In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.
* * * * *
The pumps worked, though. Five weeks later, Master was at a recording studio, laying down tracks for a new album, when I rang his mobile phone.
"Hello?" Master responded to the chirp in his pocket.
"Master, are you alone?" I asked, hearing my voice sounding breathless and excited. "Is it all right to talk? I thought you'd want me to call you straightaway."
Master replied, "I'm not actually alone, but talk anyway."
"Master, it's started," I said. "I suppose I didn't really believe it would happen, but you were right as usual. It is what I've been hoping for. What we have both been hoping for. Unfortunately, it couldn't have started at a worse time."
"What were you doing when you found out?" Master asked.
"Reaching up to write on a blackboard!" I exclaimed. "I suddenly realised there were stains on the front of my blouse. Fortunately, my blouse has a pattern so hopefully nobody noticed; it's so unlikely. But it was hard to concentrate on rhyme schemes in Shakespeare's sonnets, I can tell you."
"I can imagine," Master responded.
"I had to run off to the toilet in a hurry. I had to use a student toilet because it was closer," I giggled. "My breasts have been feeling a bit tender these last few days. I was hoping it would start at home, preferably in the bath."
"Never mind, Meat," Master said. "Did you have your breast shells with you?"
"Yes, Master. I have them in my bag all the time, just as you told me to," I assured Master. "I managed to save a little in my right shell and quite a lot in the left one. I have tutorials this afternoon. It's not going to be easy keeping my mind on anything but my tits."
"Save your milk for me," Master ordered. "I'll drink it when I get home. And well done, Meat, my darling. I can't wait to taste it."
"Me, neither, Master," I said with pride. "I can't wait to suckle you."
So what's it like being a lactating woman who doesn't have a baby to take the lion's share of the milk? Just feeling Master unwrapping my swollen breasts is enormously exciting. You feel really close to a man who has taken your milk. Above all, it made me more of Master's slave.
And, Master insisted, "The extra nourishment from drinking your milk gives me the strength to fuck you more often!"
We had quiet evenings together, during which Master was cradled in my arms suckling hot, sweet milk from my tits, and this was an unforgettable experience for me. Master used to lie on the sofa with his head on my knees, and I would lean forward and guide my nipples down towards Master's mouth, my face a mixture of peace and excitement.
Master had plenty of practice suckling a slave, and he warned me that it can be quite a challenge to make the thicker, sweeter after-milk pour into Master's eager mouth. Master's method involved lightly slapping my breasts to help to prepare me for suckling. A variation of the method include Master adding tight clips to the nipples so there's a painful build-up of milk, which resulted in a spectacular spray when Master took the clips off.
Of course, Master felt that in this service, as in most submissive services I rendered to him, that a little verbal abuse helps, too. "I think we should buy a puppy," Master would tell me. "A boy. You'd be able to feed it, and when it grows up we can teach it to fuck you."
"Oh, Master!" I would respond, secure that Master was not interested in sharing any aspect of my submission with anyone or anything.
Master even let me share the big master bed so Master could drift off to sleep holding my breasts, though I had to get up and move to my own little cot as soon as Master was asleep.
My breasts were much bigger now, with a slight droop. They were so big, in fact, that I could suck my own nipples, which Master told me he always loved to watch a woman do. Although I felt strange and silly, sucking my own breasts, Master assured me that the sight of my own milk running down my chin made me look more exciting and loveable than ever to Master.
I became fascinated by the taste and texture of my own milk, in the difference between the thin colostrum and the richer, yellower after-milk. I just could not leave my own tits alone. When I was reading, even a complicated scholarly article dealing with some esoteric aspect of Elizabethan literature, my fingers would stray idly to my chest.
I also became fascinated by clothes. Before I met Master, I was barely conscious of what I wore; now I was always looking through catalogues and wandering round shops, searching for a more comfortable nursing bra, or an evening dress that showed off my swollen breasts, or a suit to wear when I lectured, so as to minimise my more voluptuous figure.
As much as Master enjoyed drifting off into milky dreams on a stream of my breast milk, Master really loved making me empty my breasts with my hands or the pumps, and then give my milk to Master in formal rituals. Breakfast is the milkiest meal, and often provided Master an opportunity for ways to use my breast milk that had been collected.
One Sunday morning, Master sat in a silk dressing gown, and rang a bell to summon me. I appeared at the dining room door, and curtsied, dressed in a black-and-white vinyl maid's uniform, carrying a tray loaded with a pot of fresh Arabica coffee, a bowl of corn flakes, and a crystal jug of my own milk, collected over several days, kept frozen and defrosted that very morning.
