“No, but I do.”
She relieved, though I can see her anxiety mount as those hands begin an exploration of her breasts, covering them with their warmth and pinching her nipples just as she did.
The black stranger moves with ease, bringing her to her feet as he climbs over the theatre seat behind her. She’s created a circle of admirers, eyes that fervently gape in amazement—though Delia’s as astounded by what she does as those who watch. I sense her wanting to push the new lover away, but when she looks at me, she sees the command in my eyes, and willingly yields.
She’s in Calvin’s hands, sitting on his lap facing forward, her body being combed by his darkness. He’s Bernard’s brother—but the opposite in style from his elegant sibling. Calvin looks as though he’s come from the jungle, with his many ropes of long hair twisted into a complicated braid. His eyes simmer with a crude dark light. He presses his hands against Delia’s inner thighs and pushes them apart so he can feel her wet warmth with his fingers. Her admirers stroke their dicks—some bold enough to remove them from their pants while they watch the real show.
Delia’s head drops back against this lover’s shoulder. Seconds pass, and she’s deeply inside her body, shivering. While Calvin massages her crotch, her body bucks against him, and Delia’s juice pours over his hands. It’s clear his dick is ready—like all the others inside the theatre. Lifting her off his lap, she’s as limp as a rag doll. Turning her around, Calvin takes his cock from his pants and she climbs on that savage organ. The head is small while the spear widens into an erection as large as any she’s had before. Nestling into him, she writhes erratically, as her mouth moves down to his kiss face, his mouth, his closed eyes, and his smooth black cheek. He forces himself on her and demands she meet his need, though she’s hardly holding back now. Calvin has this effect on women.
I think she’s cumming in multiples, one ends, and another begins. Her cries get stronger, her contortions more unpredictable. He draws his face into her chest, while her hands grab at his thick braids.
“Oh, yes, yes, yessssss,” she hisses, then her head floats back on air and she moans with a gentle, “Ahhhhhhhhhh.”
Calvin rides her hard. She seems to scream, but it’s not from pain. He squeezes her ass roughly as he shoots and as the end comes, Delia’s in a faint, falling into his chest rocking as his dick ejaculates. She undulates as his body jerks upward and then relaxes.
“Ooo, slave flesh like you needs it randy,” he chuckles as he pushes her away. She peers down at him while he smiles—a broad, toothy black grin. “My brother thought you would be good. And you are.” He smacks her ass, and Delia awakens from wherever she’s been.
What a raunchy brat she is! I love her, and so do Calvin and this audience.
She looks around at the gathering crowd as they wait expectantly. Too bad, they’ll be disappointed. There’s not a cock among them I’d trust her with, so she throws her clothes back over her body, tossing a satisfied glance at her black lover and a playful snicker at the rest.
“Ooo, you make me do such naughty things,” she purrs to me when we’re in the car.
“Yes, and now you can go down on me.”
She hardly has the strength but wouldn’t dare not honor my request.
“You think I should punish you for being such a slut?” I ask as she unzips my pants.
“Hummm, perhaps,” she muses as her head disappears into my lap, her hands flying toward my dick.
She is particularly inspired by what’s just happened, and gives me head so greedily, you’d think she had not come at all. She sticks with the blowjob all the way home—as long as we can manage it and drive the car at the same time. I wait to get home for the rest. Taking her soppy cunt from behind, Delia cums again, spasming sharply with her whole vagina as I jerk. It’s especially good to have the timing right. I sometimes think she’ll milk me dry.
After we’re too exhausted for more, she lies inside my arm.
“He was wonderful, Heinrich.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve never had a black man.”
“I know.”
“Oh, but I shouldn’t want anyone but you.” She looks up at me sadly as though she’s done something terribly wrong.
“It’s unrealistic, Delia. Remember that.”
“But why? Why can’t it be just you and me?”
“I don’t think I’d be happy.”
“You wouldn’t? Just with me?”
“It’s a good reason to play in the culture we do. We can have other partners without regrets or subterfuge.”
“Oh, I see.”
I know she doesn’t like this. “Don’t be hypocritical. You love what you did with Calvin this afternoon. And I wanted you to want him. He’s different than I am.”
