Muse 3 Forced Desire 2

This is part 6 of the story. It makes little sense to start here, and you can find the other parts here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

English not being my native tongue. I'm translating chapters and will publish them over a couple of weeks. Be patient. There will be kinky stuff, but it takes a while to reach it. The characters, setting and plot should interest you in their own right. Suggestions and reactions are welcome, given that it is my first novel. Enjoy!

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Pyrmont, 26 July

Dear Milena,

Today you have the morning to yourself.

The rest of the day is mine.

Be prepared.

x D.

I wake up early and still glow from the heavy scrubbing. The traces of Indian ink were harder to remove than I thought, and I ended up all rosy red. After that, I collapsed in bed, dead tired.

You left a note and a small pendulum next to the served breakfast. I have all the time in the world to make my toilet, update my diary and write your detention assignment. You are right, unfortunately. The cadence of words with their explicit meaning evokes heated fantasies.

It is warm and sultry today, which only adds to my need. When I'm daft enough to read back yesterday's account, my own words add too much fuel to the bonfire of lust raging inside me. I succumb and try to satisfy myself without your permission, but can't. Whenever I threaten to reach an orgasm, guilt at my weakness deflates the urge for satisfaction.

As a diversion, I decide on writing letters to family, friends and acquaintances. It is hard to put myself in the shoes of the Milena busy dealing with her inheritance. I prefer to be used as a slave. With it, doubt returns. I enjoy your antics; you are the teacher I long for. But who am I? Why am I so affected by what you do to me?

I lose myself in thoughts longer than I realise and, according to the clock, your arrival is imminent. Just enough time for my internal preparations. When I hear you dragging something heavy to my cell in the corridor, my heart is pounding in my throat with anticipation. I want this, whoever I am.

She sits on one of the two wooden stools at the workbench, naked, like yesterday. I wear nothing more than loose trousers and a shirt. Despite the overcast sky, the weather is warm and oppressive and it's no different in the atelier.

Although her perfume permeates the room, the fresh scent does not dispel the heavy notes of sex. Her hair is loose and her skin has a pink hue, no doubt caused by yesterday's bath.

When I enter, she turns to me with a troubled face. I nod in greeting, hauling a thick heavy mat into the room and placing it in the middle between the workbench, the bed and the armchair.

"So," I say, a little out of breath, "What are you worried about? Didn't you follow the rules?"

She shifts on her stool, but doesn't avert her eyes.

"I did. I also wrote your lines of punishment, but it was... harder than I thought. I also wrote some letters, by the way."

"I'll have them delivered," I say, and pour myself a glass of water. Her attitude emanates frustration, not guilt. An itch not scratched. "Would you like some, too?"

She shakes her head. "I've just had some."

"I can also forbid you to touch yourself, if you like," I say and comb through her loose hair with my hand, "or make you wear a chastity belt in my absence."

She laughs derisively. "No thanks, I'd rather not."

How dare I think her lack of willpower requires such measures. I empty my glass and sit down on the stool next to her, take her right hand in mine, and look her squarely in the eye.

"Everything all right?" I ask. She hesitates and studies our hands in her lap, then nods without saying a word. I'm not convinced yet, so I lift her chin, forcing her to look at me. "You sure?"

"Sure," she says decidedly, and nods at the mat. "What's that for?" A question sparked by curiosity, not fear.

I let her hand go and tap her knee. "For this. Offer yourself."

Her hesitation gives way to the lust of days past. She stands up and gracefully does what I ask. Her breasts caress the mat as she lays her head down sideways and looks at me with shrouded eyes.

"Well, well," I say with a sigh that has nothing to do with fatigue, "my slave seems to appreciate her gift. But what will I be if I give her more than she can handle?"

"A bastard," she says, loud and clear. I stand up and walk towards her with the oiled plug. This time, she accepts it without flinching.

You blindfold me and training starts again. Stand, Kneel, Rug, Floor, Chair, Wheel, Bow, Offer, Down, Table, Serve. And again, from the beginning. I only hear your voice, you don't touch me. It is strenuous, especially when you force me to hold certain positions, but also nice to exercise my body like this. It excites me, but in a different way than sex.

