Love Slave Part 7 (18+ only)
Why is it when I’m writing Love Slave, that something I think is going to be perfectly average starts growing much bigger than I imagined it would be? (Sorry – couldn’t help it!). Seriously, though, I expected this section to be really quite little, but it just kept growing…! As a result, instead of including the consequences of an action at the end of this piece, you’ll have to wait until next time to see what happens!
Happy reading! x
The blood gushes through my ears; my heart races so fast that the vibrations force my back hard against the mattress. My body is completely rigid, my eyelids flash red beneath them. I’m so hot! Soft, slow steps, getting closer. Where is he? I can’t feel his breath, but he sounds so near. Oh, the ache that runs through me is pure torture, immobilising me. Every morsel of flesh between my legs burns. Will he touch me there? Will I feel his fingertips brush my flesh? What is he doing—staring at my body? At my pulsating entrance? Just the possibility of it leaves my pussy fighting spasms of excruciating anticipation, and I can’t stay still, instead beginning to writhe on the sheet, clenching every muscle between my thighs to alleviate this insatiable ache. This trepidation. He must know, must be able to tell by the way I can’t keep my knees still as the balls of my feet screw themselves down into the bed. I wish I dare open my eyes.
“Oh fuck, woman! You’re so wet for your Master.”
Just his voice sets me gasping. My juices are beginning to tickle the top of my backside. Everything throbs. “I can’t believe you’re here.” The words seep through my lips. “Can I see you? Let me see you.”
“Keep your eyes closed.” His words are like silk. They wrap around my body, over my face, forming a veil of desire over my words. “I want you to do exactly as I tell you.”
“Yes.” My affirmation is nothing more than a whisper. My body feels incapable of articulating anything more coherent right now.
“Suck your fingers. One by one. Slowly. I want to see them wet.”
I do as he asks, drawing saliva up onto my tongue with difficulty, trying to keep my breathing even—how do I make my mouth sexy for him? I can barely breathe at all. But I manage, sucking each finger until they’re drenched for him.
“Good girl. Show me your wrist. Show me. Twist in that chain for me. I want to know you are properly tied to that bed.”
My arm turns; I bite the inside of my cheek. Maybe I did a better job of tying it round me than I thought I could. It’s biting into my skin, pressing onto my veins as I try and twist my wrist within the links. The smell of metal leeches into my nose as my skin becomes hotter, damper. “Is it all right?” My words are stilted and, although I don’t want to let them, they reveal my worry that I might actually cut off my circulation.
“It looks perfect. Now—toss me the key. Don’t open your eyes. Just aim for the end of the bed. I’ll catch.”
The key digs into my palm as my thumb presses it tight there, saliva from my wet fingers coating it. If I relinquish the key to him…
“Do you want me to stay, honeybuns? Will you do as you are told?” There’s a pause, and all I can hear is my breath, and a faint sound of his at the end of his questions. A bird—a crow or something—begins its hideous noise right outside the bedroom window. Is it laughing at me? Warning me? Why doesn’t it shut up? “You choose.”
I dig the key right into my palm. Make a wish that it won’t let me down, and Katie will get her bike lock back unscathed. With my heart banging hard in my ribs, I fling the key.
“Good. Now you have your hand free, I want you to touch yourself. Fondle your tits. Tease your nipples. Make them ready for me, while I rest my head on the end of the bed and take in the show of your glorious pussy. Is it throbbing, my little love slave?”
“You know it is.” My hand begins to roam my flesh, finding my left breast and cupping it. I always like the feel of my soft flesh when I’m touching them, and my palm works its way from one quickly to the other side, taking each nipple in my finger and thumb and nipping. An involuntary moan oozes from me, and for a moment or two I delight solely in the pleasure of making my nipples stand hard. I flick them, and it makes me squeak, releasing into a soft, sensuous moan. They are in my power: the heat just under my skin, the tiny hard, sensitive tips, all controlled by my free hand.
His voice is thick, clouded in heavy breaths and spit that sticks to the roof of his mouth as he talks. I can hear the way his mouth is struggling in its own heat. I know how he feels. “I want to see you working up your cream for me. Start with that hard little clit of yours. What a beautiful colour it’s gone. Play with it.”
