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I watch the Clock
By Prahana
I look at the clock. Again. It's four minutes later than what seems an hour ago, and still 20 minutes away from her arrival. I walk through the apartment, again. Dust here, a spot on the carpet there. I fix what I can, and fret over what I cannot.
And what about her? She's young, and bright. You've told me so. But will I find her attractive? Does it matter? I remind myself that it does not, that I have no claim here. I'm to ready her, and if I'm lucky, I'll find some comfort in it, knowing that she pleases You. A soft knock at the door pulls me from my pensive state. But I'm slow to respond, so the knock repeats, this time more sure of itself. My body is lead, the door a million miles away. I could ignore it. Act like no one's home. But Your voice swims by, telling me how much You favor her. And I won't disappoint You....
The door creaks its usual sad creak, revealing a shock of black hair, beautiful pale skin, and, after a brief moment, the earthy smell of patchouli. She looks at me through lowered lids and whispers, "He sent me." I reach for her chin, small in my hand, but well defined and strong. It doesn't resist me as I tilt it back, to get a better look. She's lovely of course. And I find my heart melting already. "Come," I guide her, substituting chin for elbow, and drawing her close. Do I feel her tremble? Can I smell her fear? It mingles with her perfume, and serves as a balm for my own doubts and insecurities.
"Here, give me that," and I am reaching for the raincoat as she shrugs it free from slender shoulders. She seems so vulnerable now, smaller still without it's bulk. This moves me, and I tell her that it will be okay. "So tell me, how did you come to find yourself in my living room?" I smile, curious because You have told me nothing but to prepare her, and to ease her fear.
It must be that she senses I'm no threat- that I don't resent her presence (indeed I am pleasantly surprised), because her story comes forth in a great stream of dreamy recollection. Her first classes with You a year ago, being drawn to Your brilliance and dark good looks. By the course's end she finds herself with an indefatigable infatuation. Thoughts of You visit her in her other classes, in the cafeteria, at the movies with her friends, and most wonderfully when she dreams. She plots to not lose touch as her senior year comes to an end, obsesses on how to approach You. Graduation comes and goes, yet she finds reasons to return to campus, additional transcripts, research in the library, visiting former classmates. Then one warm Fall afternoon as You're leaving for the day, she slides past the door You've just opened, breathless and flushed, asking for help with her writing. The other professors just aren't like You, and of course, only at Your convenience, as she realizes You're very busy with other things. I can see You smiling at her, and laughing that laugh- (the one I wish to keep as my very own,) giving in to her charms and sincerity. You recognize her talent, and enthusiasm, and agree to help.
She begins with some poetry, and short stories from her childhood that impress You with their imagery and style. Words of encouragement bring forth more revealing work, deeper explorations of personal struggle, laced with dark desires and unmet needs. You are quick to note her musings as reflections of her submissive nature, and recognize that she is hungry to explore, but has nowhere to feed.
I listen as she continues. She's sitting now, and I've brought her chai. Occasionally I interrupt with a question, but am content mostly to listen. She tells me of You gently prodding her about the inspirations for her writings, guiding the discussion in a way that allows her to say these things that she's never dared share with another. I hear adoration as she tells me how at ease You make her feel, how soothing Your presence is. I feel her aching to give herself to You, and I empathize with her madness. A madness that eats away her reticence, bit by bit, until one day, sitting across from You, she blurts out, "Will you teach me? Please?"
You don't answer her right away, but You look up into her eyes, and hold them. For a moment she meets you, but your intensity intimidates her, and she averts her gaze. Still in no hurry, you close the book that's open before you and ask, "Teach you what Emer?"
"Will you teach me pleaseºSir?"
And all at once she is quiet, her story done. I study her profile, and decide that I like her. Very much. I'm thinking so loudly she hears me, and turns to catch my eye with her violet ones. They are crystalline, bright against her pale skin and I imagine that I'm falling into them. They welcome me, pull at me, draw me in. Willingly, I follow, but stop suddenly as she looks away for a moment, tucking a thick ebon curl carefully behind her ear, exposing the curve of her white throat. The movement is purposeful, almost lascivious, and I wonder if she is being seductive with me. Suddenly I am embarrassed, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the brief exchange. I move to take her teacup, and ask her what You have told her to expect.
"He has told me nothing. Only to come to you, and do as I am told."
I taste resentment at the back of my throat, as I am ill at ease in this role, and I do not wish HER to know this. Yet I'm finding it much easier than I had anticipated. I know what is expected of me, and with one such as she, so eager to please, perhaps it needn't be so disconcerting after all.
"All right then, do you understand what it is you're about to do?" I arise from the couch, turning my back to her, and make my way into the kitchen, depositing the dishes into the sink. She seems so young. I don't suppose that she is a virgin? No, she must be at least 21, although I doubt that she has been with a woman. Thoughts perhaps, suggested in the way she looks at me, but no real encounters. She still hasn't answered, and I return to the living room, "Well, do you?"
She looks up at me, and nods quickly, her eyes open widely, tinged with just a hint of fear.
I look at her long and hard, but discern no regret, nor reluctance. I am convinced that she is committed to see this through, and her apprehension further convinces me of her earnestness. It's this that I concentrate on. I'll humor this sense of purpose, coax it along, without feeding it or allowing it to grow. For when does one's submission have the most meaning if not in acknowledging your fear, and trading it for a better Master...?
