Slave Girl Emily Ch. 03

My body was trembling with need - I had to find relief.

"Master, can I masturbate?" I asked.

"No, Emily, not now."

"Please, Master, I need to come."

"Don't argue, slave," he said. "That gets you a punishment."

He straddled my face and sat down, pressing his anus against my mouth. Oh fuck, I thought. I'd had fantasies about this, and even enjoyed online videos of women rimming men and men rimming women - but I'd never come close to actually doing it. My mouth watered as my lips met his asshole.

"Lick it, Emily," Master said. His anus was tight and brown and lightly haired - and I wet it with my tongue. I'm really a bottom now, I thought, and savored the humiliation as he jerked off above me, balls slapping my nose, and his anus scrubbed my mouth.

He groaned, lifted himself a little, and pointed his cock down at my face, still jerking off, till he came, not so much as before - but the spurt and drip of his cum on my nose and cheeks felt like the harshest slash of his whip.

He climbed off me and stood up. Surely he'd let me come now. "Please, Master," I begged.

"We have to stop, Emily. We have to get ready to go to dinner."

I whimpered a little - I couldn't help it. I was all hot, needy pussy, and eating seemed an impossibility.

He got up and dressed. I had nothing to put on, so I just watched him, fevered and desolate. "Come," he said, and I rose and trailed him out of the room.

He led me to the bedroom, went to the closet, and took out the one dress he'd left me, a flouncy one with a black-and-white pattern. "Put this on," he said, "and those red shoes," pointing to the only shoes I had besides sneakers. On the closet shelf there was a black leather purse with silver fittings - not mine; he'd thrown mine away. He picked it up, said "Come to the living room when you're ready," and carried it to the door, where he paused and turned around.

"Oh, and Emily," he said, "don't forget to wash your face. And don't you dare masturbate before I tell you to."

I washed up, changed, and presented myself to Master, who was relaxing on the living room sofa, looking cool and collected. I'd managed to calm down a little, but his gaze heated me up instantly. "Very nice," he said. He came to me, lifted the hem of the dress, and peered underneath.

"Oh, no," he said. "That won't do. No panties allowed."

I gave him a stricken look, but said, "Yes, Master," and went back to the bedroom.

He was still standing when I returned, feeling naughty even though I knew no one would know I was naked under the dress. He handed me the purse and said, "While we're out, you'll speak to no one but me. Not the taxi driver, not a waiter. If you see a friend, you can smile and wave, but say nothing till I give you permission. You'll follow my instructions without question, just as you'd do here at home."

"Of course, Master," I said, wondering why he thought he needed to point that out.

He took me to one of those wonderful holes in the wall, informal and dimly lit, with lots of intimate booths and great food - the kind of place you never read about in the Times, but only hear of from friends. The waiter who came to our booth had on a plain black T shirt, black pants, black hair of the sort you can only get by dying it (I should know), and a fabulous collection of tattoos - skulls, roses, griffins, dragons, all kinds of things worked together into beautiful collages that cascaded down both arms. He had a collar, too - a plain black one with a bronze lock.

He introduced himself as Jonathan and asked if we wanted a drink. Master ordered chardonnays for both of us, and Jonathan gave no sign that he thought it in any way strange that he didn't consult me. No surprise, I thought, if the collar isn't just decorative.

When he'd gone to fetch our wine, Master said, "Relationships in the lifestyle always seem bizarre to anyone who's outside looking in. To them, our life looks like an endless round of abuse - perverse and completely loveless. There are even people in the BDSM community who believe that love isn't possible for us. I don't agree. I believe ours is a path that leads to love - not a path that everyone can or should choose, but one that works well for a select group of people.

"This afternoon you gave me the greatest gift a submissive can give to a Dominant. You saw me with the whip, and even so you made yourself helpless for me. You accepted the risk that I'd harm you and trusted that I wouldn't. That was a greater gift than anyone in a vanilla relationship can give to a lover."

"Master is kind," I said, thinking I'd let him tie me to a railroad track just then, if he wanted.

He continued, "Not everyone, even inside the community, understands that a Dom has to give a similar gift of trust. When I'm whipping you, having rough sex with you, or humiliating you at a party, I have to trust that you've communicated your limits to me truthfully, so I know where the line is between pleasurable and hurtful, or hurtful and unendurable. If I don't know your limits, then I run the risk of exceeding them, which would break the bond between us and make love impossible."

