Slave Girl Emily

Author's note: Here's Chapter Eight of "Slave Girl Emily." Emily is a young woman (a senior in college) who loves being a slave. Her first Master was Andrew, another college student, and her second was Frederick, a lawyer. In Ch. 7 Frederick traded her to Christopher, a professor at NYU. This chapter is about her life with Christopher. Lots of delicious pain, humiliation, and sex here, and her first journey into subspace - but is she getting bratty? Tags: Slave, Bondage, Flogging, Caning, Pet play, Anal sex, Straight sex, Cage, Anal hook, Punishment.

*****

"I can't, Master."

He doesn't answer, but sits in the chair, crosses his legs, and watches, face unreadable. How does he feel about my pain? Curious, like a scientist observing a rat? Excited? Does he feel any sympathy for me?

The question bursts and fades. I can't hold a thought for more than a few seconds; my mind keeps going back to my arousal and pain, now so mixed up together that I can't tell them apart.

Master stands up and takes off his jacket. I raise my head to look - just briefly; I don't have to strength to hold it up for long. His shirt is perfectly white, without a wrinkle. He loosens his purple tie - he's moving so slowly!

He reaches for his belt buckle - will he finally fuck me?

* * *

"Puppies who make messes around the house have to spend time in the cage," Master said. "This helps them learn the right way to go, and of course it's impossible to make a mess on the floor while you're in the cage. You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

"Not as far as I know, Master," I said, looking at the metal cage with awe. It was about two feet wide, three feet long, and as high as a dining table, with a solid floor and bars about six inches apart. One whole end opened on hinges, with a feeding slot at the bottom. Master was tying my wrists together in front of me with elegant and comfortable knots.

As he worked, he said, "I like knots rather than cuffs, for the artistry. I've been learning Shibari, the Japanese art of knot-tying. It's like flower-arranging - a lifetime study. Done right, it's as much an aesthetic experience for the submissive as it is for the Dominant. Of course, binding your wrists merely gestures at bondage; it's a tiny taste of things to come."

I was eager to get into the cage and curious how it would feel, but Master was in no hurry. We went over my safeword and safe gesture several times so he could make sure he had them committed to memory. We reviewed my few limits, and he said, "You probably have more that you haven't discovered yet. We'll note them as we find them."

I was getting impatient by the time Master backed me into the cage, closed the door, and locked it with a padlock. He pulled up a wooden chair, sat, and watched me.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Emily, Master."

"A noble name," he said. "But you're not noble, are you, Emily?"

Something about the way he said my name made me feel more owned. "No, Master," I said.

"The name makes me think of love - amor - though there's no real connection. I will love you, Emily, but I love by taking everything and owning it. Will you give me everything?"

"Yes, everything, Master." I'd always aspired to have nothing.

He said, "Have you been caged before, Emily?"

"No, Master," I said.

"How does it feel?"

The cage was wide enough for my shoulders, but I had to scrunch to fit in front to back and top to bottom - there wasn't a lot of room to move around.

"It's small, Master."

"What else?"

I'd never been locked up before - most people haven't - and I'd never imagined how powerless it would make me feel. My new Master, the man with the key in his pocket, had become the center of my universe: not just my Master, but my god.

"It makes me want to worship you, Master," I said.

"That's good." He studied me for a few minutes, his silent gaze unsettling and arousing me. I'd have reached between my legs and masturbated, if I'd dared. Then he got up abruptly, went to his cabinet, and came back with a bottle of lubricant and a dog tail like the one I'd worn the night before. He stood behind me and, without saying a word, reached through the bars, lubricated me, and inserted the plug. He did it fast - pain flared and died away. Like a god, he could reach into my little world and do anything he wanted to my body. I had no power to resist. All I could do was try to placate him. I wagged my tail, which moved in my ass and slapped against the bars.

He sat in his chair again. "Now, what will you do to worship me?" he asked.

I was confused. I wasn't used to being asked to take this much initiative. I looked at his face, trying to read his desires, but he was unreadable, a distant, terrible god. You'd sacrifice to a god like that.

"I'll give you . . ."

"You have no possessions that aren't already mine," he said.

It was true. I'd just given him everything. Then I'd abase myself.

"Let me lick your shoe, Master," I said.

