“This afternoon you gave me the greatest gift a submissive can give to a Dominant. You saw me with the whip, and even so you made yourself helpless for me. You accepted the risk that I’d harm you and trusted that I wouldn’t. That was a greater gift than anyone in a vanilla relationship can give to a lover.”
“Master is kind,” I said, thinking I’d let him tie me to a railroad track just then, if he wanted.
He continued, “Not everyone, even inside the community, understands that a Dom has to give a similar gift of trust. When I’m whipping you, having rough sex with you, or humiliating you at a party, I have to trust that you’ve communicated your limits to me truthfully, so I know where the line is between pleasurable and hurtful, or hurtful and unendurable. If I don’t know your limits, then I run the risk of exceeding them, which would break the bond between us and make love impossible.”
Listening to him, I felt a little queasy. I knew what was coming.
“It’s hard for me to do my share of trusting, Emily, because I don’t know where your limits are. You’ve left me to stumble across them for myself. I can only do that by violating them, and when I do, it may lessen your trust for me and make it harder to build our relationship.”
“I’m sorry, Master,” I said, “but I don’t know where my limits are either.”
He sighed and said, “Then we’ll have to explore and try to find them. Put your hand on your pussy.”
“Master?”
“Hike up your dress and put your hand underneath—touch your clitoris.”
I put my right hand under the table, lifted my dress, and touched my pussy as he’d instructed. It was scary even though the table and my dress hid what I was doing.
“Masturbate,” he said. “Move your hand and stimulate yourself.”
I started to rub my clit lightly, hoping it wouldn’t be too obvious.
“Look around the restaurant,” he said. “It’s after nine, and this place is almost full. There must be another dozen couples here, and four or five bigger groups. And here you are, in the middle of a crowd, masturbating.”
I looked around. It was true: on this Friday the place was packed with respectable-looking people chatting and eating. My face was heating up, and my pussy was getting wet under my fingers.
“What would they think of you if they figured out what you’re doing?” he asked. “What would they do? Do you think they’d be outraged? Would they call the manager and demand that you be thrown out? Would one of them call the police?”
“I don’t know, Master,” I said in a very small voice, feeling hot and edgy. “May I stop masturbating now?”
“No, you may not,” he said. “I’ll punish you severely if you stop masturbating. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll make you masturbate on the subway, or a city bus. How would you hide your pussy if I did that? Do you think you could do it?”
“I don’t know, Master.” I was afraid, and my fingers felt magical on my pussy—energy was coursing through my body.
Jonathan approached with our wineglasses. I hastily took my hand out from under my dress and laid it on the table. He gave us a warm smile and said, “Are you ready to order?”
We’d been ignoring our menus. Master looked at me and said, “Do you know what you want to order, Emily?” He was teasing me—I knew he’d never make me choose.
I shook my head.
Without looking at the menu, he said, “We’ll both have the tomato soup and then the red snapper. We’ll decide on dessert later.”
Jonathan said, “Thank you,” and left.
Master frowned and said, “You’ve disobeyed me, Famula. I told you not to stop masturbating. I’ll have to punish you.”
My stomach gave a lurch.
“I’ll see to it when we get home. Now go on masturbating,” Master said, “and don’t stop till I tell you.”
Again I hiked up my dress and touched my clit—again my pussy grew hot and wet under my hand.
“Does it feel good, Famula?” Master asked.
“Yes, Master.”
“You haven’t discovered a limit yet?” Master asked.
“No, Master.”
“Look in your purse,” Master said. “You can stop masturbating while you do it.”
I opened the purse and saw a little pink bullet vibrator with a loop on one end and a matching remote control. The purse also held a set of Ben Wa balls, a little tube of lubricant, and a packet of tissues.
“Lubricate the vibrator, Famula, and put it in your vagina,” Master said. “Then wipe your fingers with a tissue.”
