The Suburban Stable

The most difficult thing about maintaining a stable in the suburbs is paying for it.

Cost of living is high, and when you're one person working to support five mouths, you have to have a good job, live close to the ground, or both. In my case, I have a decent job, and am accustomed to going hungry—which is a good thing, because I would never, ever allow my pets to be hungry or cold, or go without even the slightest creature comforts.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Let me take a step back and begin at the beginning.

About me, personally, there's not much to say.

I'm in my late twenties, was born and raised in a large suburban city—like many others across the continent—which houses the majority of those who work in the actual city twenty kilometers down the road. My childhood was uneventful, and my life, up until I acquired my first pet, pleasantly mundane. However, last winter, a little after New Years, I decided as part of my resolutions to make a lifestyle change I'd been dreaming about since puberty.

Interpersonal power dynamics have always interested me.

That one person could presume themselves—and therefore become—better than another, and that that other, equal in every way, would be willing to accept such a preposterous notion is a concept I find endlessly fascinating.

When I was younger, this interest or obsession, if you prefer, like my interest in the opposite sex, lay dormant. I would read about or see such arrangements depicted in movies or on TV, and while a part of me acknowledged a special interest—a kind of pre-sexual cognizance—the rest of me remained ignorant of the impact such a realization should make.

Then puberty happened and everything changed.

My feelings began to take a decidedly sexual note.

My first remembered orgasm was to an imagined fantasy involving one of my classmates struggling to free herself from a web of ropes I'd woven around her. I don't know what turned me on more: her exertions—she was really stuck—or the fact that, in my twisted little fantasy, she had submitted herself willingly to that situation, in order to please me.

Suddenly I was scouring our collection of VHS tapes—later I would turn to my dad's collection of yellowing books—for any sight or sign of a damsel in distress. On one particularly shameful occasion, while the rest of my family was out doing something, I snuck into my sisters room and stole her a couple of her dolls—which I then promptly bound with twine taken from the kitchen. All of which was fun, but felt to me decidedly juvenile. I was in high school, then, and hungry for information, certain there was more to these feelings than I, in my limited capacity, understood. Like everyone my age, I turned to the internet, and two things happened almost at once. First, I learned a generic term to describe that which I'd been enamored with my whole life, and second, I discovered pornography.

I watched grainy, slow-to-buffer videos of women being gagged, tied up, whipped. I devoured images of bondage, humiliation, pleasure and pain mixed together in a series of snapshots that told a story far more effectively than the videos (the technology wasn't yet there to support video of any length or quality). Most important of all, I read—anything and everything I could find about the mysterious and sometimes baffling world of Bondage, Dominance, Sadism and Masochism. Like the related visuals, the quality of written works was all over the place. Some of it was obviously written by crackpots, lost in their own delusions; but a lot of it was good, offering sound, practical advice about how to safely practice the various ways of surrendering to or receiving power from another. There were fiction stories, too, written in abundance, some of which I still turn to for inspiration to this day.

But as you know, there is a big difference between reading about something—dreaming and fantasizing about it—and actually doing it. Parallel to all this, I had my first relationships. Given our ages at the time, I won't reveal here the more prurient aspects of those relationships, but what I will say is this: by the time I reached the age of majority, I knew what my role in relation to the opposite sex would be; likewise, I also knew what kind of woman I found attractive, and with which I wold like to spend the rest of my life.

***

Prior to acquiring a job that allowed me the privilege of working from home, I used to leave before six in the morning and I wouldn't return until well after five in the evening. In that time, my pets—though in the beginning there was only one—were free to occupy themselves in any number of ways proscribed in advance by me, subject to their own approval. For instance, different days allowed for different domestic chores, and each pet had a list of things she was responsible for on a weekly basis. These occupied the bulk of her time, so the sooner she completed her list, the more free time she had. Of course that meant that, in the beginning when I had only one pet, she was almost as busy as I was—cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry—but there was always time built into her schedule for leisure. (In my experience, a bored slave is an unhappy slave, and even the least imaginative require some relief from their daily existence.) But the more pets I got, the less each had to do, which meant coming up with things to keep them occupied until I got home was more and more of a hassle.

