Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

  He said, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He sat in the chair she’d been sitting in and pulled her down over his knee. He gave one side of her bottom a spank—sharp, but not too hard.

  She yelped, and he said, “Cover your mouth. I’m going to give you five more spanks. Remember, say ‘Red’ and I’ll stop.”

  Obediently she put one hand over her mouth, then the other. She held herself tight as he spanked her, alternating ass cheeks, each blow a little harder than the one before, till she was gasping into her hands, working hard not to scream. The spanking felt better than an apology: she was cleansed somehow, though still aroused and needy.

  “Step out of your pants,” he said (her jeans were still around her ankles), “and sit on my lap.”

  She did as he’d commanded, and his gentleness seemed miraculous after the violent fuck and the spanking. He wound his arms around her, and she felt small and safe wrapped up in him.

  Then his fingers found her pussy, and he stroked her gently, making her squirm and sigh, then harder, and finally rough, fingers mauling her. She covered her mouth again so she’d remember not to cry out, and made a high, tense noise into her palm until he said, “Come quietly.” Her body responded to his words instantly, and she came hard and long, a new kind of orgasm, violent but somehow full of healing, so for those few seconds, at least, she was free of the self-loathing that had become such a habit with her.

  She wanted to give him some kind of thanks for that. She slid off his lap, onto her knees between his legs, and sucked his cock, now fully erect again. It felt good to do it, kiss the head, tongue the little slit where a drop of pre-cum leaked out, draw it all into her. Relaxed and patient, he let a hand rest on her head until finally he grasped the back of her neck and pulled her to him, thrust up into her, and came—not a lot since he’d come minutes before, but enough that it felt good to swallow it. She wanted to do everything for this man—she could do so little, but there was this at least.

  “I’m not going to give you a good grade for sex,” he said, and the shame rushed back into her. “But I’ll help you get a good grade in this course. Come to my house at four o’clock Friday afternoon.”

  She belonged to an environmental activism group that met then. “I have—”

  “Cancel whatever you have on,” he said, and she didn’t say anything more, but just accepted the slip of paper he’d jotted his address on.

  After that she made regular visits to his house on Grove Street, where he tutored her in literary criticism, had her make dinner for the two of them, and took her to a basement room he called his dungeon, where he carefully explained to her the game he wanted them to play and asked for her consent. Sometimes she’d be his puppy or kitty, sometimes a naughty schoolgirl or juvenile delinquent. After the role play he’d fuck her, and if she’d been bad or slow to understand her lesson, she’d get a spanking, or maybe, bound to a table or a cross, a flogging. Then she’d spend the night with him—next to him if she’d been especially good, but usually on a little pallet at the foot of his bed. She ended up with a B in his course, but the most valuable knowledge she gained from him was that she couldn’t live anywhere but in the strange world he inhabited, of Doms and subs, Masters and slaves, Daddies and sweet little girls who needed brutal fucks and frequent spankings. He’d known that about her the instant he’d seen her, long before she’d known it about herself.

  After graduation she moved in with him. She gladly agreed to become his slave, and they worked out a contract detailing how she’d serve him and how he could rule her and use her body. He gave her the name Pipit because, he said, she was little and her voice was like birdsong.

  Around this time, too, he started to invite friends over, and he’d watch while they fucked her. Afterwards he’d punish her. Sometimes he’d make her write “I’m sorry I’m such a slut” a hundred times, and with every repetition she’d get wetter and more needy until, after she’d finished her lines, she’d fall on her knees in front of him and beg him for a fuck. Sometimes he’d tie her to the table and edge her for an hour with fingers and vibrators till she was blubbering and pleading for an orgasm. Sometimes he’d tie her in a stress position and just leave her while he sat nearby and read a book, and when she was wailing for release he’d untie her, put her in a tiny cage, and make her masturbate there while he watched.

