My Master's Rainbow

I walk up to the door retrieving my key from beneath my left breast. My fingertips like ice from the December air cut a chilling path along my skin. Nothing in this world ever feels as solid as this particular key. I break out in goose flesh as I place the key in the lock. My breath catches as I set my bag down in the snow.

It is the same every time. Key in the door, but do not turn the lock, place the bag on the ground next to me. Take down my hair and place the clips in the bag, then my jewelry. Watch first, wedding ring, bracelet, ear rings, and necklace, always in this order. Next comes my jacket, my blouse, my skirt, and I'm left in my underclothes standing in heels in the snow, on the front stoop of his house.

My master's rainbow has four colors, today's color is pink. Pink is the color of innocence. My bra is chaste, cotton of this hue with a delicate lace trim, as are the partnering cotton briefs and thigh high stockings. I am to change my shoes, heels aren't allowed today, patent leather flats will do. The steam from my skin fades as the weather steals the heat from my flesh.

Finished changing now, I stand, arms at my sides, the count is one hundred and twenty. Slowly I am to mouth the names of the numbers as I think them, a count down and zero matters. I am not allowed to react to the weather, although a desperate need to rub my arms with my hands is distracting. My nails are biting into my palms by the time I reach seventy five, I take a deep breath to calm myself into keeping the pace. By forty five my nipples harden to pebbles and the soft cotton of my bra feels like rough concrete against them. I fight to keep my jaw from chattering, the last ten are always the hardest, and at zero I am to take three deep breaths before reaching for the key in the door to turn the lock.

The harsh clicks of the tumblers followed by the hiss of the air being pulled through the opening door are sounds that, even in memories, quicken my pulse and send blood surging through my labia. I step in, leaving my things on the stoop for the duration, leaving that world in the cold as I am baptized in the wash of warm air that welcomes me, once more, to this place.

The laws state that I must step only on the black tiles to move through the hall. There are no electric lights here only a series of six foot candelabras placed every five feet or so to light the path. The third door on the left is the finishing room; before I enter I have to kneel, knees spread, at the threshold. The count is only thirty here, but I must place my right palm against my pussy and my left must twist behind my back and lay with fingers flat, first and pinky placed to touch each shoulder blade. These laws are in place whatever the color; it is always the same with this. I've grown to love the pull in my bicep as it stretches.

Entering the room and taking my place at the vanity I use the silver handled brush on the table. This too has a count, one hundred. Because today is pink I must use those hundred strokes to part my hair into low pig-tails and have them tied off with the fluffy hair ties he has set in my box. Pink isn't allowed make up, I use the removing wipes provided. I must now stare into the mirror and watch myself say aloud, "I am unworthy of my master's gifts, and he forgives me for asking." I must say this 5 times, before I move to the costuming rack. He has chosen for me a simple dress, a white jersey baby doll with large pink balloons. As always the dress is too small, it doesn't matter, slipping it on I imagine the cold metal of the scissors against my skin as he splits the fabric against the blades.

Finished changing, again I must kneel at the threshold, once more my knees are open, this time my hands must find my ankles, I am to remain this way until I hear his voice on the PA one word will caress my ears 'continue'.

My thighs begin to throb, my knees to ache. Shoulders stretched to feel like they will separate me at the breastbone, I must also keep my head thrown back, neck presented, soon that, too, will show me it's delicious pain.

In all this time I have never understood how Master knows just when to call to me. I find myself pondering this each time as I wait. I remain as still as stone, my mind begging for his voice, eyes locked at the camera lens in the corner above and behind me. My pigtails brush my calves lightly, as they swing in time with my pulse. There is a small rush that comes through my soul, like one moment of fear. I know it does not show physically, but somehow he can sense it.

"Continue." His voice is like velvet in my ears, deep round tones with a hint of salt. His accent speaks to me of subways and steaming grates, I've never seen. The small hairs all over my body stand at attention at the sound of it, my pussy moistens. Slowly, I am to drop my bottom to the floor, without releasing my ankles I must bring my breasts, also, the marble .As I place my shoulders and left cheek, against the cold stone, crossing my ankles as I release them, I bring my wrists together behind my back and let them rest.

Soon I will see The Shoes. Soundless on soft soles, they come in, two pairs of plain black loafers, men's. As always I find myself wishing I could tell shoe sizes, for any other seed of information, because within moments I am blindfolded. At the same time I feel the leather lace between my wrists and ankles. Next will be the lifting, a set of hands at my shoulders, another at my hips, with a single movement I am shifted. I have no idea what The Shoes place me on. Something smooth, warm, and flat, I imagine a serving trey, myself being delivered for him to devour.