"All right then, first things first, you are to be bathed, and all things that make you yourself will be forsaken for what will make you His." And then it occurs to me, that we don't even know each other's name. I laugh out loud, which startles her. It seems somehow inappropriate given the seriousness of our conversation. I tell her that we've been together now almost an hour with no formal introduction, and holding out my hand, "Michelle." She grins sheepishly, clasping it lightly, but with no hesitation, "Emer."
"It's lovely," I say softly as I look down at her, still sitting on my couch, "is it Gaelic?"
"Why yes," she replies, surprised I think, that I know this. "My father is from Donegal. Do you know it?"
"Yes, I've been there, it was wild and haunting, perhaps my favorite part of the Isle. My grandfather is from Clare, from him I inherited a love of all things Celtic."
Now it is I that am surprised at the straightforwardness of my comment. But the sheepish grin remains, perhaps it is even a bit wider, and I ease more comfortably into our conversation. "Come on, He's expecting you in less than two hours. And you don't want to be late." Her hand is still enclosed within mine, and I grasp it firmly, leaning back to dislodge her from the overstuffed cushions. She giggles a little, and now I am smiling as I usher her up the stairs.
I draw her bath, the water loud and crashing as it mixes and tumbles the salts I've added, releasing the sweet smell of the sea into the heavy, moist air. The surge of the water and the warmth it carries, lull me; invite me to think of her lips under mine, soft and giving. They are full, and petulant, and I could not help but notice when parted slightly they revealed a row of white, even teeth. I wish to ask her what she's thinking, what she expects...to learn who she is, and where she comes from. I decide against it though, knowing the less said the better. I want to only extenuate her fear, not allay it altogether. "This is your first time," I tell her, serious again, as I reach to turn off the faucet. There's a diminutive, "Yes," behind me, "but I'm not a virgin, if that's what you mean..." I grin at her, amused by her defensiveness, replying, "Of course that's not what I meant. What I meant was, have you ever been with a woman?"
Her mouth drops, treating me to pearly teeth, hangs there, slack a moment, before answering, barely audible, "No, I haven't."
"Entertained thoughts of it though I bet?" I don't wait for her to answer. "Of course you have, but thinking about it and actually doing it are two very different things aren't they?" I see her staring through me, nodding ever so slightly in agreement. "I'm not trying to frighten you, just prepare you for what may lie ahead, should He desire it. Now come here." She does as she as told, and I reach for the top button of her blouse. Her hands rise to assist me, but I push them away with an, "I'll do it." Standing still, her arms at her sides, I am reminded of a small child, indignant that it's bath time, sulking and silent. The buttons give way easily, and I ease the shirt from the waistband of her jeans. Reaching behind her to unhook her bra my arms brush against her skin, raising goose bumps. She blushes wildly as the bra comes away in my hands, and I step back to admire her bosom. It is full, and ripe, the flush from her face spreading downward, stopping to blend with the rosy tips. "You have beautiful breasts, they'll please Him very much." Then, without thinking, I catch her right nipple between my thumb and index finger. She responds with a sharp intake of breath part surprise, part embarrassment. I roll it slowly back and forth, not a little pleasure. It stiffens and lengthens nicely, and I tell her that it's of a perfect size for clamping. She moans deeply, and I know that You'll find her very much to Your liking....
Off then come the jeans, and she doesn't move to assist me this time. Then, hooking her panties with my thumbs, I slowly bring them down boyish hips, revealing a triangle of silken curls, oily black and glistening. I look up at her as she extracts each foot, one at a time, catching her balance on my shoulder, "This will have to go." I look again at her pubes and then back into her eyes. "The hair. How will you appreciate the lick of hot wax, or the bite of His crop if you're so thickly covered? No. It must go."
"But," she begins to protest, and I stop her from going further. "There is no argument. Besides, He prefers it this way. It is a pain, but after awhile it'll become part of your regular routine, like brushing your teeth and washing your face." And that is the end of it. My scissors make short work of the flossy whorls, but I'm mindful of the tender, sensitive flesh. On her back now, and me in an awkward position, head bent between her parted legs. The hiss of Barbasol spread thickly. Pulling her taut, the razor bit-by-bit, revealing soft, plump skin.
It's such an odd feeling, to be shaving someone else. I take extra care as I come to the cleft, so delicate, hiding the dusky inner lips. Spreading it widely, revealing a thick, obviously engorged clit. I look up from my work, her head is turned, her eyes shut, tightly, as if she were trying to hide herself from me. How well I understand that need, to disappear, make myself invisible. I see too, how it affects her, - she's aroused, and wet, the heat rising from her and stirring my own. "Hold yourself open for me," my voice low, firm. Her eyes fly open, suddenly wide, the violet startling. "Do it." And the head turns to bury itself deeper into the towel I've spread, but the small hands move to her mons.
"Good girl."
I work slowly, and this time I am the one enjoying the embarrassment. I don't avoid her clit as I work, allowing my fingers to brush lightly against it. I've got her squirming, and with my fingernail I gently follow the trail of juice that is now flowing freely from her. It leads me down to the button of her asshole, and pressing lightly I am rewarded with such a violent shiver I chuckle. I am aching to replace my finger with my tongue, working my way up to her other button, pulling away the thick hood to expose the exquisite glens, teasing it, her hips jerking, twisting as my tongue flicks across it's surface. But I refrain, knowing it would bode ill for me should I indulge, and announce to her that I am finished.
"Now into the tub with you," and as she sits up, assessing my handiwork. I notice her chagrin, and am reminded of my own first shaving. "But, but I look like a little girl," she whines, which irritates me, and causes me to speak more harshly than I am accustomed to.
