Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

  I did as he’d commanded, turned to him, and said, “Your slave awaits your commands, Master.”

  He paused, looking more than a little uncertain. Surely he’d had women in his room, there was no such thing as a virgin at this university, but he’d never had an encounter like this one. I knew that if I were in his place I’d be intensely aware that the woman in front of me wasn’t really a slave, but just playing one. She could call the game off in an instant if I gave a command she didn’t care to follow.

  “Master,” I said, “may I speak freely?”

  “You may,” he said, a little relieved.

  “Master,” I said, “a slave has no right to expect to be wooed or courted. The only pleasure a slave is permitted is that of serving her Master and obeying his every command. I am entirely your slave, and I will obey without hesitation.”

  Thinking back on that moment, I can’t believe how naive I was, not imagining that any Master would ever ask a thing I’d find truly impossible, or so horrible I simply couldn’t do it. But I meant what I said with all my heart.

  Andrew stared at me, still uncertain. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Take your shoes and socks off.”

  I was wearing the more or less standard undergraduate uniform for New York in early April: sweatshirt, jeans, running shoes. And I’ll just mention here that I’ve always considered myself pretty enough but a good bit short of beautiful. I have an oval face with a smallish nose, green eyes, and a shapely body with medium-sized breasts. At that time I had long brown hair, and I hadn’t even dreamed of getting tattoos or piercings.

  I kicked my shoes off and raised my feet, one at a time, to pull off my socks. I straightened up and faced him again.

  “Your sweatshirt,” he said. “Take it off.”

  I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and dropped it on the floor. I faced him again, wearing bra and jeans and feeling mildly self-conscious.

  “Jeans,” he said.

  I pushed them down, stepped out of them, and faced him again. My face was hot, and my heart was pounding. I yearned for his next command, and I was terrified, too.

  He paused for a long time before he said, “Take off your bra. And panties.”

  I reached around behind my back, unsnapped my bra, and let it fall to the floor. Finally I stepped out of my panties.

  I stood facing him and let my arms drop to my sides, feeling more naked than I’d ever felt before, thinking about my prominent nipples and big areolae, my untrimmed pubic hair. I wondered if he liked the look of them better than I did. There was indecision in his face—he wanted to stare, and he didn’t want to be seen staring. But I felt no indecision. I had wanted to be naked, wanted him to see my body—well, now I was naked, and he was looking at me. I said, “Your slave awaits your further commands.”

  He opened his mouth and said, “I . . .” Once again he didn’t quite know what to do.

  “A slave,” I said, “is incapable of being shocked by anything she may see. She’s not entitled to such feelings.”

  He hesitated only a moment; then he sat on the edge of his bed and took his shoes off. He stood again and took off his shirt and pants. He glanced at me; I frowned at him a bit, and he pushed down his underwear. He was lean, far from athletic, but his body looked strong, clean, and not too hairy. His cock wasn’t hard yet; he was too nervous.

  I said, “Allow me to arrange the bed for you, Master.” I propped the pillow against the wall to make a backrest. My doing this seemed to give him confidence. He sat on the bed and leaned back on the pillow. I stood in front of him and waited.

  “Come and kiss me,” he said.

  I said, “Yes, Master.” How would slave and Master kiss? It wouldn’t be a tentative, first-date kiss; it wouldn’t be loving, not tender, not gentle. I would give, anxious, afraid not to please, and Master would want, take, and offer no thanks. I crawled to him over the bed till my hands were on either side of him, and my breasts brushed his chest, nipples already swelling—it was so sexy to be naked for a first kiss! I leaned into him, pressed breasts and belly flat against him, and kissed him. I put away all shame—a slave couldn’t afford it—made it wet and lascivious, mouth open, tongue prying his lips apart, breathing hot into his mouth. And he responded with fierce need, taking me in his arms and crushing me to him, lips hard, tongue thrusting. His hands roved over my shoulders and back—my skin burned where he touched me—down to my ass: he squeezed my buttocks, fingered my crack.