When I make mistakes, you correct me using words only. It makes me feel small, but safe and protected as well. Now and then, you allow me some respite and offer me water. I am doing better each time and move ever more smoothly from one stance to the next.

The poses have a logical order which enforces the right attitude, and you don't need to correct me as often. Your voice changes, becomes lower and huskier. My body, twisting and turning on your behalf, arouses you. This awareness distracts me, but not enough to make serious mistakes.

The exercise ends in 'Stand and Present', with me still in the dark and on display: legs spread apart, hands folded in my neck, chest out and buttocks pushed back. You caress my body. Or no, you're inspecting it. With every touch, a shiver goes through me. Am I really clean? Is all the ink gone? But my desire also grows. I do my very best to hold the pose without moving or moaning.

Still, you must hear how my breathing quickens when your lips and tongue work my nipples until they are erect; see, how I tilt my pelvis forward when your hand brushes my labia; guess, what goes on in my mind when you push your fingers deep inside to test how wet I am, and if I wear my protection. In my head I cry out: "use me, put your cock in my mouth, let me suck you off, fuck me, wherever you want, please!" But you haven't asked me anything, so I keep quiet.

When your hand leaves me, I cannot suppress a moaning sigh. You strip me of my blindfold and continue to look at me as you remove your shirt and then your trousers. Now I'm no longer wearing a blindfold, I try to concentrate on the wall in front of me, where I can still see remnants of the word 'bastard', but I cannot resist glancing at your crotch. The glimpse I catch of your hard cock almost makes me drool.

"Hungry, slave girl?" I ask when she swallows and concentrates on the wall again. Gleaming with sweat, she stands before me on tiptoes, her eyes glassy with exertion and excitement. As misty as mine, no doubt. Her sensual movements have not failed to affect me.

"And thirsty," she says.

I pour a glass of water and stand in front of her, keeping my composure. Time for the next phase in our role play. How great an obstacle will her pride be?

"Slave girls have masters, and you're raised to speak with two words."

Confused, she looks at me.

"Hungry and thirsty, Master," I say, and let her drink from the glass. "Clear?"

"Yes, Master."

I nod, satisfied. "Well said, slave girl. Just like your execution of the positions. Already much better than last time. You attended ballet, from the looks of it. Have you practiced any other fine arts besides dancing and painting?"

"Singing and playing the piano, Master."

I put the empty glass on the table and cannot suppress my grin. "I don't have an immediate application for piano playing. Singing, on the other hand, combines very well with satisfying your hunger." I point to the floor right in front of me. "Kneel and Present, with your mouth open and your tongue sticking out."

She kneels on the mat and folds her hands in her neck. With her open mouth near my stiff cock, lust courses through me. I hope this bit of improvisation doesn't upset my other plans too much.

"Talking will be a little more difficult, so when you make any sound, I'll assume you've called me a bastard."

You order me to Kneel and Present myself, and I don't need to be told twice. I am led by your voice, your request and, of course, my desire to have your shaft in my mouth again. I'm not too proud to call you Master. You're entitled to that moniker, even if it's just a game.

You grab my wrists with both hands and demand I open my mouth and stick out my tongue. With your hard cock right in front of me, I want nothing more, and slowly but surely, you shove it into my mouth.

You have a firm grip on my wrists. I can do nothing to stop you. Not even when you hit the resistance of my throat. You hold still for a moment. Then I understand the reference to singing lessons and try to relax my throat as I was taught. When I look up at you again, you slowly push further until your balls touch my chin. Through a mist of tears, I see you revelling in my throat gagging around your cock. I can't keep this up. I heave and moan anxiously, afraid to vomit. It's with this sound that you retreat. Just in time.

You wait until I blink my tears away. I nod, everything is all right. I take a deep breath before you slowly push your cock deep into my throat. Again and again, you repeat this ritual. And still I yearn for your shaft every time you pull out.