As I took out the vibrator and lubricated it, holding it under the table, my hands shook so badly that I almost dropped both the vibrator and the lube. But I managed to slide the vibrator all the way into me, leaving just the loop outside. I had to scoot forward in the seat to do it. I used a couple of the tissues to wipe my fingers.
“Give me the remote, Famula.”
I handed it to him, and he turned it on. It made almost no noise, thank heaven. A vibrator works fast: pleasure radiated from my pussy and lit up my whole body.
“Fingers back on your clitoris, Famula.”
I stared at Master as I masturbated, enthralled by the hard look of him, not quite believing what he was making me do, that I was doing it, and that I could be so turned on in this public place.
Master touched the remote, and the intensity of the vibrations increased. He said, “Your face is flushed, Emily, and you’re radiantly beautiful. I believe this kind of play agrees with you. Pity we can’t get away with a blowjob, because I’m getting a hard-on watching you.”
“Master,” I said, “May I—”
“Not yet, Emily,” he said, holding the remote under the table. “The waiter’s coming with our soup, and you don’t want to frighten him.”
This time I knew better than to stop masturbating. Master stepped the intensity up again as Jonathan set down the soup bowls and spoons. I gasped, and the waiter stared, then looked away. I was trying to keep my body under control, though the effort not to move my hips and moan was, if anything, turning me on even more. I was slouching in my seat obscenely, and I’m sure my mouth was hanging open, my eyes vacant. Master smiled reassuringly, and the waiter hurried away. He must have guessed what I was doing under the table—but either he was okay with it or unwilling to put his tip at risk.
“Master, please,” I begged, thinking I was about to explode.
“Okay, Emily, you can come now,” he said, and turned the vibrator up again. I masturbated frantically, mouth open, breathing heavily, staring at Master.
You absolutely cannot stay completely still when you come: I dare you to try. You have to move your hips at least a little, and you have to pant—you just need the air—but you don’t have to cry out, and your breasts don’t have to heave. It is possible to get away with it, and I did, that night.
Almost.
He turned off the vibrator and handed me the remote.
I put it in my purse and said, “May I visit the restroom, Master?”
“Take your purse with you,” he said. “Take out the vibrator and put in the Ben Wa balls.”
I walked, weak and unsteady, to the back of the restaurant. The little hallway leading to the restrooms also led to the kitchen. Our waiter was coming from the kitchen, and we stopped and stared at each other by the ladies’ room door. His eyes were shining. He took a quick step towards me, grabbed my right hand, and held it to his nose.
“Yes!” he hissed, put my fingers in his mouth, and sucked on them. I was too startled to pull away—and besides, what he was doing felt good.
He let go of my hand and said, “You’re a slave, aren’t you?”
I just looked at him, eyes wide.
“You don’t have permission to speak, right?”
I nodded.
“I get it,” he said. “I’m a slave, too. Look.” He lifted his shirt a little and pulled down his waistband a couple of inches to reveal an elegant tattoo of two oriental character
s. “It’s dorei, Japanese for slave. I’m glad you’re obeying your master. Nothing makes me happier than obeying my Master.”
I smiled and touched his collar.
He took me by the shoulders, kissed me on one cheek, and said, “You’re so fucking hot.” Then he hurried away to the dining room. I went into the ladies’ room, peed, lubricated myself, and put in the Ben Wa balls, which stimulated me mildly as I walked to the sink. I washed up and went back to Master, pleased with the sensation of the balls in my vagina.
Master spent the rest of our dinner trying to explore my limits by asking questions. How had I liked it when he’d called me a slut at the party? Had I enjoyed the fox’s ears and tail? Being called a vixen? Displaying my anus to the crowd? How did I feel about humiliation generally? How would I say the pain he’d inflicted would rate on a scale of one to ten? Had I been ready for him to stop when he did, or had I wanted more flogging? How had I felt about him sitting on my face? Did I have a favorite type of whip, or any that I wanted to avoid? How many ways could I remember being tied up? Had I ever been suspended? Blindfolded? Had anyone ever used clamps on my nipples or labia? Administered electrical shocks? Had I ever made love to a woman? To more than one person at a time? Had I ever been sexually assaulted? Did I favor any fetishes (feet, urine, animals)?