  I reached for his cock. It was hard now and warm in my hand; I stroked it and whispered in his ear, my excitement growing. “Master, you have the power to compel acts from your slave that a free woman—a girlfriend or wife—might refuse to perform. A slave can refuse you nothing.”

  I squeezed the shaft and ran my fingers over the head, slick with pre-cum; I spread it around with a fingertip. He was breathing heavily. I kissed him again, licking the inside of his mouth, making it lewd, and after a minute he said, lips brushing mine as he spoke, “Suck my cock.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, my arousal growing. I kissed him once more and slid down his body, pausing to give one of his nipples a soft bite on the way. I nuzzled his brown curly pubic hair, ran my tongue up the length of his cock, paused to tease his little slit, and ran my tongue down the underside. Then up again, and when I got to the top this time, I took an inch of him into my mouth, enjoying his warm hardness and the naughtiness of sucking his cock just minutes after I’d entered his room. I massaged him with my tongue and gradually took more of his length, as much as I dared. He gazed at my face, eyes wide. Yes, I thought, a slave would do this; but a slave would do so much more, if only Master would make her.

  I licked and sucked Andrew’s balls, teased the sensitive skin under them, and said, murmuring softly into his scrotum, “If commanded, a slave would do a thing she’d never done before. She’d submit to your discipline, if you thought she’d been naughty. Her body is yours to spank, whip, or use as you please.”

  Suddenly I was afraid I’d said too much. He could get offended by this kind of talk and decide I was too kinky for him to have anything to do with. But after a few seconds he said, “You have been naughty. You need a spanking.”

  “Master is just and merciful,” I said.

  He scooted to the edge of the bed, and I let him take me over his knees, ass under his right hand, his erection prodding my side. He raised his hand and brought it down with an audible slap—an almost gentle blow, but I’d never been hit there before, and I was a little shocked. “Oh!” I breathed, shifted in his lap, and felt the head of his cock slide against my side. He took a sharp breath and hit me again, a little harder this time. I gasped, more with pleasure than pain, and he gave me a third blow. I felt the sting this time, twitched a little and whined, aroused by the pain and his cock hard between his body and mine. The fourth blow, still harder, landed right where the third one had, it nearly burned, and I shuddered and said “Oh!” again, a soft scream. He paused a long time now, five seconds or more, breathing hard, listening to my whimpering; and he held his breath and brought his hand down again and gave me a fifth blow, one that felt like a punishment. I sobbed, “Master!”

  “Are you all right, Emily?” asked Andrew.

  I was more than all right: my whole body was vibrating with excitement, but I didn’t want Andrew, the boy who was suddenly concerned for me; I wanted more, more, more Master.

  “Oh,” I sighed, “Master must decide . . . how long to continue the punishment . . . how hard to strike. A slave must not presume . . .”

  I squirmed a little, to make sure he didn’t miss the point.

  He groaned and brought his hand down again—the blow resounded in the room—and I jumped and cried “Ah!” He hit me again and again, blows a couple of seconds apart. His cock was slick now, oozing pre-cum. Tears came to my eyes, and I wept, losing count of the blows, absorbed in the pain and pleasure—till finally he stopped.

  “Jesus, your ass is red,” he whispered, almost reverentl
y. My pussy was hot and ready even though he hadn’t touched it. He tossed me onto the bed and got on top of me.

  “Condom, Master,” I said.

  He breathed “Fuck!” but reached for his desk drawer, right next to the bed, took out a condom packet, opened it, and fumbled it on.

  He shoved into me. I flung my arms around him and pulled him to me. He thrust hard for a minute, then slowed down to draw out the act. I liked the way he made love, liked his excitement and his fervent kisses. But was this how the senator would take his slave?

  I whispered in his ear, “Master can be rough—he can be cruel,” and my longing surged as I said the words. Oh, I wanted him to take me violently and use me carelessly.