  She soon realized that she craved sessions like these more than she’d ever craved anything before in her life. She needed the sex with strangers and near-strangers, needed the overwhelming humiliation of the punishment. She needed the aftercare, too, when he held her tenderly, gave her an orgasm if she hadn’t had one already, and murmured in her ear that she was his sweet slut, his very own dirty girl, and he loved her more than all the world.

  He was her protector and provider. She looked to him for everything—food, shelter, clothing, and the emotional and physical intensity that came from their sex, play, and punishments. Master ate well and fed her well, lived in a beautiful house, and gave her plenty of money to shop for fashionable clothing. He praised her beauty, petted her, and gave her little gifts. She was dizzyingly happy with him for a year and a half.

  Then everything came crashing down around her ears, and it was all because of that tatted cunt Famula. It started at a New Year’s Eve party given by a fabulously wealthy couple in a big playroom in this immense Park Avenue apartment. Famula wasn’t better looking than Pipit—not by a long shot. She had this ridiculous dyed hair with a purple streak, idiotic emo makeup, and this gaudy rose tattoo over half her body. Her features weren’t special either—cutesy-poo nose, body a shade too thick if you knew how to look, puffy nipples and labia that stuck out unevenly. Pipit, on the other hand, knew very well that her own features were perfect, her creamy skin without blemish, nipples and pink bits smooth and symmetrical, her light brown hair soft and stunning in a braid halfway down her back.

  So why did Master go all schoolboy-with-a-crush the instant he caught sight of Famula? And when they’d bound the filthy skank to the table with that scrawny toilet slave Mouche, both stuffed full of vibrators, squirming and trying not to come, absolutely everybody, including Master, gathered to watch them, and Pipit just about died of envy.

  On the other hand, Frederick, Famula’s Master, was a hunk, lean and hard looking, with sparkling, amused blue eyes and a close-cropped beard. He seemed to have an eye for Pipit, who had good reason to believe that she could draw her Master’s attention away from Famula by fucking him. So she touched him through his leather trousers and whispered in his ear that she knew her Master would give them permission to play, if he asked. He did ask, and they did play. Frederick tied her in the frame and flogged her gently, then ass-fucked her on the floor and finally came in her mouth. He was a little rough, but she liked it—he was gorgeous, and so commanding!

  But her Master wasn’t interested in watching her fuck. Instead, he stayed and watched the show in the middle of the room, where the slut Famula was eating out Mouche while the billionaire Daniel paddled her bottom. And later, after Pipit had attacked Famula in a frustrated rage, and they’d both found themselves cuffed, spread-eagled, and on display for the crowd as punishment, Master stood off to the side studying Famula and hardly glanced at Pipit.

  It was all so unfair. Hadn’t she given Master everything he could possibly want—everything she had and everything she was? And her reward was terror that he’d leave her for this cunt with dyed hair and vulgar tats.

  So she wasn’t sorry when Frederick called her the very next morning, took her to lunch, and fucked her in a hotel room that he’d taken in advance for that very purpose. Afterwards he cuddled her and confided his misgivings about Famula.

  “She loves me as a Master, I’m sure,” he said, “but sometimes I think she’d love any Master just as much.”

  “Some subs can’t love,” she said, “I mean truly love. Maybe she’s one of those.” She stroked his cock under the covers.

  “And sometimes I feel I don’t k
now her at all,” he said. “She’s a wonderful slave, she likes to play the way I play, and she seems devoted to me, but beyond that, she’s hard to know.”

  “Some people are hollow,” she said. “You can’t really love them, because there’s not enough inside for love to stick to.”

  She peeled back the sheet and nuzzled his cock, which stirred again for her. She sucked him, and when he was hard she climbed on top of him and rode him.

  “Hit me,” she said, and he slapped a breast.

  “Master me,” she said, and he threw her off him, flung her face down onto the bed, and fucked her from behind, bareback now, holding her braid taut while she moaned.

  When he’d come inside her and rolled away, she licked the slime off his cock and said, “I love you, Frederick. I wish you were my Master.” She could tell he believed her, and she was thrilled.