After a brief, thoughtful pause, he said, "I'll allow that." He didn't have to get up to put the toe of his shoe through the feeding slot.

It was a casual brown leather shoe, not new or old, polished or worn. I gathered some saliva on my tongue and licked it. It didn't taste like anything, but the flavor of submission was strong. My heart pounded. I licked everywhere I could reach, even the laces, trying to make it shiny everywhere. I was sorry I couldn't get at the heel.

"That's good, Emily," he said. He took that foot away and gave me the other. When I was done, my mouth felt dusty, but I was happy with the possibility that I'd pleased him. I wagged my tail hopefully.

"Your mouth must be dry now, Emily," he said. He stood, unzipped, and pulled himself out - who'd have thought shoe-licking could give a man such an erection? He bent his knees a little and put his cock through the bars. By lowering my bottom I was able to raise my head enough to take him in my mouth.

Most of the time, sucking a cock makes you feel both submissive and powerful - the act is a submission, but you control a man through his cock. Being fed Master's cock through the bars of my cage - that felt like pure submission. This wasn't a thing he was demanding, not a thing I was doing for him - it was a gift from my god. My saliva flowed freely. I let it overflow my lips and run down my chin.

I whined in protest when he took his cock away, but he fished in his pocket for the key to the padlock, opened the door, and lifted me out. He took me by the waist and laid me over the top of the cage, and with a stray piece of rope he lashed my bound hands to its edge. Again I heard the condom packet; he eased the butt plug out of me.

And my ass belonged to him. It felt like the completion of something. Maybe it was that he'd now taken the last of me for himself, and there was nothing more of me to possess. I lay quietly on the cage, felt the cool bars under me and my ass stretched painfully, the hot friction of him. I wished I had a hand free to touch myself. I imagined the feelings I'd have if I could touch my clit, and that aroused me more. "Oh!" I sobbed. I could sense that he understood my frustration, but my frustration was his, too - he took it for himself and added it to his enjoyment of my body. He seized my shoulders and hammered my ass harder till my "Oh!" of frustration turned into a screech of pain.

And my pain and my screech were his, too, an offering to him, and he took those. He bent over me, and his arm slid around my neck, and he could have squeezed the life out of me. I nearly panicked, knowing what he could do, and yet there was calm mixed with my panic, because I knew he wouldn't. I hyperventilated; my lungs burned with my terrified gasps - and the calm inside me savored the panic and burning, and the knowledge that he was taking those things, too, for himself.

Then he let go, pulled out of me, and came to my head, condom gone now, and while I was still gasping for breath he took my head in his hands and shoved into my throat. He fucked me, maybe ten hard strokes, till his warm, salty semen poured into me. I gulped it down - a slave must always swallow Master's cum - and collapsed on top of the cage, exhausted but still frustrated.

Master straightened up and zipped his pants.

"Master," I said, "please, can I come?"

He untied the rope that held me to the cage and said, "Get into the cage, Emily." I backed in and huddled there while he locked the door. He sat in his chair again and said, "You can masturbate now."

It wasn't easy to do. My wrists were still bound together, and to get at my pussy I'd have to reach under myself with both hands, face and shoulders resting on the floor of the cage. I did that, turning my head so I could see Master watching me, body relaxed, legs crossed, hands folded on his knee. My fingers slid in my sopping pussy and found my clit. Master towered above me, smiling, eyebrows arched, amused by my awkwardness. Agitated, embarrassed, and flushed, I rubbed myself, mouth open, drooling a little, in awe of his power, till at last I came, feeling insignificant, a tiny speck in his vast universe.

I let my hands fall. If there had been room to curl up on the floor of the cage, I would have done that. "I'm sorry, Master," I said, afraid I'd imposed on him somehow.

He leaned forward, reached through the bars, and petted my hair. "It's a good puppy," he said, "even if it's not quite housebroken yet. It needed a reward."

I glowed, happy with his hand on my head, happy naked, happy with my tininess, happy in my cage. At that moment I thought the trade that had brought me to this Master had been a very good one.

Master looked at his watch. "Here it is almost one," he said, "and we've had no lunch."

* * *

Master fed me a scrap of lettuce. He'd made me put on my clothes, which I'd left in a heap on the kitchen floor, and then he'd shown me how to make the kind of salad he liked for lunch. Now I was kneeling beside him. It felt strange being fully dressed in his presence.

