Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

  Kevin said, “I’m here,” and Amanda said “Yes, Emily?”

  “How do we look, Kevin?”

  “Fucking incredible,” Kevin said. “I’m turned on and totally envious. I’d give anything to be tied up like that with my wife spanking my cock.”

  “Thanks, Kevin. Mistress Ai is an artist.”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Emily?”

  “Thanks for your concern, Kevin. I’m not sure, but I think it’ll be all right. How are you doing, Amanda? Did I drip on you?”

  “A little, Emily.”

  “I’m sorry, baby.”

  “I liked it, Emily. If you need to piss—”

  “No, baby, I don’t need to.”

  “Were the touches good, Emily?”

  “They were all good. Number One touched my tattoos and rings: he craved beauty.”

  “I love your tattoos too, Emily.”

  “And I love yours, Amanda. Number Two finger fucked me: he was bold and sexy.”

  “I think I know who that was, Emily.”

  “I think I do too. Number three spanked a breast, my ass, and my pussy. Just one spank each. They were good spanks, exactly right for the moment.”

  “Those sound like good touches, Emily.”

  “I wish I could have them all.” Thinking about the hands on my body, I felt moisture trickle down the inside of my thigh.

  We stayed quiet then, and after what seemed a long time Mistress Ai’s voice said, “They’re finished with their promises. Are you ready for them?”

  “Yes, Mistress, I think so.”

  Her gentle hands slipped the ball gag back into my mouth and adjusted the strap.

  I heard the feet again, then the rustle of paper. Mistress Ai said, “Promise Number One. I will treasure you always, and govern you with love and respect.” That seemed clear enough: the keywords were treasure, love, and respect.

  “Promise Number Two,” said Mistress Ai. “I will rule you with humility so that we can learn to love together.” The humility sounded like the hint of an apology—I believed it was sincere.

  “Promise Number Three,” said Mistress Ai. “Following you, I will lead you.” This one was fond of paradox.

  “Do you need to have those repeated?” asked Mistress Ai. I shook my head. I thought I could remember them all.

  “Now Emily will make her choice,” said Mistress Ai. Her hand closed over mine, and I let go of the marble. We had arranged that she’d move off to the side and far enough back that she could see my right hand.

  I grew hot, feeling their anticipation and their stares. I wished I could see them: I wanted to see their eyes and mouths so I could guess what they were thinking. I wanted to know what they were wearing. I wished I could talk to them and ask them questions: why had they touched me that way? why had they worded their promises that way? But I’d made these rules myself, with the help of Ai and Amanda, and I wouldn’t break them.

  Besides, I knew everything I needed to know. A touch and a promise. I had known, somehow, that they’d be enough.

  Number One saw me as a beautiful treasure—an object to be possessed. I knew the modern woman in me should cry out against being objectified this way, and anywhere else but in my love life, I would. But I yearned to be possessed by a man who’d look at me as he did a valuable painting or an exquisite jewel. Still, such treasures, though beautiful, couldn’t change or grow: perhaps Number One expected me to be unchanging, scarcely human at all, for his aesthetic enjoyment.

  Number Two also objectified me: I’d be his fuck-toy, a cunt for him to ram his cock into—and yes, I’d love to submit to such a Master and be his personal slut. He promised that we would work together to learn to love. That aspect of our relationship would be a collaboration—but would it be enough? Shouldn’t all of a couple’s life together be a collaboration, even if they were Master and slave?

  Number Three was the hardest to read. He’d touched my mouth and pussy and spanked me. It was a promise of pain, but what else? Communication and sex, I thought. Both his touch and his promise were about control, but control of himself as much as me. The promise was about reciprocity, too. He’d use the power I gave him, but he’d recognize the power I gained in ceding power to him. It came to me then: I’d thought of submission as resignation and passivity, when actually it required strength and stamina—a strenuous self-abnegation. Number Three, alone among these Masters, invited me to assert myself in a dynamic exchange—at every moment, we’d be choosing a path together, and he’d hold the lead as we traveled it.