In the darkness behind my blindfold I wait. My skin, on fire from want of sensation, picks up the even slightest movement in the air as I am carried. The feeling of floating both relaxes and excites me, because I know what is to come. I feel myself lowering, but softly, I know we must be moving downstairs, although try as I might I have never been able to feel the steps. It is so much more like traveling down a river than being carried; the movements are so smooth. As always I find myself wondering about The Shoes, and how it is they move this way, I imagine them as dancers.

I am set down. My only clue to this is the absence of movement. In a few moments I will again be lifted, my wrists and ankles then unbound, temporarily, as I am repositioned. They bring me to a chair of some sort and redo my binds lashing my arms at the wrists, forearms, and biceps. My legs are opened, and lashed at the ankle, calf and thigh. The leather pulled just tight enough to bite into my skin. My head is pulled back; a single tie running across my forehead completes my immobility.

The Shoes are no longer moving near me, I only know this from experience, but they are still here, silent witnesses to my master's pleasures. I sit, blind, waiting, never knowing how long it will be. My nipples harden, my breath grows shallow, and I again feel the small hairs all over me stand. Master knows the large part of my addiction is the anticipation; he pays me respect in this with the laws that bring me to him.

In the darkness behind my blindfold, I dream his face. The clean chestnut brown of his eyes, and the piercing way he uses them to rip into me. The soft look of his full lips contrasting with the hard words he forms with them. The relative smallness of his ears coupled with the intense way he listens. In my world of blackness my covered eyes release a single tear. The only thing I hate about pink is that innocence means I will not see him. This thought brings an exquisite stab into my heart.

Before that pain fades I hear his voice against my left ear, so close his lips brush the outer ridge. "Innocence" one word, but his tongue pulls on the consonants making it three, with a deep hiss trailing behind them. The very same moment his hands come to my breasts from behind cupping them, pressing me against the back of the chair, and disappearing just as suddenly.

For a truly indefinite amount of time I am victim to a barrage of such assaults, peppered in intervals of silence. My sight stolen from me, I have only my ears to lend clues to the direction of the next attack. But Master is blessed with a grace that leaves no mark upon the ear, and I am left blind to his movements.

His grace illustrated in a single movement I feel at once the pressure of the tool and the motor bringing it to life. This instant pleasure, having followed almost immediately the removal of his hands encircling my neck sends me spinning toward the first wave of climax. Just as my breath catches and a rush of fluid moves through my sex, the source of my joy is stolen from me, and I am left biting my lower lip and trying to stifle a whimper.

"Innocence" he says again, taunting me. I hear his fingers snap and a moment later I feel the binds keeping me pressed to the chair loosening. The Shoes, again, this time one at each side, are opening my restraints and pulling me to my feet. Leading me a few feet to the left, a hand at the back of my neck, held with fingertips pressing behind my ears gives pressure telling me when to stop. I feel my arms being lifted, but from behind, pulling them straight back and lashing my wrists to hold the angle. Moments later I feel a bar press across my waist, the hand at my neck pulls slightly communicating I must step back as the bar comes toward me. Three steps and I am lifted my hip bones placed against the bar so that my weight is split between it and my wrists. My ankles are then spread, and lashed as well, to what I can only guess is the base of the bar. My mind sees this device as being similar to gymnasts' uneven bars. I love this tool. The pain from being hung by my wrists, the feeling of suspension, the cold metal chilling the front of my legs, all of these things haunt my dreams.

As I hang there, enjoying the position and the anticipation, my heart races. Before I fully get a chance to appreciate this feeling, the skin at my bum is met with the cold steel of his scissor. I feel its strength as it draws its line up toward the small of my back. I feel the fabric of the dress splitting against the blades, the combination of this and everything leading up to it forces my orgasm. I ride the wave of it as it travels up my body as though following the path my Master has set for it. Without warning my cunt surges and I feel a rush of fluid release and begin to trickle down my thighs.

I feel his lips brush the small of my back as he speaks against it, "Good girl."

Those words, on his breath, on my skin, are enough to let me come again, but Master is not quite that kind. As the heat from his breath fades, and my body warms toward the second wave of orgasm I feel the coin drop against the same spot my Master's lips had just caressed. The cold metal burns into my skin and relieves me of any pleasure. The coin is larger than a silver dollar and twice as heavy, I have never seen it, but it's liberal use is Master's favorite way to draw out the sensation he has placed in me. He keeps it in a freezer, I'm sure, and there have been times its echo has been found upon my skin the next morning.