  He thrust fiercely now, breathed harder, cock penetrating deeper, battering my cervix; I could feel the heat building in him, in me, that lovely pressure, a dam ready to burst—and my orgasm was a torrent of sensation, I’d never come so hard—and as it died away I cried “Anything, Master!” and knew, as he fucked me brutally, gasping, that I would do anything for him, anything at all.

  He pulled out of me, and I hardly had a moment to think before his cock was in my face and he was slipping the condom off and rasping, “Suck me!” On one knee and with a leg over my body, he seized my head in both hands and pushed into my mouth, so deep I was afraid of gagging.

  But I was thrilled—by the taste of my pussy on him, by his forcefulness, by the way he’d commanded his slave—Suck me! I closed my mouth around him as tight as I could, and he thrust into me, moaning, cock a piston, till I sensed the primitive instinct taking over his body, felt his spasms, cock throbbing, semen pumping over my tongue, splashing against the roof of my mouth, flooding me.

  Oh, here was a first! It was warm and viscous. I didn’t love the flavor—salty, fatty, bitter, with something unpleasant that I couldn’t figure out. But everything about it turned me on—even not liking it. What would the senator want from his slave? I forced it down—it felt submissive to do it, as if swallowing his cum sealed my bond to him, slave to Master.

  Andrew collapsed beside me and lay quiet for a minute. Then he turned to me, looking as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what.

  I didn’t know what to say either, but I knew what I felt—like I’d survived a brush with death and was now more alive than I’d ever been in my life. It was a high like I’d never felt before, and I knew I couldn’t live without it. And I knew what I needed now: not the sweet, slightly bossy college boy who was about to ask if I was all right, but the senator who commanded, owned, and did not doubt his right to my body. I said, “I am Master’s to command.”

  “Am I still your Master, then?” he asked.

  “If Master wants a slave,” I said, “then I am his slave.”

  He said, “What I want is you. I want to have a relationship with you, not just a hookup.”

  I dropped the slave act long enough to say, “I want a relationship too, because this is the greatest night I’ve had in a long time—maybe ever. But I need to be your slave, not your girlfriend. Maybe we can have that kind of relationship later, but not now. Right now I have to be your slave.”

  He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a minute. Then he turned back to me and said, “Okay. You can be my slave when we’re alone together, and yourself when you’re not with me or we’re out in public. It’ll be a good game.”

  “As Master commands,” I said.

  But as we talked more about it, we realized that we were stumbling around in the dark and didn’t know much about what we were getting into. We gave ourselves the assignment of finding out more about modern Master-slave relationships, and then we went to bed.

  For a long time I lay awake beside Andrew in his narrow dorm bed. He’d said I could be a slave in private and myself in public, but I was already wondering which of those selves was the real me, the modern college girl or the slave-girl who wanted only to be told what to do.

  By the time I drifted off into a restless sleep I still hadn’t figured it out.

  * * *

  Over the next few days we researched BDSM on the web. There was plenty of online information to get us started. We learned about all kinds of fun things we could do—bondage, flogging, and more—and stuff we could get to help us do it. Just as important, we learned about safety—safe practices, safewords, and safe gestures.

  Over time, we picked up rope and cuffs, a soft whip, a blindfold, and some books so we could find out more. We drooled over pictures of exotic pieces of furniture and equipment, but of course we couldn’t have fit them in a dorm room even if we could have afforded them.

  Andrew had been hesitant that first night, but soon the role of Master came easily to him. He was willful, with a talent for saying just what he wanted instead of wheedling or beating around the bush. He’d let me into his room after my classes were done for the day and as soon as the door was closed, snap, “Take your clothes off.” Then he’d set me some task: cleaning or straightening the room, reordering his books on their shelves, or putting his laundry away. If I failed to do one of my tasks properly, he’d frown and make me do it again—and sometimes he’d spank or whip me. I’d make little mistakes—say, shelving Catullus before Caesar—because I loved both the frowns and the punishments.

  I loved it when I didn’t make mistakes, too, because then, when my task was done, I could simper and climb into his lap if he was sitting or press my naked body against him if he was standing, and whisper, “Haven’t I been good, Master?”

