As she strode onstage
, she saw her owner sitting in the third row, off to the side. When she stepped up to the microphone he was applauding, and his approval meant something very different than what she felt from the rest of the room. She was being appreciated as a leader in her field by her peers; he was appreciating her as his proudest possession.
She was a comfortable public speaker, commanding a room with ease. Her owner loved that about her, especially as it contrasted with her on her knees, waiting for permission to speak.
As always, her owner had approved what she was wearing. He allowed her almost unlimited freedom in professional contexts, so he rejected and replaced only one item.
She wore a beautiful cream-colored blouse over a dove-grey camisole with a built-in bra, and expensive black jeans with low-heeled boots. Her owner had given her the camisole in place of the bra she'd selected, because it wouldn't have concealed the livid purple bruises he'd given her with his teeth last night.
Every time she raised her arm to point at the screen, it hurt. Her swollen right nipple moved against against her camisole, and the bruise beneath twinged as her breast fell forward.
She had begged for the bruises, knowing the pain would serve as a reminder and a comfort during a stressful day. It was the touch of her owner, never leaving her as she navigated a "power breakfast," did the sound and video check, and chatted comfortably waiting to go on, reviewing her notes in her head.
When she strode onto stage to applause, she felt her underwear rubbing the tenderness in her crotch where multiple marks graced her labia, thighs and ass. She felt his declarations of ownership on her body. On his property.
Meanwhile her owner watched with pride, as confident as she that this speech would go well, hoping that it would help propel her to the next level. With all the success he'd had in his life, it was her of which he was most proud. Not only of her success, but of her having chosen to give herself entirely to him. Her success was entirely her own, but she herself was entirely owned. By him. It never ceased to thrill him. How many men, married for ten years, got an erection watching their wives at work?
He also enjoyed knowing what was under her clothing, having chosen it himself. Because of the special circumstances, he'd given her unusually concealing and conservative underwear. She wore soft cotton boy shorts that would be gentle on her marks, would not disrupt the line of her jeans, and would provide some extra protection and comfort if her shaven cunt started to get wet.
The feel of the soft cloth covering her ass was unusual for her, because her owner's preferences meant that normally her jeans would hugging her bare ass. The thongs, g-strings and other skimpy items that left her exposed were the majority of her lingerie collection; for her, "ordinary" underwear was only for special occasions. Her owner's suspension of his accessibility requirements was rare and loving.
Likewise, it was very rare that she wore anything on top that made it difficult for him to fondle her nipples or touch her breasts. They were not so big that they needed constant support, so at most, she wore lacy or sheer bras that left her nipples visible and strokeable, under tops her owner chose to maintain her modesty to his satisfaction.
But her owner was taking care of his slave at this important event. No clips or clamps graced her nipples, her ass held no plug, no harnesses restrained her under her clothes. Other than the marks that she had begged him for, nothing marked him as his property other than the pendant hanging from the ring through the hood of her clit, and his collar around her neck.
It didn't look like a collar, flashing in the lights. In the hollow of her throat rested a stylized capital R on a thick silver chain. Everyone assumed that it was her initial, but between herself and her Master, and always in her own head, her name was never capitalized. Their first names began with the same letter but he was "R" and she was "r." Her owner had placed it around her neck and fastened it closed with a small screwdriver this morning, while she knelt naked with his cock in her mouth.
She was well-known in her field, being paid well to speak to a large crowd, being filmed for later streaming on the conference site. And she was a slave, the property of a man sitting in the third row that she introduced as her "husband" to her colleagues, a polite fiction, concealing the fact of his ownership the same way her clothing concealed his markings.
They'd flown commercial
, so she'd sat separated from him, in first class, with space to work and sleep. She wore a pair of fleece sweatpants and a zipped-up fleece jacket. The sweatpants were the more modest type she wore in public, a boy's size with a fly for her owner's access, rather than the open-crotch pants she wore at home that kept her warm but also completely available for use.
Under the jacket she wore a soft flannel shirt. For modesty at the airport security scanners, she wore a cotton thong and a Calvin Klein sports bra. The medallion that usually hung from her piercing was in her Master's laptop bag. Once the seatbelt sign went off, she looked at her owner, and held her hands together under her neck as if in prayer. This was her public begging gesture; she was asking to use the bathroom. He nodded, and said, "Enjoy yourself" when she passed.
Five or ten minutes later, she returned. She looked around and saw that the nearby passengers were reading or sleeping, so she unzipped her jacket and leaned forward, offering her owner a view of her naked breasts hanging from her unbuttoned shirt. Her bra and pantries were rolled up in her hand and she slipped them into her Master's jacket pocket.
