Finally, after a lot of difficuties with this post, I have Part 6 of Love Slave for you. It’s been a very difficult part of the story to write, and it’s quite long, partly because it moves the story from A to B – and I didn’t want to bore you (hopefully it won’t) – and partly because there’s a whole load of “me” inside it. But writing from personal experience will be a whole different blog post…!
Do let me know if you have any comments. All feedback is welcome, whether in the comments section here or by contacting me in other ways.
Happy reading! x
What has he got planned? What the hell will I have to do now—why does he need proof that I’m ready? A tidal wave of bile forces its way into my throat. I feel as if I’m being thrust constantly against barbed wire, pushing against boundaries that try and wound me with his every expectation of my body, every manipulation of my head. My heart is racing. I have to know.
Message to him: “What is it you want me to do?”
The reply is immediate: “You want to prove you’re ready?”
“Yes.” My heart is banging so hard I can hear it. Why is there not a reply? I start to blow; I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time. What’s happening to me? I try to stem it quickly, to calm down—slow breathing, head down, blank mind. Except I can’t; my head is full of drawn up commandments, like some kind of giant tick-list that I must get through in order to…in order to what?
A photo comes through. The blood rushes to my ears, my heartbeat drowning out every other noise, and an unexpected pang between my thighs, at the sight of a pair of handcuffs. I massage the throb into submission as I read the message: “Do you have any of these?”
What does he think I am? I reply: “No.”
Bing: “Heeheehee! I didn’t think you would. I have had SUCH fun with this pair.”
There’s that pang again, this time shooting through my middle, lodging between my legs and throbbing there, uncomfortably. He wants me to ask, doesn’t he—who has he had fun with? How many women; what has he done with those cuffs? My hand roams to the inside of my thigh, an image of some unknown six foot, flaxen haired stunner with her hands over her head, chained to the bed while he pushes open her knees, lifting her feet onto his shoulders while he grins at her and says, “I’m going to take you. But not in your pussy. That’s where my tongue is going, eventually. But my cock is going somewhere else, whether you like it or not. You can’t escape, after all, can you?” I bite my lips hard, as another image floats into my head. A dark haired woman, handcuffed by her foot, trying desperately to get off the bed as he rubs his cock in her face, and says. “This is Marcel. He’s my friend. He’s going to fuck you while you make me come. If you don’t make me come, I have another friend, just waiting for a piece of you.”
Tears are on my cheeks. Why did I think those things? Would he—is that what he would do? Is that what he likes? I can’t…I just wouldn’t…I can’t, no. Not treated like that.
Bing: “Are you still there, my little love slave?”
I sit still, trying to compose myself, my breath all over the place, swatting at loose tears with the back of my hand. I don’t type anything at all.
Minutes pass by. Ten, maybe, before the message comes in: “Honeybuns, are you there?”
I don’t know why, but that makes me cry more. It’s almost as if he cares. I’m just grateful he can’t see.
“Go and find some. If you can’t, then improvise. Send me a photo of your chosen toy when you have it. I give you one hour.”
My mouth is dry. There are white flashes behind my eyelids and I feel like the “toy” is already around my throat.
Message: “What if I can’t find any? Or anything?” A moment of weakness. Oh, fuck, it really shows in those words, doesn’t it? I know what’s coming. I sit and wait for the threat that he will vanish; I wait for the predictable and inevitable, because he already knows it works.
Bing: “You will, honeybuns. You will find something. Off you go.”
It makes me gasp, as if he’s just taken me by the waist and pulled me to him, unexpectedly. Have I suddenly become his pet?
Well, I don’t have any handcuffs. I can’t get anywhere on the Tube, find a shop that sells them (where the hell do I look, anyway?), and get back, all in an hour. I fetch a drink of water, my mouth so dry that my tongue is sticking to my teeth and I’m struggling to swallow. I must waste fifteen minute, twenty even, frantically imagining cop friends I don’t have who might lend me their cuffs, or a client who would trade a pair for a free job. What can I do?
I grab my bra and knickers, and fling on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans that lay on the floor, and lean my head against the window frame. I start thinking I could accost people in the street below, asking if they’re carrying any. What if I were naked at this window? Would I find someone who could help, then? Someone who watches from down below as I toss my hair, and let my hand roam over my skin while the fingers of my other hand begin to suggest the delights hidden away between my thighs. I throw my head back and moan, and suddenly there are people clamouring at my door, wanting to help me out…
People wander by, handcuff-less, cars pass me by, and from a distance I see Katie who lives on the same floor as me, pedalling ever closer towards the front door. Grabbing my keys, I rush downstairs to open the door for her. Katie carries her bike in, puffing and blowing a bit, and I offer to help her carry it up the stairs. She refuses to leave it in the entrance hall, in case someone tries to pinch it.
