Master To You

I poked absently at the flashing yellow instant message button on my laptop and sipped my coffee. Like most evenings, I'd been drawn back to the keyboard, searching through Personal Ads, sifting through the lists of New Smiles and Backstage Passes I'd received from men I knew I'd probably never meet. This message was from a man half my age, from Russia. I deleted it without responding and reached for a cigarette.

Inhaling, I tried to remember when I had actually stopped making any effort to be part of the human race. It seemed like decades since I'd been on a real date. And even longer since I'd been with a man I hadn't met first through the 15 inch screen sitting on my lap. My world had become a series of cyber-dates and delete tabs; my social life a virtual mirage of reality.

The instant message button started to flash for a second time. Gut instinct told me it was the young Russian again, so I ignored it. A pop-up appeared, offering free shipping on prescription drugs with any orders over a hundred dollars. I considered clicking on it and seeing if they had anything to cure boredom, but hit the close key instead.

The message button still nagged at me, and I knew it wouldn't stop till I opened it, so I tapped it with a finger and read its contents. The sentence was direct and to the point.

"Read this bitch."

I lit another cigarette and scrolled down to the next line.

"Give me your phone number and don't even THINK about disobeying me."

I clicked on the profile tab, hoping for a picture of this arrogant, yet unsettlingly intriguing, new admirer. He hadn't uploaded a photo, and his personal profile wasn't very informative at all. Height, average. Weight, average. All the other details were left blank, giving me no idea who this man was, except that he lived in the same city as me, and went by the handle RUFF-N-UFF4U.

I chewed on a fingernail, debating whether to write back or not. I had no intention of giving him my phone number, but some clever response was definitely called for. I typed the words " bite me asshole" and sent it off. I pictured him reading it as I went to refill my coffee cup. When I'd returned, the button was flashing again. I jabbed at it. In big letters, it read,

" GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING PHONE NUMBER"

Coffee cup poised half way to my mouth, I read the message over and over. Almost without knowing it, I hit reply and typed in my phone number, then snapped the send button. I put down the cup and realized I was holding my breath. Robotic-like, I left the couch and stood near the phone. When it rang seconds later, I wasn't ready for the commanding voice I heard at the other end of the line . "You will address me as Sir, with a capital S in written form. Go to your bedroom ,take off your clothes, and tell me when you're done."

It wasn't as much an order as it was a challenge, and I took it, undressing along the way, leaving clothes in a trail until I was able to assure him that I was in the bedroom , and naked. He cracked out the next order, and I laid down on the comforter, face up.

There was a pause at his end, and the only sound was of his breathing, slow and effortless , whereas mine was becoming erratic as I waited on him. Finally he spoke, and I pressed the receiver hard to my ear, already missing the sound of his voice.

"Spread your legs and masturbate. Do it now."

My fingers moved mechanically to slide inside myself, and I felt the dampness there. I could still here him breathing, and my fingers matched his pace, measured and systematic. There was a part of my body that wanted to deny him, and myself, to this foreign state of pleasure, but an even bigger part of me just wanted to run with it, to savor it , to close my eyes and simply let it rule my senses. The gentle stimuli of his breath in my ear was driving me to an almost unbeknown height of passion, and I found myself hovering on the rim of an orgasm.

The words, "Stop masturbating, now" didn't register at first, and I continued the pleasing assault on my clitoris , just heartbeats away from reaching climax.

"Bitch, I said stop masturbating now"

This time I obeyed, removing my fingers and leaving my body hot with unspent need. I heaved into the mouthpiece, practically crying from the tension. I wasn't sure what kind of game I was involved in, but the rules were different from any other I'd played before.

This man, this entity, had control of my body via a phone line , and even though I wanted nothing more than to finish the job he'd first told me to start, I didn't have the courage to continue. I feared the wrath of a man I'd never even met.

"What is you arousal level right now bitch, and whenever I ask you that from now on, I want you to answer on a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest'.