“But you won’t give me away often,” she says as if she’s reassuring herself.
“No, no, I won’t. Besides, I’ll have to punish you for that much enthusiasm. That should damper your eagerness a little.”
“Punish me how?” she asks.
“I’m trying decide. When I do, trust me, you’ll be the first to know.”
It’s the next day before I wreck havoc on her. Neither of us believes the punishment is real. But I am feeling particularly nasty. She relished Calvin even more than I imagined she would. And Calvin—he’d have her any time she was offered. A call from Bernard the next morning confirmed that fact. Of course, he generally loves women in any package they come in—in any way they’re given, offered, or he can take them. His foreign appearance and the accent he’s cultivated from spending most of his life in Jamaica make him particularly appealing to women who love what’s exotic.
I punish Delia beginning with bondage. She sits in a straight-back chair with her hands roped behind her, while her legs are spread and tied to the legs of the chair. Her neck is collared with a with a four inch leather strap that makes it impossible for her to look down, to see how her breasts sit proudly atop a black corset, her nipples bared. I attach a ribbon of clothespins across her pushed up flesh and they rise and fall like an ocean wave as she breathes deep and anxiously. Each new pin is another new sensation, a fresh striking pain that soon settles in with the others creating an abiding roar of discomfort.
She looks into my face, begging with her eyes. I’ve ordered her not to speak, and she bites her lip trying to get my attention and some mercy. She knows this will hurt even more before the scene ends. The tiny rope behind these pins will rip away in one brutal tear, leaving a swathe of pain that will pound through her for minutes. Until then, she waits, as the tension builds. The skin at the top of her breasts grows more taut and strained with each new acquisition to her collection of tiny tortures. When there are fifteen clothespins pinching her undulating flesh, I stop.
“It’s what you want, Delia, enjoy.” My sub pants anxiously as the pain steadily rises at each crimped pin.
She becomes frantic seeing me walk toward the door, “But Heinrich!”
“Shush! You bark at me, I’ll only add more.”
“Oh, no!” She clamps her mouth shut seeing my glare, and I walk out of the room to let her linger with the agony for a while.
Sometimes I think Delia’s too cloying and attentive. She needs to off and I need to enforce my distance. These scenes ensure that. She may sulk and whine, but she’ll stay clear of annoying me for a few days, as long as the residual pain from this ribbon remains to jar her memory.
By the time I return to the bedroom, Delia’s frantic, wondering just how long I’ll stretch out the scene. She peers up at me as though she’s profoundly hurt, and bites her lip in mortal dread as I reach for the rope that connects the clothespins.
With the other hand, I touch her soft face, play with her black curls, and then wipe a bead or two of sweat from her lip.
“Are you telling me you don’t want this?”
“I do, but I’m afraid.”
She should be. She has no idea how this will hurt since it’
s the first such ribbon she’s been required to endure. A pin or two at a time is all she’s managed. With all these now, she’s actually doing quite well. Though I only left her for ten minutes, to her brain, it must seem like forever.
I tug at the end of the rope, play with it teasingly, then with an abruptness she’s come to expect from such things, I rip the clothespins open—all fifteen in a matter of two seconds.
She screams and her body clenches as though she’s just endured electric shock. The pains send a burst of passion to her crotch, and she’ll be horny for hours because of this sensation.
When her sensibility finally catches up with her, I’m between her parted thighs, toying with her quivering vulva, poking a finger in the wetness there. I rub lightly, then feel deep spasms coming from her. She can’t move but hardly an inch, and the climax rises fasts and bursts over the edge into pleasure. Her head thrashes back, and for a time, her pink bruised tits jiggle heavily, and her groin expanding and contacting until the sensation finally dies away.
Delia’s body drapes me languidly as we move to the bed. She’s inside my arms, so pliant I think she might just melt.
“I love you Heinrich,” she whispers repeatedly in my ear as we move together. I find the warm wet froth of her cunt as welcoming as her arms.
My body presses into hers as she welcomes me.
“Please, my love, never leave me.”
“I have no plans to change a thing,” I assure her.
