One way or another this week I have been given a huge amount of inspiration for my writing. And so, with some special, grateful thanks to my wonderful muse, here is Part 5 of Love Slave.
Happy reading! x
Somehow I manage to scoop myself up and walk out of the bookshop, ignored and unchallenged as to the state of my messed up, streaming face. The trip back to the flat is all a bit of a blur. I sit on the Tube, tugging down at my skirt as if my hands are on some kind of irritating repeat setting, trying to think of what to say to Mike. What can I tell him? That making his cock hard was a command? That I was doing it because I had to? Playing with his feelings because of some ridiculous bloody notion I have that these texts and emails and dalliance with the past can make me happy? Do I tell him that I liked his touch; that I was aroused by it? Oh, fuck, I don’t know what I’m doing.
I can’t ring Mike. I send him an email instead. It’s a pathetic message, really—telling him how I think the world of him, and I’m sorry for what happened in the shop. Telling him that I will call him, I promise. And that I hope that he genuinely liked the ideas for the website, and to get back to me with his alterations and content ideas. I’ll make them a priority. Guilt? Yes, probably. More than guilt? I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’m not taking that photo. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? Just to stuff my phone up my skirt and snap my pussy lips, or push up my clothes around my hips so I can open my legs and get an entire shot of everything for him. My pussy lips, my clit, with my juices leaking in the folds, and my cream sitting waiting for him to delight in it, oozing in my entrance. Easy. But I can’t bear it. It’s just too much.
I lay on the bed and cry myself to sleep. The daylight has gone grey, and the street lamps are flickering into life when I wake up. The moment that consciousness takes hold fully, the pain of ripe memory rips through me and I can only imagine what it must be like to be shot in the stomach with a twelve bore rifle. I function on a perfunctory level, making a coffee and managing to stomach half a cheese sandwich before binning the remainder. Coffee. The aroma—Mike. I check my phone for calls, but I could hardly expect one of those, could I? He hasn’t replied to the email, either. I’ll call him. In a while, I call. Or tomorrow.
There’s no other messages, either. I feel dead inside.
Days creep past. For a couple I find it really hard to focus on my writing. I don’t really eat much, neither do I wear anything other than my nightie. I just gather tea and biscuits, and too many bags of salt and vinegar crisps, and pile old black and white films next to the TV, and work in bed. I still haven’t called Mike, and I received just a one-liner in reply to my email: “I think the world of you, too, and I wish I knew where I stand with you.”
There’s no messages. Whenever I check my phone, a feeling sweeps through me, like a huge stone rolling just off a hilltop. I swallow hard and breathe fast and shallow each time. I think it’s relief. Tiredness. But I notice how often I begin checking by late afternoon on the second day—when I’ve been to the toilet, or downstairs to let in Kirsty who never remembers her key, or into the kitchen to make a drink. Over the course of the next few days, I stop leaving my phone on my desk and hold it everywhere I go. Sometimes I wish I wore clothes with pockets. And the feeling inside me changes when I find messages from Mum, and friends who want to arrange a night out that I don’t fancy in the slightest, and emails that are all work: the stone’s falling off a clifftop now. I know it’s falling, and I don’t know how to stop it. I’ve fucked up. And I don’t know what to do without looking like I’m grovelling. And I will not do that. Not with him. He left; he vanished. I didn’t. I never left.
I survive a weekend without having to visit Mum; she’d take one look at me and know something is wrong. What can I tell her? That I have a master—or he thinks he is—except that I couldn’t even get that right, and didn’t do as I was told, and now he’s gone? That there’s silence, and it’s excruciating, because I don’t know what it means? Can I cry in front of her, after Dad? Will she tell me I’m a good girl, or will she behave exactly as I’m sure she will?
Monday morning drags itself into view, as I wake with my naked body pressed into the pillow that lays lengthways at the side of the one that my mouth kisses as I stir consciousness. My fingers are between my thighs, and I must have been playing for a while with my clit because my little ball is rock hard.
