This is an adult blog, containing graphic and detailed descriptions of sexual situations and BDSM themes. Read at your own risk.
I don't know, really, how long we've lain here, but gradually I become aware that there is a crick in my neck, my arm and shoulder feel numb, and the sweat on my body has dried, so I feel chilled. I shiver, and yawn, and Master's hand stops carding through my hair and rests on my shoulder. It's so very warm, his hand. My stomach chooses that moment to growl rather loudly, and Master chuckles. He shifts, so I pull away and sit up.
"Hungry, pet?" he asks. I duck my head a bit sheepishly, and affirm that yes, I could stand to eat something. We clamber off the bed, and I stoop to retrieve my discarded clothes, but Master tells me not to get dressed, so I just step over them instead, and head downstairs. The wood floor is cold under my feet, but thankfully, most of the downstairs area in the house is covered with area rugs. I take a seat at the kitchen table (oh, my god, the chair is so cold against my skin!) while Master rummages through the cabinets for some cooking pots. In a surprisingly short time we are sampling succulent pork chops cooked with onions and apples, and tender mixed vegetables. As I've mentioned, Master is a terrific cook, and I eagerly eat what he's graciously prepared for me.
After the clean-up, we move to the living room, where Master sits on the couch to relax with some TV. When I try to join him, he stops me.
"Why, pet - do you think pets should be allowed on the furniture?"
I say nothing, but lower myself to the floor next to him, close enough to lean against his leg and rest my head on his knee. The floor feels very hard under the thin rug, and I have to shift position every few minutes to relieve the pressure. I wrap an arm around Master's leg, and he allows it. I sigh in contentment; I enjoy being quiet with him like this. We watch TV for a while, him on the couch, me sitting in the floor at his feet. I like it, even when my joints begin to tire from my cramped position.
Eventually, Master's hand pets my head, once, twice, a third time; then his fingers tangle in my hair, and he pulls my head back, so that I am gazing up at him.
"Are you enjoying yourself, pet?" he asks.
"Yes, Master," I reply.
"And is my whore eager to please and serve her Master?" he asks. My heart skips a beat in anticipation, tinged with just a hint of nervousness. My mouth suddenly feels dry.
"Yes, Master," I say.
He lets go of my hair and leans forward to shove the coffee table out of the way. Then he leans back against the couch cushions. "I think my whore should suck my cock," he says.
I scoot around his foot to kneel before him, and lean forward to pull his cock in my mouth. I'm terribly conscious of the meal I've just had, and I'm a bit scared I'll gag myself enough to lose my dinner. I gag at least a couple times, every time. For now, though, I breathe as shallowly as I can, and focus on the way his cock feels as it fills my mouth, how it glides over my tongue, how it swells as I'm suckling him. I shift on my knees and wrap my hand around the base of his shaft, squeezing and stroking him while I continue to suck his cock. My jaw is tiring; I can feel it beginning to ache, and I'm having trouble opening my mouth wide. I do gag, then, and I pull away quickly, swallowing against the lurch in my stomach which threatens to bring up my recent meal.
Master take pity on me, then, and tells me to budge over, so I shift around his foot again so he can stand up. He tells me to follow him, and I start to stand - but he stops me. "No, pet. Crawl, please."
He heads for the stairs, trusting that I will comply and follow him. I get to my hands and knees - my poor aching knees! - and begin crawling after him. My knees are scuffed on the rug, and the wood floor beneath them feels almost like stone. The charm of my collar swings as I move, bouncing off my sternum and then swinging under my chin. It's awkward, crawling up those steps, but Master is waiting for me, so I slowly make my way up, and up, until finally, I reach the top. My knees feel a bit sore, to be honest; I sit back on my haunches for a minute to rest them.
When I glance up, Master is watching me with a smile quirking his lips. I crawl over to him and halt with my head touching the side of his leg. I'm a little bit tired, so I'm glad for this moment of quiet.
Master touches my head briefly, and commands me to follow him again. He strides into the largest bedroom again, and I follow on my hands and knees. When I reach him where he stands near the bed, he bids me to assume Position III. I stand up, swaying slightly on suddenly-wobbly legs, and clasp my hands behind my back, focusing my gaze on one of the ornately-carved bedposts. I can't help but remember what transpired in this room, with these very bedposts, mere hours ago, and I smile.