"No. You do not. You look like His slave, which is exactly what you are in the process of becoming. If youŒre having second thoughts, you can put your clothes back on and walk out the door. No one will think the less of you." Then, softer, "And your hair will grow back." I smile at her now, regretting my impatience. Unexpectedly, defiantly even, she spurts back a determined, "No," as she lowers herself into the warm, deep water. And so her charms are having their way with me, as they did You before me, and I know why you've chosen her, and I find myself looking forward to something that I've wanted for a very long time.
Grabbing a thick, nubby washcloth and a soothing hand milled soap I know to be your favorite, I sit on the edge of the tub, leaning precariously to reach my charge. Sensing my dilemma, she obediently moves closer to the side where I am perched. It's of little help though, and the water, riled with her movement, finds it's way onto my pants. She begins to apologize, her voice high pitched with concern that I might be angry. Actually, I *am* annoyed, and think to tell her so, but decide against it. Instead, I cut her short with a curt, "Don't worry about it," while standing to retrieve a towel. "This just isn't going to work," I inform her, dabbing at the wet stain, "without me getting soaked as well." My back is to her as I return the towel to the drying rack, following it with my blouse, and then my damp trousers. "What are you doing?" she asks, "Wouldn't it be better to change after we are finished with my bath?"
I turn to her quickly, my eyes slitted, my voice clipped and stern. "Your first lesson, best learned *here* before you are brought to Him, is that your place is not to offer suggestions but to do as you are told. If He wants your thoughts He will ask for them. Am I understood?" Her face loses expression with my chastisement, and she slowly nods, head at that peculiar level of resignation, as she acknowledges the import of what I have said. "Besides," less serious now, "I am not changingŠI am joining you."
How quickly her face becomes animated again, those eyes like beacons, blurting out surprise and a delicious bit of fear. "Don't worry," I answer, teasing it, coaxing it, "I won't bite youŠ*hard*." Grinning, I turn my back to her, for some strange reason modest in removing my underclothes. A hook shot into the hamper and I'm naked in front of her, still smiling, dancing with her unease. I notice that she is looking at my crotch, just as bald as hers, almost identical to it, but for the gold ring jutting proudly from between my outer lips. "You're piercedŠ*there*?" Her voice, incredulous, whisper thin, and tremulous all at once. I'm surprised at her surprise, but I allow it to lead, enjoying this more and more. "Why yes, He attaches a fine gold leash to it, and leads me about as it pleases Him. Or sometimes, when we are out for an evening, two small bells that tinkle just loudly enough to be heard, even through my clothing. I know that everyone can hear them, and it's embarrassing as all hell. He loves to watch me try to walk without them ringing, and will pick up His pace if I'm being at all successful..."
With that I am in the tub behind her, fitting my body to hers. She asks no further questions, and I offer nothing more. I leave her to her thoughts, which I know are running wild. As I soap her body I become painfully aware of how delicate she is against my muscular frame. Slender shoulders press against broad ones; thin hips press against wide. Only her breasts are larger, and a twinge of envy bites me, then runs, leaving me a little ashamed. I savor the smoothness of her skin, pale and unblemished. And I wonder, as my hands roam over her, if men truly appreciate the feel of a woman. I imagine her face, small in my hands, drawing her soft lips to mine, parting them with my tongue, finding hers, and sucking gently. So unlike a man, with his harsh angles and rough skin, his lips firm and demanding, never able to yield in the way a woman's does. It's a way that stirs something deep within me.
I notice that the stiffness that possessed her body is now gone, melting away with my ministrations. I leave not an inch of her unscrubbed, and pay little attention to any slight discomfort I might be causing her. Her skin is rosy red from the attention, and I think it's almost the same color her ass will be after it's first caning. She squirms a little as I go over areas again and again, scrubbing away the taint of the outside world, beginning here anew, afresh, reborn. I want to be there when you enter her for the first time, to hold her, and whisper into her ear, encouraging her to cum, and cover her mouth with mine, swallowing her sighs as she does so.
Then the hair, atop her head, thick, sensuous clouds of lather, her eyes are closed and I would swear she was purring. Rinsing the last of the shampoo, conditioner for several minutes, and we're done. I tell her to remain as I reluctantly leave the warmth of the water and am rudely assaulted by the coolness of the room air. A towel wrap affords some relief, but I'd rather return to my place behind her, hugging her close, and drinking her warmth. I know though, that I cannot, as I reach to pull the drain. She keeps still, just as I have instructed, and the water leaves the tub bit by bit. I can see that she's cold, her nipples are hard, and she's hugging her knees close. I decide to make her just a bit more uncomfortable as I instruct her to stand for a thorough rinsing. "All right then, stand up and hold still. I'm going to rinse you." I turn on the faucet again, this time adding only enough hot water to bring it this side of bone chilling. The icy water pools around the drain, inching closer to her dainty feet. I watch itŠcloser, closerŠuntil it touches the backs of her heels. She turns to me with a, "But that's COLD," loud and much too demanding. I, of course, expect this, yet without thinking, I sharply backhand the cheek of her ass, leaving a smart, four-fingered red mark. "Hold still I said, and stop your mewling or I'll take my damn time with this." I admire my print on her; it's contrast against the whiteness of her skin. Reaching out I caress it, slowly, soothingly, "I've marked you I see...He will find it amusing when I tell Him how loudly you complained over a bit of cold water. " And, laughing, not a little evilly, "His marks will last much longer than mine."