“Fucking, fucking shit. You fucking idiot.”
I thrust myself into the pillow, wanting it to be his body that wraps around my tits, and his cock that rests between my legs, sliding against my drenched folds. I want to feel his cock slide from my clit to my entrance, teasing, not entering, making me so wet that the moment his head puts a tiny bit of pressure on me it will slip inside with that beautiful ‘pop’. I don’t want him to stop. I don’t stop. My clit hurts, it throbs; there’s an ache filling me as I lay pressed against the pillow. He fucks me faster; my finger works hard. It’s him; it’s him. I’m soaked. My knees dig hard into the mattress as I come and I moan into his soft body. I can hardly breathe. The thought that he would envelop me like this, hold me while my release overtakes me. But it would never be like that, would it?
I have to visit a client in her home. I shower, scoop my hair up tight and business-like, dress in a jacket with a long black dress underneath, and the most serviceable underwear I can find. Her house is just what I need; a total distraction of cats, and thousands of souvenirs from around the world, and dust. She shuffles in with a tray full of homemade cakes and a pot of tea, her white hair flapping about where she’s missed inserting her pin in her bun. She has a brochure for a local craft association that she wants me to construct, and, if it weren’t for the need to buy food, I’d do it for free. So, I eat cake, and I have more, and as she’s telling me about the knitting group there’s a noise in my bag.
Bing: “Little love slave, I wish you were climbing on top of me and guiding me inside you. For some reason, I really like the idea of you climbing on top of me and feeding me into you… Those soft, beautiful breasts bouncing in front of my lips…”
My chest hurts; I struggle to control my breath. I can’t believe it. Not a command, a demand—just… I can feel the sweat breaking out in cold shivery patches all over my skin. Without really being conscious of what it might look like, I tongue the cream in the massive piece of cake, as Mrs Barnett pours me more tea. And try to ignore the image I have of me feeding his cock inside me. The client is talking, and I’m trying to concentrate. Why? Why didn’t he let it drop when I didn’t send him the picture? Why today? Why now? Why at all? An image of my naked body sitting astride him dominates my head as I finish the sponge, and I may be a little enthusiastic when Mrs Barnett asks me, “Do you want some more, dear?” No. what I want to do is answer the text. But I don’t want to.
Mrs Barnett’s project is simple enough. I leave, reassuring her that I can get the whole thing done in forty-eight hours, and even email it to the printer, to save her the trouble having to take it. She’s very grateful, and she leaves me smiling as I take a meander home via the fish stall to buy a piece of halibut for my dinner. I pay the stallholder, who smiles and says, “There you are, kitten,” just as he does every time. Today he seems to have developed a habit of wiping his tongue around his lips. He looks as if he’s trying to summon up the saliva to speak to me, but I’m gone before he can get the chance. I like him. I don’t want to face some crappy chat up line today, and find I like him a little bit less because of it. And I really like his fish.
Bing: “Of course, once I’d cum inside you and we’d cuddled a while, I’d expect my little slave to treat her master by sliding her pussy over my face and letting me lick her pussy clean.”
My insides crash about. I don’t know what it is: the very notion of what he says he wants to do, or that he says he would cuddle me. I cling on to the image of him holding me, his cum leaking from inside me until eventually, satiated by his arms, I let him lap at me, drawing his own juices into his mouth until he’s happy he has them all. Whose treat would that be? Why is he sending this? My heart bangs; my chest feels hot. I have no idea what to say.
I get started on the brochure after eating the fish, working with the TV murmuring in the background for three or four hours. The pages are starting to look good, and I get a bit of a buzz from seeing the work taking shape. I don’t really want to stop, but tiredness sets in, and a decision to get ready for bed seems like a sensible one. I drape my bra over the chair, and am just removing my knickers, when the vibration noise from my desk fire a pain from my throat to my clit. It throbs there, while I retrieve my phone.