The touch of my fingers as they fumble their way down my body sets my skin alight, just as if someone were putting out matches along my torso. The moment my finger touches the firm nub, slick with my own juice and oh, so sensitive to my fingertip, a long, excruciating moan rips from my throat. Rolling my hard ball, sliding against my flowing juices, I hear his stifled moan, too, and the pain that shoots into my clit right under my finger makes me want to come. My breath releases in tiny gasps, trying to steady itself for whatever he demands next.
“I want to see you slide your fingers along your folds. My tongue is only inches from you. What if I joined them?”
I whimper. It’s a pathetic, needy sound. But, oh fuck, I do need it. My mouth opens before I have time to really engage my brain and control myself: “Oh, please. Let me feel your tongue. I want it hot and rough against me.” I feel as if my entire lower half might explode any minute. I mine my brief but ever-present memory of what it was like to have his mouth there once before. My buttocks writhe against the bed as I think of his breath against my almost innocent pussy, how nerves nearly carried me over the edge as his tongue traced a circle in the dark hair he found there. How his tongue flicked and lapped at the very surface of my folds before plunging into me and making me cry out.
I know I’m going to come. The feeling is surging through me, bearing down on me until I buck and the chain pulls tight against my wrist. It hurts, and so does the full force of my orgasm. He’s watching me do this. And I know that it’s the first time he’s seen me come in front of him. It didn’t happen before; I didn’t let him…
My fingers slip in between my folds, the skin so soft, so easy to move on. I want to feel his breath on me again. My fingers stray towards the hot wetness that leaks from inside me. One touch, one push, and I would be—.
“Don’t you fucking dare do that. I haven’t told you to. I wanted to lick at your cunt cream. Now I shan’t do it. And neither shall you. Unless you beg.”
Every single nerve ending along my flesh is buzzing and stinging me like electric eels. I want to open my eyes. He must sense it, standing wherever he is, watching. I want his fingers against my hot skin. I want to hear him breathing in my hair. I want his cock.
“Oh, fuck! Tell me to do it. My fingers. Your fingers. I want more than that.” I can’t stay still against the sheet.
“I shan’t touch you. Not now. Tell me again. Beg to touch yourself.”
“Oh, please. Just let me. Plea—.” I can’t even finish the word. The ache is too much. It engulfs me. My fingers hover, desperate to take me. I only need one word. His command.
“Now. You may do it now, my little slave.”
My fingers don’t wait to be told again; thrusting against the rough, hot entrance, every part of my soft tissue rubbing against my hand. I fuck harder, imagining him behind my eyelids—his fingers pressing up into me, feeling for that spot whish drives me into serpentine movements. Will he fuck me? I want him to fuck me. I want—oh, the pain through my body! Everything converging on the flesh that encases my fingers and the muscles that grip them tight. It hurts. Such pain; such excruciating, wonderful pain. My juices run from me, over my fingers, against my palm, and I do it harder, my moans becoming screams as I know his face is only inches from my pleasure, his body only moments from completing unfinished business.
I come so hard that I force out my own fingers. My juices are all over my thighs, my arm, the bed. It hurts my tied arm; my back arches, my shoulders smashing into the mattress, my pussy thrusting into his face. My groans are my breath; they overtake my body, lost in the rapturous power of the moment.
It’s several minutes, I think, before my chest stops thrusting itself into the air, before my body quietens and relaxes back on the bed, my legs wide, having given my desires over to his pleasure. I hear him moan, long and low, and louder, as if he should be near my ear, yet I can’t sense a shadow over me. Is he leaning over my body and not my head? Is he examining up close just what it is that begging can do to me? I never ask for anything of people, never beg. It’s a strange feeling. Not unpleasant, though. Just different.
“Taste your fingers. Put them all the way into your mouth. Prove to me you can take them, just as if you were sucking on my cock. I know how much you like the thought of that, don’t I?”
My face and neck are burning; they must be crimson. Does he remember every little detail? Slowly, I push my fingers between my open lips, the strength of my own scent filling my nose and making it twitch. One, then two together, sucking at my thick cream and my wet juice, drawing them right in. Then all of my fingers, sucking them clean. To the sound of “Oh fuck—beautiful”, I withdraw my fingers, and lick my lips when I can no longer taste new cream on my tongue. It turns me on so much that if he asked me, I’d probably be able to come for him where I lay.
