Ira's Journey

© William D'Ark 2022

Some years ago I decided to enter a lifestyle writing contest. But rather than develop a story from sheer imagination I decided to real life experiences drawn from real live relationships and build them into a complete story. The result is a series about Kira, Master's slave, told from her own perspective.

Enjoy!

"Thy wet slippy sex

Swollen ruby red

Bespeaks a wisdom of its own.

A flowing open gateway,

Calling, calling...

Sourcelight, fireheat, cradle-home."

The security checks were over. The waiting and long lines were past. Breakfast meal served, movie running, passengers settled in for the cross-country journey at thirty five thousand feet.

It was still so early! Looking around the cabin Kira made a mental note of the many empty seats. They had an entire row of seven all to themselves, something unheard of not long before. Knowing her companion had been patient she raised the two arm rests between their three window seats. She stretched and yawned then gently laid down across the middle seat, her head in his lap. A soft smile arose on the face above, though he continued with his paper without looking down. Kira, nonetheless satisfied, closed her eyes and waited.

"Open one," he finally said to her.

Ah, at last.

Kira had been so hoping he would ask. She was the only one to hear the quiet order but it didn't really matter if anyone overheard. It never mattered. It wasn't really a request after all. Whatever Master said was rule when they were together like this. Kira lived to serve and Master's skill was unlike any other, commanding her freedom, her generous giving, her wanton wisdom ways.

Without looking down she deftly unfastened the breast-bone button of the crisp white shirt she had tucked into skin tight jeans. She could feel the shirt gape a bit, could feel a hint of cool air at her belly below the black bra she wore. She closed her eyes feigning sleep and waited. He turned a page or two of the paper before his voice came into her ears again.

"Reach inside now," the voice said. "Bring up the energy."

She felt her stomach squirm. Why had he waited so long when there were so many opportunities at home, in the car, the airport lounge? Sighing and smiling, eyes still closed, she slipped an entire hand inside her bra, stroking the so-smooth skin that felt round and soft against her palm. The fingers probed. Thumb and forefinger closed on a nipple already hot and hard. Seconds later, pinching, pulling, twisting, an electric switch opened sending jagged currents racing to belly, cunt, the insides of thighs, behind knees, down the calves to her toes. She pursed her lips and blew out a long breath of air. Tightening her buttocks, she gently rocked her hips back and forth, back and forth. She lay in his lap squeezing the labia and her now-humming clit between lean muscled thighs feeling the familiar tension building quickly inside her sex. She breathed in again and let the air out slowly. Eyes closed. Pinching, pulling, twisting. Hips rocking, pressure building. Could they see her, the others seated nearby? Was someone watching? Maybe the older gentleman sitting behind and to the right? Or the flight attendants? Yes, yes please make it so, she thought. I am for them anyway. This is for him and me and them, this pleasure. Let them watch me play. I will fuck them all if they ask. I can fuck them all. I have fucked them all. I am for them.

"You may not cum," the voice said from a thousand miles away. Master was with her and his voice was firm and low, clear in intonation. "I want to watch your pleasure. To feel the heat. You may not cum."

"Too late..." Kira softly said, her voice pinched. The words were more a plea than a reply. Her face had crunched into orgasm while her body jumped the gap, erupting once, twice into heat and a rush of manna moist between her legs. She rolled her head side to side in his lap. A few moments more and she spoke again, just at the edge of hearing, "Ohh." Her eyes opened to receive Master's gaze. "I'm sorry," she said. "It came on so fast. I'm sorry." She could feel Master's erection pressing against the back of her skull.

"Very bad girl," he said, and her heart fluttered.

He stared down at her for...an eternity? "Very bad girl," he said again. But the voice also told her he was considering. After a quiet moment he said, "Surely we need a punishment. We can't have you going off in all directions at once, so quickly, can we? We need some discipline. Some appropriate punishment."