This stirs me, my hand on the curve of her ass, the thought of what lies beneath it, and I feel that delicious stab of pain/pleasure run straight down my middle, and right to my groin. Adjusting the showerhead to full force, the jets of water stinging, and several degrees past refreshing, I begin to rinse her of the last bit of soap clinging stubbornly to her skin. I start at the top, and work my way down. She goes on her tiptoes, gritting her teeth, but otherwise keeps still and says not a word. I afford her this small bit of movement, the water *is* freezing, and my own hand protests against the icy cold. I'm proud of her, enduring this, and turn off the water as soon as I have finished. "That's a very good girl," I praise, reaching for the softest of my bath towels. I wrap it around her, like swaddling around a baby. Touched by her shivering, I mop her hair quickly, catching it in a short, but thick, tail, and lead her down the narrow hallway to my bedroom.
She stops at two steps beyond the doorway, and I sense her hesitation. I know what she's doing- what she's thinking. My artwork has her transfixed, and staring, and I allow her a moment to drink it in. Photos in black and white, pencils in gray, nudes and semi nudes of men and women, giving and taking, hurting and loving, screaming and laughing, bound by the ropes of their needs and desires. I reach for her hand, reminding her of the time, which is slipping away much too quickly for my taste. Looking into her eyes I tell her to remove the towel so that I may soften her skin with Your favorite cream. It glides on wondrously, intoxicatingly, its smell reminds me of Your touch, the sound of Your voice, the ache that centers me, and allows me a place. Those breasts again, under my hands, so full and beautifully shaped, the tender tips awakening with my touch, begging me to suckle, roll my tongue over them, nipping gently. Her belly flat, but soft, and apple assed, with surprisingly long legs for one so short.
I stop, with much difficulty, and notice that she's still wearing her jewelry, earrings, a bracelet, and a thin gold chain resting in the hollow of her lovely throat. It shines in the soft light, and I want to kiss her there, slowly running my tongue along her neck's length, up to her chin, following her jawbone, and to the sensitive lobe of her ear. Remaining for some time, sucking, nibbling, until her knees are weak with wanting, and she must lean against me to keep from collapsing. I drag myself from my obsession, and tell her the trappings must be removed. That she will come to You with nothing to remind her of the outside world. It must all be left behind, so she may accept what she is to become without remorse, or longing, or regret. First the bracelet, then the earrings, and lastly the necklace are gone. How sad she seems as she removes the last pieces of what she was. For a moment she holds them tightly in her fist, then without further hesitation drops them into the wastebasket on the floor.
Again, pride washes through me. I hadn't expected this complete release of her former self. I expected her to put it aside, perhaps, asking me to hold it for her until a later timeŠbut not casting it aside entirely. The words "good girl" find themselves at my lips again, and it's sweet to say them. Comfortable. Easy. In a way I hadn't thought possible. "Now let's dress you, and finish up. It's getting late, and He's not tolerant of those who don't respect His valuable time."
I go to my closet, selecting a Lahenga that I know will please You. It's silk is music under my fingers, and she smiles the widest of smiles when I hold it out to her. Tentatively she fingers it, afraid of it's delicate appearance, that she'll mar it somehow with her human touch, this cloth that's meant for a Goddess. Gently she fingers it, and then slides herself into its folds as if she belonged there. The bodice is tight against her full breasts, but not too much so, and I can't help but fall a little more captive to her charms as I assess my handiwork. Jasmine oil tames wild curls, and kohl livens violet eyes, making them bigger and brighter than even seems possible. Good god she is lovely. And again the envy flares.... only to be vanquished by the adoring look she gives me.
"Only one thing is missing," I sigh, as she twirls in front of my mirror, admiring her beauty.
"Really?" she pipes, not imagining that she needs another thing.
"Yes...and it's most important. His collar."
The twirling stops, suddenly, as if she realizes my pain at this moment. Perhaps she senses it in my voice. Or maybe her awareness is born of a deeper connection. I wonder, as my hands move to my throat, unfastening the substantial gold and emerald collar that You placed there nearly three years ago. Tears threaten to spill, and my eyes sting as it comes away in my hands. Composing myself, I turn, only to find her still, head bowed, ready to receive the thing that is so painful for me to give. I feel guilty now- putting her in this position. And I sense her discomfort, but I do what I must She looks up under thick black lashes, and I see her heart in her eyes. And I hear the thank-you, but it's a dream, and I want to wake up.
We are in my car now. On our way to You. She sits quietly, respectful in her silence. I am thankful for her perceptiveness. My neck is hot, and feels strange, lightened of the weight of three years of submission. My thoughts wander, meandering. Panic skirts the edge of blackness, and I wonder what will become of me? How can I compete with such youth, such freshness, and unabashed beauty? I cannot. I acknowledge it. And my heart sinks to a place where I wonder if I can ever retrieve it. I steal a glance at her, still silent, head down. And I think that if I am to lose You, it's best to do so to one such as she.
The next moment surprises me with us in Your drive. I don't even recall how it is we arrived there. I'm too busy ducking it out with that heavy fisted numbness which seems to be landing more than it's share of blows. I'm weakening. I know it. Yet surrender now is not the easy thing You make it to be, and I lash out with uncharacteristic defiance. Do You realize, even through all of this, I can feel You, sitting in Your chair, waiting with Your customary patience? Your fingers tapping rhythmically, as Your mind wanders, thoughts of pleasures to come bowing Your mouth with an anticipatory smile. How I ache to run my tongue along the curve of Your lip's brown fullness, while Your lithe hands knead the fleshy globes of my ass, cooling the fire ignited by the sweet licks of Your leather crop. I want to please You as I once did, black, heavy lidded lion eyes glittering as I press moist, parted lips to your instep. Your fist in my hair. Your collar heavy and comforting against my throat. I want my body to bear the mark of Your nails, a vibrant crimson against the whiteness of my soft skinŠbut I know it is not to be; I am yesterday's news, and she is the headline. And that awareness cuts into my heart like a sharp knife spearing a fleshy, overripe fruit. Oh god how I want to feel pain for You, to be distracted by it, consumed by it. Have it lure me away from the chaos that threatens my lucidity, to give myself to its rage.