Sometimes it feels as though all I do is whisper words to calm her fears and keep her pacified.
Chapter Twelve
I enter Lockhart’s brown-shingle relic quaking. The rest of my life is finally beginning. After all these months of waiting, after all this tense anticipation, I worry that I’ll find him less than my mind imagines. I wait in the living room for some minutes before he addresses me. He’s busy on the phone, arguing over the price of something rare—though I have no idea exactly what he’s talking about. It sounds as though he’s haggling over the price of flesh—slave flesh. I wonder if he’s a trader in the black-market. Though if he is, there’s been no sign of it in my previous trips to his house. Then too, those were both too brief to know the truth about how this master lives. If he is as Bernard says—one of the very best and worst, then his involvement in underground activities doesn’t stretch the imagination.
“On your knees, slave!”
Lockhart’s voice awakens me from my reverie as it thunders loudly in my ear. Scrambling to comply with the order, I take the floor in seconds, shoulders and face to the carpet, hands behind me, ass raised. “Why are you wearing clothes?” he barks.
“I …” I start to explain.
“Take them off!”
I rush to undress, thankful there’s just a skirt and sweater to remove. I assume he’ll want me in bra and stockings.”
“Everything, bitch,” he orders. I was wrong.
Quickly removing my underwear, while gazing at a maestro’s baton in the master’s hand. He clutches it with a mean grasp, fingers flexing and tensing as though he plans to use it soon.
“Where’s your collar?” he asks.
“I have none,” I speak quietly.
“So true,” he mocks me. He throws me the requested item, which I immediately grab in my hand. “Before you arrive here, put it on and don’t dare enter this house without it. Unless I instruct you otherwise, you’ll strip naked but for this leather and kneel here on the carpet to await your instructions. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
He waltzes to my side, sits in a chair above me, pressing his boot to my head as though it’s become a footstool. My ass waits for the feel of the baton, which I’m sure will swipe at the fleshy orbs.
“You don’t speak unless I ask you to speak. You eat nothing unless I give it to you. In this house, you are nothing. You have no identity, no will of your own, no life, but what I give you. You have no name, but slave. I am your master and you will serve me. You will learn your trade, slave. If this is your true calling, we will find out soon, for you will fall in love with me. If it is not, you’ll soon hate everything about me and walk out.”
Lockhart removes his boot from the back of my neck, and reaching down, he clamps a one-foot leash to my collar. With it, he pulls me to my knees between his thighs.
“Find my prick and give me head.”
Because I tremble so, I fail to obey fast enough.
“Relax, slut, or you will be perpetually punished,” he spits out while staring into my eyes. His are no longer mild.
Before I can hurriedly right my wrong, he pulls me over his lap and with the baton lays several dozen cuts across my ass. I gasp as the biting pain bursts through my body, but everything happens so quickly, I don’t have time to do anything but relinquish. Pushing me back to the floor, he has me continue with his original demand.
I fumble less, opening the fly of his trousers pulling free the erection that will be the object of my pleasure. His sprouts with fullness, little need for me to enlarge this proud one. Yet, as my mouth goes over his purple head, I see the whole thing rise more boldly, the six inches swell another one or two—yet, I can’t truly evaluate the size, or even the shape. Lockhart’s hand is at the back of my neck, forcing my face downward. I smell his damp and musky groin, relishing the pungent fragrance. The taste of my master becomes pleasurable—and I know I’ll soon long for it. I give him what he demands, working hard so he will reach his satisfaction.
Soon, his hand is backing off its force, his fingers tangling inside my hair which is now a full five inches long since he ordered me to let it grow. More freedom to work his prick, I taste it from its fragrant base to the smooth skin of the head, running my tongue along the rim and around the top. He makes no sound and I don’t dare look up to see if what I do pleases him. I have only his responding body to know how much he enjoys what I do. The man I thought to be mild and gentle has suddenly consumed me in the heat of his commanding aura. His size looms fiercely above me. I become small and cared for, but infinitely humble as I surrender.
As his cum shoots down my throat, I gulp the thick substance, enjoying this first taste of him and relishing his potency. He pushes my head from his crotch while there is still cum on my cheeks, and I sit back humbly waiting for more.