I put the tray on the big oak table in front of Master, who leaned forward to watch as I pulled down the bodice of the uniform, displaying breasts almost too big for me to handle, and tugged a final spray from each nipple into the jug. The fine jets of milk gave audible hisses and left little bubbles that disturbed the creamy surface of the milk, showing up stark against the black vinyl of my outfit. I bit my lower lip in concentration as I worked on my own body, distorting my breasts and their now huge, dark nipples. When I finished, I poured a coffee for Master, and added my milk to both that and the cereal. Master had put his semen in my coffee a couple of times, so it was a fair exchange.
Human breast milk is very sweet, making corn flakes taste a bit like sugar-frosted cereal.
My eyes never left Master's during the whole performance. I liked to watch Master consuming my milk, and though it is strictly against the rules for a slave to look at a master's face, Master indulged me. After all, as Master frequently reminded me, Master could always punish me for insolence afterwards.
"That was delicious," Master said as I went through the ritual of licking the bowl clean. "You're not just a pretty cunt, are you, Meat?"
"If you say so, Master," I responded.
"You're also a useful pair of fun bags," Master insisted.
"Thank you, Master. Thank you for the compliment. And thank you for drinking my milk."
After Master fucked me, Master made me kneel in front of the couch with his feet on my back while Master read the Sunday papers.
I was very surprised to learn that women whose bodies are busy producing milk eat huge amounts of food. I first noticed the change in an Indian restaurant in Covent Garden; the waiter wrote down my order and walked away, assuming I had ordered enough for both of us.
Although having such a huge appetite was more than a little embarrassing for me, Master was delighted. In Master's opinion, a hungry slave is open to endless exploitation. For instance, Master would masturbate in front of me and smear his semen inside a sandwich, knowing I was so hungry I would eat virtually anything. One evening when Master knew I was starving, Master had vast quantities of dim sum delivered by the local Chinese restaurant, which Master served to me morsel by morsel, as Master told me, "On a single chopstick."
"Wait for it," Master ordered, savouring the sight of me kneeling in front of his bobbing cock, drooling, eyes fixed on the tempting miniature spring roll balanced on the end. Master had seen me eat Chinese food before and knew I loved it, but this time I was almost wild with hunger. I took the first morsel off the end of Master's cock delicately with my teeth, but later, as I got into it, I was filling my mouth with cock, slurping and sucking, as hungry for Master as I was for the food. Master gave me little pastry parcels of prawns, sesame toast, won ton dumplings. Master made me wet Master's cock with saliva, and then Master rolled it in fried seaweed, and I licked it clean.
Master rounded the meal off by making a little hollow of skin in my scrotum, pouring syrup into it and feeding me lychees for dessert. When I had eaten my fill, I sucked Master to a climax, the lips that thanked Master smeared with sperm and speckled with crumbs.
The next evening, Master tied my hands behind my back and made me eat pieces of pizza from between Master's toes. The day after that, Master shoved four frankfurters up my cunt, pulled them out and fed them to me dripping with my own juices, a dish that became a regular item on the menu, and which Master christened "Fanny Battered Sausages." At tea time, Master stopped a blow job at the last moment, and came on a jam tart that Master made me eat in front of Master. And several times, Master tied me up and fucked me with a dozen carrots, chopped them up and made me watch while Master cooked them in a stew.
Master even took me round to tea at Katrina's, just so I could eat éclairs out of Sally's cunt.
To explore all the possibilities for feeding a hungry slave, Master organised the "Parsnip Dinner," which was served on a Saturday in early October. Master kept me busy all day, hurrying me through breakfast, whisking me off to a press conference for one of Master's singers who'd returned from the States, breezing into a gallery where a friend was exhibiting some collages, making sure I was too busy to grab more than a couple of canapés, promising me something very special in the evening. It was certainly special, but not in the way I expected.
When we got home, Master blindfolded me and ordered me to strip, hitting me when I fumbled. Then Master made me stand to attention as the flat filled with the rich smells of cooking. I stood listening to the simmer of pots on the hob, and the clank of cutlery as Master laid the table, knowing that at any time Master might pinch a nipple or yank my pubic hair. From time to time, Master checked my deportment, slapping my rump when I let my posture droop, and once when I did not droop.
Master held a pan of hot food right under my blindfold to tantalise me.
"Something smells good," I murmured.
"Shut your face, bitch," Master told me sweetly.
When the meal was ready, Master led me into the dining room, removed the blindfold with a flourish and showed me two chairs, one with a lurid pink dildo jutting up from the seat.
Master uncovered a dish. "This is your first course," Master explained, "if you choose the seat without the dildo."
"What is it?" I asked dubiously.
"Mashed parsnips," Master replied.
I shuddered. "I can't eat that."
Master ignored me. "This is what you get to wash it down with." Master took his cock out, and pissed into a glass. I eyed it nervously. "Liquid gold," Master told me. "It is very refreshing. What's the matter, Meat? You think my piss is not good enough for you? You drink spunk don't you? This is just a small step further down the same road."
"Oh, Master," I said plaintively. "I'd never drink urine."
