Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

  I heard Master’s step; his black leather shoes appeared by my pallet.

  “Sit up, Emily,” he said.

  I sat, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around my legs. I couldn’t look at him, but stared forward, seeing nothing.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  I forced myself to look up at him. His face was severe, mouth a hard, straight line.

  “Your body is mine,” he said, “not yours. You do not choose what to do with it—not what to eat, where to sit, where to go—I decide those things for you. You have no will, no agency, no power at all over yourself or others—all that is mine. Your sexuality is mine—your sexual pleasure comes from me or at my direction. You have no right to give pleasure to others without my leave, and yet that’s what you did tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, Master,” I said, and for the first time since I’d come to him I found no enjoyment in my fear and anxiety.

  “For the next three nights you’ll sleep on the table in the playroom, not here with me.”

  The playroom sounded like a cold and lonely place. “Yes, Master,” I said, and started to gather up my blanket and pillow.

  “Leave those here,” he said. “You’ll be warm and comfortable enough without them.”

  The table was hard, I was cold, and Master was far away. This was the worst punishment he’d ever given me.

  The next morning I woke up early, stiff and cold. I took a hot shower and went to make breakfast. I got Master for breakfast as usual, and when I brought his food and asked permission to sit, he said, “No. Eat in the kitchen.”

  Feeling miserable, I ate standing at a kitchen counter. Master mostly ignored me all day, only occasionally calling me to fetch him something. I stayed out of his way and read my schoolbooks. As the dinner hour approached, he announced that he was going out, that he might be coming home late, and that I needn’t wait up for him. I didn’t hear when he came in.

  The next morning he let me sit with him at breakfast but said nothing. That evening he was already home when the driver dropped me off. When I let myself into the apartment, he was sitting on the sofa, looking at me. I felt awkward. He seldom saw me with my school clothes on.

  “Come sit with me,” he said.

  I went to sit at his feet, but he said, “Here,” and patted the sofa cushion beside him.

  I sat next to him, feeling even more awkward, and waited for whatever was coming.

  He said, “I don’t want to belabor the matter of your infraction last Saturday, but before I let it go I want to know why you did what you did.”

  I said, “I’m sorry, Master,” and I really was. I was still feeling ashamed and miserable.

  He said, “I’m not going to punish you more than I have. I just want to know. You’re supposed to confide in me, and in this case you can do so without fear.”

  “I’m sorry, Master,” I said again. “Everyone at the party had an orgasm but her, and she looked so sad. I wanted to make her feel good.”

  “I thought it must be something like that,” he said. “She comes across as rather a waif. But we can’t consider the impression a slave makes when we manage her.”

  “I don’t manage slaves, Master,” I said. “I am one. Like her.”

  “And so you understand very well that she chose the life she’s living, as you did.”

  “We did choose to be slaves, Master, but we don’t make that choice at every moment. We’re really not free and completely your responsibility.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. He let a few seconds pass and then said, “She’s beautiful. Were you attracted to her?”

  “Yes, Master. I got more attracted to her as the night went on.”

  “She had something of a fixation on you. But you shouldn’t let that bother you: she does everything obsessively.”

  “It bothered me at first, Master, but then I decided she was harmless.”

  “She has unusual kinks. Some find them repulsive. But you didn’t?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Not when I made her kiss you with piss on her breath?”

  “No, Master, not after a few seconds.”

  “So I failed to find a limit there,” he said.

  I didn’t know what to say. The silence became awkward.

  “Shall I make your dinner, Master?”

  “I don’t want dinner right now,” he said. “Come with me.”

  He led me to the bathroom and said, “Take off your clothes.”

  I stripped and dropped my clothes on the floor.

  “Sit on the toilet,” he said, putting the lid up.

  I sat, and he took his cock out and aimed it between my breasts. It felt like a gun pointed at my heart.

  “Master?” I said.

  “Yes, Emily?”

  “No? please?”

  “Is this a limit, then?”

  “I’m not sure, Master. Maybe a soft limit for now? Do you really need to do it?”

  “I don’t need to piss on you,” he smiled, “but I need to piss. You’d better get up.”

  I stood up. He raised the toilet seat, and I watched him pee. On an impulse I put my hand into the stream; pee splattered on the floor, on his trousers, and on my legs.

  “Emily!” he exclaimed, pinching his cock to make himself stop. “Look what you’ve—”

  “Oh, Master!” I giggled. “You’ve peed yourself!”

  He turned to me and said, “Emily—”

  He looked really funny standing there with his cock in his hand, trying to look stern.

  “Master, you—” I snorted, trying to suppress my laughter, but the effort just made it more hilarious.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Emily, you will go to the playroom and wait for me there. We have serious business to attend to.”

  “Yes, Master,” I sang, and skipped out of the room.

  Chapter 5. On loan

  My whole body’s thrumming; the probes and clamps torture my pussy, ass, and nipples. I’m too exhausted to raise my head; I can see Master only from the waist down. His trousers are neatly pressed, but I can see the bulge his cock makes: he’s enjoying my torment.

