Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

  My belongings were piled up in the living room. Master looked at them and said, “We’d better deal with these now.” He sorted through them while I knelt and watched. My few books were all right—even the ones about BDSM that Andrew and I had bought. School supplies were also acceptable. My computer, an aging Toshiba laptop, didn’t pass muster: he’d buy me a MacBook Pro and have all my files transferred to it. He rejected all but a few pieces of clothing and bagged it to be sent to Goodwill—he’d take me shopping the next day.

  He rejected all my toiletries. He’d already bought me his favorite brands of shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, deodorant, tampons, and other things. He threw my razor in the trash. He’d made an appointment to have my hair waxed: not only my legs and armpits, but also my pussy would be hairless during my stay with him. He approved of my emo look, but insisted that a professional see to both the coloring and styling of my hair. He smiled at my sex toys. “You won’t need these,” he said. “I’ll box them up and store them for you.”

  He had me carry my clothing to his bedroom. At the foot of his bed, where I’d slept with him the night of the party, was a pallet with a pillow and sheet. “You’ll sleep there,” he said. He had me hang my few remaining things in the closet: he assigned me one end of a dresser drawer for things you don’t hang up.

  By now it was time for lunch. He showed me around the kitchen and talked about the foods he liked to eat.

  “You’ll make us breakfast and lunch when we’re both here. Sometimes we’ll have dinner out, sometimes you’ll make me dinner here, and occasionally you’ll eat here alone. How’s your cooking?”

  “Basic, Master.”

  “It’s not likely to be worse than mine. You’ll learn,” he said.

  He supervised while I made the lunches he dictated for us: a ham and cheese sandwich for him, salad for me.

  He said, “A good many Masters make their slaves eat all their meals on the floor—from dog food bowls and the like. It’s a sign of subordination, which of course is important. But I think less degrading signs will do just as well. So you’ll serve me my food and then ask permission to sit. If I grant permission, you’ll sit here”—he pointed to a chair near his—“and if not I’ll tell you what to do. Occasionally I host dinner parties. When these involve others who are in the lifestyle, you’ll eat as the other slaves and subs do—mostly on the floor. With guests who know nothing about BDSM, you’ll pretend to be my somewhat shy and subservient girlfriend.”

  I brought his sandwich to the table and said, “May I sit, Master?”

  “You may.” he said. Then added, “At meals, you won’t speak until you’re spoken to.”

  We ate in silence. He pushed back his chair and said, “You’ll clean up after every meal. Come to the kitchen.”

  He showed me a drawer containing dish towels and aprons. He said, “You may wear an apron while cooking and cleaning up. You don’t want to fry bacon in the nude. I have to make some calls now. I’ll come for you when I’m finished.”

  I cleaned up quickly and waited for him, thinking. Any of the hundreds of thousands of women who made meager livings cleaning wealthy people’s apartments in New York would envy me my station in life—earning a college degree that was supposed to be my ticket to a brilliant future. And here I was, doing what they did, and for no pay at all. What were we, Master and I? We weren’t employer and employee, not lovers, really. My condition was one that people in all ages and places had fled whenever they had the chance. But at that moment I wouldn’t have traded places with a king or president.

  Master came for me and showed me the washer and dryer, the cleaning supplies, the vacuum cleaner, and other things I’d need to know about. He employed a maid service, but I’d be responsible for making sure they did their job correctly and that everything was back in its proper place when they were done.

  “Any questions?” he said.

  I tried hard to think of a question, but nothing came to me.

  “Then come with me,” he said, and took my hand. “It’s time to begin your training.”

  He led me down a hallway past the bedroom. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked a door, and led me into a room containing a bondage table, a Saint Andrew’s cross, a tall cabinet, a wooden chair, and a floor lamp, which he switched on. A small collection of whips and paddles hung on a rack. In the center of the room, a rope with a hook hung from the ceiling down to about waist height; the other end of it was attached to a fitting on the wall.

  “Stand next to the hook,” Master said.