Kira loved how he spoke in the plural. Everything Master did was for them both. It was a flow, an exchange, this lifestyle of surrender. Master knew that Kira's pleasure was a wellspring, an archetypal source. It was the origin of his power, of her power. It created a dynamic subliminal energy radiating out from her to everyone nearby. More than metaphor, she understood that her pleasure was the foundation of all creativity and of every tangible thing in the space around them. She and others like her, those rare goddesses whose generous pleasure served as a backdrop to all corporeal experience, were touchstones for everyone else. So she had been taught. So she had learned.

Master made his decision. "Go to the lavatory," he said. "Take off the bra. When you come back to us I want you to walk the aisle. To share with them. Make sure they see what you are offering."

She was up in a flash. God but this was what she lived for. To be shared. To be put on display. To be commanded, knowing that it was all about her pleasure. That whatever Master commanded came from a wise knowing place. That he would not, could not, place her in any real jeopardy. And that the ambiguity surrounding 'real' was the basis for an intense and deeply moving mystery between them. It was the basis for her willingness to do anything and everything that was asked of her, knowing from long experience the incredible delicious reward she would soon claim via her compliance.

Without buttoning the shirt she walked the length of the plane towards the aft compartments. Open front or not she knew that the black bra stood out clearly beneath the cotton shirt he had chosen for her earlier that morning. A few of the others stared as she walked by. Some of them smiled. She was especially gratified to find a pretty younger woman sitting nearby who caught her eye. Perhaps that one understood. But it didn't really matter whether any of them knew or approved. It was for him, and her, and all of the rest that she gave so freely of her clandestine self. Her sensuality? Her sexuality? That erotic, vital, life force energy? Ah, they were an ancient form of wisdom demanding renewal, rebirth, honor and reward. Demanding to be shared.

She closed the lavatory door and locked it. Ordinarily she would never have done so. For this was another thing Master had taught her--that someone might unintentionally open the door while she was inside. In fitting rooms and restrooms more numerous than memory allowed, she had revealed herself to the others. Sometimes the door would be open

just so

as she slowly undressed for a makeshift accidental audience. Other times the door would be left unlocked in case someone might burst in upon her, forcing her to turn in faux-shock, exposing herself completely to the surprised onlooker. Bared breasts. A naked backside bent at the waist. Legs open wide. Wet fingers. Soupy cum. The memories of these electric experiences made her shiver with delight.

But this day she needed the extra light afforded by a locked compartment door. The overheads came on and she turned towards the mirror, quickly pulling the sleeveless shirt away from her body, unfastening the front clasp of her bra. Looking in the mirror she rubbed at the skin where unkind elastic had left its mark across her sternum and beneath her full, rounded breasts. Those red lines were so ugly. She stroked the marks to hasten return of the natural creamy-pink tone. Then she could proudly offer up those breasts for others to see. For him to enjoy, to touch. As her

gift

. Her precious gift to them all, anyone else who might see. She pulled at the dark nipples to make them longer, firmer -- and quickly caught her breath. Another orgasm was too close at hand. If she came again she would be obliged to tell Master and this time he would seriously disapprove.

She did not want to invite a level two punishment in that closed public space.

Slipping the airy shirt back over her torso, she experimented with the buttons. Hmm, that one was too high... covering most of her chest. But the other one was too low... creating a too-bold gape that looked whorish. When would designers get a clue, she wondered. Women's shirts required different spacing if the bodies within were to be properly displayed. She decided on the more conservative look and left the upper button fastened. Let Master undo it if he so decided.

When

he so decided.

Looking at her reflection, she was pleased. This was another thing she had fought hard to learn -- to appreciate the picture she presented on its own terms, absent any personal judgement she might be inclined to bring. The shirt was not transparent thin, but the dark areolas and tight nipples were easy to see beneath the clingy fabric. Turning sideways she could also see the natural fall of her breasts in the open armholes and pressed against the frontpiece of the shirt. More than a hint of creamy pink skin was in view. It was perfect. Her mantra was simple: a single thin layer of cloth lay between her and them, between her and him. Nothing more. Anything more revealing, she might as well be naked. The thrill of that daring truth rose up as another wave of heat pounding against her womb. She preferred to live this way whenever she could, a bare minimum between her and the eyes of all the many others hungry for her gifts. Yet... for all the allure and power of her mantra, Master sometimes dressed her in layers, she mused. Because Master delighted in the slow delicious torture of peeling the cloth away one layer at a time.