  The very next day Master invited Frederick to come with his slave to dinner at the house on Grove Street, and Pipit and Frederick spent the time they stole together before the dinner planning out how they could get Pipit traded for Famula. And it worked. Pipit ended up with Frederick and Famula with Christopher—though Pipit was never sure whether the plan had actually been hers and Frederick’s or Christopher’s. In retrospect it was a little unsettling how cheerful her old Master had been at their parting.

  In some ways Pipit’s new Master was better than Christopher. He was at least ten years younger and much richer. As summer approached, they went to beaches, to San Francisco, and London. They went to fabulous restaurants, including a kink-friendly one where he humiliated her at their table. It was exciting to socialize with the upper end of the New York BDSM community.

  But Master Frederick was rough—a sadist, really. His idea of play was to tie her up in a painful position, ass-fuck her dry except for her pussy’s wetness on his cock, or give her a whipping that raised welts, the kind of thing that Master Christopher did only rarely, as punishment. He never made her bleed, but she worried constantly that he would, or that he’d even cause a wound that would leave a scar. She wondered how Famula could stand his violence—she must have been an incredible pain slut.

  Master Frederick wasn’t interested in lending her to friends, either, the way Master Christopher had done, so between the excessive pain, the anxiety about her skin, and missing the kink she loved most, she became more and more restless over the six months or so she was with him.

  Then Master Frederick got a dinner invitation from Daniel and Karen, the wealthy couple who’d given the New Year’s Eve party. It was exciting to be back in their huge, ornate apartment, where what had been a big playroom was now—it was hard to describe—maybe a ballroom-sized living room. And it was even more exciting when Karen, a stout woman with a grand manner, took an interest in her, petting her, feeding her tidbits from her plate, and even letting her sip from her own coffee cup.

  After dinner, as the Mistress and Masters were beginning to talk about play, Karen announced, “Whatever else we do tonight, I want this beautiful slave of yours to eat my cunt. You won’t mind, will you, Frederick? Didn’t you say she was poly?”

  “Christopher said she liked him to lend her to his friends—would you call that poly? I haven’t done it myself.”

  He glanced at Pipit, who wondered if he could see her mounting excitement. Not an hour later, she was bound spreadeagled to the table in their big playroom, Karen sitting on her face while Mouche stood against a wall, gloomily fingering herself as she looked on. Pipit was thrilled by Karen’s big wet pussy, and she loved the attention from this grand and hugely wealthy lady even more.

  So she didn’t object when Karen led her to the bathroom, saying, “I know you’ll forgive an old lady her kinks, dear,” laid her on the floor, and pissed in her mouth. Pipit didn’t love gulping down mouthful after acrid mouthful, but the experience did little to dampen her happiness. This was a kink she could live with, if the top was someone as wonderful as Karen, who gazed lovingly at her as she forced down the last of it, and murmured, “So beautiful.”

  Karen called her a couple of days later, while Master Frederick was at the office, and sent a driver around to bring her to lunch—it was so exciting to roll up Park Avenue in a big limousine! Mouche brought them their food and then Karen sent her away, fucked Pipit with a strap-on, pissed in her mouth again, and invited her to join the household on Park Avenue.

  She also told Pipit about the other part of her toilet kink.

  “You don’t have to worry, dear,” she said. “You just throw it right up, and we’ll give you some medicine to make sure you don’t get sick.”

  Pipit had never been grossed out by the body or its products. She’d swallowed hundreds of loads of cum in her time, and probably a quart of Karen’s piss. She knew assholes, too: she’d rimmed dozens of men and not a few women. How difficult could this be?

  She smiled at Karen and said, “No problem.”

  “Why don’t you just consider yourself a part of the household as of right now,” Karen said. “I’ll fix things with Frederick, and we’ll send a man around for your belongings tomorrow.”

  Pipit was glad to find that she was capable of meeting Mistress Karen’s needs, though she knew she’d never love doing it. Mistress indulged her kink at irregular intervals once or twice a week, sometimes summoning Pipit to the playroom and sometimes Mouche. Pipit did what she had to do, pretended to be happy and grateful, and did her best to banish the scene from her memory afterwards.