Listening to him, I felt a little queasy. I knew what was coming.

"It's hard for me to do my share of trusting, Emily, because I don't know where your limits are. You've left me to stumble across them for myself. I can only do that by violating them, and when I do, it may lessen your trust for me and make it harder to build our relationship."

"I'm sorry, Master," I said, "but I don't know where my limits are either."

He sighed and said, "Then we'll have to explore and try to find them. Put your hand on your pussy."

"Master?"

"Hike up your dress and put your hand underneath - touch your clitoris."

I put my right hand under the table, lifted my dress, and touched my pussy as he'd instructed. It was scary even though the table and my dress hid what I was doing.

"Masturbate," he said. "Move your hand and stimulate yourself."

I started to rub my clit lightly, hoping it wouldn't be too obvious.

"Look around the restaurant," he said. "It's after nine, and this place is almost full. There must be another dozen couples here, and four or five bigger groups. And here you are, in the middle of a crowd, masturbating."

I looked around. It was true: on this Friday the place was packed with respectable-looking people chatting and eating. My face was heating up, and my pussy was getting wet under my fingers.

"What would they think of you if they figured out what you're doing?" he asked. "What would they do? Do you think they'd be outraged? Would they call the manager and demand that you be thrown out? Would one of them call the police?"

"I don't know, Master," I said in a very small voice, feeling hot and edgy. "May I stop masturbating now?"

"No, you may not," he said. "I'll punish you severely if you stop masturbating. Perhaps tomorrow I'll make you masturbate on the subway, or a city bus. How would you hide your pussy if I did that? Do you think you could do it?"

"I don't know, Master." I was afraid, and my fingers felt magical on my pussy - energy was coursing through my body.

Jonathan approached with our wineglasses. I hastily took my hand out from under my dress and laid it on the table. He gave us a warm smile and said, "Are you ready to order?"

We'd been ignoring our menus. Master looked at me and said, "Do you know what you want to order, Emily?" He was teasing me - I knew he'd never make me choose.

I shook my head.

Without looking at the menu, he said, "We'll both have the tomato soup and then the red snapper. We'll decide on dessert later."

Jonathan said, "Thank you," and left.

Master frowned and said, "You've disobeyed me, Famula. I told you not to stop masturbating. I'll have to punish you."

My stomach gave a lurch.

"I'll see to it when we get home. Now go on masturbating," Master said, "and don't stop till I tell you."

Again I hiked up my dress and touched my clit - again my pussy grew hot and wet under my hand.

"Does it feel good, Famula?" Master asked.

"Yes, Master."

"You haven't discovered a limit yet?" Master asked.

"No, Master."

"Look in your purse," Master said. "You can stop masturbating while you do it."

I opened the purse and saw a little pink bullet vibrator with a loop on one end and a matching remote control. The purse also held a set of Ben Wa balls, a little tube of lubricant, and a packet of tissues.

"Lubricate the vibrator, Famula, and put it in your vagina," Master said. "Then wipe your fingers with a tissue."

As I took out the vibrator and lubricated it, holding it under the table, my hands shook so badly that I almost dropped both the vibrator and the lube. But I managed to slide the vibrator all the way into me, leaving just the loop outside. I had to scoot forward in the seat to do it. I used a couple of the tissues to wipe my fingers.

"Give me the remote, Famula."

I handed it to him, and he turned it on. It made almost no noise, thank heaven. A vibrator works fast: pleasure radiated from my pussy and lit up my whole body.

"Fingers back on your clitoris, Famula."

I stared at Master as I masturbated, enthralled by the hard look of him, not quite believing what he was making me do, that I was doing it, and that I could be so turned on in this public place.

Master touched the remote, and the intensity of the vibrations increased. He said, "Your face is flushed, Emily, and you're radiantly beautiful. I believe this kind of play agrees with you. Pity we can't get away with a blowjob, because I'm getting a hard-on watching you."

"Master," I said, "May I - "

"Not yet, Emily," he said, holding the remote under the table. "The waiter's coming with our soup, and you don't want to frighten him."