  I stood by the hook, feeling fluttery and somehow more than naked. He went to the cabinet and took out a steel bar about two feet long with cuffs on each end, a set of leather handcuffs, and another length of rope. He took a cat o’ nine tails from the rack. He cuffed my hands behind my back and bound my arms together at the elbow. He left the bar and whip on the floor.

  “Kneel,” he said, and I got on my knees, heels under my ass.

  He pulled the chair over to me, sat, and said, “One of my duties, Emily, is to train you to be a slave. Not just any slave, but my slave. You need to learn how to please me, and also what to expect when I see fit to correct or discipline you. What we’re going to do here will both please me and demonstrate my style of punishment.

  “But before we start, I’m thinking I should have a naughty pet name for you. I’ve been mulling several possibilities: slut, cunt, skank, bitch, whore, bimbo. Do you have a preference?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Whore won’t do, I think, because I don’t intend to sell your sexual services. Cunt isn’t right, because there’s a lot more to you than your genitalia. I don’t like skank, because it implies a lack of cleanliness, and I intend to keep you very clean. A slut is a promiscuous woman, but I’m not going to allow you to be promiscuous, even if that’s your inclination. Bitch is a possibility, but only because it can mean almost anything, as long as it’s degrading. A bimbo is empty-headed, but I know your head is far from empty.”

  “Master is kind,” I said.

  “Do you have a favorite sex act? I could call you cocksucker, butt-girl, or maybe just plain cum-slut.”

  “I liked anal sex, Master, but I’ve only done it once.”

  “That was your first time, at the party? In front of a roomful of people?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known.”

  “I liked the people watching, Master. It was humiliating. It was a just punishment.”

  “Shall I call you butt-girl, then? Brownie? Exhibitionist?”

  “Master will decide.”

  He sighed. “And then there are animal names—kitten, vixen, sow, cow, duck, hen . . . It’s a difficult problem. I think I’ll put off deciding till I’ve gotten to know you better.”

  He stood up, unfastened his pants, and took out his cock. It was hard already, maybe from the dirty talk. I wanted it: our talk had made me hot too, even though I hadn’t liked his naughty names much. He came so close to me, I could have leaned forward and put my mouth around the head of it. I wanted to take it in my hand, but trying to reach for it reminded me that my arms were bound.

  “Do you want to suck my cock, Emily?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “But that’s not how we’re going to do things,” he said. “You must always be passive, and I’ll be the actor. You don’t suck my cock; I fuck your face.”

  He took my head in his hands and pulled me towards him sharply, and his cock rammed into my throat, hard and deep. My mouth instantly filled with saliva, and I started to gag. It was hard to think just then, but I tried to remember the web pages I’d read about how to deep throat: I hummed a little, stuck my tongue out, made fists of my hands behind me, breathed deeply, and managed not to throw up. It took concentration, but his excitement was hot, and currents of pleasure rushed all through my body.

  It was violent and painful, and it went on and on, but I loved every second of it
. Passivity felt good, I thought, even if it was hard work. My bonds felt good. I longed for him to control me, body and soul—I wanted to immerse myself in his will and desire and have none of my own. Thick drool overflowed my mouth and soaked his pubic hair.

  He pulled out, bent down, and kissed me. “Naughty slave,” he said. “Stand up. I can tell you’ve been having wicked thoughts, and you need to be punished.”

  He took the bar and fastened one of my ankles to each end, forcing my feet far apart. He hooked my handcuffs onto the rope behind my back; then he went over to where the other end was attached to the wall.

  “This isn’t supposed to be tight enough to hurt,” he said, “but it can be painful or even dangerous if we’re not careful. If you safeword, we’ll stop. If you say it hurts, I’ll listen to you, but I’ll use my own judgment to decide what to do.”

  He pulled on the rope, lifting my arms behind me. He adjusted my position and the rope several times until my back was horizontal, my arms high above and behind me. The position was stressful—maintaining it would be a chore.

  “Do you know what this is called?” he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Strappado.” I’d been doing my homework.

  “Not very comfortable, is it?” he said.

  “No, Master.”