"Most Masters keep their slaves naked," he said, "but I do not. It's January: how do I set the heat if you're naked and I'm clothed? How do I set the air conditioning in summer? It's pointlessly cruel to let you freeze. Besides, I've always liked undressing my slaves, and keeping them clothed most of the time gives me more opportunities to do that. Undressing

you

will be like opening a present every time. So you'll wear clothes around the house. When I want you naked, I'll either undress you or tell you to undress."

"Yes, Master," I said.

"When I enter the house," he said, "you will present yourself to me in the foyer and say, 'Master, your slave is here and eager to serve.' When you've been out, at school, shopping, or wherever, you'll check to see if I'm home, and if I am, you'll present yourself to me and say the same thing. I will give you instructions then, and you will run to comply. You will always run, not walk, to comply with my instructions."

"Yes, Master," I said.

"You will always choose and lay out my clothing for me in the morning. I'll show you where everything is. You'll set the table following a diagram I'll give you showing exactly where everything goes. I have a cleaner who comes in once a week. You'll supervise her, and between her visits you'll make sure everything stays neat and in its proper place. I hate clutter, and I don't like to go looking for things."

Everything had to be done to Master's specifications, and with precision. He was exacting about so many things that it took me weeks to learn. Clothes had to be ordered just so in his closet. When I laid his jacket out on his bed, it wouldn't do for it to be more than an inch off center. Pants had to be folded properly when laid on top of the jacket, zipper facing right. When I placed his cufflinks on his bedside table, they had to be neatly aligned and facing the right way. I had to make sure he didn't run out of toiletries and that they were all in their proper places.

I needed only one more course for my BS, and I was happy to take the subway uptown on Tuesdays and Thursdays to attend class - Frederick's insistence on my being driven had been a little oppressive, though I'd understood he meant well. Even with my other duties, I had plenty of time for study while Master was at work, but the instant he walked in the door, I was his slave. I was with him most of the time while he was in the house. I'd kneel beside him while he read or worked at the computer, petting me with a free hand (I was allowed to read too, then). I'd take meals with him, and of course I'd play with him, and we had sex - lots of amazing sex. We both got tested quickly so we could lose the condoms.

Sometimes, if I was elsewhere in the house, maybe cooking or doing laundry, he'd call me to him, wherever he was, and undress me or order me to undress. He'd sit and look at me, occasionally telling me to turn. Then, often, he'd come to me and touch me - perhaps drawing a fingertip along one collarbone, touching one of my rings (after I'd gotten the piercings he wanted), tracing the path of my rose vine with a fingernail, or caressing my lower lip with the ball of a thumb. He touched my body with confidence, knowing that every inch of it was his.

When he'd spent some time examining me, he might tell me to dress and go back to work. But often he'd lead me to the dungeon for play or to his bedroom for sex. Sometimes, too, he'd take me wherever we happened to be - bent over the desk in his study, on the living room sofa or floor, and even, once, up against the wall in the hallway just outside his bedroom.

Sometimes I'd look up from whatever I was doing - a chore, perhaps, or schoolwork on my computer - and find him looking at me, body still and relaxed, eyes unwavering. He wouldn't say a word or move a muscle, but I'd sense his powerful will, and I'd peel my clothes off, crawl to him, and do what I knew he wanted - rub my body against his trouser leg, nuzzle his hand, or take out his cock and suck it. He'd pet me, then, if I'd read his mood right, and maybe he'd do more. Sometimes, though, he'd push me away roughly and tell me to get back to my chores - but whenever he'd done that he'd find me later, hold me, and even play or have sex with me.

All of my orgasms were at his pleasure. I wasn't even allowed to masturbate without permission. I had to be ready for him at all times. If I was passing through a room where he was sitting, he might crook a finger at me and point at his crotch, and soon I'd have a mouthful of his cum. Or he might interrupt my cooking to force me to my knees and fuck my throat, or come up behind me while I was folding laundry, push my face into the warm heap of clothes, and take me from behind, hand wound into my hair. Quite often he'd wake me in the middle of the night, bring me to his bed, and make love to me, roughly or tenderly depending on what he'd been dreaming, and then he'd let me spend the rest of the night curled up against him, hardly able to sleep for the sheer thrill of it.

