Love Slave Part 1 (18+ only)
I said in a previous post that I was going to blog an erotic book. Well, this is the beginning of my adventure in writing a long piece of erotica and posting as I go along. This truly is the first draft – I am doing exactly as I said I would and writing it week on week, although I’ve altered my plans a little, in that I’m going to post the book every Wednesday. When it’s finished, I will revise (and revise and revise!) and edit it, and it will be available as an ebook and, if there is a demand, also in print.
I would love this book to be as good as I can possibly make it. With this in mind, I invite comments and suggestions to help improve it in the redraft process. Feel free to post a comment if you’d like to help, or ‘like’ it if you think it’s working, or contact me directly by email with your thoughts.
I hope you have a good time reading – and if you enjoy the story, too, then that’s even better!
It all starts so simply; all just a bit of a game. Isn’t it amazing how deceptive some things are? I’m frantically trying to get some work done, writing at the kitchen table with a very late breakfast plate of half-eaten toast balanced precariously on the corner of my laptop. I’m doing what I always do, trying to do too much, taking on too many projects, and now panicking make a deadline that’s just never going to happen. The topic is complex, depressing; I’m doing it only for the money, and it shows. I switch on the kettle to make another coffee, and click at the email icon in the toolbar on the screen, because mindless spam—even real Spam, which I haven’t been able to put in my mouth for decades since I was sick eating a Spam sandwich as a kid—has to be better than chasing this contract.
And there it is; the beginning:
“Email me.” And an email address I’ve not seen before—except that I know exactly who it is. My chest feels like it’s set on ‘vibrate’ and someone’s cranked it up ten notches. I recognise the style—calling himself ‘chessmaster’ in his email address. We always played chess when everyone else at university had been milling around. He’d played well, I played better. And when we’d been on our own, he’d played a very different game. And he’d never quite won that, either.
I sit there, staring at it, burning my hands on my new cup of coffee. How did he get my email address? It’s all a bit creepy. But, of course, the website has my contact details on it—anyone can find me if they really want to. I should be working. Getting this godawful project out of the way. But here I am, finger hovering over the ‘reply’ button. Unsure what to say, after all this time. What the hell does he expect me to say? My nerve endings throw up conflicting messages: the heavy throb of pure shock that hits me in the stomach, coupled with the cold pins and needles that run down my spine to my backside and wrap underneath me. I ache between my legs. Two words. That’s all it will take to get rid of him. But that ache—.
Reply: “I’m here.”
Almost immediately, there’s a return message: “I knew you would be. And that you would answer.”
After almost ten years he can still raise my blood pressure. I ought to just ignore him. How can he still be as arrogant as that with me, assuming that I would still care, even a tiny bit? Maybe I’m just curious. It’s true, I am. But I’m irritated in equal part now.
“What do you want?”
I flick back to my document, add a few words, then a few more. All of them awful. There it is: the bing of the email on my phone:
“You. Be my love slave.”
The laptop screen is close to wearing my coffee. I drink it, eventually, but it does no good; my mouth is completely dry. What the hell am I supposed to do? If I’d just ignored it… My chest is banging, and there’s a feeling that’s travelling repeatedly from my navel and down between my thighs, gathering there. It’s beginning to hurt, to throb. I slide my hand into the waistband of my jeans, put my hand on it, tease it gently with my finger through my panties, just to ease the feeling a bit. It feels nice, a bit like having an ally against this message, and I type with one hand as I open my legs a bit wider and slip my finger under the lace edge to touch my skin. It’s wet, and my clit is hardening against my fingertip. It takes me all my willpower to get my hand back on the keyboard. I’m about to reply, not really knowing what to type, when another one comes through.
“I mean it. I haven’t mastered you yet. And I want to.”
I send one back, an instinctive response: “Cheeky! Don’t be bloody ridiculous.”
Return: “I’m deadly serious.”
And, for some crazy reason, he has me aroused. Every nerve I have is burning, waiting, wondering what he wants from me. I must be mad; I know what he used to be like, and any sensible part of me should be talking me round, cajoling me, poking me in the brain and telling me not to contemplate being stupid. But there’s something else I know, too. I’ve had lovers, of course I have. There’s been some great sex, and some shit sex, and the odd bit of kinky stuff. And so many times, when I’ve been fucking any one of them, his image has invaded my head and I’ve come to the thought that it’s him inside me instead. We were so nearly—whatever we were—before.
I shut my eyes and breathe hard. Then I reply: “So am I.”
It takes less than one minute for another message to appear in my inbox, but it seems like time has entered slow motion. “That doesn’t answer me satisfactorily. Yes, or no? One gets a quick answer, the other, ah, well…”
What the hell is that meant to mean? He contacts me, then wants to ignore me if I say the wrong thing within five minutes, is that it? Who the hell does he think he is? And which answer is which? If I say ‘yes’, does that mean he’ll reply quickly; or does ‘no’ mean he’ll say goodbye and that will be that? Would that be it? I feel sick. My heart is banging until the blood throbs in my ears. He’s not getting his own way like that: I’m not scared of him, or his game play.
“My answer is yes.”
Then I just sit there. Nothing. My entrails have been grabbed and twisted. I can’t work. My concentration is shot to hell. There’s a good chance I’ll have nothing to eat next week, if I carry on for long like this.
It must be nearly an hour. My eyelids are stinging from staring at the inbox, and I’m busting for a wee but I don’t want to leave the screen. But then there’s a ‘bing’, and the bile catches in my throat: “I’m very pleased, my little honeybuns. I’ll be commanding you again very soon. Very soon. Until then, I want you to do something for me. Take off your panties and leave them off until I contact you and tell you otherwise, I don’t want you to wear any. Do as you’re told.”