I'm blinded by tears, but it's not frightening any more, because I know you'll let me go if I can't handle it. You increase the pace, fucking my mouth. My body objects, but my head almost explodes with the urge to please you, to obey you, and to keep your delicious thick cock deep in my throat. Watching your pleasure through the tears in my eyes, I want to persist for you. I'm happy, serving you like this, relishing your hands holding me captive. Then you release me and I'm allowed to go 'Down'.

For a moment, I don't know what's happening. I stare through my tears at the mat and don't hear or feel anything. I keep my pose, on my knees, arms stretched before me, because that is how you want me: a needy slut on offer. Showing you how available I am is humiliating and wonderful at the same time. Patiently (but secretly very impatiently), I wait and catch my breath.

Then your hands caress my buttocks, you kneel behind me and you use me, fucking me the way I love to be fucked, head down, ass up, your hard cock deeper and deeper inside me. Your hand grabs my hair, pushes my head against the mat, and it drives me even further into ecstasy.

Servile and helpless, lunged by your cock, I try to suppress my orgasm until you allow me to come. With each thrust, you push me to the edge, but your permission remains out. When your strokes drive so deep that your balls caress my clit, an unstoppable orgasm approaches.

I am desperate. I have to come, I beg for it, but you don't answer and continue to fuck me without mercy. I have no choice, I can't stop it. My cunt clenches around your cock and I lose all control. My trembling body revels, but I've disobeyed.

"Rug," you bark at me, and I collapse on the mat, lying prone, exhausted and empty, while aftershocks rock my body. You remove the plug and I whimper, real tears now. Frustration. I am a silly snivelling wretch. I expect nothing but punishment for my transgression. Even though I don't want you to notice, I long for it.

I struggle as the woeful pain in my balls slowly subsides. She held out for so long. Even wearing a preservative, I could barely contain my climax and I am proud of her. She allowed herself to let me fuck her mouth and tried hard not to come. It was never my intention that she would succeed. I pour two glasses of water for us, put one next to her on the mat, and empty mine with a few gulps. She is in tears, I've gone to the limit of what she could bear. Or have I gone too far? I put my glass on the table and sit down next to her; try to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Calm down, take a break," I say to her, gently. She pulls herself together and sits up. Under a tangle of long hair, she wipes the tears from her face and shoots me a furious glare.

I offer her the glass. "Bastard, remember?" I say.

"Yes, indeed," she growls and takes the glass, emptying it in one gulp. Then she calms down and I give her time to catch her breath.

"Punishment I suppose?" she finally asks.

I nod. "Whenever you're ready."

"You're cheating," she says, but she appears angrier with herself than with me.

"I play with the cards you dealt me. If you don't like my game, you use the word of grace."

"I'm not granting you that pleasure yet." She grins defiantly and snorts into her hand. No manners for a noble lady, another step in the right direction. It's the role I want her to shed, and despite her frustration she finds herself sufficiently free to do so.

"That choice is yours, but this is not just about my pleasures." I stand and hand over a cloth to wipe her hand. "You certainly aren't doing me any favours not using the words when they are necessary. And yourself neither."

She answers with a curt nod, but I want to make sure she gets the message. I crouch down in front of her and lift her chin to face her square in the eyes.

"Listen Milena, failure and the fear of failure are part of the game. The reward is the ecstasy when you accomplish a task. Dealing with the frustration of failure is the price you occasionally pay for that pleasure." An important lesson. "I'm a bastard, don't hesitate to accuse me of being one if you need to."

She nods again without averting her eyes and hands me the cloth. She understands.

"Shall we abort or are you ready for the follow up?" I ask.

"Bring it on," she says.

I rise to my feet, take the suitcase from the table, and place it in front of her. The scales and the whip await her choice.

"No phallus this time?" she says.

"You got to enjoy that yesterday."

She nods thoughtfully. "Right. Can I expect something similar again?"

"That's a rhetorical question, I presume. Besides, I have no answer for you. What constitutes punishment for some is a source of pleasure for others."