I couldn’t say much about the things he mentioned that I’d never experienced, but I’d liked everything that had been done to me as a slave, so by the time he’d asked all his questions, we were no closer to discovering my limits.
But as I gave him answers, revealing more of myself to him and feeling the stimulation of the Ben Wa balls every time I shifted in my seat, I gradually got more and more aroused, until finally I was as hot as when I’d masturbated over the soup course.
Master said, “Do you want dessert, Famula?”
I hesitated for a moment, afraid to say what I wanted—but finally worked up the courage to say, “I’d rather be at home with Master.”
He studied me for a few seconds, evaluating my request. Then he said, “Yes, Famula. I think it’s time to take you home.”
On our way out of the restaurant I spotted three more waiters and waitresses in collars. We said nothing in the taxi or in the elevator. It wasn’t until we were in his apartment and he’d closed the door behind us that either of us spoke.
I fell to my knees, eyes downcast, feeling miserable, and said, “I’m sorry, Master.”
“What?” he said. Then he said, “Oh, yes, I’d almost forgotten!”
I stole a glance at him: he was grinning wolfishly.
“Of course,” he said, “I owe you a punishment for when you stopped masturbating.”
I burst into tears, and desire swept through my body like a wildfire.
Chapter 4. Damp dinner party
He’s attached clamps to my nipples. Wires trail away out of sight. The machine is off, but I’m not at rest, hanging here in my ropes. The room’s too hot, or maybe I’m in a fever. I’m tense, breasts heavy; my clit must be huge and obscene.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in this room, tied up, tortured with vibrators, probes, and Master’s hands—such beautiful, skillful hands! Meanwhile, my body’s normal processes continue.
“I need to pee, Master,” I say.
“You may,” he says. He’s sitting in a chair behind me, legs crossed, trousers neatly pressed.
There’s something deliciously humiliating about performing such an elemental bodily function while my Master watches. If I had any power at all over my own body, I’d go to the bathroom and close the door. Peeing in front of Master reminds me of what I’ve given to him.
But I can’t pee, not with probes in my pussy and anus.
“I can’t, Master,” I say.
“Ah,” he says, understanding. He gets up and walks out of sight. The tingling begins again—pussy, anus, nipples . . .
* * *
I didn’t want to wear the butt plug on our shopping expedition, but I didn’t dare to object, and it turned out to be a nice reminder of the painful anal pounding Master had given me the night before as punishment for my disobedience at dinner. He’d tied me into an obscene knot, face down, bottom up, and fucked me hard on the tiled floor of his playroom. I had fallen asleep on my pallet, tired, sore, and hugging myself for happiness. It was exciting to wear the butt plug in the changing rooms and while modeling clothes for Master.
There were lots of things to do over the following weeks. Waxing was painful, but I liked the way it left my armpits and legs. Master loved my hairless pussy, and I loved it because he did. The hairdresser Master chose for me did a wonderful job with my hair, leaving it feathery and black with a purple streak. I got my first tattoo, a white one, the word “slave” on my right pelvis in an ornate script, with a flourish trailing onto my mound.
Master made sure I kept up with my schoolwork. He hired a driver to take me to and from the university, picking me up at eight in the morning and dropping me off again around five thirty. I thought that was unnecessary, but when I protested he said he’d whip me if I said anything more about it. He devised study schedules for me to make sure I had time for both schoolwork and my duties as his slave. The structure helped: I’d gotten good grades before, but now my work improved.