I want to laugh. It sounds so ridiculous. I’ve got to go to a meeting with a client early tomorrow, and I’ll be wearing a suit, holding a briefcase, all that sort of thing. I can’t do that. But there’s a knot inside me, somewhere between my ribs. It presses on everything, unfurls like a heavy rope, and thumps down, spreading a strange ache up and down my body.
“And I want to know something, and I expect you to tell me. Do you check your emails on your phone?”
My fingers hover over the keys, and I watch the tips of my fingernails as they develop a little quiver. “Yes, I check them on my phone.” I nearly send it as it is, but then I add a playful, “What if I don’t do as I’m told?” At least, I tell myself it’s playful. Almost immediately he sends his response. Confident. Demanding. I feel my chest rising and falling, hear my breath over my lips.
“I’ll know. I’ll be checking—and if you follow my orders, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You won’t be punished.”
“And just how exactly are you going to know?” I type this, and I bite my lip. And, for some stupid reason, I find myself lifting my skirt and sliding my little white cotton panties down my thighs, all the way to the floor, and kicking them under the table. I sit back down, gasping as the chair clamps cold against my pussy. It shocks me to realise that I’ve just become wet, and I feel it in my entrance as his email comes in:
“Oh, I’ll know, believe me. Because I’ll make sure of it.”
This is stupid. What am I doing? He can’t just turn up in my inbox and start controlling me, moving me around like a pawn on a chessboard until he gets what he wants. So I do the sensible thing: “Forget what I said. I can’t be your love slave, whatever the fuck that is. I can’t do that.” Click send. Go back to my work.
Nothing I’m writing makes any sense. I try for over half an hour, an hour, longer. There’s no ‘bing’ on my phone. Sometimes it doesn’t make a noise—it’s a bit erratic, so I check on the laptop. Nothing. I keep working; get myself a glass of wine from the fridge and find a packet of chocolate biscuits in the back of the cupboard to keep me going. And, as the light eventually starts to fade and the only thing I feel like eating is a tin of spaghetti, I move myself from the kitchen to sit at my bedroom desk in the lamplight. My pussy rubs against the padding on the chair as I sit looking over at my bed, and find myself wondering what it would be like having him in there, sliding his body over me, kissing his way down my neck and taking my tits in his mouth as his cock eases its way inside me and he fucks me for the first time.
The evening becomes night. I cobble up something that will make the deadline but it’s so substandard by the usual high bar I set myself that it’s possible I might not get paid; check my emails after another hour; and I write total crap for another half hour and check again. Nothing but a special offer on a vibrator, and it makes me angry, and wet, there without my panties on. I can’t work. I lean back in my chair; the tip of my finger touches my clit, presses on and circles it, and all of the nonsense of the evening reverberates from me in a long, high-pitched moan. My phone bings. I snatch my hand back quickly, and collect the message on my laptop.
“Have you had enough punishment for one day?”
I shut my eyes; I’ve got pins and needles all over me, and I feel really quite nauseous. I reply, and I know I do it too quickly: “Arsehole.”
Immediately there’s one back: “HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
I can feel the anger welling up inside me. But I don’t know what to do with it. I want to tell him to stick his head up his own arse, but I don’t. I want to tell him to fuck off. I type it—“Fuck off”, and then I delete it. Another message come in: “When I command you, you’ll do as I ask—without question—so I know you’re being a good little love slave, won’t you?”
I sit there, staring at the screen. Everything tells me I should leave the past where it belongs. Just ignore the email. Start work again in the morning with my knickers on. “Yes. I will.” And I sit there with my head in my hands and my pussy throbbing hard against the chair.
“Good girl. Now go to bed. Naked. And push a finger or two in. Just for me.”
And I remove my clothes and get into bed. Just like that. What’s wrong with me? The sheets feel cool, exciting, against my skin, and I slide against them, brushing the front of my pussy against the cotton, and hooking the fabric in between my legs, rubbing my wetness onto the sheet. My nipples brush the underside of the duvet and I massage my tits, cupping them, pushing them together up towards my mouth. I lick the flesh at the top, force my tongue towards my nipples, tease them in my finger and thumb, mortified that my tongue doesn’t quite reach. My fingers slide over my stomach, down, play with the little patch of hair and slip underneath. My folds are wet, welcoming, and it’s easy to push two fingers inside myself. And I wish that he was here to take them in his mouth. They slide in and out, make me arch up on the bed, my breathing heavy from deep in my throat. ‘Bing’. I moan as I read the screen.
“Two more things before you go to sleep. The first one: I want you to call me Master. Are you prepared to do that? Text your answer to the number in this email. Only this number. If you disobey, your training is ended.”
Training is ended? What exactly does he think I am? I think back to all those matches; how it was always even. If one of us edged in front, the other would counteract it. On the board, on the floor, almost in bed… I get my phone and text one-handed: “I’ll call you Sir.”
I wait. One minute; two. My mouth goes dry. Five minutes. Is that it? Have I done wrong? Maybe I should write another one, quick—change my mind. Oh fuck, I don’t know what I should do. How can he just come in and demand that? How can I be having this conversation, wanting this conversation? But my chest is banging, which is more than the rest of me has been doing for a long while, wrapped up as I have been with my new job. I start to type: “Y—”. Stop again.
Text message: “We’ll have to work on that, because I intend to master you, and there will be nothing you can do to stop me.”