  “Oh!” It’s a long, drawn-out whine. The orgasm’s building inside me again -

  Master turns off the machine, and I sob with frustration.

  I still need to pee, but I can’t with my pussy and ass stuffed. The room’s gotten colder—my arms and legs are prickly with goosebumps—and the cold makes the pressure in my bladder worse.

  I can see Master’s feet as he walks to the cabinet, opens it, closes it, and comes back to me.

  “Master, I—”

  He gives me a stinging blow on my bottom—the slap echoes from the hard walls and floor. I recognize the pain: it’s the paddle.

  I love the paddle: the slap, the sting, the red marks it leaves. But now it detonates something in my bladder. I’ve never needed to pee like this . . .

  * * *

  “Daniel and Karen want to borrow you for a few days,” Master said.

  It was December 27. I’d gotten back to the city, and to Master, only that morning. The week with my parents had been full of lies and hedging. They thought I was living with a boyfriend, and that was fine with them—they were liberated parents. It was fine with them that he was a dozen years older than me, and they were glad he was well off—not that they put it so crassly. They wanted to meet him, of course, but I didn’t think I could bear pretending to be his equal for their benefit. I said he was very busy and stayed vague about what my life with him was like. I could tell they were worried about me but afraid to push too hard for information. They were afraid to tell me, too, that they didn’t like my hair, clothing or makeup. They could barely conceal their dismay at the extravagant tattoo I’d gotten over several days between the end of term and Christmas: a branching rose vine that climbed from my left ass cheek up my back, then twined about my neck, around my right side, and up between my breasts.

  It h
ad been a relief to get back to a place where I could live honestly. We’d spent the afternoon playing, and now I was lying on his bed, head in his lap. He was combing my hair with his fingers, and until a few seconds ago I’d been calm and happy. Now I was tense and wary.

  Master continued, “They’re giving a big New Year’s Eve play party, like the one you and I attended. They want you to help out with it.”

  “You mean help set up, serve drinks, that kind of thing?”

  “They’ll want you to help set up, but they want to play with you, too. And they want you to be their slave at the party.”

  “Will you be there, Master?”

  “Yes, but you’ll be their slave, not mine, till the party’s over.”

  “You told them they could borrow me, then, Master?”

  “I said it was all right with me. You don’t have to go.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “They’re good friends. I’d like to do them this favor.”

  “When you say ‘play,’ Master, do you mean just BDSM activities, or sex too?”

  “Where do you draw the line between them?” he said.

  “I know what I mean by sex, Master. I don’t want to have sex with anyone I haven’t chosen for myself. I like being your fuck-toy, Master, but not a slut for just anyone.”

  “I’ll tell them that. And if the play takes a direction you don’t like, you can call me up and talk to me about it.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  “You understand, Famula, that I don’t claim an exclusive right to your body, even if I do demand the right to control it. And you don’t have an exclusive right to my body, though I can promise that I won’t have unprotected sex with anyone but you.”

  “Yes, Master.” I understood this, but it hurt a little. I didn’t want to share Master, and I didn’t want Master to share me.

  “While you’re with Daniel and Karen, they will have all the rights over your body that I have, except the right to have sex with you.”

  I thought about Karen’s hands as she’d put the butt plug into me. I hadn’t liked her touch.

  “Gloves, Master.”

  “What?”

  “If they touch my pussy, ass or mouth, I want them to wear latex gloves.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll tell them that, Famula.”

  “When do I have to start?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Their chauffeur will pick you up at ten. You’ll return home with me after the party.”

  That’s how I found myself standing in the foyer of the grand apartment on Park Avenue, holding a little bag containing some toiletries and a couple of changes of clothing, staring at and being stared at by a naked Mouche.

  She whispered, “I’ll take your coat,” and hung it in a closet by the door. Then she glanced around to make sure we were alone, stepped to me quickly, pressed her body against mine, and kissed my lips. I held her briefly. Her kiss felt good, and she didn’t smell like a toilet. That was a relief. I had to admit that all the peeing the night of Master’s dinner party had been hot, but it had also been unsettling. I’d had to wonder if there was something wrong with me.

  “You’d better come,” Mouche whispered. “Mistress is waiting.”

  The room where the play party had been was now just a very large living room filled with ornate furniture. It had the feel of some Regency-era palace. Karen rose from a chair at the far end of the room and took her time traversing the space between us. She wore another brightly colored dress and held a black collar in her hand.

  When she reached me, she said, “You’ll be ours for as long as you’re here. You may take your clothes off.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” I was wearing jeans, a black T shirt, and sneakers. I had everything off in a few seconds, and Karen put the collar on me. She walked around me slowly, touching my breasts and belly, my shoulders, my face, my ass. When she came around to the front of me, she was holding a latex glove, which she pulled onto her right hand with a resentful snap.

  She massaged my pussy and said, “You’ll find us stricter than Frederick. We do not tolerate the slightest violations of our rules or the smallest hints of disobedience. We do not punish infractions with play.”

  In spite of myself, I was responding to her fingers. I didn’t like her, but I could feel her authority. I concentrated on breathing evenly. She slid a gloved finger into me.

