Slave Girl Emily Ch. 03

Author's note: Here's Chapter Three of "Slave Girl Emily." The heroine is an undergraduate who has discovered she has an overwhelming desire to be someone's slave. Together with another student, a boy named Andrew, she felt her way into the BDSM lifestyle. Her first relationship didn't work out, but now she has met a potential Master, attended a play party with him, and decided to begin negotiating a Master/slave contract with him. Tags: BDSM, Slave, Bondage, Whipping, Humiliation, Oral sex, Straight sex, Masturbation, Toys, Public sex.

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Chapter 3. First day with Frederick

He smears lubricant around my anus; his finger slides in, slick and warm, lubricating me. Then a hard metal probe, another electrical device, tingling, buzzing, throbbing - with the probe in my vagina it's overwhelming, torture by pleasure. My whole body's heaving in my bonds, there above the floor - will he finally let me come?

He switches off the power.

My body feels thick, dull, full of melted wax instead of organs. I'm blubbering, "Oh, please," my tears sprinkling the floor.

I recite my safeword to myself silently. As long as I know it, I'm not his captive and this can't be torture. I'm my own captive as long as I don't say that word.

The tingling begins again in my pussy and ass, just a little, but soon my whole body will be humming - I picture myself lit up like a neon sign.

Master says, "I'd like to give you an orgasm, Emily."

"Please, Master . . ."

"You only have to say the word."

* * *

The term of my enslavement would be one year beginning September first, renewable on mutual agreement. When Frederick learned that I still had a year of college left, he wouldn't hear of my being his full-time slave: I would commute to the university each weekday, wearing clothing approved by him, and I would be his slave only in the evenings and on weekends; even then, I might have additional time if I had exams to study for or papers to write. He would allow me one week off to visit my parents at Christmas and one the following spring, after graduation. Otherwise I would be his slave at all times - evenings, weekends, and, next summer, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

My duties were the standard ones spelled out in roughly similar terms in most BDSM slave contracts. I would become my Master's property for the term of the contract, to be used by him in any way he liked for his own pleasure. My sole purpose would be to please him, obeying him in all things without question. I would strive constantly to please him more, accepting instruction from him for that purpose. I would renounce all claim to my own pleasure, instead deriving my pleasure from serving him. I would seek no reward, though I would receive rewards from him with gratitude. I would be free to make requests of him, though I would accept his decisions concerning these requests without complaint. I would confide in him and keep no secrets from him. I would accept punishment from him, whether for my correction or for his amusement, as gladly as I accepted rewards.

For his part, Master would support and protect me, providing clothing (including a collar which I would wear at appropriate times), shelter, and sustenance. He would promise to do me no harm. I still could think of no hard limits, but these could be negotiated at any time. He would respect my safeword. He would provide all toys needed for our play. He had the right to lend or trade me. The contract could be terminated by either of us for cause.

Of course, a contract like this isn't legally binding, but it's binding in the sense that the BDSM community regards it as legitimate. Within the community, it's public knowledge who's bound to whom by contract; to violate the terms of one's contract is a breach that's likely to have serious social repercussions. A Dom or sub who did so habitually would soon have a difficult time finding partners.

I managed to contact all but one of Frederick's former subs, and they all spoke highly of him. He had honored the terms of their contracts, had rarely pushed them so far that they had to use their safewords, and had respected the safewords when they'd had to use them. They'd parted on amicable terms for reasons that did not reflect poorly on him.

We got fresh HIV tests, passed with flying colors, and traded the printouts of our lab results. When we were both satisfied with the contract, we signed. I signed with my real name - it felt like being naked for him again. It was the twenty-eighth of August.

On the morning of the first, a Friday, a day when I had no classes, Master sent a car to collect me and my few belongings from the apartment where I'd spent the summer. When my roommates asked where I'd be living, I muttered something vague about moving in with my boyfriend - which only increased their curiosity, since they'd seen no evidence of a boyfriend in my life. They'd just have to be curious.

Master let me into his apartment. I carried a single suitcase, and it took the driver three trips to bring up my other belongings. I sat nervously till he was done and had been paid.

Master said, "Are you ready, Emily? You can call it off now, and no one will think the worse of you."

"I'm ready," I said.

