My offering for your delectation today is part 2 of the book that I am blogging – Love Slave (you can read all about the mad reasons I have decided to do this here). This section will end the first chapter of the book, and hopefully it manages overall to set the scene, give a bit of background, and be sexy enough to keep my readers happy. Things get even sexier next time, when my protagonist has to go out and about and is made to follow some very, er, interesting instructions while at a meeting.
Just as I said last time, if it works for you, then that’s great. I welcome any comments on this first draft, or if you would prefer to contact me directly with any feedback you have, please do so. And if you missed the first part, you can find it here.
Happy reading! Ina x
Master me? I stare at his words, biting my lip. Does he really believe his own nonsense—that there’s nothing I can do to control this? What a fucking ego. More words in the text box below:
“I hope that’s been absorbed by your sexy, intelligent brain. I’m going to assume so. And now to the other thing I want.”
I want to slap myself hard for being suckered into giving away my phone number so easily. Still, he could have found it on my website if he looked hard enough, if he’d imagined he was a client who needed my services. Something tells me he’s probably done that already. That he already knew it. That he was testing me. That idea of a client lingers, hovers like a ghostly shadow in my head. Why has he contacted me now? Is there something I’m missing—something about him, his life, that he’s not going to volunteer to tell me? What is it I’m being led into doing for him? I don’t give away my services; I can’t afford to.
“You’re a writer, aren’t you? It’s what you do for a living? Then what I want is simple. Your orders are in the email I’m sending now, and I expect you to reply to it. I want you to follow my orders to the letter, or you’ll be punished. And you won’t like it. You didn’t like it earlier, did you—that torture of watching your emails, waiting, wondering where I’d gone, if you’d disobeyed me, and lost me…?”
My response is far too quick, too indignant. I know it, I do, but still I send it. “I never said I didn’t like it. I wasn’t waiting. I’ve got better things to do, you know. I’ve got work.”
“You didn’t have to. I know everything. Of course you were waiting. Now get in bed, and do as your Master tells you. Good night. xxxx”
Why’s he sending me kisses? This is a game, surely, this Master-slave idea about us that he’s got in his head. Do all would-be Masters send kisses to their would-be subs, or slaves, or—I don’t even know what the hell I’m talking about, do I? What are they called? How should I know what they do? And kisses. He remembers, doesn’t he, what they used to do to me? I feel it now—that throb between my legs, the tingling on my skin, the way my insides tumbled over. I remember, even if he doesn’t, the touch of his lips on mine. The way they butterflied down my neck and over my shoulder. How on that one single morning he opened my dressing gown, damp and sticking to my freshly showered nakedness, and laid it open on the bed as his lips journeyed down my body until my moans met his kisses. How he was naked before me without my being fully aware straight away, so caught up in the feeling of his fingers against my pussy lips was I, of the first rough sweep of his tongue over them, and the kisses that followed, right up to that moment when I did what I did—.
Oh, I’m burning; my skin’s hot. I try to ignore the wetness that clings to my entrance, and how dry my mouth is. I glare at the laptop, willing the email to appear in the inbox. Clicking on it like a hawk pouncing on a fieldmouse, I sit there, staring at the screen until the words start blurring together and the letters begin to jumble: “Make yourself come. Write down exactly how it feels. Write how you like it; tell me what you want me to do to you. And then I’ll decide. I’m Master. It’s my choice. And you’ll do as I tell you, won’t you? Be my good little slave-girl.”
I reread that last sentence over several times. That way of claiming me, overpowering me. Since when was I ever his? If he’d ever thought of me as his, even contemplated it, he would never have just vanished from my life, would he?
Is he serious—about these ‘orders’? I have to play; I refuse to let him believe he can win as easily as that, just over one email. But how the hell am I supposed to do it? I’ve never written down anything like it before. Sure, in the past I’ve imagined talking dirty to him on the phone, laying there in the depths of lonely nights alongside lovers who never quite get beyond being…oh, I don’t know. I’ve thought about letting him listen to my vibrator down the line before I rub it in soft circles over my clit. In my head, he tells me to work myself up over the phone for him, and I imagine him as hard as hell and stroking his cock as he lays there on his bed, miles and miles away, or even more exciting for me is that he might be doing it under his desk at work. And, as I come to the fantasies of our imaginary long-distance sex, with another man’s cock pulsating and thrusting inside me, I let the invisible him ask me to do something for him—send him a picture of me wearing my latest French knickers, or one of my cleavage, or something, and as the substandard ramming stops in favour of groaning and wrapping a condom in tissue, he sends my imaginary self a video of his tumescence firing its fluids across the bathroom floor.
But this is real; I’ve never imagined having to do anything like this. I’ve never written a sex scene in my life; commissioned blog pieces, reviews and reports don’t tend to contain that sort of thing, neither do consultations, or at least not in the businesses I deal with. It might be more fun if they did. I’ve never written anything that’s described—well, anything much—in any detail; nothing intimate about how I want to be touched, to be taken. It used to be risky positional play to get him into check mate, his strategy pushing me just a little bit further, forcing me to make a string of moves I wouldn’t normally make, for fear of losing control of the game. What kind of play is it now? My nerve endings are alive, yet my heart bangs in my chest and my stomach rolls as if I’m going to be seasick. He’s done it again, hasn’t he? Invaded my head, playing his game. One evening—one—and he’s driving me crazy. But I must be crazy, doing this, mustn’t I?
