I now know how it feels to be a new born baby. I savour that first rush of fresh air that fills my lungs and pulls me teetering and gasping back from the very edge of unconsciousness. The experience of almost drowning in a woman is a unique one. That warm, wet pussy is a weapon of incredible potency, especially when used in this way, against a man secured by the leather restraint belt that she has strapped me into. I recall my body bucking wildly in the throes of near suffocation, fighting desperately for air as my mistress roughly rode me, her powerful thighs clamped around my head, her gorgeous wet sex thrust down hard across my nose and mouth. It is delightful torture, but torture nonetheless. Curiously, with each of these imaginative torments, I find that I love her more.
This latest one reminds me of those demonstrations at fairs where the rider attempts to stay on an unbroken horse that bucks wildly as it attempts to unseat its mount. In this case it is an unequal contest, Lady Athelnia an expert horsewoman pitted against me, a man on his back, his arms tightly restrained, pinioned to his sides. I realise just how close I have been to suffocation, my eventual release coming only as my strength faded with the falling oxygen level. My head still swims from that lack of oxygen. It is a combination of that and the strange unworldliness that my deep submission to Lady Athelnia always brings in the aftermath of our sessions. The vast majority would regard this effect as a penalty, I am coming to regard it as a gift to compensate for the complete surrender that I bestow upon her, the surrender that she desires to allow her to achieve the satisfaction that her delightful cries are ample proof of, satiating her lust for domination, temporarily at least, for I know it is a raging lust that cannot ever be satiated totally.
She unbuckles the straps of the cuffs that have secured my wrists and orders me to get down onto my knees in the centre of the room. I kneel on the circular oriental rug, another gift bestowed upon her from the sea captain. She has explained to me that he is a handsome man of around her own age who clearly desires her greatly, but wants her in the manner that a man conventionally wants a woman. His bewilderment growing inexorably as she rejects his blandishments. She will only ever have a man on her own terms. Terms that are anathema to every red blooded male...except me.
She stands before me, the narrow strip of auburn hair that extends up from the lips of her labia which is now immediately in my line of sight. Very quickly my raging tumescence returns, my cock standing out horizontally before me, the thick veins encircling the throbbing shaft. Extending the toe of her right boot she places it beneath my engorged penis. Playfully she moves her foot so that my cock bounces up and down, an action that seems to amuse her. The highly polished black leather of her boot contrasts sharply with my pale pink flesh. Drawing up a chair she sits before me, placing the narrow pointed heel of the boot on my chest, thrusting it firmly so that it digs painfully deep into the flesh around my left nipple, twisting her leg this way and that, savouring the soft whimpers that I emit as the metal tip of the elongated heel presses into my body. My eyes are inevitably drawn to her sex, the luscious pink lips glossed with her juices are fully exposed now by her parted legs, both mocking and inviting me at the same time.
" You want to come?" The question is clearly a rhetorical one. After such a period of abstinence an answer would be completely superfluous.
"Do it then. Come across my boot."
Completing the act takes me mere seconds. The combination of our play and the sight of her naked body, small pert breasts with jutting hard nipples and dripping wet sex is more than sufficient stimulation. I grip my shaft and jerk it back and forth no more than a couple of dozen times. My scream is involuntary and it fills the room as the orgasm engulfs my senses.. The first looping jet of thick, white semen, expelled by the sublime feeling of the contraction of my muscles flies through the air, reaching almost to the top of her boot shaft just beneath the neat bow of the tied off lace. It is followed by further skeins of cum that trickle like a sluggish gooey river, down towards the criss crossed laces of her instep. She regards the results of my emission briefly, almost with disdain, as if it is nothing to do with her rather than a direct result of her control.
"What a mess you have made of your mistress' boot. I think that you had better lick it all off slave. Make sure you clean every drop, then you may repolish my boot."
