As I stood at the kitchen sink I could feel his eyes upon me. I felt more self-conscious than I could remember, but that feeling was far outweighed by the feeling of pride that warmed me; the knowledge that I was pleasing him.
I was preparing my first meal for him. I was allowed to choose the meal, but everything else was at his discretion. My attire consisted of black leather four-inch heeled dress pumps and an apron. When he had first presented me with the outfit I felt rather ridiculous, but when I put the items on I felt a completely different sensation. The apron-top barely covered my chest. The lace was scratchy against my skin and the cotton slid over my nipples in a slightly arousing manner. The bottom barely covered my front; the lace trim resting high on my thighs. My back and buttocks were quite exposed. The apron strings tickled my skin where they trailed down the center of my back and between my buttocks. When I had presented myself to him for inspection, his reaction banished what little discomfort I had felt. That he found me pleasing made my head rise up and my heart swell a little.
As I washed and cut vegetables, I couldn't help but feel a bit awkward. I could feel the heat of his eyes on me and hear him breathing. He said nothing as I went about my chores. My hands shook and my knuckles were white from holding too tightly to my cooking utensils. I had to remind myself to breathe on more than one occasion. I was thankful for the sturdiness of the sink as I leaned against it, letting it bear the weight of me such that my knees wouldn't shake quite so obviously. I tried to focus on the task at hand. I was nearly finished with that task when I heard his footsteps behind me. My hands stilled and my breath caught in my lungs.
The feel of his breath on the back of my neck sent a shiver running down my spine. The shudder that followed was a quake that began at the nape of my neck and coursed throughout my body in a wave. The soft chuckle that followed let me know that my response hadn't gone unnoticed. The more I willed my legs to stop shaking the worse the condition became. I pressed my thighs to the cabinet to steady myself and waited.
"Turn around." His voice was commanding yet quiet.
I turned to face him, barely able to do so he was so close. I kept my eyes lowered, finding a button on his shirt to focus my attention on. I pressed the flat of my hands against the cabinet, needing something to steady them.
"Look at me." He said.
I raised my eyes upward, finding his. I felt my heartbeat quicken. The sound of it beat loudly in my ears. I breathed slowly and deeply, focusing on each new breath. He watched me, taking in my responses, studying me. He raised his hand to the front of the apron and pulled the fabric aside, exposing my breast. He ran his thumb over my nipple. I stifled the moan that threatened to escape, dampening it with a sharp intake of breath. The corner of his lip rose slightly. He took my nipple between thumb and forefinger and began to squeeze. I clenched my teeth against the pressure as it grew. The weight of his gaze never wavered as he twisted my nipple hard. I sucked breath in through my nose, my nostrils flaring. The pain was electric, singeing my nerves and sending shock waves through me. I was unprepared for the pain and gasped when the final twist nearly buckled my knees. When he revealed my other breast and repeated his manipulations I was still unprepared, but by now I was responding more fully on a different level. His touch, though painful, aroused me on an instinctual level. I could feel a need growing within me.
As his gaze held mine I could feel him reading me, watching my responses, gauging me. I knew what he was seeing; my face flushed, my nipples hard, and my eyelids heavy. I wanted more and he could tell. The corner of his lip rose again, his amusement more obvious now. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. As I watched the light reflected in his eyes I recalled things that he had said; things that he told me that I would never refuse him. I felt my stomach churn at the recollection. The thoughts of words that I had spoken brought fear and arousal crashing down upon one another in an emotional tidal wave. The logical side of my brain shut down with a heavy thud and I felt my need growing again.
His hand was flat on my chest, his touch warm and firm. As he slid it higher he watched my eyes, studying me again. Realization hit me and I felt myself reacting to that touch. As his hand found my throat my legs weakened. The strength of that touch sent my head reeling, with it, I was claimed; I was so much property to be used at his will. I shuddered as fear and need fought for control.
"Are you my whore?" He asked.
"Yes." I responded. "I'm your whore."
His smile was a mixture of pleasure and pride. Seeing that pleasure gave me a rush of pride of my own. I needed to please him.
"Turn around, whore." His voice was firmer now.
I turned awkwardly, his hand still on my throat, pulling my head back as I faced the sink again. I felt him move closer to me, the presence of his body so close to mine making my head spin. I felt his breath on my neck and instinctively leaned back, wanting his closeness.
"Is my whore wet for me?" He asked, sliding his hand downward now.
"Yes." I breathed the word out, the thought of it making me wetter yet.
His hand found its way beneath the edge of the apron and he once again squeezed my nipple hard. I felt myself leaning back against him as my legs weakened. I felt his other hand sliding over my ass, a deliberate and firm movement.
"Spread your legs." He said.
I stepped to the side, spreading my legs wider, knowing what was coming next. His hand slid forward, his fingers finding my sex and parting me roughly. The touch elicited a guttural moan from somewhere deep within me.
"mmmm you are wet indeed, whore." He cooed.
I closed my eyes and leaned into him, wanting more of that touch. His fingers slid through my wetness sending waves of pleasure throughout me. When he removed his hand I whimpered and my body rocked back instinctively, wanting more. The slightest increase in the pressure on my throat reminded me of my place and my body stilled.
"My whore has a nice, wet cunt for me." He breathed the words into my ear, knowing the reaction they would elicit. The sound was a combination of nails on a chalkboard, assaulting my senses and the hum of my favorite vibrator awakening a desperate need.
"Whose cunt is it?" He asked.
"It's your cunt." I responded, the word leaving a bit of a sour taste.
"Does my cunt need to be used?" He asked.
"Yes." I responded.
"Tell me, whore." His voice more firm now.
"Your cunt needs to be used." I said, a little too desperately.