The number eight escaped from my lips, and I waited once again for the sound of his voice. I didn't have to wait long

"Continue masturbating but don't cum until I give you permission. Is that understood?" I nodded, then whispered, "yes Sir" into the phone, my fingers returning to the hot spot between my legs.

"You will forget anything you've ever learned about vanilla relationships as of now." he said, " After today, you will only masturbate when I give you permission, and you only climax to please me. Is that understood?"

My mind couldn't even conceive what this man was referring to. Vanilla relationship? Masturbating with permission? I was lost, but my fingers were working magic on my body, and his voice seemed a necessity to me. I answered with a "yes Sir".

"What is your arousal level right now?"

"Nine Sir, I'm close to coming "

I expected him to tell me to stop, as he'd done before, but instead he ordered me to come, right at that moment, and to ask permission before allowing myself to do so.

I could feel the sensation imploding, and I whispered the words,

" please Sir, can I come?"

And with his breathy "yes", I did. My back arched and a sigh caught in my throat. It seemed like it could last forever, and I was in no rush for it to end. I closed my eyes and a smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

"Do you have anything to say to me?" he asked.

As though I had been rehearsing for this moment my entire life, I said the words I sensed he was waiting for. "Thank you Sir". There was a click, and the phone went dead in my hands.

Morning came way too soon. I had slept periodically, but always awoke with the sense that something was different; that my life had changed somehow without me even knowing it. And now I felt groggy as though I'd been drugged, almost like a hang over but without the nausea.

The alarm clock let off its distress signal, and I listened to a southern preacher spreading the word of god across the airwaves. I was still naked, telephone still clenched in my right hand. Little flashes of last nights behavior flooded in between the prayers and hymns.

I reviewed them all in my head as the Twelve Commandments were recited, waiting, almost expecting to feel a sense of shame or remorse. But those feelings never came. Instead I could feel my body heat rise; my armpits became damp and a tiny trail of sweat ran down my left breast. By the time he was at "Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Neighbors Wife", I had long stopped resisting the sweet ache between my thighs, and my fingers were carrying out the silent orders of the man on the phone from the night before.

I put down the receiver and pinched my own nipple, feeling a twinge of discomfort, then I pinched it harder. This time the pain shot deep inside me, down low, down to where my hand was. I imagined him there in the room, seeing him as an imposing figure, tall and dark, with eyes that never left my face as I performed for him. Pictured his daunting presence beside my bed , urging me on as my fingers moved faster and faster.

I bent one arm behind my back, as though it were handcuffed to the mattress. The preacher was moving on to the portion of his show where he invited his followers to send him a percentage of their pay check as evidence of their dedication to god. But the voice in my head was preaching a different tune, and I could practically feel him now as he positioned his body above me, his groin gnashing against mine.

I was just a few strokes away from reaching climax when the phone rang. I ignored it. He was inside of me now, his full weight pounding against me like a wave on the shore. In my head, I could hear him calling me filthy names, degrading me, vilifying me, his breath humid against my ear. The answering machine kicked in and I heard my short greeting right before the beep. Then a voice, a mans voice, hissing into the receiver.

" I know your masturbating right now. I can feel it. Weren't you planning on asking me permission first?" and then a pause. "Answer me right now."

My hand stopped in mid stroke and I fumbled for the phone. I squeezed the talk button, but didn't say a word.

" Don't ever ignore my call bitch. Do you understand me?"

I nodded yes, adding "I'm sorry Sir." He paused again, this time longer, as though immersed in something else all together. My body was tense with passion and the sound of his voice was just magnifying the effect; the urge to masturbate became almost unbearable.

"And this is the last time you'll masturbate without calling me first, understood? You're mine now, you will do as I say. And if you decide to disobey, there will be consequences. I demand your best behavior at all times. Got it?"

I nodded into the phone and apologized as if I understood what I'd done wrong.

" I have left my number in your email. Get off the phone and get onto your computer: retrieve the number, call me back, and ask permission. Do you understand?"

I wanted to challenge him; to just let my hand get back to that exquisite spot between my legs and find release . But never in my life had I been so completely and utterly vulnerable. His voice was sending a shockwave through my body, and leaving it alive with nerve endings, raw and hungry. Before I could answer "yes Sir", the line went dead in my hands.

