My imagination taunts me: my own hands become his hands against my skin, reliving every touch, every culmination of our messages, and every single year of desire since I first set eyes upon him. Amid the gushing water and the waves of tears I make myself come, because I need to find a release from the excruciating pain that threatens to overwhelm me. The feeling builds, an all-consuming ache that roots itself in my cunt and winds through me like a serpent, at the picture of his face burned on my retina, and the memory of the way I clung to him during the night, finally knowing the fullness of him inside me. The pure energy of the memory threatens to leave me unconscious there under the water, drowning me in my own desire and desperation and salty reprisals.
Category: Love slave
Then I’m spun round so that I’m facing the door, and he grabs both of my hands and stretches them up against the door frame. He’s pressed up against me, his knees wrapped around my legs so I can’t move an inch from my lower thighs downwards. The silken tie slips around my arms unnoticed until too late, and he has it around my wrists in some kind of nautical knot that’s so complicated that Houdini wouldn’t get out of it. The sound, the heat, of his breath is in my ear, his lips brush against it as he ties my wrists to the door handle.
“You have a safe word. I’m not sure you’ve remembered up to now. Use it if you need to.” He whispers so softly in my ear that it almost makes me cry. It hadn’t even occurred to me to use it earlier. I wanted to be sure that we would reach the room. I needed to—what do I need? Would I need it now?
“I am Master. There’s nothing level about our time here in this hotel, unless I want there to be. You will do as you’re told. Beginning now.” He clamps his mouth over mine, his finger still in place, kisses hard as he slides his finger out of my mouth and down my neck. As one of the other men presses the button with a sense of urgency, and the lift clunks and rattles down towards us, he reaches to my collar and undoes his tie. Why has he taken me off the leash? Are each of the men wondering? Each of them is watching, and I know they’ve all heard what he said to me. The lift is nearly at the ground floor, and I turn to face the door, ready. He pulls my head back to face him.
“Look at me. Stay still.”
I look into his eyes, and they are smouldering grey-blue, and his cock is pushing at the zip on his trousers. He has his tie in his hand, and he slips it round my neck just above the collar and ties it in a slip knot.
“Be a good girl, or it will pull tight.”
I know the men are watching and I’m wet. I can feel it in the place where my knickers should be, as I stand there with my slave collar round my neck, and I find myself smirking. It’s a stupid thing to do, and I don’t know what possesses me. Maybe it’s because I know there are others there that I think I’m safe if I push at the boundaries.
“I may not be a good girl.” The men are all bulging in their trousers, even though two of them are pretending they’re not looking or taking any notice of what he’s done to me.
“I hate you calling me Kitten.” I have to say something, because otherwise, after what he’s just done to me, I would have bowed my head in supplication to his words. Because I’m an idiot. And those eyes—they get me every time.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s the name I’ve chosen for you as my sub.” I can’t tell if he’s more vexed that I haven’t answered his question, or that I’ve dared question his taste in names. His irises have gone dark and his stare engulfs me. For a moment I forget the strange, unfamiliar, full feeling caused by the butt plug as I wonder what he might do next. I have this dreadful feeling that he might grab my clothes, and bare my backside to every passing stranger. I’m not sure he cares about anything—being embarrassed, or arrested. Or me. Does he care about me?
“I just find it—a bit…”
His whisper is in my hair, permeating my memories. “Don’t you remember when you used to mew for me? I only had to touch you like this.” His fingertips slip across my shoulder blade and down my side until I writhe at his touch over my ribs. He is up close, so close that every part of him is touching me as his hand slides into my waistband and finds the elastic of my knickers. I let out the noise the moment his finger makes contact with my clit. “See, Kitten? That’s why. You’re going to mew for me.
My breath catches in my throat, and my face burns from the inside out. He detects it somehow—the heat coming out of my mouth and creating steam in the air, his palm not as hot as my cheek. His voice rasps in my ear: “You’ve never been fucked there, have you?”
I pause; the heat in my face oppresses me. I manage to shake my head—an almost imperceptible motion, but it rubs against the trace of stubble on his chin, and I know he can feel it. His shower gel fills my nose, the scent of sandalwood invades my head. He fills me. And my gaze pulls away, finding something very interesting in the old piece of chewing gum on the floor. He leads me to a shallow alcove, pushing me against the tiled wall. The ceramic feels ice cold on my back, in stark contrast with the heat of my skin.
“I own you.” His eyes stare into mine, hard and sparking with lust. “You chose to meet me—you didn’t have to come; I’m your Master.
He’d grinned. “BURMA—Be Undressed Ready, My Angel!” And he’d winked at me.
Something deep inside my stomach begins to roll around, making me feel squiffy. A reminder of the past. Like I need one.
The contents of the box are made up of a long, white envelope, a small parcel wrapped in red, and a folded piece of paper. That’s it. I can’t feel anything bottle-shaped. I let out a sigh, just a little bit relieved. Opening the piece of paper, I read:
Well, my little Slave Girl, have you been waiting? Open the parcel. I expect you to keep it in your bag at all times, until I say otherwise. And then open the envelope, and you’ll know what to do. This is what I expect…
“All right. Were you only going to fuck me because he says so, this creep, whoever he is? Tell me who he is, Charlotte.”
I can’t. I can’t tell him. It’d break his heart. He’s never forgiven him for the way it was before. “I’d never make love to you on someone else’s say-so. Mike, I wanted to. I want to. I—oh, what a fucking mess.” I struggle to even look up at him.
“Make love? Is that what we were going to do? You know how I feel about you. I’d have been making love. But you, you’d have been performing for Mr Creepy, wouldn’t you? This was never about me. You and me. Was it?”
“You should never have come, Mike. I told you on the phone that you shouldn’t.” I know I’m lashing out. There’s no way I should apportion blame to him. If he’d only listened. If only he wasn’t so lovely…
I can’t speak. The pillow slips down onto my thighs, leaving my body pressed against Mike’s shirt. He’s warm, comforting, and I soak the material, leaving it translucent and clinging to him. But I can’t hide a grunt of pain any longer, and it’s only at that moment the state of my arm really seems to sink into his head.
“Bloody hell! How did you end up like this?” He tugs at the chain, at its lock, only then really drinking in the sight of me before him. Naked on the bed. He’s never seen me like this, ever. Not even partially clothed. His cheeks colour vivid pink, and it chases down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. I feel for him; my skin must be mirroring his embarrassment. But still I don’t answer. I can’t.
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.”
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.