This time I knew better than to stop masturbating. Master stepped the intensity up again as Jonathan set down the soup bowls and spoons. I gasped, and the waiter stared, then looked away. I was trying to keep my body under control, though the effort not to move my hips and moan was, if anything, turning me on even more. I was slouching in my seat obscenely, and I'm sure my mouth was hanging open, my eyes vacant. Master smiled reassuringly, and the waiter hurried away. He must have guessed what I was doing under the table - but either he was okay with it or unwilling to put his tip at risk.

"Master, please," I begged, thinking I was about to explode.

"Okay, Emily, you can come now," he said, and turned the vibrator up again. I masturbated frantically, mouth open, breathing heavily, staring at Master.

You absolutely cannot stay completely still when you come: I dare you to try. You have to move your hips at least a little, and you have to pant - you just need the air - but you don't have to cry out, and your breasts don't have to heave. It is possible to get away with it, and I did, that night.

Almost.

He turned off the vibrator and handed me the remote.

I put it in my purse and said, "May I visit the restroom, Master?"

"Take your purse with you," he said. "Take out the vibrator and put in the Ben Wa balls."

I walked, weak and unsteady, to the back of the restaurant. The little hallway leading to the restrooms also led to the kitchen. Our waiter was coming from the kitchen, and we stopped and stared at each other by the ladies' room door. His eyes were shining. He took a quick step towards me, grabbed my right hand, and held it to his nose.

"Yes!" he hissed, put my fingers in his mouth, and sucked on them. I was too startled to pull away - and besides, what he was doing felt good.

He let go of my hand and said, "You're a slave, aren't you?"

I just looked at him, eyes wide.

"You don't have permission to speak, right?"

I nodded.

"I get it," he said. "I'm a slave, too. Look." He lifted his shirt a little and pulled down his waistband a couple of inches to reveal an elegant tattoo of two oriental characters. "It's dorei, Japanese for slave. I'm glad you're obeying your master. Nothing makes me happier than obeying my Master."

I smiled and touched his collar.

He took me by the shoulders, kissed me on one cheek, and said, "You're so fucking hot." Then he hurried away to the dining room. I went into the ladies' room, peed, lubricated myself, and put in the Ben Wa balls, which stimulated me mildly as I walked to the sink. I washed up and went back to Master, pleased with the sensation of the balls in my vagina.

Master spent the rest of our dinner trying to explore my limits by asking questions. How had I liked it when he'd called me a slut at the party? Had I enjoyed the fox's ears and tail? Being called a vixen? Displaying my anus to the crowd? How did I feel about humiliation generally? How would I say the pain he'd inflicted would rate on a scale of one to ten? Had I been ready for him to stop when he did, or had I wanted more flogging? How had I felt about him sitting on my face? Did I have a favorite type of whip, or any that I wanted to avoid? How many ways could I remember being tied up? Had I ever been suspended? Blindfolded? Had anyone ever used clamps on my nipples or labia? Administered electrical shocks? Had I ever made love to a woman? To more than one person at a time? Had I ever been sexually assaulted? Did I favor any fetishes (feet, urine, animals)?

I couldn't say much about the things he mentioned that I'd never experienced, but I'd liked everything that had been done to me as a slave, so by the time he'd asked all his questions, we were no closer to discovering my limits.

But as I gave him answers, revealing more of myself to him and feeling the stimulation of the Ben Wa balls every time I shifted in my seat, I gradually got more and more aroused, until finally I was as hot as when I'd masturbated over the soup course.

Master said, "Do you want dessert, Famula?"

I hesitated for a moment, afraid to say what I wanted - but finally worked up the courage to say, "I'd rather be at home with Master."

He studied me for a few seconds, evaluating my request. Then he said, "Yes, Famula. I think it's time to take you home."

We said nothing in the taxi or in the elevator. It wasn't until we were in his apartment and he'd closed the door behind us that either of us spoke.

I fell to my knees, eyes downcast, feeling miserable, and said, "I'm sorry, Master."

"What?" he said. Then he said, "Oh, yes, I'd almost forgotten!"

I stole a glance at him: he was grinning wolfishly.

"Of course," he said, "I owe you a punishment for when you stopped masturbating."

I burst into tears, and desire swept through my body like a wildfire.