She hurried from her car, the heels of her black boots echoing off the pavement. Although, for all intents and purposes the boots were
His
, just like she herself was His. Suddenly, she stopped and began rummaging through her purse. Digging out a small compact and a tube of lipstick she began coloring her lips under the fluorescent glow of the streetlight. Smiling, she remembered His delight in the name of the deep red stain - Carnal. What a perfect word to describe how He made her feel.
A twinge of lust struck her as she took one last look at her face in the small mirror, hair straight and long, minimal make-up with bold red lips and the large silver hoop earrings He favored. With a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, she put the items back in her purse and made her way to the front door.
In answer to her knock, a rather non-descript man of about 65 with a shock of white hair opened the door. He was handsomely dressed, as always.
"He's waiting for you, Miss," he told her, smiling politely.
Every Saturday evening it was the same routine. She wondered if he thought of her as a freak coming here the way she did. She wondered if he knew what went on between her and the man of the house. Making her way down the hallway she approached the familiar ornate wooden door.
Palms sweating, she stood outside and counted to five before entering. The heady aroma of fine bourbon blended nicely with the leather from the furniture and the muskiness of His cologne. Just like every Saturday, try as she might she couldn't quite place the name of His essence. All she knew is it made her smile and her pussy wet.
In the dimly lit room He sat in a shadowed corner watching her, His mind knowing every small detail of her body before His eyes even caught a glimpse of her naked flesh. The small dimple on her chin, the faded crescent moon shaped birthmark on her left hip, the flat brown mole between her breasts. He watched intently knowing she would stand there all night if she had to. She was waiting, waiting for permission, waiting for His permission.
She stood just inside the doorway, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of Him, of this room. It almost made her dizzy, it almost made her cum. Memories of previous encounters flooded her brain as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingering the silver metal bangle on her arm.
Last week had been a momentous one indeed. After months of servitude, she had received the ultimate gift, a name: Veronica. They had celebrated, of course. She was treated to the feel of His stunning cock. Average in size and girth, the hardness of it and knowing she had contributed to it captivated her. Reverently, she had wrapped her hands around him and was permitted the pleasure of jerking Him off until He creamed on her substantial breasts. She shivered, recalling the taste of Him on her fingers after rubbing His cum into her skin.
"Veronica."
She was jolted back to reality by the sound of her name. Her eyes flew open. Meekly, she stared at the floor feeling guilty for becoming aroused without instruction.
"Yes, Master," she addressed Him.
"Have you been a good girl this week, Veronica?" He inquired, lethargically swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
"Yes, Master," she echoed, anticipating this evening's commands.
"As I expected. I was quite captivated by you at the mall," He praised her.
She beamed. To make Him happy was what she lived for. She knew He had been watching her as she made her way from store to store that night. Dressed as He had ordered in a short tight skirt, no hosiery, stiletto heels, a low cut blouse and no panties or bra, she was searching for her prey. A male clerk, someone she would want to have sex with if possible. Her instructions? To entice and toy with him, accidentally show him her uncovered breast, look him directly in the eye and imagine him masturbating and thinking of her that night.
She responded with a courteous, "Thank you, Master," when what she desperately wanted to know was how had she made Him feel that night.
Had He returned to his car and pleasured Himself as she had? Had He pictured her naked on His lap riding His cock as she had numerous times? These questions would go unanswered. She knew her boundaries and would not overstep them.
His next words signaled the small talk was over and it was time to get down to business.
"Present yourself to me, slut," He summoned her, taking a sip of bourbon.
This was His favorite part. The sensuousness with which she moved, the anticipation of exposed skin made His cock twitch. If only she knew how much she titillated Him. Her leather coat was hung from the hook on the door and she stood before Him in tight jeans, high-heeled black leather boots and a skin-tight low cut black sweater. From where He was seated He wasn't sure if she was wearing a bra or not. As she tugged the black material up over her head and gently folded the garment before placing in on a nearby chair, He was rewarded with the sight of her full tits, unrestrained.