  I was full of doubt, afraid I was reading too much into Number Three’s enigmatic touch and promise. But as I thought of his spanks, the force of them so precisely calibrated, and his teasing words, I felt myself get warm—desire moved inside me, and my mind cleared. There was risk here, but the risk was exciting. I embraced my doubt, the risk, and the danger of him.

  Behind my back, I curled the little finger and thumb of my right hand together over my palm and held my other fingers straight out.

  Mistress Ai said, “Sold, to Number Three.”

  * * *

  There’s a simple linen shift hanging on the closet door; Master brings it to me and slips it over my head. I stand and smooth it down. He buttons his shirt, tightens the knot of his tie, and puts on his suit coat. He takes my hand and leads me from the room.

  They’re waiting for us in the playroom. Kevin is here, and his wife has joined him—a wiry, severe woman dressed in black, with disquieting tattoos on both arms. Amanda stands against a wall with Ai’s four slaves, naked except for black collars, and Ai herself is here, stunning in a colorful kimono, moving to meet us in the middle of the room.

  She says, “The slave girl Emily has been living under my care and protection since her former contract was broken. I testify that she is without encumbrance and free to choose a new Master. Has he paid the purchase price, Emily?”

  I hesitate for a moment. He didn’t promise a thing that could be done in an instant, but rather made a commitment that could never be paid in full. But he loves me, I know he does. He loved me when he asked me to marry him, even though he couldn’t see me whole then, any more than I could see myself whole. He still loves me—I knew it when Mistress Ai took off my blindfold and I saw victory flash in his eyes. He’s learned to love and accept all of me—I saw that in his eyes, too, as he was lowering me into the bathtub, that he’d love me as a modern woman, as he’d long ago told me he did, but would never again refuse to own and rule me. He’d follow me in that, as he followed when I led him to conquer me with pleasure and pain, here in Ai’s playroom.

  Something rushes up inside me, from my heart to my head and all through my body. My throat tightens and I’m lightheaded. I gaze at him, and it’s like I’ve never seen him before. He overwhelms my senses, as if in all the world there’s no other possible Master. Oh, how I long for him to enslave me!

  It’s hard to speak, but I manage to say, “Yes.”

  “Good,” Ai says. She nods towards the naked slaves and steps back to stand with Kevin and his wife.

  Amanda comes to stand next to me, holding a leash, and Inkei comes to Master with a collar.

  I hold out my hand, and Amanda puts the leash into it. I turn to Master and say, “Will you take this leash, Andrew, and use it to guide me? I love you, and I want to belong to you and go where you lead me.”

  I hold out the leash and he takes it from my hand, saying, “I accept this leash and the responsibility that comes with it. I will guide you, protect you, and love you.”

  Master takes the collar from Inkei. He says, “Will you kneel, Emily, and accept this collar as a sign of my ownership?”

  “I will,” I say, and kneel, head upright and eyes downcast.

  It’s a plain black leather collar with a silver buckle, a gift from Ai. He puts it on me and says, “You belong to me now, Emily.”

  I say, “I belong to you, Master.” Emotion washes through me as I say the words, but th
e feeling is affirmation, not transformation. I knew I was his when I chose him, and every molecule of me understood what that meant when he forced my safeword out of me.

  The ceremony is done, and the celebration begins. The slaves—all but me—have been given a night of freedom. I look around the room. Kevin’s eyes are moist. His wife is squeezing his crotch—it looks painful. Mistress Ai has taken a smiling Shita by the hand and is leading him towards the center of the room. Kuso is already kneeling in front of Asoko, face in her pussy, and Amanda and Inkei are eying each other.

  I look up into Master’s face and see love and understanding there. He knows my desire as well as I do, that everyone here should witness my submission. He reaches down, as I raise my arms, and pulls off my shift. He attaches the leash to my collar and briefly caresses my cheek before straightening up. I reach out, undo his belt and pants, and free him. He’s already swelling and rising—everyone can see how he desires and owns me.