Raising the toilet lid to pee she thought to check whether the stall door was locked. Of course propriety sometimes demanded privacy. Pity no one could have stumbled in on her bare-breasted musings but they would be given their chance to enjoy her. Opening her jeans she wondered if the panties should come off too. No, better let Master decide. He was especially imaginative with panties, she remembered.

She folded the lacy bra into her back pocket as the noisy toilet flushed part of her away.

Walking down the aisle slowly, returning to her seat, eye contact was important. Eye contact would let the others know she welcomed their gaze. But she was disappointed. Too few noticed the subtle sway of her breasts or the fact that they were plainly in view. People were engaged in reading or dozing or gazing zombielike at the silent miming monitors. Only the pretty young women seated nearby seemed alert to her change of attire. Their eyes met and Kira smiled invitingly, an unconscious habit.

Standing next to Master, Kira opened the overhead bin as if to locate a book in her carry-on. This gave plenty of opportunity to lift up her arms, to feel the shirt rise with her in a delicious teasing way she knew he enjoyed. Could the others see the undersides of her bare breasts? Were they studying the pressure of her nipples pushed hard against the cotton? Master was, this she knew. His hand absentmindedly caressed her backside and outer thighs as she strained overhead. The back of his hand found her exposed tummy and stroked the narrow width of it, then higher up on the return stroke across her plexus until at last his fingers grazed the soft underbelly of her breasts offered up for just this sort of play.

A big smile on her face, book in hand, she wormed her way past Master's knees, sliding soft breast flesh across his forehead. Her peripheral vision confirmed that the pretty young woman knew exactly what was going on. Yet Master seemed not to pay a lick of attention. She sat down against the window so that the empty third seat was between them. A moment later she shifted her butt so she could lie once again with her head in Master's lap.

Kira lay on her side with book open pretending to read. After a while Master's hand began to stroke her torso. Also pretending to read, his fingers and palm ran back and forth along the length of her outstretched form, shoulder to thigh then back again, skillfully locating the sensitive parts, working a combination of shiatsu and sensual massage at her hip, her midsection, her shoulder and arm, her breast and nipple. She recognized the pattern involved. His training. She drifted away in reverie until he shifted positions so that his hardening cock, covered in layers of cotton and denim, lay directly in front of her face. Then his hand went to the front of her shirt.

He began to slowly undress her.

As punishment, she had expected that he would command her to expose her breasts. To sit beside him and begin with the topmost button, gradually working down until the entire shirt was open and he had access to everything inside. She had done this on countless occasions to the attentive gaze of both friends and strangers. But now he surprised her by beginning lower down as she lay across the seats, his cock so hard and close yet impossibly far away, her body absolutely quivering from his touches. He slowly unfastened the shirt, bottommost button first, gradually pulling the fabric apart so her belly and torso were exposed. At each juncture he slipped his hand inside the shirt, teasing the skin and muscles, working passion-pulsed pressure points as he moved ever closer to the ultra-sensitive breasts and nipples. Finally he was there, his strong hand stroking soft hungry flesh before pulling at her teats, alternating hard and soft, delicate and rough, skin sometimes covered then completely absolutely revealed for anyone to see. Girl skin. Classic artsy pale cool naked... skin.

She closed her eyes and rode the waves of his attention. Whatever he wanted. Whenever he asked. The book slipped from her hand. The thrill of being given to them all a piece at a time washed across her mind. Sometimes he would stop, covering that skin if a passerby came too near -- or simply to give her a little recovery time -- otherwise he worked her body relentlessly, without pause, fingers in delicate places till she worried her squirming form or some unplanned outcry from the sharp pleasure-pain coursing through her... like

THAT

... would cause heads to turn.

Instead she struggled to capture the gasps, the soft moans. She quelled the vibrations, the quivering. The squirming. Too much attention? He would have to stop.

Unthinkable.

