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Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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I didn’t realize it at the time, but following him, moving forward almost blindly, but always behind him, would be the norm when we were out together during the next year. When he reached his door, he unlocked it.
As a matter of course, I stepped around him, moving forward. Before I could put a foot over the threshold, he grabbed a hank of hair and dragged me back into the street. “Not so fast,” he told me through gritted teeth. “Wait for orders.”
“Sorry,” I said, truly meaning it – but whether I was sorry I wasn’t behaving as he wished or sorry I was in this situation altogether, I really couldn’t say. I stood motionless, eyes on the pavement.
“That’s better,” he said. “Let’s see you showing a little respect. Kiss my boots and ask permission to go inside.”
“Do I have to?” I asked.
“Do it,” he said harshly. “Or stop wasting my time and fuck off.”
I looked round anxiously. The front door was set a couple of feet in from the pavement, but it still was clearly visible from the road. A man was walking a bull terrier towards us down the sidewalk.
“Can I wait till he’s gone past?” I asked.
“I suppose so,” he grudgingly responded.
The man with the dog glanced at us curiously as he passed us, no doubt wondering why we were standing motionless by an open door. He said, so only I could hear, “Smart man; cleverer than me, anyway.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Keeps his bitch on a leash,” he responded. “Get down on your knees.”
I dropped down quickly, hoping to do what I must to get inside before anyone else passed our way. Calling on some vague concept of slave relationships, I kissed each of his boots in turn, and asked: “Please, Sir, may I enter your flat?”
“You may, slut,” he replied. “But stay on your hands and knees.”
I was so anxious to get behind closed doors that I immediately crawled inside and up the stairs that were adjacent to the door. If I’d stopped to think about it, I would have been self-conscious, moving my ass awkwardly up the stairs. When I reached the landing, he came up behind me, and grabbed my hair again. Sliding his open hand across my skull, capturing tufts of hair between each of his fingers, he used my hair like a leash, pulling me up and back until I rested my ass on my heels, still on my knees.
He slapped my face lightly, saying, “There’s a bathroom behind that door. Piss. Shit. Make yourself presentable. When you’re ready, I’ll be behind that door.” Then he let go of my head, opened the door he had indicated, went inside, and closed it.
I was at a loss – I had been offered a bathroom, but despite my fear and anxiety, I did not feel the need to eliminate anything – even though I was thinking far enough ahead by now to wonder if that decision would come back to haunt me. “Press on,” I told myself quietly, using the sound of my own whisper to ground me in the here and now.
I crawled to the door, reached up to turn the knob, and then I entered the room on my knees. Just inside the door, I stood up, taking in the scene. It was a big room; obviously two flats had been knocked into one large, open space. He sprawled across a huge leather sofa, with an open box of Havana cigars, a bowl of fruit, and a glass of lager beside him. He opened a large pocketknife, and began to peel an apple taken from the fruit bowl.
“Let’s try that again, shall we?” he said softly. “Go outside, knock and wait. The moment I tell you to come in, you’re to step inside, close the door behind you, turn and face me, curtsey and wait for further instructions. Understood?”
It seemed as though my mind was scrambling over treacherous terrain, and any minute could fall into an abyss. I could feel my shoulders drooping at the thought of behaving as ordered, especially with the ever-present knowledge that this was just the beginning of a year of service. That thought stiffened my spine – I was doing this to help myself, so I agreed with a soft murmur.
He barked in response, “Speak up! Every time you address me, you will refer to me as ‘Master’. You may call me ‘Sir,’ ‘Lord’ or ‘Supreme One,’ but I like ‘Master’ best.”
“You’re not serious,” I said in disbelief.
“You’re not serious, Master,” he rejoined.
“I can’t,” I insisted.
“I can’t, Master,” was his only reply.
“But it sounds ridiculous,” I explained.
“It sounds ridiculous, Master. I won’t tell you again.”
My raging inner conflict was showing all over my face: the adult in me, the lecturer in me, and the respected literary scholar in me all were being shoved out of the way as the slave in me rose to the surface.
Taking a calming breath, I said, “Sorry, Master,” and left the room, closing the door behind me. I then immediately knocked on it.
Obviously not feeling any sense of urgency about this business, he did not respond for some time. I imagined him slicing and beginning to eat the peeled apple, drinking some lager, and perhaps even lighting up a cigar. Before I could follow the thought of fire in the hands of a Master to any terrifying conclusions, Sahabet I heard him say, “Enter.”