  There’s so much to do. We have to find a place to live. We have to work out our contract. I’ve got to start a career, or at least find a job. I’ve got to figure out how to make our strange family work. I need to make peace with my parents.

  But worrying and planning can wait. Tonight there’s no room in me for anything but happiness and sensuality. I take him in my hand—he’s so beautiful, and it’s been so long! I lick the whole length of him, slowly, and tease under the head with the tip of my tongue. I squeeze a slippery drop out of him and kiss it away, then draw him into my mouth—he’s warm and hard. I massage him with my tongue, sensing the life in him and taking my time. He lets a proprietary hand rest there where my shoulder curves into my neck; his fingers are light and strong. I know I’m pleasing him, and joy rushes into me.

  Around us, the party is coming to life. Ai, naked now, is sitting on Shita’s face, lips parted, eyes closed, rocking rhythmically. Kevin smiles beatifically as his wife cuffs him to the table, riding crop clenched in her teeth. Asoko leads Kuso off towards the bathroom. Amanda squats in front of Inkei and plays with herself as she sucks his enormous cock, keeping a careful eye on me all the while.

  I know how I want Master to take my body for his pleasure tonight. Soon he’ll give me a rough fuck—it will be delicious—but I can make him force from me many things I long to give him. Before the night is old I’ll be tied up with my ass stuffed full of him, bottom pink, begging for mercy though I want him merciless. He’ll fill my mouth with cum, and I’ll look into his eyes and see the ownership there as he takes me by the throat and watches me choke it down—and I’ll know I’m his.

  In the coming weeks and months, I’ll show him how to use me when I’ve been good and punish me when I’ve been bad. He’ll become the Master I need—strong, confident, protective, awe-inspiring—and I’ll be the perfect slave for him, serving, fearing, and loving him with all my heart.

  Happiness soaring inside me, I close my mouth tight around him, gaze into his eyes, and surrender my will to him. He grins, seizes my neck and a fistful of hair, and drives deep into me.

  Pipit

  Chapter 1. Into the cold

  “I can’t, Mistress!” She crouched on the floor of the playroom in front of the big iron toilet, the one with the head-cage under the seat, and wailed.

  Karen gave her an annoyed look.

  Pipit had thought this duty would be easy when she came here and pushed out that bony little nitwit Mouche. After all, she’d been eating shit as long as she could remember. It was, you might say, a specialty of hers, and had been ever since she’d been a kid—not Pipit then, but Jennifer, a sweet girl with parents whose idea of discipline had been to force her to beg forgiveness on her knees for routine childish fuckups—backtalk, spilled milk, that kind of thing. She’d been good at that kind of shit-eating, she’d done it with conviction, even passion, and she’d gotten to like it.

  And then, when her body had filled out and she’d begun to realize that she was beautiful, stunning really, so every heterosexual boy in her high school wanted her, and she could have her pick of them, she’d picked them all—or at least a good random sample. It wasn’t the physical contact she craved so much as the feeling afterwards. By the time she was packing for college it was routine with her: she’d go with a boy to dinner, a movie, bowling, whatever, and afterwards she’d let him do what he wanted. But the real action was when she got home, knelt naked by the side of her bed, wept, fingers sliding in her sopping pussy, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry, Mommy,” over and over till she came.

  She’d been a good high school student. She got into NYU off the waiting list, but she was far from the top of her class once she got there. New York was a distraction and the boys so beautiful. White, Black, Hispanic, and Asian boys, Jews, Italians from Catholic schools, Poles from Queens—she felt their shames and anxieties and added them to her own. Such emotional turmoil, so delicious! She learned about girls, too, from a lesbian on her hall. She especially loved the girls who were just discovering their sexuality and hadn’t let go of the wish to be heterosexual—to believe themselves normal again. She fed on their panic. She could have been poster-girl for the hookup culture, but for the self-loathing.

  She was content to bump along with a C average. If a D or failure threatened, a well timed visit to the professor’s office could help pull her grade up, especially if he (or sometimes she) leaned forward with a certain solicitous look and a certain hesitation. She found it easy to read the signs and drive things forward. She never offered to trade sex for a grade; she just gave, went back to her room, and whispered her anguished apologies into her pillow. Her grade would soon improve.

