Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “Then why have you gotten the table setting wrong three nights in a row?”

  “I don’t know, Master.”

  “Do you think you can get it right tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know, Master.”

  He breathed out through his nose—a little gesture of exasperation—and said, “You’d better come with me, Famula.”

  I followed him to the dungeon, excited and hot with shame, and stood still while he stripped me, tied my arms together in front of me, and lashed them to me with ropes around my waist and ass. He laid me on the floor, tied my ankles and legs together, and then carefully, even gently, hoisted me till I was hanging upside down from the hook in the ceiling. He flogged my upper back with a cat, and then with the cane. Again I entered subspace and was still there when he came in my mouth, holding my head in his hands. I discovered that it was possible to swallow Master’s cum while hanging head down.

  He cradled me while I returned to myself. By then dinner was ruined and I had to start over. It was nearly bedtime when I finished the dishes. He sat on the living room sofa and read while I sat on the floor at his feet, knees up, arms around my legs. I was clothed, and my cotton T shirt irritated my sore back. I was frustrated and needy.

  He set his book down abruptly and said, “Why, Emily?”

  I said, “I like it when you punish me, Master.” I wanted him to do it all again, right then.

  “But is it punishment if you like it?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “How so?”

  “I feel shame when you punish me.”

  “And you don’t like shame?”

  “I do like shame.”

  He picked up his book, stared at it blankly for a minute, and then set it down again. He said, “You shouldn’t try to manipulate me. It’s not a good way to treat anyone, let alone your Master.”

  “Yes, Master.” A knot formed in my stomach, and my pussy leaked a little.

  He picked up his book again.

  “Master?” I said.

  “Yes, Emily?”

  “Would you kiss me?”

  “Not now, Emily.” He looked at his book and ignored me.

  His disapproval was a cudgel battering my heart. I was tearing up, and my body was hot and jittery. A kiss—or a slap, or a whipping—seemed the most important thing in the world. I touched his knee and said, “Master, I really need you.”

  “Stop it, Emily.”

  I took my T shirt off—I wasn’t wearing a bra. “Please, Master.” I squirmed out of my pants and clung to his legs, weeping. “I’ll do anything you want. I don’t care.”

  He stood up and shook me off. “It’s time for bed, Emily. Go upstairs, do your bathroom things, and wait for me.”

  Feeling abandoned, I gathered my clothing and went upstairs. In the bathroom I cleaned off my makeup, brushed my teeth, and peed. Then I waited on my pallet, tense and full of yearning. After a few minutes he came in carrying a large, flat, black metal thing—a folding pet cage. He set it up and said, “Into the cage, Emily.”

  I backed into it as I had done with the other cage. This one was a little bigger; its floor was cold sheet metal. He closed the door and locked it with a padlock. He said, “You can masturbate in the cage, Emily.”

  “Are you going to watch, Master?”

  “No,” he said. He went to the bathroom and closed the door.

  I had wanted the humiliation of his watching, but now the shame of his not wanting to watch was a hundred times more powerful. I could lie on my back in this cage if I drew my legs up. The metal floor of the cage was cold on my back as I masturbated with one hand and rubbed my anus with the other, thinking how low I’d fallen. I was stimulating myself in a pet cage while my Master, who didn’t love me, peed and flossed his teeth in the next room. I came hard and then curled up into a tight ball and cried. I was still crying when Master draped a heavy wool blanket over my cage. After that, I had no sense of time, but cried myself to sleep, dreamed dismal dreams, and was awakened by the morning light when Master pulled the blanket off.

  He helped me out of the cage and embraced me while I was still sleepy and blinking. He kissed me, and I thought a fuzzy, alarmed thought and murmured “Brush teeth.”