“I might even treat my little slave to some rimming. Slow, lazy strokes of my tongue, followed by sharp, quick probings deep into your tight little anus. Using my muscular tongue to force its way inside.”
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to sleep now. I can feel it—his tongue teasing my backside, his hot breath all around it. I imagine being on my hands and knees on the bed, or on the floor, or maybe pushed over the kitchen table. The touch of his moist, firm muscle in my hole, pushing its way in, exploring the inside of my most intimate, hidden part. He wants to treat me? Why? What is this all about? Writhing in the bed, my body burns me, every motion of my flesh against the sheet setting my nerves on fire.
The phone wakes me at 5.30a.m. It’s taken me half the night to get comfortable, and even more time to stop thinking of his tongue up my arse. Everything is blurry, but I blink rapidly so I can read the message. I have that lurch in my chest at the sound. I know it’s from him. Who else sends messages at that time of the morning?
“Once I’d licked all of my cum out of you, I’d slide my fingers into your anus, slowly pressing them against your pussy wall. Slowly easing them further in until my whole fist was inside you…”
I just hold the phone tight. The thought of what he would do to me—oh. Almost immediately there’s another:
“I will fist you one day…I love doing that.”
I’m finding it difficult to swallow. My mouth is dry. My god! One day—he said ‘one day’. Oh, where is he? What should I do? What can I say? Bing. There’s another:
“All to give pleasure to my little slave.”
My heart leaps. Tears form quite involuntarily along my eyelids, and I realise they’re running down my cheeks in great, wide channels. I sit there, on top of the duvet, the mirror at the end of the bed allowing me to catch sight of my naked form, and I trace what I can see there with my hand: the curve over my thigh, bigger than I would like; the round of my hips and up my tummy to my navel, as I stifle a sigh. But I’m happier with it from there: I watch my reflected fingers thread themselves in between my ribs, my palm pushing up against my right breast, cupping it, squeezing it. I lay down now, and the mirror takes note how my knees begin to part as I’m grinding the bottom of my spine into the softness beneath me. I watch myself open up to the mirror, slowly, like a confession on a psychiatrist’s couch. My fingers want to help in my confession to the looking glass, they really do; peeling back the layers until I gaze upon my own eye. This is what I look like. I’m not afraid of this. It’s the rest—it’s letting him have all of me that terrifies me so. Sight of all of my body—what will he think, after all this time; what will he remember? All the memories; I’m different now, aren’t I? Am I? All that’s in my head. And that other part of me which needs protecting. What do I do about that?
What if I just…? I could give him something, maybe. The phone’s there, next to me. I only have to take a picture. One part of me, that’s all. Does he really want to please me? Is that how it works, this game of master-slave? It doesn’t seem right. But what do I know?
I turn the camera into reverse. I can see my pussy close up now. How would he put a fist in there? The thought of it makes every nerve around my clit tingle, every muscle inside my entrance tighten on instinct, and my stomach flutters, growing in intensity until I begin to gasp. Maybe it’s panic. I don’t know. I try and conjure up everything he’s said; sitting over him and fucking him, and the image releases my inner muscles, leaving my back snaking in spasms at his tongue against my backside. It’s only ever been done to me once, and it made me so hot. I know how my tight hole opens to respond to the wet force of a tongue. Fuck, I’m wet. The camera sees. The mirror sees. And on a burning impulse, I click the button five, six times. My pussy stares back at me, three pictures blurred, one missing my clit, but the other two are virtually identical.
How long can one person stare at their phone? I don’t know how long before I open my text messages, attach the picture. Or how much longer before my finger hits the ‘send’ button. I don’t add a message. He’ll know. No words necessary.
Bing: “My wonderful little love slave. You’re such a good girl. NOW—as you’ve been so good, I have something exciting planned for you today. But I want you to prove that you are ready. Do you want it?”
If you want to catch up on earlier parts of the story, or read on, you can find all the Love Slave blog posts here.