I feel a tentative touch on my thigh, gentle, and questioning. "Are we here?" My hand, a mind of it's own, gathers her knowing gesture, and lays it against the side of my cheek. I breathe in her smell...sweet, fresh, innocent and good. I welcome it, the unexpected tranquility it brings, smoothing out those wrinkles of doubt and insecurity. We're quiet, and the buzzing hiss of a cicada reaches me through the dense line of maples that line the length of Your drive. I imagine him, comfortable on a broad waxy leaf, rejoicing over his recent awakening...throwing off the last bits of his seventeen year sleep, stretching his new lacy wings in the hot sun. He is surprised as we I think, that the morning's rain has given itself so selflessly to what has become a beautiful summer's day. I want to find him and ask him what it's like to slumber for so long...was he frightened? Empty? Alone? If he was, I smile with the thought that he certainly won't remain so. His song is brisk, and clear, its vibrancy sure to attract a mate.
Her hand remains in mine, and our sweat mingles like the essence of two lovers, lying spent in each other's arms. Actually, conscious of this now, I am uncomfortable for some reason, and I am relieved to release her. The late afternoon heat fills the car, which suddenly seems a cage, a great metal box bearing down on me, threatening to trap me for the eternity I am facing. The innocence of jasmine suddenly turns fetid. It pulls the bile deep from my gut, and beckons to the gorge biting the back of my throat, threatening to embarrass me, and clue her to my turmoil and panic.
"Come, lets get this over with," the hard words are out before I can squelch them, and there is no mistaking my ambivalence. Immediately regretful, I steal a glance at her, and choke down the remorse that is splayed so plainly across her face. My eyes sting, my throat constricts even tighter, and I call on the god I don't believe in, to give me the strength to face this with honor, and dignity. Of course she isn't to blame, nor am I. Yet I know in my heart, I would never reproach the one who was.
She's following a half stride behind me, a respectful distance, as we make our way up the winding cobbled path to Your doorstep. I can sense the awkwardness of her steps, so tightly constrained by the lehnga, yet I know it will be only a brief while before she wears it with the elegance and grace You expect from a woman. I was this girl once, not so long ago, and You laughed at my tentative steps, charmed by my willingness to please You. I was a rough-hewn block of wood that You fashioned into a woman. I've no doubt she'll satisfy You just as much, if not more so- and that is what eats away at my being, the very core of what I amŠor what it is I believe myself to be.
There's the door now, that damnable heavy bulwark of a thing. It belongs on some medieval gaolers cell somewhere, in a past that's best forgotten, yet it looms, foreboding, absolutely indifferent to the tempest that's swirling within me, inciting me to run back to the car, and drive away until I can drive no more. Drive to anyplace but here, behind it's ominous mass, where I know desolation waits to embrace me like a long lost lover. My finger, robot-like, stabs blankly at the shiny black intercom button, which announces our arrival. There is a loud hum then the click of the lock recessing, allowing us entry. I throw the weight of my shoulder into the great unwieldy thing, which, at that moment, I have come to loathe...and it resists me with its characteristic disdain. I'm in no mood however, to argue with it. I throw myself at it again, grunting a little as it gives way with more than it's usual protest. Then turn to see if Emer is still there. Of course she is, and I laugh a little that I allowed myself to hope, even briefly, that she might not be.
The moment has arrived. We are standing before You. The moment that has preoccupied my thoughts for two and a half days now has come. Its anticipation a giant wave in a capricious sea, tossing me up into sunshine and warmth, only to then cover me with cold briny water, choking me, eager to drag me under so deeply. I know I will never escape. My eyes are slightly closed, as they usually are, but not from the embarrassment that once amused You so, but because I cannot look at You, or I'll break into tears...I am terrified of the desire that might be reflected there. A Desire that will make no room for me.
You circle us. You are murmuring small words of approval, soft, and lilting. I squeeze my eyelids tightly now, savoring those words, their music, which holds such a strange, inexplicable power over me. Your hands roam lightly along the curve of my hip, and into the crease of my full buttock, which you grip tightly, assuring my attention. My knees weaken, I lean against you for support, and your hand finds my throat, encircling it gently but firmlyŠbiting at my neck, and the warm Sonf scented breath at my cheek.
"You will undress her for Me, unwrap her like the gift she isŠa gift to be enjoyed by the both of us..."
"Yes Sir." I open my lids, and You are still there, clasping the throat that is Yours, and looking deeply into my eyes. We connect at that moment- the connection of Master and slave, the connection of owning and belonging.
It is a link not born overnight, but through years of knowing, and guessing, and laughing, and silence, and musing, and suffering, and loving, and hating, and disconnecting, only to reconnect againŠI manage a smile for You, the smile You once said would melt the hardest of hearts then I release myself from Your grip. Emer is waiting, head bowed, eyes closed even more tightly than mine, nervous as hell I am sure- but doing so well to not let it show. You move to Your chair as I call her name.
"Emer, it is time to undress you...are you still of a mind to go through with this?"
Before I can even wonder what her answer might be, she's turned to me with a raspy, "Yes." It doesn't surprise me I suppose, given the fortitude she's shown since early this morning, and I gather myself to do as You ask. I am shy as usual - which is humorous actually given the compromising positions You have seen me throughŠbut I never seem to completely acclimatize myself, despite Your knowing every nook and cranny of my person.
