, then looked back down at the manhole; the rest of them, now lost in the steam, never noticed her.

She screwed up her face in exasperation and moved on. Fuck me. Fuck

#MeToo.

She reached the top of the stoop with twenty-three seconds to spare. She caught her breath and composed herself as she looked at her phone clock showing 6:59. The instant it switched over, she pressed Declan's button. The next second, he buzzed her in. She climbed the stairs one flight and went down the hall to 2-J. She had her fist raised to knock when the door swung inward.

"Hey girl," the expat Corkman grunted, barely making eye contact before he grabbed her wrist, turned and pulled her inside. He wore brown leather pants, Doc Martens and a wife-beater. He swatted the door shut behind him as soon as she cleared the doorway.

Zo followed behind him on his beeline across the living room to the open doorway next to the TV and entertainment center. She looked past him through the doorway ahead, seeing the padded benches, suspended fuck-swing and the bare, stained mattress on the floor inside. And the gray foam blocks fitted into the spaces between the studs of the sheetrock-free wall. The soundproofing. That was going to come in handy later.

"Hey lad," she said, affecting his Irish brogue. "Faith 'n begora, it's nice to see you too --"

"Shut up yer gob." He stopped and turned enough for her to see his hand on his crotch. His face was flushed and serious. "I've got something ready for you right here, like. Ye don't wanna bollix this up, all yer bitch yappin'. Best if ye put yerself to work stripping'."

Zo frowned. She had business, and it had to be done before she went through that door. "Dec, wait, listen..."

The Paddy Bull grunted and turned away, tightening his grip on her wrist. With her other hand Zo tugged back on his forearm and stopped him. She fell to her knees, fumbled with his fly, and hauled out the Mick's massive, ramrod-stiff junk.

The next second its tip was in the back of her throat, the second after that, she slurped as her head bobbed back clear of his dick.