She felt slippery oil gathering between her legs just as his cock grew larger in front of her face. Desperate to have it inside her, she blew hot breath at the layers of fabric. He could not feel it but the breathing would diffuse her own panicky flood of pre-orgasmic force.

"You may not cum," he cantered low and audible, knowing how he was building the pressure. Knowing that with every swipe of her breast, every tease of fingernail against nipple tip, every unending tug of areola-in-palm, every twisting fiery pinch of nipple between thumb and forefinger, he took her closer, closer... to some inevitable generous soaking wet release.

Yet, bringing her to the point-of-no-return time after time, he would back away at the absolute perfect moment between don't dare stop and too much, too much.

Oh he is so good, she gasped. He felt it in her, the tension, the pressure-cooker orgasm growing, his gauging just how far to push the sensations based on years learning the menu of her subtle movement, her noise and response. Theirs was a sensual symphony and her music the simple essential expression of vitality and newly formed living. Yes she was reborn every moment her body came within his grasp. She would be his until... Well, until she was not. In the meantime she stretched and purred and silently urged him on.

"Turn over," the voice outside her head suddenly said.

Kira's eyes opened and she rolled onto her back, feeling the shirt slide open. Master was eyeing the aisles and decided to employ one of the airline blankets. It flared open in the air above her, settling across her chest and legs.

"Take off the shirt," he said. "Unfasten your jeans."

She looked up at him wide-eyed to make sure she had heard correctly. "Off completely?" she asked.

He nodded, that familiar smile at his lips.

She had never been asked to be quite so bold in such a closed public space. In broad daylight, that is. Off completely..?

Without hesitation, she raised up beneath the blanket and with only a few shrewd moves pulled the fabric entirely away. The feel of the woolen blanket on her sensitive skin was unexpected and... delightful. She let the sensation wash over her body, feeling beautiful, vulnerable and very very daring. How many women had been this way before? What tiny fraction had even fantasized about being bare skinned, wet, waiting to be pleasured-to-death in such a setting? She found her own hands wandering over her breasts and nipples, astonished by her own bravado and yet intent on taking in every moment as if it would never come again.

She lay back down, heart pounding, breathing suddenly harsh and dry. She tugged at the belt and closures of her jeans, pulling open the fly apart so moist heat -- her soaking pantied cunt -- rushed up beneath the soft cover and bathed her.

Feeling this sudden warmth, she relaxed a bit. Master knew what he was doing. Yes, he constantly challenged her. He always found something new for her to experience. And he always knew, he

always knew

what that edgy juicy learning should be. Nothing would ever turn her away from him, from this, from the fundamental intimate knowingness complete surrender could bring. Closing her eyes once more she placed her hands at her sides. Totally passive and willing, she lay there waiting for the next phase of this wonderful... punishment.

Years before he had told her that any punishment for misbehavior should be designed in much the same way his erotic assignments were. All of it should be supremely pleasurable. Yet he also said that punishment was meant to be challenging, that it should take her into uncharted territory in some way that she would remember. So that she would choose to obey rather than rebel. She knew she should not have cum without his permission before -- this was a fundamental rule in the relationship between them. Yes, Kira deserved to revel in sensory delights, in whatever way she chose. But it was up to Master to keep his finger on the ebb and flow of all that energy flooding out from her into the world. And to decide when and where and with whom the ritual release of orgasmic energy should be enjoyed. Her pleasure was very much like a basic principle of nature but it required discipline if it was to be properly employed. Sometimes she had gone days without a release as part of some firm unyielding discipline. Sometimes she had been commanded to give it all away in a single evening -- with such frequency and force that she was left spent and empty, nearly unconscious at the end, like a well that has been drawn on too frequently and needs to recharge. On those occasions it was his turn to be attentive, nurturing, fawning, intent on renewing her body, mind and spirit. And in those times he often took her into the nether-world of deepest surrender, whispering her name alongside the list of timeless goddesses in cultures past and present whose characteristics she emulated. In words and deeds he shared crystal-clear insights into her own hidden esoteric self. Woman as touchstone. Woman as gateway. Woman as source.