Apart from my comings and goings, which were always celebrated and lamented, respectively, I had very little time left each night with which to spend on my pets. Rather than foster a spirit of cooperation and mutual admiration and respect (between my pets), this led to competition and strife, both of which I had no use for in my household.

I realized I had a choice.

Either I could put up with my job and all its faults, or I could find a new one.

I knew it wouldn't be easy, given my skillset and the amount I required to keep the lights on each month, but then, nothing worth doing is easy, if you'll pardon the cliche. I could bore you with the details of my job search, which I conducted nights and weekends after having worked a full day, trying to find time in between it all to make sure my pets were satisfied. But I won't. Suffice it to say that, after a lot of digging, I got lucky, which is probably how more of us get elevated in our station than we'd care to admit (the main difference between me and someone else are the factors that increase my odds of being noticed: being male and caucasian, for example, with the rubber stamp of a university education—even in something as useless as arts). I landed a job doing freelance writing, and all of a sudden I was home most of the week, and making more money than before.

That night, I assembled my pets, all four of them, and we celebrated together in the living room.

Paris, my first and most beloved, a pale, beautiful brunette, with big brown eyes and even bigger breasts, raised a toast in my honor.

"To our master," she said from where she knelt, naked save for a pair of sheer black stockings, front and centre of the little group of women, two on one side of her and one on the other. "Who feeds and takes care of us, and gives meaning to our lives."

My other pets raised their glasses, we touched, then drank together.

Some of my pets had champagne in their glasses, while others sipped chilled urine.

And it was this simple fact that reminded me of two important things:

First, what extremes my pets will go to for our mutual pleasure. Second, how insubstantial, how utterly unimportant and small I would be without them. A "dominant man" without a submissive (or submissives) to form the yin to his yang is nothing more than a glorified fuck boy. A poseur extraordinaire who deserves all the contempt in the universe. Trust is earned, if you'll allow me to add truisms to my list of literary sins, and I've devoted my life to earning the trust of those who live in my house and under my rules.

***

In addition to Paris, whom I've already mentioned, there are three other women in my suburban stable:

Jamie is nineteen. She moved in a few weeks after she graduated high school, mostly to escape her parents but also to satisfy a lifelong curiosity she's had about the submissive lifestyle. She's tall and thin, a lithe blonde with intense grey eyes that, on the rare occasions they meet mine, are enough to make me question—if only momentarily—who is in charge. She likes strict, and I can't emphasize that enough, bondage, and she gets off on denial. Her days most often consist of doing a few odd chores, attending to her personal hygiene, and being left tied as tightly as it is safe for her to be, so she can wriggle endlessly in her bonds.

Melissa is, after Paris, the oldest. At twenty five, she's a few years younger than me. A recent graduate of university—she studied history at the same school I went to—she learned about her kinky proclivities from her first boyfriend, who introduced her to the works of Pauline Reage, Jean de Berg, and the Marquis de Sade. She is a dyed in the wool masochist with a particular taste for emotional torment and humiliation. Short, curvy, and utterly captivating, her dark hair, brown eyes and tan skin lend her the appearance of a Greek goddess—feminine and powerful, the picture of health and beauty (even if she sometimes needs reassurances to both facts).

Kate is the youngest. Eighteen and, frankly, a gamble I made on the advice of my other pets. She's also the newest addition to my stable, and she remains mostly a mystery to me. I've elicited positive responses to her from bondage and discipline, as well as pain and sadism (she brought poor Melissa to ecstatic tears with a particularly brutal application of a stiff can to her plump bottom). Redheaded and freckle faced, she looks younger than she is, except where her eyes are concerned—they are green as emeralds and older than the pharaohs, hinting at knowledge well beyond that possible for one of her years.

Which brings me to Paris.

I've mentioned her before, told you she was my first acquisition, but that's not entirely correct.

I didn't so much acquire Paris as she acquired me.

We met, as so many people in this kinky world do, online.