  “No, Emily,” he said, and led me to his bed, where he lay me on my back, spread my legs, and went down on me. It felt like a gift—as if he were doing it entirely for me, and his own pleasure was incidental. How could he be so generous, when I’d been so selfish and vile? His tongue felt good in me; I sighed and moved my hips, and when something moved inside me, he felt it too and came up to me and gave me the orgasm I’d craved—the best kind, the gift from Master. When I’d come he fucked me till he came inside me, then rolled away from me and said, “You’re almost late with our breakfast. Run and fix it: you don’t want to be punished for being too slow.”

  I found fresh clothing and pulled it on, then ran down to the kitchen, humming a bright tune. But when I got there, a fog rolled into my head and I couldn’t concentrate. I looked for eggs in the cabinets, opened six drawers to find utensils whose locations I knew perfectly well, and stood dreaming at the stove while the bacon curled into ashes. It was a good hour before breakfast was ready.

  After breakfast, Master lashed me to the cross and hung a large wand vibrator from a rope belt he’d fashioned: it buzzed against my clit, torturing me with pleasure. He let me writhe for what seemed a long time, then spoke to me earnestly, tugging at his forelock.

  “We have to find a solution to this problem,” he said. “You’re out of control, Emily, deliberately fucking up every day.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I really wanted to do better and please him. I wriggled, trying to get away from the vibrator, but couldn’t do it. My brain was turning into oatmeal. Then a beautiful idea burst through the mush. “Master,” I said, “may I sleep in the cage again tonight?”

  Chapter 9. Mr. Watanabe and Ai

  He hitches up his trousers, and his hand falls to his side.

  “Please, Master!” I say. “Let me suck your cock!”

  “You can have anything you want,” he says. “I’ll untie you; you can take a piss; you can suck my cock; I’ll fuck you. Anything at all.”

  “No,” I sob.

  I can’t. I need his power to be absolute and mine to be nothing. I need to feel I’ve given him everything—all my power and agency, all of me. But why can’t he be kind to me? Why can’t he be gentle without my forcing him? What have I left undone?

  He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a bullet vibrator, tiny and deadly. He turns it on and it starts to buzz. He walks around behind me.

  “No, Master—”

  * * *

  Even a toilet slave gets to have a cell phone, so I was able to stay in touch with Amanda, exchanging emails, texts, and selfies of our faces, piercings, whipped bottoms, and spanked pussies. Sometimes we were able to get our owners’ permission to have phone sex, and it was nice to get off that way now and then. Before long I thought of her as my best friend.

  But Amanda rarely left the apartment on Park Avenue, and I never saw her in the flesh. By March I missed her terribly and begged Master to allow her to visit me. He got in touch with Daniel and Karen and arranged a twenty-four-hour visit, from a Saturday to a Sunday morning. During the day on Saturday she and I would serve Master as his slaves. In the evening the two of us would play with Master, and she and I could sleep together afterwards. I warned her that we wouldn’t be able to supply one hundred percent of her dietary requirements, and she replied that she’d get by for a day.

  At ten on the morning of May 12, a taxi delivered Amanda to the house on Grove Street. I let her in, and we hugged and kissed in the foyer. She started to take her clothes off, but I stopped her, explained the house’s clothing rule, and took her up to Master’s study, where I announced, “Master, your slaves are here and eager to serve.” He acknowledged us gruffly and told us to run along and fi
nd something useful to do. I kept Amanda with me all day while I worked. She wasn’t very useful, but that wasn’t the point of the visit. It was wonderful to be able to talk to her, see her, and touch her. We ate our dinner from dog food bowls while Master ate at the table, and then he announced that it was time to go to the dungeon.

  Our play session was a strange one. It wasn’t that we did anything strange—it was just the usual spanking, paddling, and kinky sex. Rather, it was the way Master managed and watched the action—and did almost nothing else. He directed every move we made, posed us, chose our toys, and even organized our aftercare, telling me how to sit and Amanda how to lie in my lap. He had us perform sex acts with each other, leaning in close to watch as Amanda licked my pussy and pulling my ass cheeks apart to get a better view when she rimmed me. He had me sit on her face and bent down low so he could see her tongue in my slit. He brought a strap-on from his cabinet and made me fuck her with it. He did all this with an air of great excitement, and yet the only time he participated was at the very end of our session, when he face-fucked me and came in my mouth. I found it a bit unsettling.

