Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

  And my pain and my screech were his, too, an offering to him, and he took those. He bent over me, and his arm slid around my neck, and he could have squeezed the life out of me. I nearly panicked, knowing what he could do, and yet there was calm mixed with my panic, because I knew he wouldn’t. I hyperventilated; my lungs burned with my terrified gasps—and the calm inside me savored the panic and burning, and the knowledge that he was taking those things, too, for himself.

  Then he let go, pulled out of me, and came to my head, condom gone now, and while I was still gasping for breath he took my head in his hands and shoved into my throat. He fucked me, maybe ten hard strokes, till his warm, salty semen poured into me. I gulped it down—a slave must always swallow Master’s cum—and collapsed on top of the cage, exhausted but still frustrated.

  Master straightened up and zipped his pants.

  “Master,” I said, “please, can I come?”

  He untied the rope that held me to the cage and said, “Get into the cage, Emily.” I backed in and huddled there while he locked the door. He sat in his chair again and said, “You can masturbate now.”

  It wasn’t easy to do. My wrists were still bound together, and to get at my pussy I’d have to reach under myself with both hands, face and shoulders resting on the floor of the cage. I did that, turning my head so I could see Master watching me, body relaxed, legs crossed, hands folded on his knee. My fingers slid in my sopping pussy and found my clit. Master towered above me, smiling, eyebrows arched, amused by my awkwardness. Agitated, embarrassed, and flushed, I rubbed myself, mouth open, drooling a little, in awe of his power, till at last I came, feeling insignificant, a tiny speck in his vast universe.

  I let my hands fall. If there had been room to curl up on the floor of the cage, I would have done that. “I’m sorry, Master,” I said, afraid I’d imposed on him somehow.

  He leaned forward, reached through the bars, and petted my hair. “It’s a good puppy,” he said, “even if it’s not quite housebroken yet. It needed a reward.”

  I glowed, happy with his hand on my head, happy naked, happy with my tininess, happy in my cage. At that moment I thought the trade that had brought me to this Master had been a very good one.

  Master looked at his watch. “Here it is almost one,” he said, “and we’ve had no lunch.”

  * * *

  Master fed me a scrap of lettuce. He’d made me put on my clothes, which I’d left in a heap on the kitchen floor, and then he’d shown me how to make the kind of salad he liked for lunch. Now I was kneeling beside him. It felt strange being fully dressed in his presence.

  “Most Masters keep their slaves naked,” he said, “but I do not. It’s January: how do I set the heat if you’re naked and I’m clothed? How do I set the air conditioning in summer? It’s pointlessly cruel to let you freeze. Besides, I’ve always liked undressing my slaves, and keeping them clothed most of the time gives me more opportunities to do that. Undressing you will be like opening a present every time. So you’ll wear clothes around the house. When I want you naked, I’ll either undress you or tell you to undress.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “When I enter the house,” he said, “you will present yourself to me in the foyer and say, ‘Master, your slave is here and eager to serve.’ When you’ve been out, at school, shopping, or wherever, you’ll check to see if I’m home, and if I am, you’ll present yourself to me and say the same thing. I will give you instructions then, and you will run to comply. You will always run, not walk, to comply with my instructions.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You will always choose and lay out my clothing for me in the morning. I’ll show you where everything is. You’ll set the table following a diagram I’ll give you showing exactly where everything goes. I have a cleaner who comes in once a week. You’ll supervise her, and between her visits you’ll make sure everything stays neat and in its proper place. I hate clutter, and I don’t like to go looking for things.”

  Everything had to be done to Master’s specifications, and with precision. He was exacting about so many things that it took me weeks to learn. Clothes had to be ordered just so in his closet. When I laid his jacket out on his bed, it wouldn’t do for it to be more than an inch off center. Pants had to be folded properly when laid on top of the jacket, zipper facing right. When I placed his cufflinks on his bedside table, they had to be neatly aligned and facing the right way. I had to make sure he didn’t run out of toiletries and that they were all in their proper places.