This was back when I was younger—still wet behind the ears, sure of myself but unable to convince others. She messaged me, and I'll be honest with you, she scared the shit out of me. Here I was, barely into my twenties, with a woman nearly ten years my senior—with more time in the lifestyle than I had jerking off to the silly porn version of same—asking if I wanted to chat. I know it sounds dramatic, repeating it all now, but at the time I assumed I was either being put on or catfished (the internet then, as now, is full of imposters). But seeing as my profile, with its meager offering of pictures (two) and text, looking like the resume of the world's worst B-movie actor, had received little (okay, no) other attention, I was willing to take a chance.

I don't know what she saw in me then, but I know I wouldn't be where I am today without her.

Paris took me under her wing and, in what some might call topping from the bottom (and to them I call bullshit), taught me how to be in charge.

She was one of my first lovers—my first real partner—and I will love her until the day I die.

Paris is thirty-seven. Average heigh, average weight, big breasts, brown hair, and the deepest, most intelligent eyes you will ever see. (My friends, when pressed, told me they found her only average looking, and confessed to not understanding what I saw in her. They assumed she was a sad older woman who couldn't make it with anyone her own age, so she stooped to robbing the cradle. Needless to say they were blown away when I told them I'd proposed, but they came to our marriage and I'm still in touch with most of them, just the same.) She is my rock, the foundation upon which my life is built, and in addition to being my submissive, she is also mistress in my absence.

I could tell you now the exact course our relationship took—how we went from being online pen pals to friends, friends to lovers, and lovers to husband wife—but then you wouldn't read any further, and that would defeat the purpose of me sharing my story in the first place. Suffice it to say that our romance was whirlwind, and in addition to concluding with our nuptials, within the span of six months she'd sold her house, moved in with me, and we acquired the three other women who now share our home.

***

Today is Saturday, which means it's the first and often only day of the week devoted solely to pleasure. I wake early, like a kid on Christmas morning, excited and—yes—scared, hands shaking, mouth dry. Paris, beside me, stirs. She opens her eyes and smiles at me. Without being told, her head disappears beneath the covers. A second later I feel her hands, soft and warm, on my dick. She strokes me erect, and then I gasp as her lips wrap around the tip of my cock, and close my eyes as I'm enveloped by the wet heat of her mouth.

Paris knows better than to make me cum so early, but sometimes she pushes it too far.

It feels like she's trying to suck my balls straight through my cock, and as she works her tongue in all the right ways, I feel the familiar tightness in my groin and I have to reach down and pat her gently on the head to tell her that's enough.

She doesn't listen.

Paris continues bobbing her head up and down, on and off my cock, her lips and tongue wrapped around its sensitive heat, bringing me close to the edge, driving me insane with lust.

"Paris," I say, my feet kicking impotently at the mattress. "Paris, please."

For a second I think that's it.

She won't stop, I'll cum, and be an uninspired robot the rest of the day.

Then, just as suddenly as she started, she stops. Rising up to a seated position, breasts heaving from exertion, she smiles innocently over at me.

"That was close," I say, trying to be mad, but smiling just the same.

"I knew what I was doing," she replies, flicking her hair from her face. "Besides, you're young, it's not like it would've killed you."

"No, but I would've killed you for spoiling my fun."

Paris gets out of bed and prances over to the bathroom, bouncing in all the right places, her beautiful body almost enough to make me shoot in spite of myself. There she runs the tap, and emerges a moment later brushing her teeth. Something about the sight of her mouth, full of white foam so soon after her mouth had almost been, well, you know, makes me smile. Next thing I know I'm laughing, and, looking at me, her eyes impossibly big and bright, Paris tries—and fails—not to reciprocate.

"You ass," she says, spitting a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink.

"Guilty."

"I'm gonna go get breakfast started and wake the girls. Any special requests?"

"Nope, I leave it in your capable mou—hands."

She frowns in mock seriousness, then turns on her heels and departs.