"Emer," I call her name again, "come here child," and I reach to her, helping her to remove the silk beaded lengha that looks as if it were made with her ethereal beauty in mind. Again I am confronted with her comeliness, and it elates me and crushes me all at once. You are affected as well, and I wish that I had missed your words of appreciation.
"You have done well Michelle, preparing her for Me. I know this thing was not easy for you, and I am pleased that you took such effort."
Your praise stirs me, as it always does. It becomes the driftwood I cling to, while the sea tosses me roughly about, riled by the tempest that is Emer. She's flushed, as she was earlier, and I can't believe that such a small, vulnerable, snip of a girl could stir up such a storm. But she has, and I have no choice but to ride it out, because I refuse to let it pull me under, or worse yet, wash me completely away.
"And now, little one, you shall do the same to Michelle. Remove her clothing, fold it neatly, and place it next to your own..." She moves to do so, but You are not finished. "While you do, I want you to familiarize yourself with her body, appreciate its form. Caress it, if you are so inclined, because the sooner you get comfortable with it, the better." And now I am the one blushing, as she unfastens the brocade buttons of my blouse. She's strangely confident, perhaps recalling the earlier trauma of her morning bath. There's a hint of a knowing grin on her lips, and she holds my gaze for a second. It's mischievous, that look, like a younger sister in cahoots with the older, planning some sort of trouble that's bound to be discovered, but certainly worth the consequences. Having divested me of the blouse, she reaches around my waist, unfastening my skirt, whispers of skin against skin raising the gooseflesh of delights to come. But the zipper resists her, so, on tiptoes, she leans her slight weight against me, peering over my shoulder to garner an advantage. This brings our naked torsos in firm contact. Her delicious feel. Your own awareness, vibrant and electric, like lightning drowning out the blackness of a hot summer's night. I soak it in, this strange energy, and it feeds my arousal, as if in answer to the pounding of her heart, which I feel so loudly where our flesh touches. You are up in an instant because You hear it too, and Your hunger adds to the fervor, eager to embrace the reality of a fantasy so long in the dreaming. Moving close to the body that is us You whisper, low and throaty into Emer's ear, instructing her to pick up the skirt that is now puddled around my ankles, fold it neatly, and kneel quietly to observe how a slave pays proper respect to her Master.
As usual, Your damnable hardwood floor bites into my knees, but I hardly notice I'm so focused, so intent. My lips graze the smooth skin of Your instep. Skin like stone, cool, smooth, essenced with the sharp mingling of leather, wool sock, and clean foot. Recalling that smell, when I am away from You, reminds me of my place...the place I could never imagine being unfamiliar or unwelcoming. Yet I sense something different now. Something eager to distract me from my purpose, and I shut it out with a force of fierce determination, lest you sense my trepidation. I concentrate on the sensation of my tongue darting along Your arch, tracing its way to Your toes, drawing them deeply into my mouth, one by one, like miniature cocks, sucking firmly, enjoying the sensation as much as You. Swirling licks between them, and teeth nibbling their fleshy undersides. You jerk now and then, reflexively, Your breath coming faster, shallower, from parted lips, drying them a little, but You hardly notice. Your prick, full, and turgid, strains against Your trousers, trying to draw the attention I'm not quite ready to give. The silken ends of my long hair tickle your ankles, irritating You. You've had enough, and I know You mean business when You wrap a fistful of strands tightly in Your grip and pull up sharply.
"Release it," You hiss, and I reach immediately to unbuckle the leather belt encircling your slim hips. I'm met with a sharp slap, unexpected, and cutting.
"No. Your teeth."
Confused a little, I look to You questioningly, but Your eyes are veiled in a haze of lust, and I discern no opportunity for comment. So I do as you ask, taking the fine leather delicately between my teeth, so as not to scar it, drawing it though the buckle, then releasing the sour metal tongue with my own. It seems to take forever, but both You and Emer wait, apparently unmindful of the timeŠYour patience worrying at me a little, making me self conscious, and awkward. Somehow, freed of the belt's complexity, I manage to feed the button through its hole, and from there the zipper is a snap. Clamping my jaws down tightly on the cotton khaki, I tug firmly, and, after a little initial resistance, your trousers fall loosely to just below your knees. Thankfully, the boxers are much more amenable, however I'm stumped at how to get them completely off. You sense my quandary, and grant me permission to use my hands to complete the task. "Hand them to Emer, and she will take care of them." She's all saucer eyed, and blinking, but accepts them quietly, and I hear the clinking of the change in your pocket as I return to my place in front of you, head bowed, waiting for your next instruction.
"Emer, have you ever watched a woman suck a man's cock?"
I cannot see her, but I imagine the eyes flying open, chased by the flush quickly spreading across her cheeks, shaking her head a slow no.
"Hmm," You settle into your chair again, "you're about to."
Violet moons are now the size of Jupiter, the flush is deepening, and that annoying little rabble-rouser called uncertainty is creeping in to have a some good-natured fun. She humors it though, with a little reason, and a bit of inspired determination.
"Come closer girl, where you can see..."
Again Your hand finds its way to the tangle of silken obsidian, which You pull to one side, affording her an unobstructed view. This time, inhaling deeply, it's man scent I lose myself to. Musky, salty, a little acrid, gently infused with sandalwood, and cardamom. A smell I wish I could bottle, and bring home to keep on my dresser next to the costliest of French perfumes.