Master circles me, his hand trailing from my arm around my back and across my chest to my arm again. He comes to a stop in front of me, and puts his finger under my chin, tipping my head back until I meet his gaze.
"You have done well, my whore," he says. "You are not being punished; you are not in trouble. Remember that."
"Yes, Master."
With his eyes locked on mine, he cradles my right breast in his left palm, then raises his right hand and slaps my breast, hard. I let out a choked whimper as the sting registers. I can't honestly say it's incredibly painful, but it doesn't exactly tickle, either. He slaps me again, and I flinch. He gently runs his thumb over my nipple before allowing my breast to slide off his palm. I swallow, and blink rapidly. My flesh feels tender, and I'm sure bruises will be blossoming on my pale skin in just a few minutes. That, of course, is the whole point, a marking of his property, a claim of ownership. He cradles my left breast, and I tense, because I know what's coming - and yes, he slaps my breast hard, once, twice, a third time. The last crack seems somehow fiercer than the others, and I flinch again.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "I can see such pretty bruises already."
I look down at my breasts, and yes, already I can see darkened areas which roughly correspond to the shape of fingers. I smile, then, because I do like to have a few bruises for remembrance, and these are going to be dark and lovely.
Master pinches my nipple, drawing a hiss from me, then steps back. He sits on the edge of the bed, and tells me to come stand before him. I keep my hands tucked behind back as I comply. He reaches out and takes hold of my breasts, lifting them slightly as he inspects them. I imagine he is admiring the effects of his work, the imprints of his fingers. He begins to play with the nipples, rolling them between his fingers, lightly pinching them, almost absently playing with them as he contemplates me.
"Who are you?" he asks.
"I am your whore, Master," I reply.
"Mmm, yes, you are," he agrees, then falls silent for a moment. His fingers are continuing their sensual assault, and the lingering sting from his earlier slaps has faded. All I feel now it the way my nipples have pebbled, and how they respond to his touch. And even though he's used me, leaving me slightly sore, and allowed me to cum twice already today, I feel a tendril of sexual desire stirring within me.
"And are you a good whore?" he asks. Before I can answer, his hand snakes down to rub across my clit, causing me to suck in a surprised breath and stumble over my words.
"Y-yes, Master," I gasp, and my head dips back involuntarily before I catch myself. His fingers on my pussy are driving and firm, delving deep inside me, and already I can feel my juices coating his fingers. He pumps his fingers, in and out, in and out, making my legs tremble. I shift my feet a bit further apart to try and give him easier access. His thumb brushes over my clit, and my whole body shudders as I moan softly. Then he pulls away and offers his fingers to me, touching my lower lip, so I open my mouth and suck them clean.
His fingers return to my pussy, stroking me, pressing inside me, pulling out again, and all the while I'm trying to be stoic, but I can't help the little whimpers and moans which break from my lips. My body starts to bend forward of its own volition, and he commands me to stand up straight. I try, I really do, but it's becoming difficult, and then he orders, "Recite."
I open my mouth on another moan and begin speaking the seven stanzas of my devotional, my daily verbal affirmation to the ideals of submission that Master has set for me. Partway through the second line, my voice breaks as a strong wave of desire spears me. I shift my weight and try to twist away from the torture his fingers are causing - trying to be all subtle and unobtrusive about it, but of course, he knows what's happening and refuses to allow me to get away. I continue my recitation, my voice sometimes catching, sometimes rising, once even squeaking because the buildup of need and desire is stealing my breath. I finish my recital and he immediately orders me to recite again. The second recitation is breathier then the first, disjointed, and sometimes my voice breaks or I have to suck in a huge breath in the middle of a word. I'm swaying on my feet, battling to remain upright, because my body wants so badly to bend forward, trying to relieve the pressure of his fingers. I finally stumble my way to the end of my devotional, and fall silent - well, silent other than my panting and whimpers.
"Who are you?" he asks again.
"Your whore, M-master," I reply, and pant, and shudder. Honestly, I know I came twice already, but my pussy is dripping wet and I feel like I'm on fire, the need to cum is becoming urgent and I would really, really like to ease that fierce aching.
"And ...?" he prompts me.