Once more I watch her go, absolute enamored by the perfection of her ass. When she's gone, disappeared from view, I get up and head into the bathroom for my morning shower. There I take my time, allowing the scalding water to wake me fully, and finish what Paris started with her invigorating blowjob. Afterwards, I dress in simple pajama bottoms and a clean t-shirt, and pad downstairs in my bare feet to the smell and sound of cooking.

In the kitchen, Paris stands, still naked, apron tied loosely around her waist, working her magic at the stove. Behind her, squatting on her heels, is Melissa. She, too, is naked, her hands bound behind her back, and as I watch she tries to both keep her balance and her face buried between the cheek's of Paris's ass. Dimly, above the sounds of frying, I hear Melissa's muffled grunts and moans. Her ass, bigger but no less beautiful than Paris's, is too tempting. I caress her left butt cheek with my left foot. She stiffens, squeals as my toes move between her legs, then run along her sex.

"Good morning, Melissa," I say.

"She says 'good morning, master,'" Paris says, without turning. "Or she would say that, if her mouth wasn't so full."

I laugh.

Over in the other corner is the kitchen table.

In a normal house, this might be small, capable of seating just two or perhaps three or four. But here, in our house, it's large, both so it can seat everyone—when my pets are allowed to sit at the table—and so it can accommodate other arrangements.

This morning, it's raised so Jamie can hang suspended from beneath it.

Squatting down, I run a hand over her right breast, pausing to tweak a nipple. Jamie moans into her gag, and her whole body shivers.

"Morning, Jamie. How's it hanging?"

She moans again—louder this time—and I don't need a translator to tell me she isn't laughing (of the five people who live in our house, I'm the only one who laughs at my jokes).

I take my seat at the head of the table, and before I can blink, Kate brings me coffee and orange juice on a tray. Unlike the rest of my pets, she's wearing a corset, pair of black panties, and sheer black stockings. She is gagged, like Jamie, and on the nipples of her pert breasts are clamps, equipped with bells that jingle at her slightest movement.

"How are you this morning, Kate?"

She mumbles something into her gag, around which a beautiful film of spin is building, holding her pose: legs together, back straight, arms holding the tray outstretched.

"That's good," I say, pretending to understand her. "That's all for now, Kate. If you have nothing else to do, you can crawl under the table and play with Jamie while I eat."

Kate nods, bows a curtsy, then disappears, returning a moment later, sans tray. She climbs under the table, and a second later I hear a loud, fleshy slap, followed by a groan of pleasure-pain from Jamie.

I smile.

Today is definitely shaping up to be a good day.

***

Now, I know what you're thinking:

Yeah right, this is a bunch of bullshit. There's no way you live like this all the time...

If that's what you think, you're right. Like I said earlier: although we live the lifestyle twenty-four-seven, we usually have time to play only on Saturdays, and so we go over the top while we can. Admittedly, this is a kinkier Saturday than usual, but it is indicative of the general nature of our shared relationship. I do my best to make sure every one gets what she needs, even if she doesn't always get what she wants.

Besides, would you really want to read about the weekends we spend loafing around, goofing off, reading or watching TV?

I didn't think so.

***

Paris comes in a few minutes later, a plate in each hand.

Although I can't see her at first, as Paris leans over—giving me a view of her pendulous breasts, which I could not resist groping—I see Melissa struggling to catch up.

"You'll have to do better than that, if you don't want to upset your mistress," I say.

"Yes, master," Melissa whimpers, and buries her face in Paris's ass.

"How's her tongue work?"

Paris moans, arching her back until her hair drapes down her back almost to her ass. Opening her eyes, a plate still in one hand (she'd already deposited the other in front of me), Paris smiles.

"She's got a long way to go, but she's getting there."

Paris sits at her usual place across the table from me, and we eat.

I'm not a breakfast person—I much prefer dinner, or even lunch—but this morning Paris has outdone herself. Fried eggs served sunny side, with thick cut bacon, hash brown potatoes, and rye toast. As we eat, we talk, try to plan out our day. Paris has a hair appointment she'll have to leave for after breakfast, but other than that, we have no plans save for our own little games.

I finish eating and pass my plate under the table for Kate and Jamie to share. Paris does the same for Melissa, and the two of us rise.