Growing harder, He watched as she seductively bent over to remove her boots. The blood seemed to flow to the very ends of her nipples causing them to swell. He enjoyed viewing them from this angle. Thoughts of biting them to the point of drawing blood filtered through His head. After wriggling out of her painted on jeans, she stood, illuminated by the candlelight, in only a teal lace thong.
Quietly and slowly she made her way to His chair. When she was a few feet from Him, she fell to her knees. Naked, except for the thong, she sat back on her heels, spine erect. Her hands in her lap crossed at the wrists palms up, she was named now but still under submission. Gazing at the floor she whispered, "I present myself to you, Master."
Wordlessly, He rose from the supple brown leather wing chair and walked behind her. From the pocket of His pants he withdrew a black blind-fold which he gently placed over her eyes. His fingers lingered on the side of her cheek. She longed to lean into them, kiss them, suck them, but she remained, dutifully, on her knees, posture straight as an arrow, head bowed.
Her senses heightened. She could feel His breath on her skin. The concoction of bourbon and cologne assaulted her nasal passage. She could almost taste Him. She was Veronica the Slave Girl; all thoughts of her life outside these four walls was slowly dissolving into a blurry dream. Her will was His, her body, His. This routine never failed to drain her of any self-control she might have possessed. Lost in her own helpless desire she hadn't noticed He had left her side until now.
Trying hopelessly to control her breathing she heard Him across the room. The sound of wood on wood meant He was searching the drawers of a bureau. She knew there many items in that bureau, items that brought pain and pleasure, both of them erotic. She contemplated what kind of mood He was in tonight; horny was a given. Would the rosy glow of her being named continue into this week or would His dark and brooding side take over?
The strains of
O Fortuna
started playing and she knew exactly what would be happening tonight. Her heart beat rapidly as a small ember in the core of her being ignited, soon to turn into a blazing pyre. He returned to her.
"Raise your face to me," He demanded. "Let me see those whorish lips, lips painted just for me."
By the sound of His voice she could tell He had moved into a kneeling position directly in front of her. Roughly, His finger smeared the red pigment across her jaw line as He asked, "To whom do you belong, Veronica? Whose good girl are you?"
"You, Master," she responded.
"I couldn't hear you, slave! To whom do you belong?" He asked again, his voice intensifying.
"You, Master. I'm your good girl," she reiterated, this time with more conviction.
His eyes drinking her in, He reached out and touched her naked thigh. She was His, His to tease, His to use. He traced small circles from her knee up to the faint birthmark on her hip. Following the lace of her thong, His fingers made their way around to her fine ass. A few light slaps and He continued His perusal of her body, touching and feeling His way like a blind man.
Her nipples were erect and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. His fingers seared her skin, fanning the ember into an inferno. Her mind screamed, begged Him not to stop, but she knew better. She knew His mood emulated His song choice. He would take her to the brink, the very edge of the chasm then stop, and she could hardly wait. She bit back a scream as he pinched her blush colored nipples between his fingertips. Once more, then she heard the rustle of His clothing; He had returned to his feet.
"Stand," He commanded. He led her to the chaise lounge and sat her down. She could picture His arsenal of weapons laid out atop the bureau, His eyes studying them, debating which one to use first.
"Open your legs, slut," He demanded. She spread her knees wide, very much aware of the small, soaked piece of lace covering her dripping femininity. Suddenly, the hard flap of a riding crop was being lightly smacked against her inner thigh. She almost let out an audible gasp, but was disciplined enough to keep herself in check.
"I see my whore is quite wet this evening. Are you enjoying your slave name, Veronica?" He asked.
"Yes, Master," she answered, with a sharp intake of breath as the crop found the source of her wetness.
Her legs began to tremble as the flap found it's way under her panties and began manipulating her pussy lips. She had a fleeting thought of Him allowing her to cum this way, but knew the night was young and He would have her begging for release before it was over. She smiled at the thought. He noticed and smacked her hard directly over her clit. She let out a yelp of pain.
"Behave, slut."
"Y-y-yes, Master," she stammered, still feeling the sting of the crop, still feeling the wetness soaking her thong.