I whimper again, then say, "Your sub, your pet, your slut, and your kitten, Master." I twist my fingers together behind my back; my arms are aching from being held behind my back for so long, and my legs feel like they're made of Jell-O, all wobbly and unstable. My head drops back and my eyes close, and I bite my lip to contain yet another moan. God dammit, I really want to cum.
"What's the matter, whore?" he wants to know. Oh, he's being evil. And God help me, but I kinda like it.
"Nothing's the matter, Master," I pant. No, really, I'm panting for real now, having a little trouble catching my breath, and my heart feels like it may hammer out of my chest. I straighten up as best I can, and twine my fingers together.
"No? All right," he says, and his fingers are fucking me as I stand there. If it is possible to writhe when standing, I'm doing it now, and I choke on a loud moan, because he has just brushed my clit again and honest to God, I think I may explode if he does that one more time. I shudder violently, almost losing my balance.
He plants his free hand against my back and pulls me closer, leaning up to capture my left nipple in his mouth. I drop my head back again and there's no containing the long, loud moan which breaks from my lips now. He leans back, capturing my nipple in his teeth and stretching my flesh as he pulls away, finally letting go with a quick nip. My body bucks as I suck in my breath, and I am trembling on the edge of climax right now, and it hurts, it's so consuming, and I really, really need to cum, now.
"Who owns you?" he demands, and his fingers, if possible, plunge deeper, stroke faster, press inside harder, and I give a sob of frustration and unmet need. He likes to do this, to bring me to the edge and force me to hover there, and it hurts so goddamn bad right now.
"You! You do, Master," I say, but my voice sounds strange in my ears, all thick and gravelly. "I am your whore, only yours." I'm panting like I've run a race, and my heart is pounding in my ears.
"MY whore," he says, and his voice is both triumphant and possessive. If I were not drowning in a maelstrom of my own desire, I might feel a touch of triumph, myself.
But finally, finally, Master decides I've endured long enough, and he leans in close once again. "Cum. Now."
My orgasm breaks over me, pulling me under and tossing me violently sideways, like the undertow in the ocean. If he were not bracing me I really think I would have fallen. I throw my head back and wail, my voice sounding a long, winding cry as my entire body tenses and then explodes. I have never experienced a blackout orgasm, like other people have described, but this one comes damned close, leaving me dizzy and almost disoriented when it passes. I find myself panting in great gasping breaths, my body shaking visibly, my head resting on Master's shoulder, though I do not remember leaning forward - or maybe I fell into him? I really don't know.
His hand is stroking my back - I love it when he does that - only I can't remember when he started. I just know that he is. I feel wrung out, and suddenly exhausted, and (this thought makes me laugh tiredly in my head) I think that this climax will hold me for a while. Master shifts so that I can basically fall onto the bed, and I curl up with my knees drawn up nearly to my chest, lying there next to him, panting and still trembling and utterly worn out. Perhaps in a while I'll have energy enough to go try out that amazing tub, and I will admire my bruises and soak away my soreness, but right now, I don't want to move even an inch.
Master draws up a light blanket and covers me with it, and I mumble a tired "Thank you, Master." And I mean it - not just for the blanket, not just for the orgasms, not just for my pretty bruises, but for the care and concern he shows as he guides and mentors and owns and commands me.
I don't know, really, how long we've lain here, but gradually I become aware that there is a crick in my neck, my arm and shoulder feel numb, and the sweat on my body has dried, so I feel chilled. I shiver, and yawn, and Master's hand stops carding through my hair and rests on my shoulder. It's so very warm, his hand. My stomach chooses that moment to growl rather loudly, and Master chuckles. He shifts, so I pull away and sit up.
"Hungry, pet?" he asks. I duck my head a bit sheepishly, and affirm that yes, I could stand to eat something. We clamber off the bed, and I stoop to retrieve my discarded clothes, but Master tells me not to get dressed, so I just step over them instead, and head downstairs. The wood floor is cold under my feet, but thankfully, most of the downstairs area in the house is covered with area rugs. I take a seat at the kitchen table (oh, my god, the chair is so cold against my skin!) while Master rummages through the cabinets for some cooking pots. In a surprisingly short time we are sampling succulent pork chops cooked with onions and apples, and tender mixed vegetables. As I've mentioned, Master is a terrific cook, and I eagerly eat what he's graciously prepared for me.