  I needed only one more course for my BS, and I was happy to take the subway uptown on Tuesdays and Thursdays to attend class—Frederick’s insistence on my being driven had been a little oppressive, though I’d understood he meant well. Even with my other duties, I had plenty of time for study while Master was at work, but the instant he walked in the door, I was his slave. I was with him most of the time while he was in the house. I’d kneel beside him while he read or worked at the computer, petting me with a free hand (I was allowed to read too, then). I’d take meals with him, and of course I’d play with him, and we had sex—lots of amazing sex. We both got tested quickly so we could lose the condoms.

  Sometimes, if I was elsewhere in the house, maybe cooking or doing laundry, he’d call me to him, wherever he was, and undress me or order me to undress. He’d sit and look at me, occasionally telling me to turn. Then, often, he’d come to me and touch me—perhaps drawing a fingertip along one collarbone, touching one of my rings (after I’d gotten the piercings he wanted), tracing the path of my rose vine with a fingernail, or caressing my lower lip with the ball of a thumb. He touched my body with confidence, knowing that every inch of it was his.

  When he’d spent some time examining me, he might tell me to dress and go back to work. But often he’d lead me to the dungeon for play or to his bedroom for sex. Sometimes, too, he’d take me wherever we happened to be—bent over the desk in his study, on the living room sofa or floor, and even, once, up against the wall in the hallway just outside his bedroom.

  Sometimes I’d look up from whatever I was doing—a chore, perhaps, or schoolwork on my computer—and find him looking at me, body still and relaxed, eyes unwavering. He wouldn’t say a word or move a muscle, but I’d sense his powerful will, and I’d peel my clothes off, crawl to him, and do what I knew he wanted—rub my body against his trouser leg, nuzzle his hand, or take out his cock and suck it. He’d pet me, then, if I’d read his mood right, and maybe he’d do more. Sometimes, though, he’d push me away roughly and tell me to get back to my chores—but whenever he’d done that he’d find me later, hold me, and even play or have sex with me.

  All of my orgasms were at his pleasure. I wasn’t even allowed to masturbate without permission. I had to be ready for him at all times. If I was passing through a room where he was sitting, he might crook a finger at me and point at his crotch, and soon I’d have a mouthful of his cum. Or he might interrupt my cooking to force me to my knees and fuck my throat, or come up behind me while I was folding laundry, push my face into the warm heap of clothes, and take me from behind, hand wound into my hair. Quite often he’d wake me in the middle of the night, bring me to his bed, and make love to me, roughly or tenderly depending on what he’d been dreaming, and then he’d let me spend the rest of the night curled up against him, hardly able to sleep for the sheer thrill of it.

  Once I came in from school to find him seated on the sofa, swinging a leg impatiently and staring at me. “You look absurd,” he said. “Everybody knows puppies don’t wear clothes.”

  I stripped quickly, pulse racing as his eyes devoured my body.

  “Now fetch, puppy,” he said.

  Fetch what? I thought, but knew better than to ask. I dropped to my hands and knees, becoming a puppy, and looked around the room, but saw nothing. I crawled here and there, peering under things and behind the furniture, until finally I found a rolled-up newspaper nearly hidden under the back of a chair. I pulled it out with my tee
th, picked it up in my mouth, and brought it to Master. I got up on my knees in front of him and dropped it on his lap, then sat back and looked pleased with myself.

  But Master said, “It took you too long. What am I to do with a puppy like you?”

  I flattened myself on the floor, head between my paws, and gave him a mournful look. I whimpered and wiggled my bottom, wishing I were wearing my tail.

  He rose from the sofa and loomed over me. “Bad puppy,” he said, and swatted my bottom with the newspaper. I yelped, cringed, and backed away from him.

  “Come back here!” he commanded, and I whined and slunk towards him. He swatted me again, and I yelped again. I waited till he’d swatted me five times and then rolled onto my back, held my paws up by my shoulders, begging, and spread my legs.