I left the bed as though it were on fire. The computer light flashed to On and I waited impatiently for it to boot up. My hand strayed between my thighs as the information was loading, and then I remembered that my body wasn't my own personal playground any more. Its' owner was near a phone, waiting for me to call him and ask his permission to touch it.

I removed my hand and downloaded my messages, finding four, but only clicking on his. Armed with his phone number, I left the computer and punched in the unfamiliar codes. It rang three times before he answered.

"What is your arousal level slave?"

I didn't flinch at the word slave. It seemed fitting at this point, and besides, his voice was like a salve to a wound. Whatever the number had been before he'd asked that question, it doubled right after.

" It's a nine sir."

" A nine. Already?"

He sounded amused, and through the phone line I heard an email pinging its way into his message center. I didn't know how to respond to the question so I didn't. I could hear him typing now, ignoring me, leaving me alone with my hunger. Another woman, I wondered?

"So don't you have something you wanted to ask me?" he offered. " I don't have all day slut."

The word stung a bit, but not for long. My body had demands that my pride alone wouldn't fulfill. " Can I masturbate...Sir?"

"No.", and he hung up.

The next several months became an educational process for me. Learning to give up release and control. Allowing myself to be the puppet of a man who's appetite for the extreme seemed to have no limits.

When he called, I answered. When he ordered me naked, I undressed immediately and turned on the webcam for him. If he told me to go to work without panties, and masturbate in the company bathroom, I didn't ask why, I just obeyed. If he demanded I go to the bar and pick up a stranger to have sex with, I did it that very day, and when he told me to go online and order sex toys, then take pictures of myself using them, I made it a priority.

As badly as I wanted to say no to him , I couldn't. My behavior had truly become that of a slave, and he had without a doubt become my Master; his for the using, whenever he felt the urge to use me.

The whole experience should have been a nightmare, but I was reveling in it. On the odd day he didn't call or message me online, I felt lonely and distracted, out of sorts with my own body. He had become a necessity to me, like food or water.

I found myself missing days from work, and even when I did show up, my heart wasn't in my job. I only felt alive when his voice was in my ear, urging me to do the things that nice girls don't. And I did them, because pleasing him had become more important to me then anything else on earth.

We still hadn't met: I hadn't even seen his face in picture or on cam; but I was his property, and for some strange reason, that was a very comforting realization.

It was Thanksgiving Day, and the idea of spending it with family and friends should have made me happy, but I hadn't heard from Sir in two days now. I was terrified that he had grown tired of me, found someone else. The idea of not being allowed to serve him anymore was devastating to me. I felt utterly and completely lost.

The coffee pot beeped out its readiness and I poured myself a cup, lighting a cigarette and staring at my computer screen. He still wasn't online. I felt a tear boil up in the corner of my eye and then escape onto the keyboard. I reached for my cell to check messages. There were three, but none were from him.

One was from my mother, reminding me to bring extra cranberry sauce, as she'd forgotten to pick some up; my girlfriend Kim asking if I want to get together on the weekend for a movie-night, and whining about how I'd been ignoring her for months now; and one from my a man I'd dated months ago, still begging for another chance.

I had just flipped my cell phone shut when it rang. It was him, I just knew it. I answered it on the first ring and waited to hear the usual command. But instead of telling me to get naked, he told me it was moving day for me. I was to pack a bag, get in my car, and drive to an address at the east side of town.

I didn't ask questions and I didn't hesitate. My bags were packed and my Mustang was heading down the driveway within ten minutes.

I didn't give a thought to my friends or family that would be wondering why I hadn't shown for Thanksgiving dinner. Ignored the fact that they would be worried sick, thinking I'd been kidnapped, or worse. Instead, I drove through town like a woman possessed. My only mission was to get to him, to see his face, to finally become his for real.

I had no idea what my future would hold with this man, or even what to expect once I got there. Our interactions to date had been focused purely on pleasure, on control of my body and my mind, and of his sadistic need to push them both to their virtual limit.