After the clean-up, we move to the living room, where Master sits on the couch to relax with some TV. When I try to join him, he stops me.
"Why, pet - do you think pets should be allowed on the furniture?"
I say nothing, but lower myself to the floor next to him, close enough to lean against his leg and rest my head on his knee. The floor feels very hard under the thin rug, and I have to shift position every few minutes to relieve the pressure. I wrap an arm around Master's leg, and he allows it. I sigh in contentment; I enjoy being quiet with him like this. We watch TV for a while, him on the couch, me sitting in the floor at his feet. I like it, even when my joints begin to tire from my cramped position.
Eventually, Master's hand pets my head, once, twice, a third time; then his fingers tangle in my hair, and he pulls my head back, so that I am gazing up at him.
"Are you enjoying yourself, pet?" he asks.
"Yes, Master," I reply.
"And is my whore eager to please and serve her Master?" he asks. My heart skips a beat in anticipation, tinged with just a hint of nervousness. My mouth suddenly feels dry.
"Yes, Master," I say.
He lets go of my hair and leans forward to shove the coffee table out of the way. Then he leans back against the couch cushions. "I think my whore should suck my cock," he says.
I scoot around his foot to kneel before him, and lean forward to pull his cock in my mouth. I'm terribly conscious of the meal I've just had, and I'm a bit scared I'll gag myself enough to lose my dinner. I gag at least a couple times, every time. For now, though, I breathe as shallowly as I can, and focus on the way his cock feels as it fills my mouth, how it glides over my tongue, how it swells as I'm suckling him. I shift on my knees and wrap my hand around the base of his shaft, squeezing and stroking him while I continue to suck his cock. My jaw is tiring; I can feel it beginning to ache, and I'm having trouble opening my mouth wide. I do gag, then, and I pull away quickly, swallowing against the lurch in my stomach which threatens to bring up my recent meal.
Master take pity on me, then, and tells me to budge over, so I shift around his foot again so he can stand up. He tells me to follow him, and I start to stand - but he stops me. "No, pet. Crawl, please."
He heads for the stairs, trusting that I will comply and follow him. I get to my hands and knees - my poor aching knees! - and begin crawling after him. My knees are scuffed on the rug, and the wood floor beneath them feels almost like stone. The charm of my collar swings as I move, bouncing off my sternum and then swinging under my chin. It's awkward, crawling up those steps, but Master is waiting for me, so I slowly make my way up, and up, until finally, I reach the top. My knees feel a bit sore, to be honest; I sit back on my haunches for a minute to rest them.
When I glance up, Master is watching me with a smile quirking his lips. I crawl over to him and halt with my head touching the side of his leg. I'm a little bit tired, so I'm glad for this moment of quiet.
Master touches my head briefly, and commands me to follow him again. He strides into the largest bedroom again, and I follow on my hands and knees. When I reach him where he stands near the bed, he bids me to assume Position III. I stand up, swaying slightly on suddenly-wobbly legs, and clasp my hands behind my back, focusing my gaze on one of the ornately-carved bedposts. I can't help but remember what transpired in this room, with these very bedposts, mere hours ago, and I smile.
Master circles me, his hand trailing from my arm around my back and across my chest to my arm again. He comes to a stop in front of me, and puts his finger under my chin, tipping my head back until I meet his gaze.
"You have done well, my whore," he says. "You are not being punished; you are not in trouble. Remember that."
"Yes, Master."
With his eyes locked on mine, he cradles my right breast in his left palm, then raises his right hand and slaps my breast, hard. I let out a choked whimper as the sting registers. I can't honestly say it's incredibly painful, but it doesn't exactly tickle, either. He slaps me again, and I flinch. He gently runs his thumb over my nipple before allowing my breast to slide off his palm. I swallow, and blink rapidly. My flesh feels tender, and I'm sure bruises will be blossoming on my pale skin in just a few minutes. That, of course, is the whole point, a marking of his property, a claim of ownership. He cradles my left breast, and I tense, because I know what's coming - and yes, he slaps my breast hard, once, twice, a third time. The last crack seems somehow fiercer than the others, and I flinch again.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "I can see such pretty bruises already."
I look down at my breasts, and yes, already I can see darkened areas which roughly correspond to the shape of fingers. I smile, then, because I do like to have a few bruises for remembrance, and these are going to be dark and lovely.