  “No tummy-rub yet,” he said. “You don’t get off that easy.” He swatted my pussy. Fireworks went off inside me, and I yelped louder, put my tongue out, and panted. Soon there were wet spots on the paper, I was suffused with sensation and happiness, and there was a huge bulge in his trousers.

  He fucked me there on the living room floor, and when we’d both had orgasms he said, “Get me a drink. And get a glass of wine for yourself.” I ran to the kitchen, holding a hand under my pussy till I could get a paper towel to catch the drips of cum. I cleaned up and got the drinks, and he let me snuggle next to him, naked, drinking my wine, till it was time to start dinner.

  Within a month I was sure I loved Master better than I’d ever loved anybody in my whole life.

  With so many details of my chores to memorize, it was inevitable that I’d mess up sometimes. He’d correct me patiently, drawing my attention to the detail I’d missed, and would have me repeat the process to help me learn it. He never got angry or raised his voice, even if he believed I was being willfully disobedient or insubordinate and had to be punished.

  One day, about two weeks after I’d become his slave, I was ironing one of his shirts—not an easy task!—when he came into the laundry room, watched me for a couple of minutes, and said, “You should iron the sleeves before the collar.”

  It was late in the afternoon, I’d worked hard all day, and I had lots of ironing to finish up before I could start making dinner. I snapped, “Who the fuck cares?”

  He said, quietly and calmly, “I care, Emily, and that’s all you need to know. Now come with me.”

  My stomach tightened as I followed him down to the dungeon. I knew punishment was on the way, not a play punishment for pretending to make a mess in the house or not fetching a paper fast enough, but a real one. I had no idea what to expect, but his icy calm was not reassuring. I was seriously frightened.

  “Take your clothes off,” he said.

  I did as he’d commanded.

  “Lie on your back in the center of the room, under the hook,” he said.

  I lay down. The tiled floor was cold and hard on my back and bottom.

  He looked me over impassively, and my nipples warmed and swelled.

  “For punishment,” he said, “we select an activity the submissive dislikes. I don’t know yet what you dislike, and so we’ll have to experiment.”

  He brought a coil of rope from his cabinet—he seemed to have an endless supply—and tied my ankles together and my wrists to my ankles. He turned me over so my weight was resting on my knees and shoulders, and my cheek was pressed against the tiles of the floor. My ass was high in the air.

  He squatted beside me and showed me a large stainless steel hook shaped like a fishhook, but with a ball where the sharp end should be. A long rope was attached to the other end.

  “This is an anal hook, Emily,” he said. He lubricated my crack and anus—he’d done this many times by now, and I loved the feel of his hand there—and inserted the hook end into me. It was cold, it felt wrong in my ass somehow, and I didn’t like it.

  “I’m attaching your ass to the ceiling,” he said. I knew without seeing much of it that he was looping the rope over the hook high above me and attaching the loose end to a fitting on the wall. He tightened till the rope was taut and my ass hurt a little. I could have relieved the pain if I’d been able to lift my knees off the floor, but that was impossible.

  While I was preoccupied with the hook in my ass, Master spanked me—not hard, but I didn’t expect it and twitched, and the hook pulled and hurt a bit more. Okay, the game would be to try to hold still as Master spanked. He hit a little harder, blows a few seconds apart, one cheek and then the other, till the spanking and the hook, the stinging and the pressure, were working in harmony, making a new kind of pain together. It was strangely exciting, this collaboration of hand and hook.

  Then Master got a paddle from his cabinet and paddled me—a hotter, sharper sting—and I twitched more violently, and the hook in my ass was a stab of pain. I didn’t want him to stop, but still cried, “No, Master!”

  He didn’t reply, and I felt him own my body and my pain as he paddled me slowly and rhythmically, intensity building, till the room was disappearing, and each slap of the paddle filled my mind with pleasure even as my body burned.