“Katie, can I ask a favour?”
I help her through her door, and together we prop the bike up the wall on the plastic runner she has on the floor.
“Sure. What’s up?” She hold up a glass and a carton of orange juice, and I accept, grateful of the extra liquid. I’m so hot, my head whirring at the possibility that I might be able to get what I need, right now.
“Would you mind if I borrowed your bike lock for the rest of the day. I’ll get it back to you later, promise.”
Mentally, I cross my fingers, hoping she’s not planning on waging war with the traffic once again during the day. When she smiles and hands it over, with raised eyebrows and a funny little smirk, I could kiss her.
“Doing anything interesting with it?”
I must have blushed a few shades beyond maroon. “No, no really. I just have something I’m trying to hold still while I work on it, and I thought this would wrap around it firmer than string.”
She grins. “I bet it will. Don’t go cutting off his circulation, now, girlie. He must have one fucking huge snake if you need a chain to contain it…!”
I can’t wait to get out of the flat.
I take the photo—the thick chain, the silver coloured lock and the key sticking out of it, there on top of my duvet cover.
“Will this be OK?”
Immediate message: “Perfect. Well done, and within time. Good little slave girl. Now for your test.”
I thought that was the test. I should have known better. I wait, running the chain through my fingers. Seconds are minutes, minutes feel like days. Is the test that I should sit here, trying to prevent myself feeling excruciatingly ill, wondering what he’s going to tell me to do next?
Bing: “Do you trust me?”
There’s a pain in my chest. No. No. I don’t trust him at all. I never have. That’s what makes this so ridiculous. Such a stupid thing to do, because I’m going to get hurt, I just know it. I thought I was relatively intelligent, that I could tell when someone is bad for me. And yet I must be crazy—just the very thought of not feeling safe with him makes me so fucking horny. How can I possibly feel like that?
“No, I don’t trust you.” I don’t know what else to tell him. I don’t want to say “yes”. I don’t know what he wants—if I don’t trust him, does that delight his sadistic tendencies? Are they squirming on their little red devil seats, clamouring to lay hands on me? What if I’d said “yes”? Does he think I’ll just obey blindly? I don’t know what he thinks. I wish I could see in his eyes. I’d know then. I remember them vividly: blue-grey with a stare so ice-cold that it burns my skin. And behind the ice, something a much deeper, murkier grey, something I’ve never seen surface fully, always remaining in the depths, in the shadows.
“That’s good. Then you’re doing what I tell you purely BECAUSE I TELL YOU TO. Why would that be, my little slave?”
I won’t reply to that; I’m not sure he expects an answer. But he knows. He must do. And that’s worse than anything he could ask of me; it tears away every single layer and leaves me pink, and sore, and vulnerable to his every word.
Bing: “The test is in three parts. Firstly, go and unlatch your front door. Then get out your iPad. You have one, don’t you? Place it at the end of the bed. On something that won’t wobble, and that won’t let it collapse. Make it face the bed. Then, sit on the bed, and remove every single item of your clothes. Facing the screen, type in my email address. Make the Facetime call. Do that, let me see you, prepared, and you’ll get what comes next. You’ll LOVE it.”
My head is spinning. Yeah, I’ve got an iPad, but I never use Facetime. I hate it. Hate anything like that. This is impossible. There’s no way I can do this. Go beyond words. He’ll see me—I mean, really see me. I can’t cope with this. I can’t do naked. No. But if I don’t do this—. I have to prove to myself that I can’t do this.
I go to the door, and unlatch it, my hand shaking. Returning to the bedroom, I shift the bedside cabinet that stands on the opposite side to the desk, placing it at the end of the bed, and put my iPad on it. And I sit on the bed and—do nothing. I just stare at the blackness of that screen. It’s all ready and I just—can’t. He has to know that.
My heart is beating so fast, so hard, as I lean up and type in his email address into the box on the screen. I shuffle back before he has time to answer, sitting cross-legged on the bed, my lips tight, my entire body hurting. I’m really going to see him. And he’s going to be furious. Or disappointed in how pathetic I am, and cut the call short. And go away. I bite the inside of my bottom lip, hard, trying to create enough of a sting to transfer it from my eyelids.
The screen changes from black to a pale, empty space; magnolia, or an off-white of some kind, partially in shadow. There’s nothing else to see. My breath is erratic; I’m puffing air through pursed lips.
“Hello, honeybuns. All that panting—are you excited? And why are you still wearing clothes? Naked, I said.”