“Hands behind you,” he says settling back into a post-cum trance. He sounds less cruel.
I wait, letting my humility shine. My body pulses longing for its own satisfaction, but I fear it might be some time before the master gives me any pleasure at all. My head is bowed, looking to one side at the shiny leather boot that was pressed to my neck, while my breasts protrude proudly with my hands bound by his command. My feet begin to ache as my ass presses against them. I can feel the juice between my thighs become sticky. Though I’m naked, my body burns hotly.
I expect another brisk command, and am surprised to hear his tone change. He leans forward in his chair, and reaches for my chin. Raising it, he gives me permission to look him in the eye. “You’ll find my dinner in the kitchen. I’ll eat there, set a place for me.”
I hesitate. I have no idea where the kitchen is, though I suppose that wandering the rooms behind this one I’ll find it. Lockhart seems to read my mind, however, and points behind him. “Though that door.”
Jumping quickly to my feet, I find the bright yellow and black kitchen is far beyond my expectations for this old house. It’s sleek and updated, as though the master of the house enjoys preparing food himself.
There’s a fine looking roast warming in the oven, potatoes and winter vegetables on the side, all simmering in juices that make my mouth water. I didn’t think I was hungry, but the desire to eat suddenly grinds at my empty stomach. I find a tossed salad in the refrigerator, cutlery in a drawer near the table, and because the upper cabinets have glass fronts, I can easily find a dinner plate and glassware. The old dinette is vintage, a yellow laminated table trimmed with chrome, and four pale yellow vinyl chairs that look
as though they were purchased just yesterday—if the year was 1950. I glimpse my collar in the chrome and remember how naked I am. There’s a steady pulsing in my body making every nerve-ending jump with fire. I have Lockhart’s dinner on the table in five minutes, and find him striding through the door just as I fold a linen napkin and set it beside his fork
“Sit,” he orders me.
I have no idea what to do with my hands. They feel foolish the way they rest uselessly in my lap. Under normal circumstances, I’d be eating along with him. But that wouldn’t please him. He wants to feed me, bite for bite. I take each one he offers, savoring the taste simply because I’m not certain if I’ll have another one. Heinrich did this with me for one long week two years ago—when I complained because I was gaining weight—and tired of hearing me grumble, he took over my food. Not a scrape, not a bite, not a single morsel crossed my lips unless it came from his fork. I was miserable though Heinrich was amused. And I never complained to him about my weight again.
In Lockhart’s house, I’ll need to squelch my urge to panic. Perhaps it is just this one meal he intends to dictate.
For two weeks, I serve Lockhart slavishly. His demands and rules are numerous, and I’m prone to forget—or even question if he’s given me instructions. It’s a good deal to remember especially when my most important task is to surrender to him. He’s says it will get easier—usually after I’ve been punished for some breach of his rigorously imposed slave etiquette.
He wakes me at dawn, before the sun has a chance to grow pink in the sky. Since I’ve been bound before I sleep, he needs to free me from whatever restraints he used the night before. Often, it is just my collar tethered to the footboard of the bed. I sleep on a mat with a thick comforter to cover me. My bones seem to grind into the floor because the cushion is so thin, but I haven’t had a problem falling asleep. I’m exhausted by the time I can finally rest. Sometimes he binds my ankles and wrists—this when he thinks I’ve been especially lax.
I wake with my eyes peering through the darkness, assaulted by the light of the candle he holds before my face. Other days, I’m driven from sleep by the blaring light in the hall, and my whole body instantly comes to attention. As soon as I can move, Lockhart pulls me over the end of the bed and flails me with a thick bundle of lashes. By the time he’s laid several dozen strokes on my shoulders, thighs and ass, I’m wide-awake. A cold shower follows this morning ritual. When my master removes my collar and thrusts me under the icy stream of water, the opposites of hot skin and cold water collide, sending rivers of sensation careening through my veins, so much I can hardly stand them. Afterwards, I stand under intense heatlamps as Lockhart dries me with a warm bath towel. Once he replaces my collar, my day begins.
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