I opened the door, turned to close it securely behind me, and then faced him to curtsey. I felt silly, inexperienced, and embarrassed, but he almost immediately began issuing orders that required my full attention, and moved me past the emotions of the moment.
“Stand over there,” he ordered. “Eyes down. A slave is only allowed to look a Master in the eye on one occasion.”
“When is that, Master?” I asked.
“I’ll let you know when it happens,” he said, not interested in satisfying my curiosity or letting it deflect him from his own purposes. He went on, “Keep still, hands behind your back, feet apart.”
I knew my knees and the toes of my shoes were scuffed from climbing the stairs, but I was relieved that there were no runs or holes in my tights. With my eyes down, my hands clasped behind my back, I found just standing there, being watched by a man, disconcerting. It occurred to me that men hardly ever stare at or even closely watch women on the streets and in public places. It occurred to me that men have learned not to be seen checking out women in public so as to avoid triggering jealousy in an escort or terror in the mind of a woman out on her own.
As his visual inventory seemed to go on interminably, I began to blush. “Master?” I asked.
“Yes?” he replied.
“I don’t know what to do,” I asked.
“All you have to do is obey,” he explained. “I’ll be making all the decisions this evening; you will stay absolutely passive. You’re going to be beaten. You’re going to be fucked. But before any of that happens, you’re going to do some waiting. Now, step over to that bookcase, face it and stand absolutely still.”
I complied with his instructions, grateful to be facing away from him so I was less conscious of his searching gaze and quiet regard. After a few minutes in that position, I heard him say, “Walk over to that picture, slowly, then turn and walk back.”
I walked up to the picture indicated, which showed a pretty brunette in a kneeling position, tied to eyebolts set into a hard wooden floor. She had a gag in her mouth, and her breasts were roped round a dildo. I shuddered, briefly imagining myself in that position. Before I had time to wonder at the lubrication I was beginning to feel, I turned slowly, and then walked back towards him to stand in silence.
Time passed.
“What are you doing, Master?” I asked.
“Wondering what to do first – flog you or fuck you,” he said. “Lift up your skirt, nice and slow. Higher. Dammit! You stupid bitch!”
“Master? Is there something wrong?” I said, afraid, for it was obvious that something was very wrong indeed.
“Tights!” he exclaimed. “I don’t believe it! Tights! Take them off and throw them in that waste paper basket. And those ridiculous pink panties.”
“Yes, Master. Sorry, Master,” I replied, my relief at the easy remedy for the problem overwhelming my natural embarrassment at stripping in front of a strange man.
“And hurry,” he said, not appreciating my prompt actions. He went on, “A few ground rules. I prefer skirts to trousers. I don’t like panties. I will not tolerate tights under any circumstances. Agreed?”
“Yes, Master. Sorry, Master,” I apologized again.
“That’s all right. You weren’t to know. Now, what were we doing?”
“I had my back to you, Master. I was showing you my bottom.” “Arse is the word you’re looking for. You were showing me your fat arse in the hope that I would spank it. But the moment’s over now; the magic’s lost. Well, Fuckhole, it’s time to see you naked.” When I involuntarily winced, he nearly shouted, “What’s the matter, Fuckhole? Don’t you like your new name?”
“No, Master.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, Fuckhole, neither do I,” he went on. “But a bitch like you needs a proper slave name, and as tonight you’re only offering me one hole to fuck, then Fuckhole seems appropriate. Don’t you think so, Fuckhole?”
“If you say so, Master,” I said with resignation.
“That’s agreed, then, Fuckhole,” he said cheerily. “So let’s see you strip, Fuckhole. Stand over there and take off your jacket. Well done. Now, throw it on the floor.”
“But, Master!” I couldn’t help giving him a pleading look. “It’s a Donna Karan!”
Shaking his head, completely unmoved, he said, “And you looked very pretty wearing it, but you came here to do as you’re told. Bring it over here.”
Even more apprehensive when I saw him pick up his knife, still open on the table, I nevertheless obeyed, and handed him my jacket.
“Thank you, Fuckhole,” he said. “Now go back and stand very still.”
He let the light play on the very sharp blade of the pocketknife before slashing it across the back of my jacket and halving the length of the right sleeve.
I felt and looked horrified. “Master – “I began, but had no words to finish the sentence. Already awash in debt, remembering what that now worthless piece of apparel had cost made me sick at Sahabet Giriş heart.