  Master Daniel proved to be genial and easily satisfied. He’d come around for a fuck every few days, and she was glad to oblige, though sex with him was not very satisfying emotionally. Occasionally Mistress would come and watch Master fuck her, but there was no punishment afterwards—and anyway, all their punishments were insipid compared to what she’d been used to. They didn’t seem to understand shame. Nor were they in any hurry to share her with their friends, though Daniel said they’d get around to it sooner or later.

  Mouche was an annoyance, but Pipit knew she’d been given a superior position in the household and used it to harass her rival, bossing her around, ridiculing her skinny, tatted, pierced body, and criticizing her work in front of Master and Mistress. Within a few days Mouche disappeared. Pipit didn’t ask where she’d gone, or why.

  In the quieter apartment that Mouche left behind, Pipit started to brood about Mistress’s kink, which she now bore the entire burden of. As time went on, the slave found herself more and more preoccupied with vivid impressions of the nastiness of it: the beyond-vile smell and taste, the revolting pasty-wet texture, the terror of waiting, mouth open, as she stared at the end of the funnel that emptied into the head-cage, Mistress straining above. Before long she was in constant anxiety, wondering when Mistress would once again lead her to the playroom.

  It finally happened one day, when Mistress had commanded her to put her head in the cage under the toilet seat, that Pipit felt horror rush up inside her, and all at once she knew she’d rather die than do it even one more time. She collapsed into a crouch, held her head in her hands, and wailed, “I can’t, Mistress!”

  Mistress’s voice was stern. “You said you were all right with this.”

  “I thought I was, Mistress. But I . . . I just can’t do it again. I’m so sorry! I just can’t!”

  “I liberated my other toilet slave because you seemed such a good one. We wrote it into your contract—and now you tell me this?”

  “I can do piss, Mistress, as much as you like—”

  “I require,” said Karen haughtily, “a full-service toilet slave. It appears you are not what you claimed to be. You’ve broken our contract.”

  She didn’t have to leave right away—they gave her twenty-four hours. Daniel came to her tiny slave room that night and said, “I’m very sorry this happened, Pipit. I really did enjoy sex with you. But you understand, it’s Karen who needs a slave, not me.”

  He gave her a check for ten thousand dollars. Feeling foolishly grateful, she gave hi
m a blowjob and swallowed his cum one last time.

  The next day, instead of looking for an apartment or a job, she visited Christopher in his office at NYU. Wearing a loose-fitting belted dress, just slightly see-through, she waited patiently with a little group of students camped out in the hallway. A boy there stole glances but didn’t talk to her. Too bad—the mood she was in, she probably would have gone back to his dormitory with him and fucked him there, if he’d let her stay the night.

  When it was her turn to see the professor, she closed the door and stood in front of it, one hand on the knob behind her as if she thought she might have to flee. But Christopher gestured her into a chair and waited patiently while she spilled her story.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said. “It’s a rare kink, coprophagia, and most people can’t do it. The expression ‘Your kink is not my kink’ applies double with that one. Are you going to be all right?” He took a checkbook out of his jacket pocket. As they talked, he started to write out a check with painstaking care.

  “They gave me five thousand,” she said, eying his hand as he wrote out the check. “It’ll keep me for a little while. I really need a Master, though. I need . . . certain things—emotionally. You were the best, Master Christopher.”

  “But I’m not the Master for you now,” he said, pushing the check across his desk. She let it lie; picking it up would be admitting defeat.

  “I was a good slave for you,” she said. “You said I was beautiful, and I did everything you wanted. The things we did were good for me, too. I loved you. I do love you.”

  “I’ve learned,” he said, “that it’s possible for a soul to be more beautiful than I ever imagined. Your body is beautiful, Jennifer, but you need to work on your soul.”

  A wave of anger washed through her. “She’s not coming back to you, you know,” she said, “that skank with the tattoos.”