  When he’d come, he said, “Run along to bed, girls,” and left the room.

  We went upstairs, got into bed together, made love sweetly, got just a little sleep, fed Master in the morning, and had our breakfast in our dog bowls (but he let us use coffee cups). Then, all too soon, it was time for Amanda to go home.

  That night, Master wanted to play policeman. He arrested me for prostitution and berated me for my immorality before sentencing me to a beating with the cane, which he delivered to my back while I was bound to the cross. It was the first time a play session with this Master had ever been as humiliating and painful as a punishment.

  Afterwards I asked, “Master, were you angry with me for making love to Amanda?”

  He said, “No, I wanted you to do it. I liked watching.”

  So now I’d found out something new about Master.

  The next night we returned to puppy play, and it was fun and sweet, as usual. But I continued to fuck up, provoking punishments. I laid his clothes out wrong, left dust on the mantelpiece, and cooked his vegetables till they were soggy. When he started to ignore minor infractions, I escalated my attacks, leaving heaps of dirty clothes on his bed, ruining favorite shirts in the laundry, or peeing on the bathroom floor and leaving the puddles for him to find.

  * * *

  I graduated the weekend after Amanda’s visit. My parents came for the ceremony, and they were bewildered by Master, the way I looked, and the way I seemed to be living. It was all very awkward, hiding what our relationship was really like, and it was a relief when they went back home. The night they left, Master surprised me with a new sleeping cage with a lovely cushioned bottom.

  Three weeks later, on a Thursday, Master said, “Tomorrow night a friend of mine will be coming to dinner—he’ll have his slave with him. I’ve engaged a personal chef, so you won’t need to do anything but set the table for four and make sure the house is neat and clean.”

  “Set the table for four, Master?”

  “Yes. The two slaves will sit at the table with their Masters.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “We’ll all play together after dinner,” he continued. “I’d like to be able to lend you. Just for the evening. I’ll be there—you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

  “Lend for sex, Master, or just play?”

  “Certainly play—sex if that’s what people want.”

  During Amanda’s visit I’d gotten a glimpse of what this meant to him. He’d told me that Pipit liked to be lent out, but it was obvious that he also loved watching his slaves have sex. It wasn’t as if I’d managed to be completely monogamous, but I wasn’t Pipit. I didn’t like the idea of sex with people I didn’t know and hadn’t chosen for myself. Still, Master’s wanting me to do it weighed heavily with me.

  “Protected, Master?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not going to ask me to do this too often?”

  “No. I promise.”

  “Okay, Master. I’ll try.”

  But somehow it was sitting at the table that preyed on my mind. I hardly slept that night, thinking about it. I hadn’t sat at a dinner table, except at restaurants, since I’d been with Frederick, and the idea appalled me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why that was, but I lay awake half the night in my cage, worrying about it, and by morning was half mad with anxiety.

  I made his breakfast—two eggs over easy, two links of sausage, and two slices of buttered toast. I brought him his plate and knelt beside him, but when he offered me a bite, I shook my head.

  “What’s the matter, Emily?” he said.

  “I don’t know, Master,” I said, unwilling to admit my anxiety.

  “I think I know,” he said. “Something about tonight’s upsetting you. Is it my lending you to my guest?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Then it’s my plan for you to sit at the table and dine with us.”

  I collapsed into a heap at his feet. “Please don’t make me, Master. I’m so afraid.”

  “Your sitting at the table is a gesture of respect,” he said, “for both you and my guest.”

  Weeping, I seized his foot and kissed his shoe. “Please, Master.”