“What’s the matter, Fuckhole?” he sneered. “Are you thinking I’m too poor to buy you another jacket?”
“No, Master,” I replied.
“Or perhaps you’re thinking I’m too mean to buy a replacement?” he persisted.
“No, Master,” I repeated.
“Are you thinking that perhaps you should have obeyed me?” he quietly said.
“Yes, Master,” I responded, the light dawning, however slowly.
“Then take your blouse and bra off. Quickly,” he ordered.
I did as told, and threw them on the floor – I was learning.
I tried to shore up my confidence by remembering that my breasts were firm, if a little on the small side.
He stood up and said, “Well, Fuckhole, everything looks OK so far. Walk over to the fireplace then turn and walk back towards me quickly. I want to see those funbags jiggle.”
“Yes, Master. At once, Master,” I said before marching the full length of the room, then turned and walked back. Although firm, my breasts did, indeed, jiggle. Looking back on that evening, I am grateful that I was too ignorant of what was to come during the next year to realize that one day my breasts would be crisscrossed with whip marks, and my nipples would be long and ever at attention, having been trained by the judicious and regular application of clamps and clothespins.
I stopped in front of him, and he said, “Give me your hands.”
He took my hands in his, raising them to shoulder level. “Push against me,” he ordered. With my arms and chest straining, the breast flesh jumped off the muscles, something I never would have imagined happening – almost as surprising as seeing his cock begin straining against his jeans.
“Hands behind your back!” he commanded, gripping my left breast in the circle made by his forefingers and thumbs, squeezing hard enough to make the flesh pop towards him. For a moment, I thought he might bite or suckle my bulging nipple, but instead he released my breast. Then he took both my nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, pulling them towards him, stretching the flesh until I winced. Then he shook them, making them quiver, and let them go.
“The tits seem OK,” he mused in the manner of someone taking an inventory. “The dining room is next door. Get yourself round there and lie down on the table, legs wide apart. It’s time to examine the cunt.”
Once again, my face took on a pained expression before I said, “Please, Master.”
“Got something to say, Fuckhole?” he responded.
“Please, Master,” I began, “I don’t like that word.”
“What word?” he said, as I bit my lip.
“Oh,” he said, seeming to suddenly understand. “The word ‘cunt,’ you mean?”
I nodded unhappily already sure this conversation was not going in a good direction.
“How very refined of you,” he sneered. “And how woefully ignorant. ‘Cunt’ is a noble word given to us by the Dutch and Norwegians, but perhaps you’re not yet ready to embrace European unity. It’s related to the Latin word ‘cunnuso,’ but I guess you have no respect for our cultural heritage. You’ve lived in the States, so you know that American women use it, even lesbian feminists, but you’re too British. The great writers use it: not just D. H. Lawrence, Henry Miller and James Joyce, but even Robert Burns used the word ‘cunt’ where it was fitting. But you’re too genteel. If you’re going to be a slave, you’ve got to use a slave’s language. A slave doesn’t say ‘take me’ or ‘let’s make love.’ A slave asks to be fucked. A slave doesn’t go down on her Master. She doesn’t give head. She sucks cock. A slave doesn’t ask her lover to put a finger inside her. She says: ‘Please, Master, shove your fist up my cunt.’ Above all, a good slave follows her Master’s wishes in everything, but you’re too arrogant to be a good slave – “
“No, Master,” I said with resignation.
He was stopped in mid-rant. “‘No,’ what?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I replied. “I am not too arrogant to be a good slave. I will let you examine my cunt.”
“That’s better,” he said with a smile. “You’ve got a lovely voice,” he told me. “I want to hear lots of filthy language from you from now on.”
I laid myself down on the big oak table with my skirt pulled up and my feet on two chairs, feeling as uncomfortable and exposed as I do when in GYN exam stirrups. He sat between my legs in the carver, and inspected me before saying, “That wet cunt of yours deserves to be looked at. That wet cunt brought you here, not the educated brain that wanted to spend this evening reading some esoteric literature. Open it up for me: peel back those passion flaps.”
Although I could not resist a sigh, I also obeyed.
I did not try to deny even to myself that I was wet – a good thing since I immediately felt him picking up moisture from my vagina, then smoothing it over the tip of my clitoris. He began to build up a rhythm, and I heard myself whimper, and my breathing began to change.