  “That’s good, Emily. You must always be honest with me.”

  He was naked now, lean and tan, with strong chest and shoulders, flat belly, narrow hips. He picked up his cat o’ nine tails. I wondered if this was his favorite toy. He walked around to my rear and hit me on the ass—a harder blow than he’d begun with at the play party, but still more pleasurable than painful. I twitched and said, “Oh!” He hit me again and again, in a steady rhythm, till my skin started to sting. Then he paused and hit me harder, making me gasp.

  The whipping was like the one he’d given me at the party, but I quickly learned that it wouldn’t do to twist and turn when tied in a strappado, since that made my shoulders hurt and my leg muscles burn. He took his time, pausing frequently, hitting just a little harder after each pause. The pain built so slowly, I could hardly tell when it went from stinging to burning, burning to excruciating. By the time he started to put his back into it, pausing many seconds after every blow and raising welts, I was euphoric and overwhelmed with arousal, my body singing. I shrieked with every blow and sobbed in between.

  Master walked around to my front and petted my hair. “No safeword yet, Famula?” He said.

  I shook my head.

  “Have you ever used your safeword?”

  I shook my head again. “No, Master.”

  “Still, I think that’s enough,” he said. He went to the cabinet again and returned with a little green jar, from which he applied some soothing cream to my sore bottom. His touch was as gentle as his whip had been cruel. I sighed with pleasure.

  But then he set the jar down, grasped my hips, and shoved his cock into my damp, hot pussy.

  It was so sudden it was painful, and I cried out. But then his cock stretched and filled me, it was exquisite, and I said, “Oh!” a drawn-out sigh.

  But Master said, “Quiet, slave. Listen to your pussy.”

  I forced myself to be quiet and heard the slap of skin against skin and the liquid slurping and sucking of his cock driving into me. I was sure I’d never been so wet or so excited. All of me—aching shoulders, arching back. straining thighs—contracted into that one spot where he penetrated me. I’m a pool of hot cunt, I thought. Master’s cunt.

  Still thrusting hard, he squeezed my sore ass with both hands, then slapped it. My shoulders throbbed to his rhythm, my legs ached, and my tender skin blazed under his hands. He wrapped his arms around my waist and hammered me still harder, grunting with the effort, oh fuck it hurt, I’d never imagined sex could be like this and any man so forceful—my body shook with the pounding, my shoulders screamed with pain behind me, and I screamed too, a continuous screech.

  I lost track of time—maybe he fucked me for five minutes, maybe an hour. His hands roved over my body, grasping my breasts, massaging my back, thrusting fingers into my mouth, rubbing my clit, exciting me more and more till I was on the point of coming. But just when I felt myself losing control, seconds from orgasm, he pulled out, came to my head, shoved his cock into my mouth, and fucked my face again, just a few deep strokes before he flooded me with his warm, viscous cum. He put a hand over my mouth and said, “Swallow, Emily.”

  My own desire surged inside me, bigger than I’d ever felt it—to serve him, to submit to his will, to be his nothing and his everything. I’m his cum-slut now, I thought, and swallowed.

  He untied me, and I sat on the floor, knees drawn up, and massaged my sore shoulders. He sat in the chair and looked at me.

  “Lie on the floor and spread your legs,” he said.

  I lay on the floor with my pussy towards him, legs spread, knees up.

  “Spread your pussy,” he said. “I want to see.”

  I pulled my labia apart, wondering why men loved looking at women this way.

  “Your pussy is beautiful,” he said, “wet and hot pink inside. Your vagina’s still open—it’s a dark tunnel. After the waxing you’ll be even more beautiful.”

  His gaze and his words were heating me up. I shifted a little on the floor.

  Master slid off the chair and knelt between my legs. He wrapped his arms around my thighs, lifted me to him so I rested on my shoulders, and sank his lips into my pussy, lapping up my wetness.