She kissed him deeply, sharing the taste of herself. "Enjoy yourself" hadn't been irony, but permission to play with herself in the bathroom. She'd rubbed her clit and then penetrated herself deeply with several fingers. She had no permission to come, but as required after touching herself, she licked and sucked her juices from her fingers before washing her hands.
Her owner whispered "Good girl" into her ear, and pulled her zipper up. Naked under the fleece, she sat on the arm of his seat and he put his hand on her leg, both of them knowing that he could move his fingers just a few inches, between the buttons of her fly, and touch her wet cunt. But he did not use his property like that in public.
"How are you feeling about it?" he asked.
"Good, sir," she said, settling down and gently pressing her cunt against the arm of the chair. "I'm going to go back through my notes about the people on my panels, memorizing faces and names. I have a few things to get written for work as well. And I'm going to read through the speech again."
"Anything I can do?" he asked. "I'll ask you to sit through another run-through later," she said. Leaning down close to his ear she said, "Your slave is guessing that you don't want to renew our membership in the mile-high club in these bathrooms?"
He laughed. Private jets were an obscene waste, but they did have their advantages. "I think not."
"Then Master, may I sit back down and get to work?" He kissed her and put his hand on her ass to lift her up and point her towards her seat.
The taste of herself still in her mouth, her wet cunt feeling air moving over it inside her loose pants, she opened her laptop. She closed it after an hour or two, having done as much as she needed to. Seeing that her Master was still awake, she caught his eye and made her pleading gesture again. He raised his eyes and she stood up. With her mouth next to his ear, she asked, "May I please use the bathroom again? I need to go, plus it's warm in here and I want to take off my fleece." He nodded, this time saying "Don't be long," meaning she was not to pleasure herself.
She used the toilet, washed her hands, and buttoned up her blouse. She left the fleece open, returned to her seat, and took it off, leaving it around her shoulders. Passengers walking by might notice her nipples under the shirt, but she was covered to her Master's satisfaction, and knowing he was nearby, felt safe to fall asleep.
At the airport, there was no driver waiting. "Where the fuck is the car?" he said, looking around in vain. "I hate these fleet companies."
"Master," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "We have lots of time and it's just drinks and dinner tonight. The conference doesn't start until tomorrow."
"I know, pet," he said. "I just want this to go well."
"So do I," she said. "But it's my deal, so please let me judge if it's going well or not. You're making me stressed right now, and I don't need to be."
He put his hand on the back of her neck. "You're right, my love."
She leaned into him. "I know I've been going non-stop for the last few days," she said. "It might not seem like it, but your slave needs her owner more than ever right now."
"You've got this, love," he said.
"Oh, I know I do," she said. "And I know you've got me."
I'm so lucky, she thought,
that evening. Across from her at the welcome dinner, he was making a persnickety senior industry figure laugh. He was so good at these kinds of things. He worked in a parallel field so he could talk intelligently and ask good questions. He was funny, didn't talk that much about himself, and did so many subtly supportive things. Someone would ask his opinion about something in her field, and he'd answer briefly, then look to her. If people talked over her head to him, he wouldn't respond, but instead look at them quizzically.
When the drinks came, she stood up to toast a friend at the table who'd just been named CEO of her company. With her owner's approval, of course, she'd changed into a simple blue knit dress for this casual dinner. The G-string her owner had selected moved between her buttocks and against her anus as she stood. Her breasts moved freely under the dress, confined only slightly by a silk camisole, screened by the hanging neckline of the dress.
Everyone lifted their glasses, and the slave sat down, subtly keeping her legs apart, feeling air currents on the tiny triangle of fabric covering the cunt that belonged to her owner. She looked him in the eyes and he smiled.
"So, Robert," asked the woman sitting next to him. "Are you on a business trip as well?"
"No," said her owner. "I'm here for r----."
The woman laughed, turning to the slave. "Your husband must really love you to sit through three days of this stuff," she said.
"He's built up a tolerance to these things," r said, smiling slightly.
A man on his other side turned the conversation to a recent product release, contributing the usual tech-bro snark. Her owner interrupted. "You know that r---- was the design lead on that team?"
The man stopped short, embarrassed, but before he could speak she laughed it off. "No worries, we weren't crazy about a lot of it either. You know how clients are." It was a flawless setup by her owner, putting the man in his place while allowing her to be generous and disarming. The man quieted down, and the slave continued a quiet conversation with the man next to her, an expert in the field whose opinion she valued.
After dinner, when the elevator door closed on just the two of them, she leaned against him and let out her breath. "Thank you, sir. You're much better than I am when you're out of your element." He kissed her, then laughed.
"My love, you're going to be talking to a thousand people or so on Thursday morning," he said. "You have a bigger 'element' than I do."