She doesn't hesitate for long. "This one then." With a slap she puts the letterscale on the mat. Surrender. I nod and pick up the scale. "Good, lay down on the bed. 'Floor' and 'Present'. On your back, hands in your neck."

"And legs spread," she says, finishing my sentence and doing what I told her. I sit down next to her on the bed, insert the plug with some oil, and place the scale on her stomach. The cold metal base causes her to inhale sharply.

"Don't drop it," I say, and I let go of the scale. "I want ten grams of your hair." I wiggle my fingers through her full bush of pubic hair. She sighs, a little too deep. The scale wobbles, and I keep it from toppling over. "Don't drop it or I'll start all over again. I don't want to keep trimming you until you're bald."

She chuckles softly. "You don't like bald whores?" she asks. "They shave their pussy, right? Against lice?"

"Not only against lice. It has other benefits as well," and I slowly caress her labia. "I can see what I'm doing, for example." Again the scales wobble, but they don't tumble. "Besides, your cunt deserves to be seen. Most artists would agree on that," and I let a tip of my finger circle slowly around her clit.

"Not those realists you have hanging on the walls here," she hisses between clenched teeth. "What was the title again? The End of the World?"

I stop teasing and move the scale to her abdomen so it stands a bit more stable. "'The Origins of the World'. Realism is overrated."

She laughs cautiously, straining her abs. "Except for the realism of the written word, apparently."

"Touché," I say and rise. "I also prefer the theatre with the curtains open," I say and lean over her to kiss her forehead. "You will too, I promise. I'll be right back."

You return with a steaming bowl and other stuff that I can't see lying down. The scale stands a lot steadier, but I can't afford much movement. You show me the rope you are going to tie me with, so I won't make any sudden moves. It dawns on me you are going to shave me. With a knife. A very sharp knife. Anxious, I ask if you know what you are doing. A stupid question, you don't wear a moustache or beard, so you probably shave yourself every day. It doesn't make the idea any less scary.

You tie my ankles and wrists to the bedposts. My thighs are also wrapped in rope, pulled wide apart, so I am lying completely taut and can't move. I am trapped and shackled. Powerless. It awakens a lust in me I never experienced so strongly. Not even in my imagination. Not even before, when you held my wrists down with your hands. The situation is different. Your hands are free, you can do whatever you want without me being able to stop you. I gave you permission to do so.

I can't help challenging you, though. When you ask where to start, I offer my armpits. You appreciate the joke and lather them up before gently shaving them. I shudder when the knife touches me, the blade pressing against my skin, and I brace myself for pain. Pain that never comes. It's as if you are caressing me with something hard, it only tickles a little. The sound of the blade scraping against my skin only arouses me more. After each stroke, you wipe the blade on the scales.

The yield my armpits provide is not enough. Together with the shaving soap the indicator does not exceed five grams. There is no point in having my legs shaved, I already treated them with depilatory cream day before yesterday.

You seize my hair and hold the blade at the roots on my forehead. "How about these, then? You'll be done with it in one stroke." No. I want to prove I'm not afraid or ashamed to be your whore. I want you to caress me with the knife where you just fucked me. You do as I ask.

The thought of the razor-sharp blade near my cunt and clit makes me shiver with fear. At the same time, the tender tickling, the warm soap and the gentle but determined strokes excite me. My fear and lust even reinforce each other. As does my utter helplessness: I can't do anything to stop you. I even breathe with care not to topple the scales. It plunges me into a deep trance that prevents me from thinking. Each time you wipe the knife, the hand of the scales jolts forward in a blur. I can't even read the score anymore. I'm horny as hell. I'm glad you've restrained me, otherwise I would have ended up bald indeed.

The hand reaches ten grams, or the result satisfies you because the scale disappears from my belly. You rinse away the last traces of soap with a warm stream of clean water, over my bare labia and clit. Excitement courses through my body. Especially when you lubricate my shaved cunt with oil and slowly push two fingers deep inside. I'm soaking wet and not just because of the water and my sweat. You notice it too, because you let me lick your fingers, let me taste myself. I want to feel you inside me again so badly! I must control myself, because I can't come without your permission.