  He stopped and came to me with a jar of cream, which he smoothed over my raw ass. I sighed for the gentleness of his hands. He sat in his chair and watched me awhile. I knew he was admiring what he’d made of me: my red bottom, my absurd posture, and the obscene hook in my ass. I felt warm and happy, sensing his pleasure at the sight of my tortured body.

  “Are you ready for your punishment now, Emily?” he said.

  I whimpered. I’d thought my punishment was done. But I said, “Yes, Master” and waited for his pleasure. He went to his cabinet again and came back with a cane. It was thin, tan, and flexible, an absurd parody of a walking stick. But I knew there was nothing absurd about it. I’d heard about it, though I’d never experienced it, and I was terrified.

  “No, Master, please,” I begged.

  “‘No’ is not your safeword, Famula,” he said, and gave my bottom a light tap. Even though it wasn’t a hard blow, I could tell the cane was dangerous. The pain was sharper than with the hand or a paddle. He hit me again, a little harder, and I could have sworn the cane was on fire and leaving burn marks on my bottom. The caning went on and on, harder and sharper. With every slashing blow, I thought the next would push me past endurance, and I cried “Please, Master!” in terror. He ignored my pleas and struck harder, and somehow I endured.

  My body was winding up, heart pounding, pussy flooding, and yet somehow the pain was getting farther away, time and space distorted, my head and ass in different countries, the nerves connecting them sluggish, meandering rivers, in no hurry to deliver their messages—and when the signals finally reached their destination, my brain said, Who cares? My mind was growing dark, my world was shrinking to what was right in front of me—a stretch of floor, a chair leg. I sighed, “Oh, Master,” and closed my eyes in bliss. I wanted him to go on forever.

  But he couldn’t, of course. It would have been psychopathic to go on. He untied me and extracted the hook from my ass. He sat cross legged on the floor and folded me in his arms, petting my stomach, neck, and cheeks. I closed my eyes and rested in his lap. I couldn’t remember ever feeling as euphoric as I did at that moment, as my mind slowly reconnected with my sore body and sore ass.

  “Master,” I said, “can I ask a favor?” My words seemed wispy, like the fading memory of a dream.

  “You can ask, Famula.” His voice was so deep and warm.

  “Fuck me?”

  He did fuck me, right there under the hook, amid the discarded ropes, and then he put more cream on me, held me again, and murmured words of love to me. I looked into his strong, handsome face and adored him.

  Afterwards I ran to the bedroom and craned to look at my bottom in the full-length mirror. It was bright red all over and striped with thin red welts. I hugged myself and went to make dinner. A few days later, when I told Kevin about my experience, he sighed with envy and said he’d rarely gotten into subspace.

 
With Frederick, there hadn’t been much difference between play and punishment—except for the one time he’d exiled me from his bedroom. With my new Master, there was a world of difference. Play usually involved role-playing—we both loved puppy-play, but we tried other things, too, policeman, doctor, professor (which Master, of course, did very well), and more. It was sometimes rough, like the time he spanked my pussy with the newspaper, but never really painful. Punishment, on the other hand, involved pain or humiliation: the cane, the cat, a tongue-lashing delivered in level, rational tones, or my having to confess my sins on my knees.

  I loved the play—it was light-hearted and imaginative—but I craved the punishments. Both Andrew and Frederick had understood this about me, and they’d delivered spankings, whippings, and humiliations as part of our play. But I had a difficult time getting it across to this Master.

  The day after my caning I worked up the nerve to suggest that he paddle or cane me while we were playing. He did, too, but it wasn’t the same somehow: he couldn’t make it hurt properly unless he had it firmly in mind that it was punishment.

  One night, as an experiment, I turned his knife around the wrong way while setting the table, so the sharper edge was facing right instead of left. He pointed this out to me, and I said, “Yes, Master.”

  The next night I did the same thing, and when he pointed it out to me, I said, “Yes, Master” again.

  On the third night, he said, “Are you deliberately ignoring my instructions, Emily?”