My body tries to move, spasming, and jerking against the restraints, no allowed enough freedom to shake the coin from my body, and I hear his amused chuckle from the corner of my ear. As it warms, and my body stills, he removes the coin, and leaves me a twitching mass of raw nerves.

"Sweetheart" The word seems to rain down on me from above. In everyday speech this is a term of endearment, but on Master's tongue there is no sugar implied, not for pink. His accent drops the 'R' and twists the word giving it a much more sinister implication. The tone he applies expresses his distain for the honeyed terms that disguise lust.

"My Dear." On anyone else's breath 'dear' is a single syllable word; Master's use brings out a second. I feel a chill in the air that tells me, from experience, he is just beginning. I know I will be treated to a litany of the sweetest words ever spoken, delivered in a way that sends images of poison dripping from a serpent's fangs. Each word he gives me leaves its mark on my soul just as the accompanying scissor stroke creates a signature of destruction upon the fabric. Soon the dress will be a tattered collection of strips clinging hopelessly to my body.

"Cup Cake" The abrupt delivery of each hard consonant cuts into me. The ring of the twin blades meeting each other enters my ears and echoes through my mind like ripples in a pond. With each opening he creates in my clothing he places a kiss upon the newly exposed flesh beneath and bestows another of his poisoned words. This causes a storm of goose flesh to travel from one spot on my skin to another, a writhing cloud of tightening and relaxing flesh sending me reeling into my second orgasm. His attack comes at me from all sides, I have images running through my mind of him, spinning, crazily, pirouetting like some sex driven ballet dancer. At my hip. Snip. Kiss. "Sugar." Against my sternum. Snip. Kiss. "Baby." Along my ribcage. Snip. Kiss. "My Love."

His voice like an electric shock upon my flesh, bringing the same kind of presence an actual touch could. Had my hips any freedom of movement they would be bucking uncontrollably. My stomach muscles contract, my thighs tighten, knees lock, I feel sweat break out across my body. Master brings the blade to the center of my panties; the cold steel against my labia is too much. I come so strong I can actually feel my lower lips kissing the blades as the walls of my cunt tighten within me. Snip. Kiss. "Sweetness."

The sensations overcome me, and I am lost to them. It's like an orgasm induced blackout, the pleasures mixing with each other, painting a mural of lust inspired moments on my most vulnerable flesh. Penetration is never an option for pink, the essence of the color demands it. Master's artistry is demonstrated in his exactness, the lack of something inside me is of no consequence. The way he expresses his control, never fails to leave me awe inspired.

~x~

In the glow of the porch light, I gather my things; the yellow glass casts a sickly glow upon my bare flesh. All of my apparel, having been sacrificed to suit his needs I shiver, standing naked in the snow, in my patent leather flats. My, hair, long since released from its pigtails, falls across my eyes as I reach into the bag beside me, collecting the symbols of my outside life. I retrieve my heels, stepping lightly into them, leaving the flats at the doorstep, a calling card of sorts.

Next to return is my skirt, the expensive black silk now seeming somehow rough against my bare thighs. On with my blouse, the fabric nearly frozen from the countless hours in the cold, immediately crisping my nipples as the cloth embraces my shoulders. Giving my jacket a snap as I remove it from the bag, before I place my arms into the sleeves, the sensation created by the lining rushing against my skin brings me for a moment back into the cellar. Each time I leave, my heart breaks a little, and I find myself looking for anything that can bring me there again, even for a moment.

The weight of my necklace brings me the memory of Master's hands. The earrings give me a sense of womanhood, an outward decoration to remind me of the beauty I am made to feel through him. Placing the bracelet across my left wrist brings me to my past, and the dire need to feel controlled. The return of my wedding band cuts my mind with joy to think of how much this man must love me to allow me to make a gift of myself, each month, to another man. Watch on my right wrist tells me that our time has ended, and each glance will mark the time until my glorious return.

Pulling my hair back, twisting it, and using the tortoise shell clips to fasten it I turn, spinning on one heel. I sling my bag across my shoulder and walk to the curb; I raise my hand to the street, calling for a taxi to steal me away into the fog. I brush another tear from the corner of my eye as I slip away into the night, the thought of the weeks ahead until I hear his voice on my answering machine again, a single word message naming his next color.