  He’d grump, “I suppose you think you deserve a reward, slave?”

  I’d make my voice tiny and girlish and say, “A slave never hopes for a reward, but only to escape punishment.” And then maybe he’d push me to my knees, shove me onto the bed, or bend me over his desk chair, and I’d get a rough fuck and maybe a mouthful of cum.

  Whether it had been punishment or not, we’d cuddle on his bed afterwards and talk—about politics, the classics, goings on in my bio lab, all kinds of things. When we’d cuddled enough, we’d study, hunt up friends to hang out with, attend events, or go off separately to do our extracurricular stuff.

  Andrew and I both went home for the summer, and I missed my Master terribly. My life at home seemed utterly without structure, and the only good I got out of my summer job with a local law firm was finding out I didn’t want to go to law school. All I cared about was my nightly phone call with Master. He’d call around eleven, after my parents had gone to bed, and tell me the things he wanted to do to me—tie me up, whip me, choke me with his cock, slap my breasts—and what he wanted to make me do—suck his toes, lick his armpits, do his laundry. I’d whisper how I longed to submit to him and do his bidding. Sometimes he’d order me to masturbate, and I’d come, moaning into the phone. By the end of summer I was in a fever.

  When we finally got back to the university, we made contact with some of the city’s BDSM groups that welcomed beginners. We attended discussion groups, and after a while we were able to find mentors—experienced people we could count on being able to talk to about the many questions we had. My mentor was—still is—a sub named Kevin, who soon became a close friend.

  I was dizzyingly happy as Andrew’s slave, and my happiness showed up in every area of my life. I was a great student, active in extracurriculars, a good daughter to my parents, to all appearances comfortable in my life as a student at an elite American university.

  * * *

  A week before Andrew’s graduation, he took me to dinner at the pizza place where I’d become his slave. We ate our pizza and drank our beer in near silence. When I’d pushed my plate away, he took a deep breath and said, “I love you, Emily. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to marry you, if you’ll have me.”

  I wasn’t expecting this. What are the chances a Roman senator would marry his slave? It hadn’t occurred to me to want more from our relationship than what I was getting—unless it was anal sex, which we hadn’t tried yet but I didn’t feel I
could suggest. I stayed quiet and waited for him to say more.

  He said, “I brought you here to talk to you about this because this is where our relationship began, but also because this is a public space, a place where you’re yourself. And I wanted to talk to the real you, not the slave.”

  I said, “What makes you sure my public self is the real me? What if it’s the slave that’s real?”

  “How likely is that?” he said. “You’re a modern woman, and this is the twenty-first century. Our slave game has been fun, it’s meant a lot to me, but real life is waiting for us. We can’t play the game forever.”

  I thought about what he’d said. When we were out with friends I’d sometimes slip and call Andrew “Master.” They’d smile, thinking it was a cute endearment. They didn’t suspect that I was struggling to maintain a facade, a bad actress playing the part of a modern American girl. On the other hand, it was easy to be alone with Andrew—to serve him, defer to his will and judgment, and submit to his discipline. It felt right.

  I tried to imagine what it would be like to live with him as his equal—making my own choices, having my own desires, being consulted about decisions, maybe even being wooed with soft candlelight before lovemaking. Maybe he’d spank or flog me now and again as a special treat, but it wouldn’t be routine.

  The idea was appalling. I thought Andrew a good Master, and I looked up to him. Maybe I even loved him—but only as my Master. If he wasn’t going to be that, he would be nothing to me.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew,” I said, “but you’ve got me backwards. The real me is the slave, not the free woman. If you want me in your life, you’ve got to be my Master, and I’ve got to be your slave.”

  He said, “You’re pretty assertive for a slave.”

  I said, “Being a slave is the only thing I have to be assertive about. It’s not a game with me, Andrew. It’s the life I want to live. Command me to marry you and I’ll do it, but then I’ll be your slave forever.”