The Apartment

This is a sequel to the series, "The Wooden Pony Club". It is a revamp of a stories I have published previously.

"The seeker embarks on a journey to find what he wants and discovers, along the way, what he needs." -- Wally Lamb,

The Hour I First Believed

He took a sip of his whisky, twirled the crystalline cubes in the glass and held it over my head. The condensation dripped onto my neck and dribbled down my back. He moved the glass over and around my bare breasts, teased my nipples.

"Are you my property?" he asked, at long last.

"Is this part of the game?" I dared not look up.

"No, the game's ended, at least for now. And you must call me 'Master'."

So he said we'd finished with the game; but was that also part of the game? Yet it didn't seem to matter. The more we played, the more our games became part of our daily lives. When you find yourself as invested in the experience as I was now, the line between fantasy and reality, between role-play and real life, has become blurred.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"Why did you pause?" he demanded. "You're overthinking things, again, aren't you?"

"Yes, Master."

"Fair enough. But have you answered my question? I need you to say it."

"I am your property, Master."

"And you know what that means."

"Yes, Master."

"Say it."

" I belong to you. I will serve and obey you."

"That's it?"

"At all times, without question or hesitation, Master."

"I don't believe you."

I raised my head and stared into his eyes. They glinted hard and cold as the ice in his glass. I quickly lowered my gaze once more, to the carpet on which I knelt.

"I don't know how to convince you, Master, except through my actions, by how I serve and obey you."

"Good girl." I could hear the smile in his voice. "And what does this mean for you?"

"Master?"

"What pleasure do you get from being a slave?"

"My pleasure comes from giving pleasure, from pleasing my master."

"Good answer. But I don't believe it."

"Believe what you want... Master.

He put the glass down and slapped me twice, gently on the face, harder on my boobs. I flinched, but he caressed my cheek and ran his fingers over my lips.

"Proud little slut, aren't you?"

"No, Master!"

"Not proud or not a slut? Don't answer. It doesn't make any difference."

He stood up, moved to the liquor cabinet, leaving me on my knees facing the empty chair.

"Come here. Don't get up. Crawl."

I obeyed.

I heard the clink of the ice cubes, the glug-glub of pouring liquid, the clunk of the glass being set down on the wooden counter.

"Stand up."

I assumed the posture he expected of me -- head bowed, body stiffly erect, arms folded behind me, shoulders drawn back to push out my chest, stomach sucked in, pelvis thrust forward, my legs spread. He stroked my hair, ran his hands down my face, my neck, my breasts, my belly. His fingers crept between my thighs, entered me. He kept them inside me, fondling me, as he spoke again.

"I know exactly what you are, and so do you. You think you're hiding it. It's easy for you to submit willingly to your master, because it's what gives

you

pleasure. A man is just your toy. You make him dependent on yourself. You control his desires to satisfy your own. You tell yourself that you have consented to do and be whatever your master wishes; but does it mean anything, to consent to what you crave?"

There was a long silence.

"May I speak, Master?"

"No, slave. Kneel now, and listen. To understand your true nature, you must live by one principle. Pleasure is your offering. It's not what you receive or something you earn. Everything you do must be in service and obedience to the man who possesses you. You are your gift to him. Everything you have is a gift from him, and can be taken away, whether you think you deserve it or not. It is not your right to decide what you have and what is taken. Your submission must be unlimited, unreserved and unconditional, with no expectation of reward and no relief from whatever is required of you. If you revere your master, you will love everything he demands of you."

This sounded like a speech he'd rehearsed, perhaps one he prepared himself, more likely what had been taught to him. And there was something else that was unnerving, the oddly detached tone. Richard was not speaking in the first person, not about himself, or him alone. It wasn't service and obedience "to me" but "to the man who possesses you."

He paused, for me to think about his words, then continued.

"So you need to make a choice. Do you accept whatever is demanded of you? I can say no more until you agree. Do you trust me?"

He was speaking for himself again, and I found that comforting.

"Yes, Master."

"You need to say it."

"I trust you, Master."

"And..."

"Yes, Master; I accept."

"Good; but the contract must be sealed."

I heard the heard the tell-tale swish of his belt being pulled from the loops of his trousers. I knew the position I had to take, on my knees with my forehead touching the rug and my backside in the air. The sting of the first strike across my buttocks made me gasp. The next one came down more heavily. The third was harder, crueler than any of the whippings I had experienced before. There were several more, but I did not cry out.

Then came another moment of silence, followed by a squeak and a groan as Richard settled back into the old, battered armchair.

"Can I get up now?" My voice was muffled with my face pressed to the carpet.

"Sure," he said, "if you get me another drink."

"Haven't you had enough for one evening?" I half-swallowed the question as it came out. "That's going to cost me, isn't it?"

"Next time, you bet." He laughed. "But you're right. Make it a coffee instead."

"Me too?"

"Of course; you're off duty now."

"Duty?"

He sighed. "You know what I mean."

I went to the kitchen. The cold tiles tickled my bare feet. The air conditioner was actuated when the light was switched on, and a cool breeze wafted deliciously across my naked body, soothing the inflamed skin of my back, butt and thighs. I returned to the living room three or four minutes later with two steaming mugs. I shook my head to see Richard fingering another glass of Scotch.

"Don't judge me," he growled.

"Never... Master."

"So the game's still on, is it? You're insatiable. Well, I think I went too easy with the belt tonight. That can be fixed tomorrow."

"Tomorrow night? I don't think so. I have a lecture to deliver. Some one has to pay the rent... and the liquor bill."

He didn't reply.

I knelt on the carpet, with my eyes still downcast, clasping my mug, sniffing the aromatic fumes but barely tasting the coffee. I glanced up at Richard to see him solemnly contemplating his two drinks.

"What?" he demanded, aware of my quick peek.

"How long did it take you to memorize that speech?"

He looked annoyed but then grinned, without answering. He leaned forward with a frown.

"You know what it's about. That thing we discussed. Do you think it's time?"

"I guess that's up to you."

"Don't even try! You know thatʼs not the case."

"Sorry... Master."

He smiled. "When can you get the time off?"

"Give me a few days and I'll have something arranged."

"That's impressive. Okay, I shall contact Lydia."

Hearing that name, I felt a shiver running through my body which was not due to the late-night chill. Excitement and dread was what I felt... and curiosity. I suddenly realized where the speech had come from.

So this is my first real test, I said to myself. If I can endure it, I will know what I'm looking for. I may not find it at first, may never find it, I told myself; but how often have I heard that it's the journey, not the destination, that counts?