A typical day might go like this. I’d get up at six, shower quickly, make breakfast, wake Master at seven, and feed him. If all that went well, I might get some of his cum to swallow or even an orgasm before the driver picked me up. I’d attend classes, fitting in a salad somewhere as time permitted, and then read or write in the library till five, when I’d meet the driver at the Broadway gate. I’d get back a few minutes before Master, undress, put on my collar, and have a drink ready for him when he got home from the office. I’d make dinner while he had his drink and read the Times online, and if I’d been good I’d be allowed to eat with him. Evening was always playtime, and Master was inventive when it came to devising games for us. If I’d been bad, I’d have to be punished, of course, but to tell the truth my punishments weren’t all that different from our games—only my shame and a bit more violence made them different. Master introduced me to all kinds of things I hadn’t had any experience of before: the cross, the table, the riding crop, the paddle, the ball gag—the cabinet in his playroom seemed to be stuffed with endless goodies.
Sometimes we’d go to dinner together, and sometimes to BDSM events. I loved being slavish and submissive in front of other people—mousy and shrinking in restaurants, cringing and subservient at munches, whipped or publicly fucked at play parties. He’d mentioned the possibility of dinner parties, but for a long time they didn’t happen. Instead, once a week or so, he’d go to dinner with some friend or other, and if the friend was a kinkster with a submissive in tow, Master would take me along, but otherwise he’d leave me at home to read or watch TV. I think probably no one really expects a bachelor to give dinner parties, even if he does have a live-in slave.
And so it was a surprise when he told me, one Friday evening in the third month of my enslavement, that he was giving a dinner party the next night. The guests were Daniel and his wife Karen, the couple who’d thrown the first play party we’d attended. Daniel was a senior partner in Master’s law firm, and his wife, as it happened, was the woman I’d seen him cuffing to the Saint Andrew’s cross. They’d be bringing their slave with them. Fortunately, Master didn’t expect me to cook; instead, he’d engaged a kink-friendly caterer to take care of all the food and wine. The other slave and I would serve drinks and dinner, and we’d be available for play.
The guests arrived at seven. Master, looking impossibly handsome in a dinner jacket, opened the door. I stood behind him, naked except for my collar. Daniel was in his mid fifties, tall and solidly built. Karen was nearly as tall as he was and heavy, not quite fat, with blond hair (expertly dyed) and a colorful and extravagantly patterned dress. Their slave was the pale black-haired girl I’d seen at the play party. I’d thought her beautiful then, and she still
seemed beautiful tonight. She stood behind her owners and gazed at me, hardly even glancing at Master.
Master said, “Daniel and Karen! Thank you so much for coming! Please come in.” They stepped in, offered little gifts, and made the kind of small talk you make at the beginning of a dinner party. At some point Karen turned to glance at the slave, just briefly, and she shrank a little, as if she’d been struck, and quickly stripped. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, and thin, almost starved, with small, slightly deflated breasts and dark little nipples pierced with silver barbells. On her left breast was a tattoo of a fly, and on her right side was a sad-looking girl holding a bleeding heart. She stood very still, holding her clothes. I went over to her and whispered, “I’ll show you where you can put those.” Looking grateful, she followed me back to the bedroom, where I took her things from her and put them on a closet shelf.
When I turned back to her, she was staring at me. She didn’t look away like most people caught staring, but said, in a voice that was scarcely a whisper, “Piss in my dinner tonight?”
“What?” I said. I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.
“They’ll feed us from dog bowls. I’d really like it if you’d piss in mine. They won’t get mad, I promise. I’ll do the same for you, if you want.”
I said, “I guess . . . I’ll try. But you don’t have to do it for me, thanks.”
She hugged me quickly and said, “Thank you.” She seemed really grateful. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since I watched your Master fuck your ass. You looked so . . . I don’t know—like nobody could ever beat you? It was such a hot scene. I drank his cum out of the condom. I wish I could have drunk it out of you.”
All I could think to say was “Oh,” remembering how she’d collected the condom he’d used that night. Her interest in me was making me nervous.
“I’m Mouche,” she said.
I said, “I’m Famula.”
Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set Page 6