  Oh, what a gift! I felt his breath on me, his hard tongue probing my slit and my vagina, teasing my clitoris, lighting up my torso and limbs. But no! He was eating me out, growling into my pussy, for himself, not me—that was what we’d promised each other. His gift to me was to take me and use me for his own pleasure, and the thought aroused me, even more than his tongue and lips, till once again I was seconds from orgasm. But as if he’d read my mind, Master set me down, stood over my head, and stroked his cock, hard again.

  My body was trembling with need—I had to find relief.

  “Master, can I masturbate?” I asked.

  “No, Emily, not now.”

  “Please, Master, I need to come.”

  “Don’t argue, slave,” he said. “That gets you a punishment.”

  He straddled my face and sat down, pressing his anus against my mouth. Oh fuck, I thought. I’d had fantasies about this, and even enjoyed online videos of women rimming men and men rimming women—but I’d never come close to actually doing it. My mouth watered as my lips met his asshole.

  “Lick it, Emily,” Master said. His anus was tight and brown and lightly haired—and I wet it with my tongue. I’m really a bottom now, I thought, and savored the humiliation as he jerked off above me, balls slapping my nose, and his anus scrubbed my mouth.

  He groaned, lifted himself a little, and pointed his cock down at my face, still jerking off, till he came, not so much as before—but the spurt and drip of his cum on my nose and cheeks felt like the harshest slash of his whip.

  He climbed off me and stood up. Surely he’d let me come now. “Please, Master,” I begged.

  “We have to stop, Emily. We have to get ready to go to dinner.”

  I whimpered a little—I couldn’t help it. I was all hot, needy pussy, and eating seemed an impossibility.

  He got up and dressed. I had nothing to put on, so I just watched him, fevered and desolate. “Come,” he said, and I rose and trailed him out of the room.

  He led me to the bedroom, went to the closet, and took out the one dress he’d left me, a flouncy one with a black-and-white pattern. “Put this on,” he said, “and those red shoes,” pointing to the only shoes I had besides sneakers. On the closet shelf there was a black leather purse with silver fittings—not mine; he’d thrown mine away. He picked it up, said “Come to the living room when you’re ready,” and carried it to the door, where he paused and turned around.

  “Oh, and Emily,” he said, “don’t forget to wash your face. And do
n’t you dare masturbate before I tell you to.”

  I washed up, changed, and presented myself to Master, who was relaxing on the living room sofa, looking cool and collected. I’d managed to calm down a little, but his gaze heated me up instantly. “Very nice,” he said. He came to me, lifted the hem of the dress, and peered underneath.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “That won’t do. No panties allowed.”

  I gave him a stricken look, but said, “Yes, Master,” and went back to the bedroom.

  He was still standing when I returned, feeling naughty even though I knew no one would know I was naked under the dress. He handed me the purse and said, “While we’re out, you’ll speak to no one but me. Not the taxi driver, not a waiter. If you see a friend, you can smile and wave, but say nothing till I give you permission. You’ll follow my instructions without question, just as you’d do here at home.”

  “Of course, Master,” I said, wondering why he thought he needed to point that out.

  He took me to one of those wonderful holes in the wall, informal and dimly lit, with lots of intimate booths and great food—the kind of place you never read about in the Times, but only hear of from friends. The waiter who came to our booth had on a plain black T shirt, black pants, black hair of the sort you can only get by dying it (I should know), and a fabulous collection of tattoos—skulls, roses, griffins, dragons, all kinds of things worked together into beautiful collages that cascaded down both arms. He had a collar, too—a plain black one with a bronze lock.

  He introduced himself as Jonathan and asked if we wanted a drink. Master ordered chardonnays for both of us, and Jonathan gave no sign that he thought it in any way strange that he didn’t consult me. No surprise, I thought, if the collar isn’t just decorative.

  When he’d gone to fetch our wine, Master said, “Relationships in the lifestyle always seem bizarre to anyone who’s outside looking in. To them, our life looks like an endless round of abuse—perverse and completely loveless. There are even people in the BDSM community who believe that love isn’t possible for us. I don’t agree. I believe ours is a path that leads to love—not a path that everyone can or should choose, but one that works well for a select group of people.