“Open your eyes.”
My chest wants to explode in anticipation. I blink them open, unable to see anything other than post-orgasmic white spots of light at first, and with the need also to accustom them to the light. My breath is so still. Will he kiss me? I want to feel him. I want to touch his face. Where are his lips? Please, let his eyes be staring into mine.
In front of me is the ceiling. At the sides are my desk and the wardrobe. My head and heart compete for supremacy between panic and a dreadful sinking feeling deep within. “Where are you?”
And on the screen are those arms. Through the speaker that soft, low laugh.
“Sounds, honeybuns. Just sounds. Clever ones, but just sounds, nevertheless.”
I can’t believe what’s happening. I don’t know what to say; I just stare at the body parts on the screen. So impersonal; so, well, dismembered.
“You gave me a lot of pleasure. And you felt it, too, didn’t you? Fucking yourself for me. Being bound—it’s excited you, hasn’t it?”
Something resembling complete terror fixes me rigid. The bindings. The key. What about the key? He didn’t catch it…
I scan the room, try to escape the bed so I can see better, but the moment I try, my arm almost dislocates as I twist it against its metal binding. Yelping, I sit back up straight, my chest like a piston on an overused steam train. My eyes become bulbous, out of focus balls and the tears hold there, preventing me seeing him properly. Seeing his arms. But his laugh is plain enough.
“Where is it? The key. What did you—what did I do with it?”
A soft, slow laugh. “It’s on the floor at the end of the bed, I imagine. I can’t see exactly. It certainly went past the duvet.”
“I thought—you were holding it. I—I trusted you with it.” My knees curl up to block his view of my still throbbing pussy. “The door’s unlocked. You made me unlock my door. Anyone could walk in!” the hysteria in my breaking voice is evident for anyone to hear. Anyone I know who might decide that I’m not answering, so try the door on the off-chance. Any chancer who thinks walking into some stranger’s property is perfectly acceptable—and if they’ll do that, what else might they do, finding me here, helpless on the bed?
“Yes, they could, couldn’t they?” The unmistakable ring of low resonating laughter filters through the air, its osmotic sarcasm hitting me in a rolling wave of “Hahahahahahahahaha!”
In that second I know that, if I could reach the screen, I would turn it off. I can’t bear it. His fingers are twitching. I hate him. I do. Hate him.
“Fuck right off.” The heat of the tears burn my cheeks as they form channels down my face. It’s more out of anger that I’m crying. At least that’s what I tell myself, and it works, for now, anyway.
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
I counteract his sternness with “I’ll talk to you any way I damn well please.”
It’s a minute before he answers, and when he does his voice is quiet. “I shall ignore that—for the moment. So. Now you know my real reason for asking you to keep the door unlocked. I would never leave you in a dangerous situation. Do you believe that?”
I don’t even want to answer him. I don’t want to talk to him at all.
“Charlotte. Do you believe that? You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you, thinking I was there, about to fuck you? I want you to find pleasure in it. In what you did for me. I want you to seek pleasure in everything you do.”
“I don’t believe a thing you say.” I frantically, blindly, try and move so that I can reach the key, but I can’t even see it, except a distorted image of what I think is the key through the reflection in the chrome legs of the stool at the dressing table. Again, I just succeed in hurting myself, this time the joint at my shoulder more than my wrist.
“Then do you believe me if I tell you that you’ll be out of your bindings soon, my little love slave?”
The saliva dries on my tongue. “What do you mean?”
“All you have to do is make a phone call from that mobile of yours.”
“No! No, I’m not doing that.” I feel sick. There’s no way someone else is being involved. No-one’s seeing me like this. Chained like the idiot that I am. Naked before—anyone. Except him. I’m completely bared to him, aren’t I? Gullible, pathetic, desperate.
“I thought you’d say that. Punishment for bad behaviour can wait until another time. They’re adding up, today, aren’t they? I’ve sorted out your problem for you.”
“What do you mean?” My words are almost unintelligible. Pins and needles break out across my limbs. It seems like forever before he replies.
“I already rang Mike. He’s on his way.”