Reciting his last words over and over in my head, I close the laptop and put the phone down on the sheet beside me, thoughts of him invading my head, possessing me, conquering every minute, every second. In the crook of my arm I squash the pillow that lays empty next to me; I kiss it, long and hard, like an unrequited teenager. Instinctively, I suck at the fingers that have so recently been inside me the moment he told me to put them there, the fingers that had moved gently against the roughness of my soft tissue as they eased their way in to the first knuckle, then a little further. He’s already got the advantage, already commanding me. And I’m letting him.
But he’s not here to command me now. He can’t tell me not to slide my wet finger through my pussy fluff and slip it onto my clit again. To do it for me, because I want to. It still pulsates there, a hard slick ball and, as I caress it with my finger tip, heat radiates through my body, leaving me paralysed momentarily. I remain there a while, revelling in the hardness, a wish entering unbidden into my consciousness that it was his hardness I could feel. My breath begins to come shallow and fast, and I take my cue from it, inching my finger slightly further back, and I can’t help but moan, quiet and long, as I glide over the heavenly mix of cum and saliva that’s held itself within my pussy lips since he typed his orders and sent them through the ether to me.
My folds feel hot now, tender. I run the length of my finger all around them, slipping between them to scoop up the wetness, then taking it back up to the hardness of my clit. It always turns me on, being able to glide my finger over my rock hard little nub. A pain draws up through my body, up from my sex and along my spine to the back of my neck, and I roll my face onto the pillow that substitutes for him, and for the past. And the future? Maybe. I press on hard. It’s good with fingers that know what to do, that can stroke how I like it. It’s hard to find a man who can do it just right. Fingers or tongue. Either drive me wild.
In the drawer of my desk is a little pink bullet; I place it on the sheet, ready. I keep it beside me—just in case—depends on how I wake up from my dreams. The last time I dreamt of him, I woke up in a sweat. I’d driven him wild then; made him wet, too. I know—he told me. Described to me how the tip of his cock pushed through the circle of his foreskin, how it shone purple and slick. Told me he wanted my tongue to lick its way up his slit, push my very tip into it, and roll my tongue around his cockhead. Told me he expected me to take him in my mouth and suck, not just his head, but all the way down his shaft, to learn to take him deep into my throat. He told me he’d teach me—that it takes practise, but that he expected me to try. My entire pussy throbs at the thought of his cock right now, as I open myself up wide to my finger. I take it all the way this time, moans escaping me because I just can’t help it. I’ve dreamt a lot of him recently.
My back begins to arch, and I wipe my tongue around the end of the bullet then take it full into my mouth, rolling saliva across its ridges. If it was him, would it be as easy? Switching it on, I roll its vibrations against my throat, then down over each breast in turn until my nipples stand up hard and desperate for him to nip them between his lips and tug on them. The buzzing drives all my nerve endings to converge their sensations on my clit, and I skim the surface of my torso until I meet it there. I roll the bullet over it; find the spot just behind it and pushed its swollen hardness forwards. I force the bullet down, press harder, while I let my finger fuck me softly. It would take me no time at all to come like this.
I let my mind wander back to that bedroom a long time ago, and how it might have been after he’d grabbed me and laid me down on the bed, after he’d held himself over me and placed his exquisite cock where my finger circles my own cum round and round my entrance now. More than any other fantasy I love imagining how it would have felt if he had spread my legs and done more than rested his gleaming head, dripping with pre-cum, on my throbbing entrance; if he had exerted enough pressure until his cockhead thrilled me with that delicious popping feeling as it pushed its way just inside. That has to be the most exquisite feeling in the world; I love that feeling. Really love it. One contraction of my cunt muscles and I would have pulled him inside. Oh, fuck…
My own cum-soaked finger slithers up to join the bullet, and I drop the toy and let my body take over. Holding myself open with two fingers, I work round and round on my clit in slow, deep motions until it’s almost in pain. I picture him there, pushing his way inside me, and my cunt taking him in until we are as close as ever we could be. Until he belongs to me entirely. Oh—the burning heat, the gush; my own fluid hits me on the wrist and runs down my skin and onto the bed. It’s so rare it scares me with its force. The pins and needles that have been spreading through my back gather force between my legs, meeting me where my finger rolls round and round on the nerve. I writhe, moaning louder and louder, thrusting myself into the finger inside me.
What I wouldn’t give to feel his tongue there right now. My orgasm gathers strength and my breath scorches my breasts. I want his tongue to mimic my actions, to flick my clit gently and lap at my folds, all the way to my entrance. I want to feel him fuck me with his tongue. I can’t control it: overwhelmed, I buck completely, snake-like on the sheet. I yell as my flesh burns with pleasure-pain, and I come, hard. I lay, my breath coming in short gasps and blowing across my breasts, making me shiver. The bed beneath me is drenched but I’m unable to move, my legs throbbing into the mattress in the aftermath of my release.
Well, I’ve got some material to fulfil his orders, after all. I’ll send him an email in the morning, before getting ready to go to my meeting. No—no, I’ll do it now. Oh, fuck, it’s going to keep me awake all night, whichever option I choose. I’ll be fit for nothing in the meeting with Mike tomorrow. Knickerless. I don’t think so! I can pretend. What’s the matter with me—I can just ignore him, anyway, can’t I? I don’t have to do what he says. He doesn’t own me.
I lay out the grey suit and the cerise blouse on the chair, add the pale pink bra, and fish out my grey court shoes with the three-inch heels. All the paperwork is in my bag; I know the project without needing to re-read anything. I always know my friends’ needs by heart, especially Mike’s. No knickers on the chair…
I reach over for the laptop.
If you enjoyed this part of the story, you can find the rest of the Love Slave blog posts here.