Everything goes black behind my eyes, and I feel as if I will pass out at any moment. A surge of pure pain knifes me, the remnants of it bleeding into my arms and legs, and I’m completely immobile.
“Where are you?” The words are hoarse, a feeble whisper.
Bare, folded arms appear in front of the camera at the bottom of the screen. “I’m here, my little love slave. Now, why have you not done as I told you?”
“Why can’t I see you? Who do you think you are, fucking Blofeld? All you need is a cat.”
“Believe me, honeybuns, I’m far more like James Bond. Better. I’d be a real credit to any Ian Fleming book. And you’ll see me when you’ve earned it. Now—get naked.”
I feel my head drop. My eyes are shut. I can’t even bear to stare at his fingers.
“No. It’s too much for me.”
There’s a pause. I wait for the screen to go blank. Any second it will go blank.
“You’re my slave and you’ll do as you’re told.”
“No. I can’t. If that’s it, then so be it. But I can’t.” I can’t look up; he’ll see my eyes wet. And I will not let him see me cry.
“But you’re doing so well, my little love slave. Do you think I’ll never see you naked? Do you think I’ll never let my hands roam all over your scrumptious body, or that I won’t bend you backwards so that I can kiss your flesh from your neck to your glorious tits? That I won’t nibble on your nipples while I pin your head back by your hair, and fuck you until you fall into my arms with exhaustion? Do you think I won’t roam my tongue through your pussy lips and bury it to the hilt inside your soaking cunt and lap at that heavenly mix of your cream and my cum? Or that you won’t beg me to make this just the beginning of what you want? Show me your glorious tits. Do that for me. Do it now.”
I just sit there, an ache devouring every part of me between my thighs, biting my lip until I taste blood. I get his hands. He wants all of me.
“How do I know what you’re going to do with what you see? You might be recording it, for all I know. I might turn on the Internet once day and find myself all over it, with people commenting on what a fucking awful sight it is.” I feel shivery; I couldn’t have kept it to myself any longer. The thought of it terrifies me. He’s going to think I’m a total idiot. That I’m not worth the effort. I’m never going to be what he wants. I have visions of his perfect slave: a dark-haired oriental beauty, naked and chained to a stone wall, in front of a window where passers-by gaze upon her, and she has to perform for him, maybe with him, while they watch. I’ll never be like her.
“Why the hell would I want to do that? You’re MINE. I have no intention of sharing you. Not unless I want to. Heeeheehee.”
I feel really sick. What does that mean? Is he joking? Would he have me as some sex toy for anyone he wanted to encourage to touch me, or suck on my mound, or fuck any part of me that takes their fancy? Has he really got me in the chains that would allow him to do it? I can’t believe it; I don’t want to.
“But not like that. Not on the Internet, where I don’t know who’s looking at you. You have no need to worry about that AT ALL. I do want to press you, push at your boundaries, see which ones you bend or leap over. That’s such a fucking turn-on, making you realise what excites you, find the things you enjoy most, even when you didn’t know they existed. It’s all about enjoyment. Do you believe me?”
I watch his fingers, interlocked at the bottom of the screen. How is he watching me? The same hands, something a bit more mature about them, but definitely the same. The ones that had me in their grasp once.
“Yes, I don’t know why, but I believe you.”
His voice replies, smooth and quiet: “Do you trust me?”
A soft laugh. “Well, we’ll work on that one. Now. You know that I won’t plaster you over the Internet, like some techno-nerd, pin-up girl, so—Charlotte, I want you to take off your t-shirt and your jeans for me. Do that now, please.”
I don’t understand. He’s still here. He’s not shut down the conversation. He said “please”. I don’t see how this works at all. My insides are fluttering, churning. I start to pant. And—I do it. I slip my t-shirt over my head, revealing my powder blue bra, and wriggle out of my jeans. I manage as long as I don’t look at the screen. I sit, hugging my knees, eventually plucking up the courage to look at his hands.
“Good, honeybuns. Now, kneel up on the bed. Take off your bra. Do it for me. There’s only you and me. I want to see you.”
My skin is burning, my breath heaving. I reach round and undo the strap at the back, letting it fall off my shoulders. My face burns as I peel away the cups to reveal my breasts to him, and the bra falls to the bed.
“Touch your nipples. Take them in your fingers and tease them.”
Without looking at the screen, I do as he tells me. I hold them, my fingers quivering, squeezing gently, and they harden almost instantaneously. It turns me on, far more than I expect, and my hands explore the rest of my fleshy mounds, cupping and pushing them together. It takes me a few moments to notice that my pelvis has joined in and I’m rocking forwards and backwards in time with the circling of my hands on my breasts.