He looked at me for a few seconds, as if deciding that he was ready too. Then he said, "Take your clothes off."

I stood up. I had on simple summer things - a halter top and shorts. In just a few seconds I was naked for him. It felt right - I wasn't self-conscious.

He picked up a box from a side table, brought it to me, and showed me what was inside: a collar of silver mesh with a silver lock in front. He put it on me and said, "This collar is the symbol of my connection to you, Master to slave, and my obligation to support and protect you."

I said, "I'm your slave, and . . ." but then something caught in my throat, and I couldn't say anything else or do anything but look at the floor.

He raised my face with a finger under my chin and kissed me, and that seemed to make it all right that I'd said so little.

My belongings were piled up in the living room. Master looked at them and said, "We'd better deal with these now." He sorted through them while I knelt and watched. My few books were all right - even the ones about BDSM that Andrew and I had bought. School supplies were also acceptable. My computer, an aging Toshiba laptop, didn't pass muster: he'd buy me a MacBook Pro and have all my files transferred to it. He rejected all but a few pieces of clothing and bagged it to be sent to Goodwill - he'd take me shopping the next day.

He rejected all my toiletries. He'd already bought me his favorite brands of shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, deodorant, tampons, and other things. He threw my razor in the trash. He'd made an appointment to have my hair waxed: not only my legs and armpits, but also my pussy would be hairless during my stay with him. He approved of my emo look, but insisted that a professional see to both the coloring and styling of my hair. He smiled at my sex toys. "You won't need these," he said. "I'll box them up and store them for you."

He had me carry my clothing to his bedroom. At the foot of his bed, where I'd slept with him the night of the party, was a pallet with a pillow and sheet. "You'll sleep there," he said. He had me hang my few remaining things in the closet: he assigned me one end of a dresser drawer for things you don't hang up.

By now it was time for lunch. He showed me around the kitchen and talked about the foods he liked to eat.

"You'll make us breakfast and lunch when we're both here. Sometimes we'll have dinner out, sometimes you'll make me dinner here, and occasionally you'll eat here alone. How's your cooking?"

"Basic, Master."

"It's not likely to be worse than mine. You'll learn," he said.

He supervised while I made the lunches he dictated for us: a ham and cheese sandwich for him, salad for me.

He said, "A good many Masters make their slaves eat all their meals on the floor - from dog food bowls and the like. It's a sign of subordination, which of course is important. But I think less degrading signs will do just as well. So you'll serve me my food and then ask permission to sit. If I grant permission, you'll sit here" - he pointed to a chair near his - "and if not I'll tell you what to do. Occasionally I host dinner parties. When these involve others who are in the lifestyle, you'll eat as the other slaves and subs do - mostly on the floor. With guests who know nothing about BDSM, you'll pretend to be my somewhat shy and subservient girlfriend."

I brought his sandwich to the table and said, "May I sit, Master?"

"You may." he said. Then added, "At meals, you won't speak until you're spoken to."

We ate in silence. He pushed back his chair and said, "You'll clean up after every meal. Come to the kitchen."

He showed me a drawer containing dish towels and aprons. He said, "You may wear an apron while cooking and cleaning up. You don't want to fry bacon in the nude. I have to make some calls now. I'll come for you when I'm finished."

I cleaned up quickly and waited for him, thinking. Any of the hundreds of thousands of women who made meager livings cleaning wealthy people's apartments in New York would envy me my station in life - earning a college degree that was supposed to be my ticket to a brilliant future. And here I was, doing what they did, and for no pay at all. What were we, Master and I? We weren't employer and employee, not lovers, really. My condition was one that people in all ages and places had fled whenever they had the chance. But at that moment I wouldn't have traded places with a king or president.

Master came for me and showed me the washer and dryer, the cleaning supplies, the vacuum cleaner, and other things I'd need to know about. He employed a maid service, but I'd be responsible for making sure they did their job correctly and that everything was back in its proper place when they were done.

"Any questions?" he said.

I tried hard to think of a question, but nothing came to me.

"Then come with me," he said, and took my hand. "It's time to begin your training."