I'd never dared ask him a personal question, so I really knew nothing about him. And as I pulled into his driveway, I realized that it didn't matter. There was nothing he could do that would overpower my need to be with him. No punishment he could inflict cruel enough to extinguish the desire I had to please him. He owned me, in every sense of the word, and as I stood in front of his door, I knew my life would never be the same.

Before I could knock, he opened the door. Suddenly the voice had become a reality. He was there, in front of me, his eyes as black as his hair; shrouded in a sexual darkness.

"Hello Sir" I offered, fidgeting with the cuff on my blouse. "Its so great to finally meet you. For real I mean."

I let out a nervous laugh, not certain of the protocol involved in meeting a man who's already possessed your body a hundred times over the telephone.

Sir didn't return my smile. He kept his body at a distance from mine, as though he were hesitant to actually meet me. My eyes dropped to the floor, suddenly embarrassed, and vividly aware of the fact that he hadn't spoken to me yet.

I was just about to ask if he'd had a change of heart, when he stepped forward and gripped my shoulders, forcing my body back until I was pinned against the front door. His lips took mine and he inhaled my gasp of surprise. One of his hands found my left breast, and he squeezed it through the sheer fabric, teasing my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

I'm certain he felt my body shift from tense to lucid, my breath from fast, to erratic. My form melted beneath his hands, and I leaned into him, our hips meeting. He pulled me away from the door, kicked it shut, and backed me up against a wall, his fingers returning to knead at my breast. The other hand captured my throat, squeezing it, and I clawed at it as I felt myself grow dizzy. He would release the pressure longe enough for me to get some air, then hold it firmly again as he tore at the buttons on my blouse, each one falling silently to the rug.

Lips moved down my body, finding a nipple; a small cry escaped my lips as he bit down. I felt his fingers tighten around my neck, while others found their way under my skirt, and he stroked me through my panties. I dampened. "Open your legs". When I didn't respond, his teeth assaulted my nipple again. My legs parted. He had won.

I didn't move from the bed when he stood to get dressed. I kept my eyes shut, head down. I heard him light another cigarette and I inhaled the smoke he blew in my direction.

"I'm leaving now, but I'll be back." I opened my eyes and watched him as he dressed. His confidence and arrogance was killing me.

" Get washed up and shave yourself. When you're done, kneel by the couch and wait for me" Footsteps, then the front door closing. He was gone.

I tested my legs over the side of the bed ,drawing in heavy breaths, the air still infected with his cigarette smoke. Touching my neck softly, almost brail-like, I retraced where his hand had at times almost crushed my vocal cords, cutting off my oxygen to the point of near suffocation.

My face flushed as I played back the last hour in my head. Being lifted and slammed down on the bed, my panties yanked off around my ankles, fingers exploring their contents; all the while his teeth continuing their attack on my breasts.

The sound of his belt being pulled free from his jeans; the feel of the leather as he strapped it around my wrists and secured me to the headboard. My passion had turned to fear.

I'd started to cry at that point. He had told me once on the phone that he liked it when his subs cried. It meant they had accepted the inevitable, and that excited him. If this were true, then I had indeed become His.

He had taken his hand from my throat and licked one finger, placing it on my mouth, rubbing my lips, urging them to part and allow his entry. They did, and his finger probed the soft circle of my mouth, over my teeth, stroking the velvety smoothness of my tongue.

He straddled my face, his hand tangled in my blonde hair, guiding my head back and forth, not stopping even when I'd begun to cough and sputter, tears coursing down my face. He had continued to ride my mouth, his hips moving slowly, fingers cruelly twisting at a nipple whenever I didn't respond to his liking. As he reached climax, he pushed all his weight forward to make certain I swallowed every drop. When he was satisfied that he had used me to his complete and utter satisfaction, he had stood up to light a cigarette, smoking it next to my bed. Occasionally he'd run his fingertips down the length of my body, smiling as it trembled at its' touch.

I had asked him to untie me now please: he had responded by smacking me once across the face. Then he left the room, returning minutes later with a bottle of beer from the fridge.