A delicious odor awakened me. I had no idea how long I'd been asleep, but it was dark outside. I sat up and looked around in the light spilling from the fireplace. A fire had been lit there, the flames providing the only light in the room. My clothes and Susan's robe were nowhere to be seen.
"Would you care to eat, Sir?" a voice said from the foot of the bed.
I looked. Susan, freshly bathed, perfumed and dressed as a French maid, was standing there with my silver coffee service and a cup. I surmised that the outfit was one of her stripper's costumes. I motioned her to come to me.
"Just milk," I said.
Susan set the tray down on a portable butler's table brought up from the dining room and prepared the cup. She leaned in as she gave it to me, the better for me to admire the breasts straining to escape their confinement. I took the coffee with one hand and cupped a breast with the other.
"Sir!" she said in mock outrage, playing her part to the hilt as I kissed her mouth slowly, enjoying the feeling. When we broke the kiss, I could see a flush on her chest, though not on her face. She had applied heavy makeup to hide the black eyes.
"Do your talents extend to an omelet, wench?" I asked. Susan nodded.
"I can have one here in five minutes, Sir."
She swayed her way out of the room, the microskirt, six inch stilettos and black sheer stockings giving me an enhanced view of her taut dancer's legs.
I sipped my coffee and thought happy thoughts. All my life, I had been someone females confided in and came to for advice. A non-threatening, asexual male. A confidante, a trustworthy friend, yes. But not a romantic lover or a lusty male animal, never someone to whom a woman would surrender herself... until now.
My French maid came back from the kitchen with a covered plate. It held a cheese omelet. Susan wouldn't permit me to feed myself. She fed me one bite at a time, using the food as a sensual substitute for her lips, breasts and pussy. When I had finished eating, she leaned close with a napkin to wipe my mouth. I allowed it, then traced her lips with my finger, watching her eyes close as she savored my touch.
I continued my tracing along the line of her jaw, down the side of her throat and along the curve of her breast, around the aureola, then back as her breathing deepened. Reaching behind her neck, I pulled her lightly toward me. Her mouth opened as it touched mine, anticipating my kiss and anxious to receive it. Our tongues danced. She started to climb onto the bed, but stopped as she felt the warning pressure of my hand on her breastbone. I drew my mouth away from hers with more reluctance than I allowed to show.
"Run a tub, Susan. I wish to bathe."
I could see hints of frustration as she obediently went into the master bath, and smiled to myself. I was learning the truth of the old joke that the ultimate in sadism was the submissive pleading to be beaten while the Dominant said, "No." I swung my feet out of bed, opened the closet door and selected a wine-red silk dressing gown, a find I'd made when clearing out an estate three years ago. More Hollywood than practical, it was perfect for tonight. I joined Susan in the bathroom.
The splash of water into the bathtub masked my entrance. Susan was bent over, testing the water temperature. She jumped as I caressed her ass, those firm globes only partly concealed by her costume. She pressed back against my hand as I gently kneaded her rump. I eased my hand under her panties and introduced a finger into her slit. She was already moist and her muscles clasped it, grabbing and releasing in promise of what lay ahead. She moaned as I withdrew my finger.
"Help me into the tub, girl," I ordered. Susan turned to remove my robe and for the first time got a clear look at the stitches in my cheek.
"Oh, Sir, I am so sorry!" I held her at arm's length.
"Take off your top," I commanded. She immediately did.
"Turn around."
The bandages I had put on her earlier that day covered half her back. I reached out and pulled them off her. She made no sound. I examined them. No sign of infection, though the welts were inflamed. The edges of the cuts were tight to each other, bound close by the butterflies and the beginning of the healing process. I led her to the big mirror by the sink.
"Look over your shoulder, pet." She could see the gashes the whip had made.
"Now look at my face." The silk sutures were dark against my skin.
"These are part of what binds us. They are part of what we are to each other. Your stripes will heal and leave no visible mark. Mine, I am told, will leave a scar. When you look at me, you will see a badge of honor and know that the man to whom you have given yourself is proud of the pain he ended for you by taking it. Do you see that, Susan?"
She looked at the scar for another moment, then whispered, "Yes, Sir. I understand. May I please touch it?"