“Fuck! Your pussy looks beautiful, even through your knickers.”
I flash my eyes up at the screen. In that second, right then, something changes: I feel sexy—like I could do anything, and it would be all right. He’s watching. I know he’s watching. I start to clasp my breasts together, pushing them towards the screen, offering them on my palms for him.
“I want what’s inside those knickers. Get them off, now.”
The smirk spreads across my face, and I surprise myself by shuffling on my knees close up to the camera so he can see better. It turns me on so much, knowing that I’m pleasing him. I didn’t think this how I would feel.
“Get yourself back on the bed properly. Oh, fuck!”
My knickers are round my knees and he has a full view of my pussy, from its mound as far as my clit.
“Don’t you dare touch yourself. I want…oh, fuck, woman!”
I push my folds open, so he can see deeper inside; unhook the knickers from one leg and spread them so that I can tilt myself up towards him. I can’t believe I’m doing this. There are stifled grunts seeping through the screen and floating in the air in front of me. My clit throbs.
“Is this what you wanted, Sir?”
There’s a huge groan, and I grin, but he can’t see that. My pussy takes up almost all the screen. His fingers are clenching and opening, and more than anything right now I wish I could see his face.
“Do as I tell you. Sit back on the bed where you were. And take that bike lock with you. Fuck, you sexy little slave, do it now.”
I wriggle back on the bed, kicking off my knickers from my ankle, scooping up the lock from its spot on the duvet cover. I can feel the apprehension building again, but I try not to think about it.
“Now. I want you to wind that bike lock around your arm, and thread it through those glorious bars at the head of your bed. That’s it. Make sure it’s firmly round. I don’t want you escaping, now do I? Lock it. Good girl. That looks perfect. Now, keep the key in your hand.”
I sit on the pillow, my arm suspended to the side of me.
“Open your legs. Show me.”
What the hell does it matter now? Staring straight into the screen where I can see nothing but hands, more as an act of defiance to myself than anything else, I draw my right foot towards my backside, my knee falling to the side and allowing the coolness of the air to mingle with the heat that lodges within my folds. I draw up the other leg in the same manner, my soaking pussy on display for him. I know what he can see; I’ve looked at it enough times in the mirror as I’ve come to the feel of my fingers against the soft tissue, as I’ve watched it ooze wetness after my bullet has satiated my need.
I wait, thinking he might moan and make me wetter, or say something, but there’s total silence. I don’t know what to make of it. Is he still there? I don’t want to ask, and have him laugh at me. So I sit there, and the thought invades my head and grips on tight that he might be taking camera shots, or videoing it, or saving screen shots, or something. I put my hand to my face, on the pretext of scratching my nose. But the key does that for me, instead.
“Close your eyes. Don’t open them, or this will be over. You’ll spoil it for yourself. And for me. Do you understand?”
I nod, the coolness of the metal bike lock biting into my arm, sending a current of shivery tingles through it and down into my ribs.
His voice is low, quiet. “What if I told you I was in a room upstairs?”
My entire body aches as a tsunami of excitement, trepidation, fear and everything in between washes over me. I just gasp; no words come.
“Now do you see why I wanted you to unlock the door?”
I nod. My skin is covered in a blanket of goosebumps, and I throb so hard between my thighs that I wonder if I will come right in front of the screen.
“Lay down and open your legs. Bend your knees. Wait for me.”
Everything behind my eyelids dances rainbow colours of pure unadulterated lust. I wouldn’t dare open my eyes now. I wait, minutes passing, blackness and the sparkle of multi-coloured excitement enclosing me, enveloping me. From a distance away, I hear the clunk of the door, and a quiet closing—except my ears are grasping at the slightest sound. I notice. I hear. A hot tingle runs through me, pressing me into the bed, and I begin to break out in a clammy sweat across my chest. One hand may be tied, but the other pushes up at my breast, teasing, squeezing my nipple. But it’s already hard. My hand rests on my belly, and at the first quiet footstep, I can’t help myself. I slide my fingers along the wetness between my thighs, tantalising the very tops of my thighs as the footsteps click on the floor, slowly, in an attempt at silence, and failing. Each step sends a quiver of anticipation from my clit, titillating my spine all the way to my lips.
The steps are close. I’m sure I can hear his breath. I’m not sure mine is sliding in and out of my body at all. Shallow gasps at best; listening for every indication that he is getting close to me. There’s a creak of the bedroom door. Oh, fuck, he’s in the room. I daren’t open my eyes.
“Your Master can see you, my good little love slave. Don’t open your eyes. If you do, all this will be finished. But you’re to do everything I ask, and then I’ll give you your reward.”
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.