He led me down a hallway past the bedroom. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked a door, and led me into a room containing a bondage table, a Saint Andrew's cross, a tall cabinet, a wooden chair, and a floor lamp, which he switched on. A small collection of whips and paddles hung on a rack. In the center of the room, a rope with a hook hung from the ceiling down to about waist height; the other end of it was attached to a fitting on the wall.

"Stand next to the hook," Master said.

I stood by the hook, feeling fluttery and somehow more than naked. He went to the cabinet and took out a steel bar about two feet long with cuffs on each end, a set of leather handcuffs, and another length of rope. He took a cat o' nine tails from the rack. He cuffed my hands behind my back and bound my arms together at the elbow. He left the bar and whip on the floor.

"Kneel," he said, and I got on my knees, heels under my ass.

He pulled the chair over to me, sat, and said, "One of my duties, Emily, is to train you to be a slave. Not just any slave, but my slave. You need to learn how to please me, and also what to expect when I see fit to correct or discipline you. What we're going to do here will both please me and demonstrate my style of punishment.

"But before we start, I'm thinking I should have a naughty pet name for you. I've been mulling several possibilities: slut, cunt, skank, bitch, whore, bimbo. Do you have a preference?"

"No, Master."

"Whore won't do, I think, because I don't intend to sell your sexual services. Cunt isn't right, because there's a lot more to you than your genitalia. I don't like skank, because it implies a lack of cleanliness, and I intend to keep you very clean. A slut is a promiscuous woman, but I'm not going to allow you to be promiscuous, even if that's your inclination. Bitch is a possibility, but only because it can mean almost anything, as long as it's degrading. A bimbo is empty-headed, but I know your head is far from empty."

"Master is kind," I said.

"Do you have a favorite sex act? I could call you cocksucker, butt-girl, or maybe just plain cum-slut."

"I liked anal sex, Master, but I've only done it once."

"That was your first time, at the party? In front of a roomful of people?"

"Yes, Master."

"I wouldn't have done it if I'd known."

"I liked the people watching, Master. It was humiliating. It was a just punishment."

"Shall I call you butt-girl, then? Brownie? Exhibitionist?"

"Master will decide."

He sighed. "And then there are animal names - kitten, vixen, sow, cow, duck, hen . . . It's a difficult problem. I think I'll put off deciding till I've gotten to know you better."

He stood up, unfastened his pants, and took out his cock. It was hard already, maybe from the dirty talk. I wanted it: our talk had made me hot too, even though I hadn't liked his naughty names much. He came so close to me, I could have leaned forward and put my mouth around the head of it. I wanted to take it in my hand, but trying to reach for it reminded me that my arms were bound.

"Do you want to suck my cock, Emily?"

"Yes, Master."

"But that's not how we're going to do things," he said. "You must always be passive, and I'll be the actor. You don't suck my cock; I fuck your face."

He took my head in his hands and pulled me towards him sharply, and his cock rammed into my throat, hard and deep. My mouth instantly filled with saliva, and I started to gag. It was hard to think just then, but I tried to remember the web pages I'd read about how to deep throat: I hummed a little, stuck my tongue out, made fists of my hands behind me, breathed deeply, and managed not to throw up. It took concentration, but his excitement was hot, and currents of pleasure rushed all through my body.

It was violent and painful, and it went on and on, but I loved every second of it. Passivity felt good, I thought, even if it was hard work. My bonds felt good. I longed for him to control me, body and soul - I wanted to immerse myself in his will and desire and have none of my own. Thick drool overflowed my mouth and soaked his pubic hair.

He pulled out, bent down, and kissed me. "Naughty slave," he said. "Stand up. I can tell you've been having wicked thoughts, and you need to be punished."

He took the bar and fastened one of my ankles to each end, forcing my feet far apart. He hooked my handcuffs onto the rope behind my back; then he went over to where the other end was attached to the wall.

"This isn't supposed to be tight enough to hurt," he said, "but it can be painful or even dangerous if we're not careful. If you safeword, we'll stop. If you say it hurts, I'll listen to you, but I'll use my own judgment to decide what to do."

He pulled on the rope, lifting my arms behind me. He adjusted my position and the rope several times until my back was horizontal, my arms high above and behind me. The position was stressful - maintaining it would be a chore.

"Do you know what this is called?" he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

"Strappado." I'd been doing my homework.

"Not very comfortable, is it?" he said.