I nodded. She stepped close and delicately touched her lips to the stitches as if to consecrate them. I turned her about and did the same to the four worst marks on her back and saw her happy smile reflected back at me.
After I entered the tub, Susan took on the role of bath girl, shampooing my hair, washing me, rinsing me off and even shaving me as I lounged in the warm water. Before it could cool, she took a fluffy bathsheet and dried me. I donned the dressing gown again and led her, still nude from the waist up, back into the master bedroom. I sat in the chair by the fire and she settled beside me, her head leaning on my thigh, content as a cat. I looked down at her and felt her hair, cornsilk in my fingers.
"Did you make that list, pet?" I asked.
"Yes, Sir. It is in your study on your desk. Shall I fetch it here?" She looked up inquiringly at me, ready to spring up at my command.
"Is there anything on it so far out that I would have no way of knowing it might trigger you?"
"Sir, may I speak freely?" I nodded.
"Trust is my greatest issue. It always has been. I have been used in the past, and abused, as you saw yourself. I do know this: I need to be owned by a dominant male. I am driven by sex; I have to belong to someone.
"I long to be the property of a master who will give me the discipline I need. Who will care for me, but will not allow transgression without punishment. Who understands me better than I do myself. I want to surrender my will to yours. I want to be your slave. I want to please you, for you are strong in spirit and will care for me and will permit me to care for you and serve you in every way.
"I will do anything to satisfy you, but I must know that you will respect my needs as well. One like me has no rights, only privileges permitted by her owner. I must know you will set guidelines and make your submissive abide by them, so I can feel secure."
I considered before I answered her.
"The only thing we need between us is for you to know that if you say, 'STOP!' whatever is happening stops instantly and we discuss it right away until we solve the problem. Does my word that I will do this suffice, or must we have something more elaborate?"
Susan sat up, leaning against my legs, and studying my face carefully. I was painfully aware of her closeness, wanting nothing more than to grab the lovely slut, throw her on the floor and take her, remembering her wantonness onstage. I was sure she could sense my urge even as I strove to keep my mask of calm in place, even as I could sense her readiness to yield if I decided to rape her.
"I believe you, Sir," she said with decision. "I remember what you said to me at the club, about telling the truth. Your word is your honor. You would not break it, even to your one like me."
As she spoke, she rubbed her breasts against my thigh and her hand crept under the dressing gown, seeking my cock. Her fingers closed on it and she began to slowly stroke me, each motion sensual torment. I reached down and indicated she was to sit on my knee. I drew her to me, caressing her breasts, making the self-imposed torture mutual. Her grip tightened as she conveyed her willingness to me. I turned her head, kissed her, and stood, nearly dumping her on her delicious derrière. Eyes wide, she stared at me.
"Susan, go to your room and prepare. I like a woman who is properly depilated. No hair on your body, save your eyebrows and your lovely blonde tresses. Make yourself up as you like. I have a fondness for blood red nails and lipstick. You will find a black robe in the closet. Put it on. Those stilts you are wearing will do. When you are finished, wait for me to come for you."
"Yes, Sir," she said. I was once more treated to the sight of that perfect ass and those long legs doing a slow strut out of the room, hips seesawing in invitation.
I listened for her door to click closed, then began making preparations. These included two stops in the basement, one at the safe concealed in the study, another at my desk to examine Susan's list, and the moving of a few things into my bedroom. After an hour, I stood back, put on the dressing gown, donned a pair of black leather slippers and walked to her room. Psyching myself up, I opened the door.
Susan was sitting in the leather chair by her fireplace. Her shining hair was freshly brushed and hung free to the middle of her shoulder blades. The black silk robe she wore was just a little too small for her and barely closed in the front. Its two short ties and sash strained to conceal her with only limited success. She held her legs together, bent at the knee, showing a good amount of thigh despite the fact the robe was ankle length. The six-inch heels brought out the curve of her calves. When she saw me, she stood. I remained in the door, waiting.
"This is the last chance to change your mind. Do not join me unless you are sure that this is what you desire with your whole heart and soul. Choose."
Susan did not hesitate. She walked across the room, head up, and took my hands in hers.