You sense my attentions drifting once more, and You'll have none of it. Roughly you pull my face down to Your thick shaft, so beautifully full and erect, demanding to be serviced. I lightly rub my check against it, allowing my warm breath to caress its length. It dances in front of me - the dance of titillation. One of the rare instances I enjoy taking the lead. I smile as I begin to tease You again, placing feathery kisses, especially on its sensitive underside, while stroking lightly with my nails. I know better than to grip it, mindful not to use my hands, but the tips are driving You wild, and You don't begrudge me their use. My efforts are soon rewarded with a viscous glistening pearl of pre-cum, and I catch Your eye lasciviously as I play spoiled kitten lapping her evening bowl of milk. I can hear You breathing, or perhaps it's Emer? The electricity that still hangs so thickly in the air now, the jasmine tells me so, carries her to me. Her touch heats my skin, that sensitive area where waist dips before turning into hips. In response, I shift a little, making room for her at Your lap, and she slides in next to me, the sides of our thighs and shoulders touching.
She reaches out timidly to stroke You, reassured by sparkling eyes of liquid jet... A look so compelling, so inviting, it is a soft divan beckoning a slave to safely lie her soul down to rest. I'm placated as well, content in allowing her to discover You on her own, letting her simmering need come to a full, lusty boil. It doesn't take long before she glances my way, questioning, as if I have any say in all of this. But I nod approval anyway, and she leans forward, eyes closed, like a young girl gingerly planting her first kiss. It is a sweet, delicate meeting, almost reverent in nature. I watch as she familiarizes herself with Your prick, exploring, her tongue playing staccato along the measure of Your shaft. Her saliva and your lubrication, mixed with what remains of me, glisten brightly, even in the muted lighting. It seems the intermingling of all three has created a magic of sorts, casting a soft glow all its own. It mesmerizes me, pulls me away from the intimacy of the moment, and suddenly, I am annoyed.
Left out.
Forgotten.
So easily was my position usurped by the irresistible appeal of the young ingénue. She's a threat. Tangible. Palpable. Her candent reality, burning me, boldly robbing me of my place, there, servicing Your cock flesh, pleasuring you, making you moan. I hate her, and everything she will be for You, things that I no longer am, and can never be again.
You sense my turmoil, though not perhaps, the depth of it, and Your hand releases my hair to tenderly graze my cheek. Acid tears begin to well, heralding chaos, brought swiftly in by wind off those crashing waves that yearn to draw me down. I don't want You to see me cry, and ruin this moment for You. I couldn't bear it, so I bite the inside of my cheek. Once. Twice. A third time. Hard, until teeth meet, and I taste tepid, coppery blood. I keep chewing, concentrating on the oozing pain, willing it to dam up tears threatening to overflow. Thankfully, passion clouds perception a little, You don't even notice, and I'm safe, the stinging quelled.
Calmer now, with Your fingers curled along the line of my jaw, Your touch speaks to me as it always does, and of course I know what it's saying. I add the fire of my own mouth to Emer's, and we share You, hesitantly at first, not sure whose territory is whose. We even bump heads, giggling, which elicits a stern look, betrayed by the smile on Your lips. Our tongues snake along Your hardness, over arteries, and veins, and small mountains of puckered flesh, giving way to satin smooth valleysŠliquid heat, sucking you, nipping, rippling, squeezing. Two sets of soft breasts pressing into your thighs, two voices carrying soft moans to your ear. The sensations, are delicious, the smells, the tastes are intoxicating. Occasionally my tongue finds hers, and we leave You for a moment to do some exploring of our own. You watch, intently, as we kiss deeply, passionately, but not for long, returning to slurp greedily, heads buried in Your lap.
I decide Your balls must be feeling neglected, so I wander down to them, taking my time, while Emer focuses on that exquisitely tender web of flesh on the underside of your glens. Rapid butterfly licks, back and forth, while she strokes You with her small hand. Meanwhile, I begin bathing the wrinkly, dusky skin of your sack, whirling languid circles with the flat of my tongue. Gently, I draw one delicate egg into my mouth, rolling it around a bit, as if I were tasting a fine wine, sucking just so, which always drives You wild, and your hips grind into the thick cushion of the chair, a sure sign of my prowessŠthen the next, while lightly raking the insides of Your thighs with my nails. You are moaning now, Your lust feeding into ours, and I sense the energy of three again. It embraces us, so distinct, and unique from the energy of two. It's enticing this energy, addictive, and a little nagging voice in my head portends, "Yes... dangerously so. "
It's nothing however, just that trickster uncertainty back to stir up trouble, and I swat him away before moving to the muscular ridge of your perineum. My thumbs massage firmly, and You raise your pelvis a little, making it less awkward for me. Still kneading, I lean in closely and ease the point of my tongue down to the pucker of your anus. I rim it deliberately, with purpose, pulling a low, urgent groan deep from your belly. Around and around that most secret of spots, keeping perfect pace with Your ardor, dipping briefly into its center, lingering until it contracts lustily against my tongue, a sure sign that Your passion is at its peak, and ready to be slaked.
You're in my mind again, aren't you? Because You're up on your feet, holding the back of my head, impaling my throat on your throbbing, molten cock. You fuck my mouth with shallow, fervent thrusts, and I concentrate on relaxing in order to keep from gagging on Your massive pole. I wonder what Emer is thinking as You stretch my mouth so widely. Is she intimidated? Inflamed? Or perhaps, a little bit of both?