"No, Master."

"That's good, Emily. You must always be honest with me."

He was naked now, lean and tan, with strong chest and shoulders, flat belly, narrow hips. He picked up his cat o' nine tails. I wondered if this was his favorite toy. He walked around to my rear and hit me on the ass - a harder blow than he'd begun with at the play party, but still more pleasurable than painful. I twitched and said, "Oh!" He hit me again and again, in a steady rhythm, till my skin started to sting. Then he paused and hit me harder, making me gasp.

The whipping was like the one he'd given me at the party, but I quickly learned that it wouldn't do to twist and turn when tied in a strappado, since that made my shoulders hurt and my leg muscles burn. He took his time, pausing frequently, hitting just a little harder after each pause. The pain built so slowly, I could hardly tell when it went from stinging to burning, burning to excruciating. By the time he started to put his back into it, pausing many seconds after every blow and raising welts, I was euphoric and overwhelmed with arousal, my body singing. I shrieked with every blow and sobbed in between.

Master walked around to my front and petted my hair. "No safeword yet, Famula?" He said.

I shook my head.

"Have you ever used your safeword?"

I shook my head again. "No, Master."

"Still, I think that's enough," he said. He went to the cabinet again and returned with a little green jar, from which he applied some soothing cream to my sore bottom. His touch was as gentle as his whip had been cruel. I sighed with pleasure.

But then he set the jar down, grasped my hips, and shoved his cock into my damp, hot pussy.

It was so sudden it was painful, and I cried out. But then his cock stretched and filled me, it was exquisite, and I said, "Oh!" a drawn-out sigh.

But Master said, "Quiet, slave. Listen to your pussy."

I forced myself to be quiet and heard the slap of skin against skin and the liquid slurping and sucking of his cock driving into me. I was sure I'd never been so wet or so excited. All of me - aching shoulders, arching back. straining thighs - contracted into that one spot where he penetrated me. I'm a pool of hot cunt, I thought. Master's cunt.

Still thrusting hard, he squeezed my sore ass with both hands, then slapped it. My shoulders throbbed to his rhythm, my legs ached, and my tender skin blazed under his hands. He wrapped his arms around my waist and hammered me still harder, grunting with the effort, oh fuck it hurt, I'd never imagined sex could be like this and any man so forceful - my body shook with the pounding, my shoulders screamed with pain behind me, and I screamed too, a continuous screech.

I lost track of time - maybe he fucked me for five minutes, maybe an hour. His hands roved over my body, grasping my breasts, massaging my back, thrusting fingers into my mouth, rubbing my clit, exciting me more and more till I was on the point of coming. But just when I felt myself losing control, seconds from orgasm, he pulled out, came to my head, shoved his cock into my mouth, and fucked my face again, just a few deep strokes before he flooded me with his warm, viscous cum. He put a hand over my mouth and said, "Swallow, Emily."

My own desire surged inside me, bigger than I'd ever felt it - to serve him, to submit to his will, to be his nothing and his everything. I'm his cum-slut now, I thought, and swallowed.

He untied me, and I sat on the floor, knees drawn up, and massaged my sore shoulders. He sat in the chair and looked at me.

"Lie on the floor and spread your legs," he said.

I lay on the floor with my pussy towards him, legs spread, knees up.

"Spread your pussy," he said. "I want to see."

I pulled my labia apart, wondering why men loved looking at women this way.

"Your pussy is beautiful," he said, "wet and hot pink inside. Your vagina's still open - it's a dark tunnel. After the waxing you'll be even more beautiful."

His gaze and his words were heating me up. I shifted a little on the floor.

Master slid off the chair and knelt between my legs. He wrapped his arms around my thighs, lifted me to him so I rested on my shoulders, and sank his lips into my pussy, lapping up my wetness.

Oh, what a gift! I felt his breath on me, his hard tongue probing my slit and my vagina, teasing my clitoris, lighting up my torso and limbs. But no! He was eating me out, growling into my pussy, for himself, not me - that was what we'd promised each other. His gift to me was to take me and use me for his own pleasure, and the thought aroused me, even more than his tongue and lips, till once again I was seconds from orgasm. But as if he'd read my mind, Master set me down, stood over my head, and stroked his cock, hard again.