  “You will take your meals on the floor, with Mouche. Like her, you will sleep on the floor in a room near ours, so you can hear us if we need you in the night. Failure to come when called, day or night, is a serious infraction. Any delay or show of reluctance in following our instructions is a serious infraction. You have no limits?”

  “No hard limits that I know of, Mistress. My contract gives me the right to set limits if I discover them.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she sniffed. “Today you and Mouche will be packing up the things in this room. Mouche will show you what to do.” She took her finger out of me and left the room.

  “Don’t worry,” Mouche whispered. “There isn’t nearly four days of work for us to do. And Mistress’s bark is worse than her bite.” She led me to a tiny carpeted room with blankets and pillows piled in a corner. “This is our room,” she said. I dropped my bag, and we returned to the living room.

  As we worked, Mouche talked about our job and the household. We’d be responsible for transforming the living room into a large playroom, packing up all the portable things. There were flattened cardboard boxes leaning against a wall and stacks of packing paper. Only at the last minute would a crew come in to do the heavy lifting, moving the BDSM furniture from the playroom to the living room and the living room furniture to compact storage in the playroom.

  I assembled a box and wrapped up a figurine. Mouche said, “I usually do this by myself. I think they borrowed you just because they wanted you here.”

  They employed a cook who was in the lifestyle herself—a Domme with a submissive husband. “Sometimes she tries to treat me like her own sub,” Mouche said, “but I can’t serve anybody I don’t love.”

  “You love Karen and Daniel?” Somehow what she’d said sounded strange to me.

  “Oh yes,” she said emphatically. “They’re so good to me. They give me everything I need.” Her gaze slid away from me and returned. “Don’t you love your Master?”

  Suddenly it seemed odd that I hadn’t given a lot of thought to how I felt about Master. I venerated him, longed to obey him, and craved his approval, or at least his attention. And he’d told me there ought to be love between us. Was there a word for how I felt about him?

  “Yes,” I said, “I suppose I love him.”

  Karen bustled back into the room and harrumphed at the progress we’d made.

  “Come, Mouche,” she commanded. And then she said to me, “You’d better come as well, Famula, this will be educational.”

  She led us into a large and well-equipped playroom containing all the devices I’d seen at their play party, and in a corner, what looked at first like a large black metal chair. But after a second I saw that its seat was a toilet seat, under which a sort of funnel emptied into a cage with bars on three sides and a headrest under the funnel. Karen gave no instructions; rather, Mouche scrambled into position, head in the headrest, and waited patiently. Her mouth was perfectly aligned under the funnel.

  Karen lifted her dress, hoisted herself onto the toilet seat, and let her feet rest on Mouche’s torso, above her breasts. First Karen peed. Her urine fell through the funnel, and Mouche swallowed it without losing a drop. Then Karen leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. I watched in horrified fascination, stomach queasy, as one of Karen’s turds fell from the bottom of the funnel into Mouche’s open mouth. I looked away then and concentrated on keeping my stomach under control till Karen stepped down from the toilet chair. She waited while Mouche got out of the contraption, then raised her dress and bent over. Mouche cleaned her crack with her mouth.

  They both straig
htened up. Mouche looked at me mournfully. Her mouth was a brown mess.

  Karen said, “Come here, Famula.”

  I walked to her with heavy feet.

  She said, “Give Mouche a kiss.”

  I looked at Mouche, at the brown goo on her face. I couldn’t move.

  “You were eager enough to eat her cunt last time you saw her,” said Karen. “Now she just wants a little kiss. It’s a command from your Mistress.”

  A command, I thought. I forced myself to take a step towards Mouche, who stood perfectly still. I leaned towards her, and she made no move towards me. Her eyes were wide and dark. My lips were an inch from hers, the smell of shit strong in my nostrils. She was still as stone. I closed the distance between us and touched her slimy lips with mine. The sickening smell caught in my throat.

  I turned away, bent over, and vomited on the floor.

  Karen said, “We seem to have discovered a limit for Famula. What do you think, Famula?”

  I choked, “Yes.” The effort of speaking made my stomach heave, and I vomited again. I said, “I think so.”

  Karen said, “Clean up, you two, and get back to work.” She left the room.

  Mouche hesitated for a second, as if she wanted to say something, then turned and snatched up a roll of paper towels standing next to the toilet chair, tore one off, and handed it to me. As I wiped my mouth, she took another paper towel and scrubbed her own mouth with it. Then she used more paper towels to clean the inside of the funnel and threw them away in a lidded trash can. She found two cloth towels in a cabinet and handed one to me, and together we cleaned up my vomit.

  She led me to a little bathroom adjoining our room, and I watched as she knelt in front of the toilet, put her hand in her mouth, and made herself throw up. She went to the sink and spent a long time washing her face. Then she gestured me to the sink. While I washed, she rinsed her mouth repeatedly from a large bottle of mouthwash, spitting into the toilet. Then she flossed and brushed her teeth.

  I got my toiletries from my bag and returned to the bathroom. I flossed and brushed, even though I was pretty sure I’d gotten no shit in my mouth, and washed my face.