  In the last semester of her senior year, she ran into a different kind of professor. Christopher Fischer, American lit. She’d thought a literature course would be an easy way to finish up her degree—she was done with her psych major—but the novels were so long, she didn’t have enough time. She went to his office and discovered, quite suddenly, that he was gorgeous—mid-forties, gray-haired, elegant, and with eyes that seemed to see right into her, understanding what she really was and somehow conveying that it was all right with him. Why hadn’t she noticed it when he lectured?

  She said, “Professor Fischer, I’m having trouble keeping up.”

  “You’re not an English major. It’s a lot of reading when you’re not used to it.”

  “It’s not just that,” she said. “I’ve never taken a literature course, and I don’t understand the way you want us to think. I’m used to just reading stories and enjoying them.”

  And he patiently, kindly, explained to her what the study of literature was about, why it was worth doing, and what kinds of things she should be alert for as she read. It would have been useful if she’d been at all interested in doing the work for his course.

  When he’d given his talk, she stared at him and stirred a little in her seat.

  He said, “You didn’t come here for that, did you?”

  “Professor, I—”

  But she stopped when he rose to his feet, rounded his desk, and quietly closed his office door. Then he was standing in front of her, reaching down, seizing a fistful of her T shirt, and pulling her to her feet. His mouth was an inch from hers, but he didn’t kiss her. His eyes were cold and intense: she couldn’t look away. Her heart was pounding.

  In a soft, low voice he said, “I’m going to give you what you came for, Jennifer. Say ‘Red’ if you change your mind and want to stop. Do you understand?”

  She was shocked and scared, being handled this way, and this talk about saying “Red” confused her. She stared at him, unsure what to say.

  He took her by the shoulders and held her. “Do you understand? Say ‘Red’ and I stop the scene.”

  She was still scared, but getting more excited by the second, and she understood what he was saying, even if she didn’t quite get why he was saying it. She nodded.

  With dextrous, practiced hands he undid her belt and jeans and pushed them down with h
er panties. He seized her shoulders again and spun her around—then with one hand in the middle of her back, he shoved her face down onto his desk, scattering the books and half-graded papers. It all took just a few seconds, and she was more turned on than she’d ever been in her life, pussy hot and wet, not just willing to be fucked, but needing it.

  “Oh,” she breathed, hearing the metallic clink of a belt buckle, a zipper, the crinkle of a condom packet.

  And just like that, he was in her, thrusting hard, confident hands holding her hips. Her cheek slid on the papers; one elbow knocked a book to the floor.

  “Oh!” she cried, and he put a hand over her mouth to quiet her and thrust harder, holding her by the back of her neck with his other hand, hurting her—no man or boy had ever treated her this way before—till he came, leaving her unsatisfied.

  But he wasn’t done. He put an arm around her, under her breasts, lifted her to him, back to front, and hissed in her ear, “Is that what you came for, Jennifer?”

  No! She couldn’t have wanted this—it was too rough, the emotion too intense for her to bear. She looked down, saw wet spots on a paper, neatly penned marginal comments blotted, and realized she’d been crying.

  She thought about yelling “Red” and running away. But no, she had come to his office for a fuck. He’d sensed that in her, known it with absolute certainty. Now that she was starting to get over the shock of it, she realized that being fucked like that—controlled, roughed up if that’s what it took—was so completely right that she didn’t want to be fucked any other way, ever again. He’d known that about her, though she hadn’t known it herself. But her need filled her with shame. “I’m sorry, Professor,” she blurted.

  “Why are you sorry?” whispered the professor, holding her body tight against him, one arm around her middle, the other under her chin, tilting her head so far back she could feel his breath on her ear. His cock was already stiffening again, pressing against her ass.

  “I’m—”

  She couldn’t tell him what she was, couldn’t bring herself to say it. She’d come to his office to fuck him for a grade, and she was a slut—just scum. He knew that and understood how she despised herself.