This is only my second orgasm in several weeks and the result of this long period of denial is that I have produced an awful lot of semen. Gloopy and dense there isn't much taste to it, but I find the texture unpleasant but I nevertheless get down and obediently lick every last drop from the gleaming, pristine black leather of her boot. Fetching a cloth I polish the boot until there is no sign of the despoiling that my action has resulted in. I notice that she talks less at times such as this, in the aftermath of our play. Despite our relationship with its very clear divide between owner and owned our conversation always flows easily. At first I was circumspect but, as our relationship has grown I have become less so. Now I am completely happy to disclose my innermost private thoughts. As she listens I get the impression that the things I reveal to her are being mentally filed away meticulously for future reference.
It is now mid October. The climate of the province is governed largely by its proximity to the sea, a huge warm blanket that has soaked up all the heat of the summer sun, now giving it back in the form of benign weather that lasts well into late autumn, except when the wind turns towards the north drawing the cold winds down the valleys between the high mountain ranges that are already capped with white and easily visible even from thirty leagues or more, a league being the distance that a man might walk in one hour. The mountain range is the border between the provinces of Schranzenburg and Frankia that lies beyond this mountain range. Traditionally there has been good relations between these two provinces. Frankia is landlocked and much of the trade between the neighbours is in the products that are brought across the seas by the traditionally maritime people of Schranzenburg.
Lady Athelnia informs me that the following weekend brings the annual celebration of the foundation of the province some four centuries previously. Although the actual anniversary date is the twenty first of October the feasting and festivities last for several days. My mistress says that tomorrow a party from Frankia will arrive at the castle to join in with these celebrations, amongst them her lifelong friend Lady Sabine.
"I think that you will like Sabine, we are very much alike in so many ways. I am sure that my ownership of you will be a source of amusement to her. I may even offer you to her. Knowing her character I am sure she would enjoy that."
Her comment is uppermost in my mind I watch as the party arrive at the castle gates. It is a three day ride from the border with Frankia. Sabine is instantly obvious, the tall, imperious lady seated on the chestnut mare and flanked by several uniformed flunkies is, despite the arduous journey, looking cool and refined, her dark hair tied back and hanging in a long pony tail that reaches almost to her slim waist. She is clearly a woman of high birth, directing her entourage with sweeps of her gloved hand. She slips down from the saddle, standing beside her mount. The afternoon sun is reflected in mobile pools on her black leather riding breeches, flared generously at the hips, designed to accommodate the movement as she rides. She directs the flunkies with sweeps of her riding crop. She gives the impression of a woman used to being in control, both of the situation and also of those who attend her.
Later I am summoned to Lady Athelnia's chamber. She has a small hand bell that she uses expressly for this purpose. When she rings it my standing instruction is to make my way at once to her to attend to whatever her needs may be. Over the last couple of weeks I have taken on the duties of a manservant. I realise that I am being trained in this function and ponder the bewilderment this would bring back home. A warrior subjected to the whims of a woman, they would be scandalised by such a situation. For the most part my instruction is good natured. Occasionally the odd swat of the riding crop might draw my attention to some perceived deficiency. Generally this is good natured, almost playful, the real punishment reserved for those times when we are together in the dungeon in the bowels of the castle.
Arriving at Lady Athelnia's chamber I hear the sound of female laughter from within. The two ladies are discussing old times. As I enter I drop to my knees in the manner that I have been taught. It is to acknowledge the gulf in social status between the highest strata in society and my own. As an owned slave I represent the very bottom level, it is a complete reversal of my own society where a seasoned warrior occupies the very pinnacle of reverence.
"Go to the kitchen and fetch us Koffe."
She speaks coldly with none of the informality that has become a feature of our interaction over the last couple of weeks, ever since my surrender at the edge of the forest on our border. I understand that she may feel that such freedom of expression of the sort that had crept into our relationship of late may well be seen as inappropriate by Lady Sabine. For this reason I don't take it to heart. I inform Marta the head cook of the lady's instruction and wait for the young kitchen assistant to prepare their drinks. They are placed on a silver salver and I hurry back to Lady Athelnia's chamber, taking great care that none of the beverage should spill. Placing the tray upon the table between the two ladies I bow and prepare to withdraw. However my owner points to a spot in the corner.