  He breathed out through his nose. “All right. I won’t make you sit at the table—but I won’t let you kneel on the floor either. Not tonight. You may serve our dinner tonight. That way the chef can concentrate on her cooking and won’t have to worry about serving.”

  “Yes, Master.” I felt better already.

  “You must eat beforehand. You won’t have a chance to eat again till the end of the evening.”

  “Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

  “I’ll be back around five-thirty.”

  I said, “Master—”

  “What is it?”

  “May I masturbate today?”

  “No, you may not. Now get on with your work.” He left the room. A minute later I heard the front door close.

  There was a great deal to do. Each of the three place settings had to be laid with geometrical precision. I used a ruler to make sure everything was correct. Upstairs, I laid out his dinner jacket and other things for him. Downstairs in the dungeon I laid out mats and checked to make sure all the toys were in their proper places. I made sure the ropes were neatly coiled, not tangled or knotted. I wondered what kind of kinks our guest and his slave would favor. I checked for dust in all the corners and nooks of the dining room and dungeon. I went through every room of the house, checking things and straightening. When all this was done I went back to the dining room and studied the dining table again. I carefully rearranged Master’s place setting at the head so that everything was precisely reversed—the mirror image of a place setting.

  When all this was done, I went to the kitchen, made myself a salad, and ate. I cleaned my dishes, showered, and dressed in red shorts and a black T. Master didn’t ask me always to wear a collar, but I put one on anyway. Then I had some time to myself. I went to the third-floor bedroom and sat cross-legged on the bed. The room was warm, and the silence was sensuous. This was when I would have masturbated, if it had been allowed. I was mildly frustrated but contented. I napped briefly and spent some time thinking about the coming evening. I was both frightened and excited. I had no idea what our guests would be like, but I trusted Master not to allow any harm to come to me.

  At about five the doorbell rang, and I ran down the stairs to let in the chef, a tall, lovely woman named Astrid, in her mid-forties, with fine, sturdy features and blond hair pulled back into a little pony tail. She was carrying two grocery bags. She glanced at my collar, then looked away.

  I led her to the kitchen and showed her where everything was. As we moved around the kitchen, she took a few things she knew she’d need from their hooks and cabinets and shelves. I showed her the dining room. She frowned at the table and said, “I was told I’d b
e making dinner for four.”

  I said, “I was going to be the fourth, but I’ll be serving instead.”

  “I’ll be glad to have the help,” she said.

  I said, “Master was told you were discreet and wouldn’t take offense at anything that might happen.”

  “Master?” she said.

  “I’m a slave,” I said. “A consensual slave. There’s nothing illegal about it, but some of the things you see tonight may seem strange to you.”

  “If I’m offended I won’t show it,” she said. “And I don’t talk about my clients.”

  I thought we’d get along fine. “Let me know if I can help,” I said.

  “You’re not my slave?” she said, smiling.

  “No, I serve only one Master. I’m just happy to help out.”

  “Relax,” she said, “and I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  It was a little after five. I sat on the living room floor and waited.

  At about five thirty I heard the front door open. I scrambled to my feet and ran to present myself to Master.

  “Come to me,” he said. I went to him, and he took me in his arms and kissed me. He felt strong and warm.

  “Is the chef here?” he asked.

  “She is, Master. I showed her around the kitchen, like you told me.”

  “Good,” he said. “Bring me a drink. I’ll be in the living room.”

  I went to the kitchen where Astrid was bustling about, mixed him a scotch and water, and took it to him in the living room.

  “You may lie on the sofa,” he said, “with your head in my lap.”

  Buzzing with happiness, I followed his instructions. He combed my hair with his fingers and asked me how I’d spent my day.

  “I did as you told me, Master. I set the dining room table and made sure everything was right in the dungeon. Then I made sure everything in the house was clean and in place.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Did you have some free time afterwards?”

  “I did, Master,” I said. “I showered and then stayed in my room until the chef arrived.”