Once I came in from school to find him seated on the sofa, swinging a leg impatiently and staring at me. "You look absurd," he said. "Everybody knows puppies don't wear clothes."

I stripped quickly, pulse racing as his eyes devoured my body.

"Now fetch, puppy," he said.

Fetch what?

I thought, but knew better than to ask. I dropped to my hands and knees, becoming a puppy, and looked around the room, but saw nothing. I crawled here and there, peering under things and behind the furniture, until finally I found a rolled-up newspaper nearly hidden under the back of a chair. I pulled it out with my teeth, picked it up in my mouth, and brought it to Master. I got up on my knees in front of him and dropped it on his lap, then sat back and looked pleased with myself.

But Master said, "It took you too long. What am I to do with a puppy like you?"

I flattened myself on the floor, head between my paws, and gave him a mournful look. I whimpered and wiggled my bottom, wishing I were wearing my tail.

He rose from the sofa and loomed over me. "Bad puppy," he said, and swatted my bottom with the newspaper. I yelped, cringed, and backed away from him.

"Come back here!" he commanded, and I whined and slunk towards him. He swatted me again, and I yelped again. I waited till he'd swatted me five times and then rolled onto my back, held my paws up by my shoulders, begging, and spread my legs.

"No tummy-rub yet," he said. "You don't get off that easy." He swatted my pussy. Fireworks went off inside me, and I yelped louder, put my tongue out, and panted. Soon there were wet spots on the paper, I was suffused with sensation and happiness, and there was a huge bulge in his trousers.

He fucked me there on the living room floor, and when we'd both had orgasms he said, "Get me a drink. And get a glass of wine for yourself." I ran to the kitchen, holding a hand under my pussy till I could get a paper towel to catch the drips of cum. I cleaned up and got the drinks, and he let me snuggle next to him, naked, drinking my wine, till it was time to start dinner.

Within a month I was sure I loved Master better than I'd ever loved anybody in my whole life.

With so many details of my chores to memorize, it was inevitable that I'd mess up sometimes. He'd correct me patiently, drawing my attention to the detail I'd missed, and would have me repeat the process to help me learn it. He never got angry or raised his voice, even if he believed I was being willfully disobedient or insubordinate and had to be punished.

One day, about two weeks after I'd become his slave, I was ironing one of his shirts - not an easy task! - when he came into the laundry room, watched me for a couple of minutes, and said, "You should iron the sleeves before the collar."

It was late in the afternoon, I'd worked hard all day, and I had lots of ironing to finish up before I could start making dinner. I snapped, "Who the fuck cares?"

He said, quietly and calmly, "I care, Emily, and that's all you need to know. Now come with me."

My stomach tightened as I followed him down to the dungeon. I knew punishment was on the way, not a play punishment for pretending to make a mess in the house or not fetching a paper fast enough, but a real one. I had no idea what to expect, but his icy calm was not reassuring. I was seriously frightened.

"Take your clothes off," he said.

I did as he'd commanded.

"Lie on your back in the center of the room, under the hook," he said.

I lay down. The tiled floor was cold and hard on my back and bottom.

He looked me over impassively, and my nipples warmed and swelled.

"For punishment," he said, "we select an activity the submissive dislikes. I don't know yet what you dislike, and so we'll have to experiment."

He brought a coil of rope from his cabinet - he seemed to have an endless supply - and tied my ankles together and my wrists to my ankles. He turned me over so my weight was resting on my knees and shoulders, and my cheek was pressed against the tiles of the floor. My ass was high in the air.

He squatted beside me and showed me a large stainless steel hook shaped like a fishhook, but with a ball where the sharp end should be. A long rope was attached to the other end.

"This is an anal hook, Emily," he said. He lubricated my crack and anus - he'd done this many times by now, and I loved the feel of his hand there - and inserted the hook end into me. It was cold, it felt wrong in my ass somehow, and I didn't like it.

"I'm attaching your ass to the ceiling," he said. I knew without seeing much of it that he was looping the rope over the hook high above me and attaching the loose end to a fitting on the wall. He tightened till the rope was taut and my ass hurt a little. I could have relieved the pain if I'd been able to lift my knees off the floor, but that was impossible.