You're at the very razor's edge of release, and my jaw aches from the pounding, but I keep working You, eager to receive the thick elixir of your cum, to feel the hot, thick jets fill the back of my well fucked throat. I want to swallow all of You, every drop, take You within myself where You'll become a part of me, my flesh, my blood, my heart and I will own a part of You, as You do all of me. Yet suddenly, You're gone, I'm empty, and Your precious cum is on Emer's face, and lips, in her hair, decorating the ruddy tips of her breasts. The pearliness lays thickly against her porcelain skin, and its presence there is a sharp blow to my solar plexus. I can't catch my breath, nor do I dare say a word, but my slave spirit sobs great wrenching sobs over her receiving what is mine. Had been mine....
I steel myself against the chaos, those waves, and that little son-of-a-bitch uncertainty. I'm sure that they've caught the scent of my agony, like hungry wolves circling an exhausted, weakened deer. For distraction, I paint the moment's tableau with the gray of my insecurity, and the blackness of my doubt, juxtaposing I note, so poignantly against the pale innocence of Emer's translucent skin.
I call out to my tormentors- "Get this over with will you?" But my challenge is met with silence. There is no answer. Only You, Emer and I...
"Michelle, " Your voice drifts to me, clearing through the fog of my pain, surprise, and confusion. I turn myself to it. "Clean her, bathe Emer with your tongueŠ"
I do as you bid, licking the places where Your cum has landed, her throat, and cheek. There is a sweet drop on her eyelid that I very gently kiss away. My hands roam over her pliancy, relishing her lissomness, her response to my touch as I work. Her little mewling sounds stir me, and dampness flows at my thighs. I bow my head a little to reach her breasts, cupping the full mounds in my hands and drawing them together, as I ply them thoroughly with my full lips and tongue. Her whimpers give way to groans, then growls, as she grasps the back of my head tightly, pulling me fiercely to her chest. I bring her right nipple to my mouth and begin suckling tenderly, only to suddenly catch the hard knob of flesh between my teeth and nip sharply....
"Good, good girl, " I stop immediately at the sound of Your words, anticipating what will come next. "Fetch the leash from the closet Pet, so she may have her first taste of being owned."
Hastily, I return with the long strap of supple leather. It's my responsibility to keep it well oiled. But years of use thwart my efforts, leaving it worn and crackled in places, like the coffee spotted skin of an old man who'd spent his life laboring under a hot, uncaring, sun.
Perhaps it is time for a new one anyway....
I hand it over, then drop to my place, at Your feet, head down, ass up, invitingly open to You, ready to satiate Your darkest whim. There's a snap of the clasp affixing to the ring on my collar, which Emer still wears, and a tinkle of metal as you tease her, slapping the end against Your hand, drawing it over her body, between her breasts, and down through the vale of her quivering thighs. You coo to her, in low tones of liquid velvet,
"Dear Emer, submissive, slave, property mine, sweet slut," and I know You're leading her on all fours, drunk almost, on the power You wield. Obediently she follows, head down, trusting You to guide her safely, just as I did the very first time on Your leash, head bowed, scared stiff, yet ravenous.
I wonder where my friend's chaos and uncertainty are, and why things seem to be in finer focus now. I'm calm, intensely so, as You return her next to me, yanking sharply on the leash, while the flat of Your foot on her back forces her chest to the floor. She resists You a bit, I can feel it in her, but You'll have none of it, and it's only an instant before she's next to me, one end up, one down.
I keep my place, face to the floor. Emer trembles nearby, her knees are unaccustomed to the cool harshness of the polished hardwood. My heart goes out to her, I know it hurts like hell, but I am certain that she will get used to it soon. Yes, she'll adapt quickly. She's obviously eager to please, and quick to learn. She'll serve You well, and I am proud of her, this young woman that I have come to know so well, in such a very short time. I recall the hate swelling up in me earlier, and I acknowledge it, yet I also realize now that I am only human, and my emotions may sometimes reflect that human self, if at the expense of my slave self.
With us again, You kneel down beside me, close to my ear, whispering for me to hold my hands open, outstretched, above my head. Into them You place Your favorite crop. I know it by the intricate braid of the handle. I'm confused, unsure of what it is You expect of me, but I swallow my concern and tap into that calm that still remains with me.
"Come Michelle," You gently lift me to my feet, instructing me to keep my eyes closed. I do so, and am unexpectedly gifted with the full of Your mouth on mine, fierce, and demanding, melting me, claiming me... spreading that strange delirium which has ruled my body and soul so completely, for the last three years.
What ever will I do, how ever will I manage, without it?
Releasing me from Your arms, You place something else into my hands, and ask me to open my eyes. It's the leash, still attached to my collar, tight against Emer's lovely throat.
"For you," You whisper, smiling deeply into my eyes.
I'm dumbstruck. Speechless. You must be toying with me, testing me in some strange way, on some strange level. You look to Emer, and back into my eyes, Your own widened with earnestness. They are two night filled windows, calling to me, daring me to throw them open, allowing the cool breeze of Your control to play over my being, lulling me with the comforting, the familiar.
I hand You the crop and the leash, then turn sad, heavy steps to the windows, closing and latching them tightly. My lips brush Yours before I bend to Emer, pulling a few heavy strands of hair from her face, and implore, softly, "Make Him happy."
That weighty monstrosity of a door closes behind me as I step out into the damp night air. Funny, I didn't have battle it to get it to open like I usually do, must be the handyman finally got around to oiling the damn thing. As I walk down the cobbled path to my car, the strong salty smell of the sea, born of softly swelling waves, and carried to me on a graceful, friendly breeze, lightens my step. I think tomorrow I'll drive to the beach. And I won't mind the 500-mile trip. Not one bit.
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