He gave my whole vulva a hearty slap saying, “None Sahabet Güncel Giriş of that. Can’t have you coming before I do.” Standing between my legs, he reached forward, grasped both my nipples, and pulled me to my feet. Then he turned, and led me back to the main room. “See that case leaning against the wall?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Put it on the coffee table and open it,” he instructed.
The case was an oversized attaché case in ochre leather by Louis Vuitton, not too heavy or too large for me to easily lift and lay it out on the table. I flicked open its catches, swung back the lid and gasped.
Inside the case was a terrifying collection of whips, floggers, nipple clamps, restraints and gags. These alone were enough to make me shiver, but then I saw some obviously homemade implements: a cat o’ nine tails, each strand tipped with a fishhook; two thigh-sized hoops of barbed wire joined by a padlock; and a leather collar lined with broken glass. It took a moment to recover my voice and squeak in shock, “Master? You can’t want to use these on me?”
“Not all of them,” he replied. “But remember that while I can make your wildest dreams come true, I am also your darkest nightmare. Those special items are for pushy slaves who think they can take a lot of pain, a reminder that no matter how much you think you can endure, I can deal out more. Would you like to choose an instrument, or will you accept my recommendation?”
“You choose, Master,” I replied, fear apparent in my tone.
“The black flogger with the red handle is suitable for a beginner,” he explained. “That’s the one with two parallel strips of leather. Bring it over here, on your knees if you please. Hand it over. Now, kiss it.”
Hopeful that quick and silent compliance with these instructions would mitigate the strokes I knew were on their way, I immediately kissed the flogger, and then scrambled quickly to my feet as he tugged on a nipple.
“A slave who is being beaten on the arse or shoulders clasps her hands in front of her body till it’s over,” he told me. “A slave who is having her breasts whipped holds her hands behind her back. A slave having a cunt whipping clasps her hands behind her neck.”
“Oh, Master,” I sighed. “I didn’t realise breasts got whipped.”
“Breasts get beaten well and often,” he replied. “Cunt whippings are rare. Both are too advanced for a novice like you. Take off your skirt.”
Once again, in the hope that demonstrating my grasp of my new behavior would lighten the blows to come, I threw my skirt on the floor immediately after removing it, and bowed my head.
Standing there naked, I felt the creeping flush of embarrassment beginning again. He took a long, considering look at me, as if assessing everything, making me wait.
Finally, I could no longer keep silent. I asked, “Master? Is something wrong? Is my bum too big?”
“Speaking as a Master,” he replied, “I would say that you have a long nose, bad posture, a broad arse and the cheek to ask questions without getting permission first. If you want my opinion as a man, you’ll have to ask me the same questions tomorrow. You are naked for inspection,” he continued.
“After tonight I never want to see you completely naked again. The perfect look for a slave is somewhere between wearing clothes and wearing nothing. Not a naked, natural creature or a fully-dressed lady, but a half-dressed whore,” he explained.
“Yes, Master,” I said in confusion.
He went on, “You must always wear something: a hat, stockings and suspenders, a peephole bra, even nothing but a pair of earrings or a ring on one of your toes. But never naked.”
“Whatever you say, Master,” I replied, my head spinning, thoughts and feelings completely out of control.
He stepped closer and kissed me, forcing his tongue between my teeth, raping my mouth. I hoped my response was what he wanted: I held myself completely passive, but even I could smell my arousal. He turned me to face a mirror, and then kicked my ankles apart, spreading my legs a little wider. At first dismayed at being kicked at, I realized that I would need a wide stance to hold myself steady when the strokes were being applied.
“Tell me to beat you,” he said harshly.
“Have I been bad?” I asked, getting into the role I was to play for a year.
“You were late,” he began. “You appeared before me in tights. You were reluctant to call me ‘Master.’ If I gave you the proper punishment for all that misbehaviour you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week. For now, I shall beat you because it is my right as a Master and because, as a slave, it is all you can expect. You are a piece of shit, a sniveling excuse for a woman, a toy to play with and punish any way I wish. Tell me what to do. Beg me to do it.”
“Please,” I whispered.
“Louder,” he said. “And be more specific.”
“Please, Master,” I said quietly. “Beat me. Beat my arse.”
“Remember to count the blows,” he said, “and thank me after each one.”
“It seems silly,” I heard myself saying with dismay.
He stepped up and shouted in my ear, spitting the words out fast and harsh: “Permission to speak, Master? Permission granted, Bitch. Counting seems silly, Master. Did anybody ask for your opinion, Bitch? No, Master. Sorry, Master. Sorry for asking stupid questions.”
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