Master pinches my nipple, drawing a hiss from me, then steps back. He sits on the edge of the bed, and tells me to come stand before him. I keep my hands tucked behind back as I comply. He reaches out and takes hold of my breasts, lifting them slightly as he inspects them. I imagine he is admiring the effects of his work, the imprints of his fingers. He begins to play with the nipples, rolling them between his fingers, lightly pinching them, almost absently playing with them as he contemplates me.
"Who are you?" he asks.
"I am your whore, Master," I reply.
"Mmm, yes, you are," he agrees, then falls silent for a moment. His fingers are continuing their sensual assault, and the lingering sting from his earlier slaps has faded. All I feel now it the way my nipples have pebbled, and how they respond to his touch. And even though he's used me, leaving me slightly sore, and allowed me to cum twice already today, I feel a tendril of sexual desire stirring within me.
"And are you a good whore?" he asks. Before I can answer, his hand snakes down to rub across my clit, causing me to suck in a surprised breath and stumble over my words.
"Y-yes, Master," I gasp, and my head dips back involuntarily before I catch myself. His fingers on my pussy are driving and firm, delving deep inside me, and already I can feel my juices coating his fingers. He pumps his fingers, in and out, in and out, making my legs tremble. I shift my feet a bit further apart to try and give him easier access. His thumb brushes over my clit, and my whole body shudders as I moan softly. Then he pulls away and offers his fingers to me, touching my lower lip, so I open my mouth and suck them clean.
His fingers return to my pussy, stroking me, pressing inside me, pulling out again, and all the while I'm trying to be stoic, but I can't help the little whimpers and moans which break from my lips. My body starts to bend forward of its own volition, and he commands me to stand up straight. I try, I really do, but it's becoming difficult, and then he orders, "Recite."
I open my mouth on another moan and begin speaking the seven stanzas of my devotional, my daily verbal affirmation to the ideals of submission that Master has set for me. Partway through the second line, my voice breaks as a strong wave of desire spears me. I shift my weight and try to twist away from the torture his fingers are causing - trying to be all subtle and unobtrusive about it, but of course, he knows what's happening and refuses to allow me to get away. I continue my recitation, my voice sometimes catching, sometimes rising, once even squeaking because the buildup of need and desire is stealing my breath. I finish my recital and he immediately orders me to recite again. The second recitation is breathier then the first, disjointed, and sometimes my voice breaks or I have to suck in a huge breath in the middle of a word. I'm swaying on my feet, battling to remain upright, because my body wants so badly to bend forward, trying to relieve the pressure of his fingers. I finally stumble my way to the end of my devotional, and fall silent - well, silent other than my panting and whimpers.
"Who are you?" he asks again.
"Your whore, M-master," I reply, and pant, and shudder. Honestly, I know I came twice already, but my pussy is dripping wet and I feel like I'm on fire, the need to cum is becoming urgent and I would really, really like to ease that fierce aching.
"And ...?" he prompts me.
I whimper again, then say, "Your sub, your pet, your slut, and your kitten, Master." I twist my fingers together behind my back; my arms are aching from being held behind my back for so long, and my legs feel like they're made of Jell-O, all wobbly and unstable. My head drops back and my eyes close, and I bite my lip to contain yet another moan. God dammit, I really want to cum.
"What's the matter, whore?" he wants to know. Oh, he's being evil. And God help me, but I kinda like it.
"Nothing's the matter, Master," I pant. No, really, I'm panting for real now, having a little trouble catching my breath, and my heart feels like it may hammer out of my chest. I straighten up as best I can, and twine my fingers together.
"No? All right," he says, and his fingers are fucking me as I stand there. If it is possible to writhe when standing, I'm doing it now, and I choke on a loud moan, because he has just brushed my clit again and honest to God, I think I may explode if he does that one more time. I shudder violently, almost losing my balance.
He plants his free hand against my back and pulls me closer, leaning up to capture my left nipple in his mouth. I drop my head back again and there's no containing the long, loud moan which breaks from my lips now. He leans back, capturing my nipple in his teeth and stretching my flesh as he pulls away, finally letting go with a quick nip. My body bucks as I suck in my breath, and I am trembling on the edge of climax right now, and it hurts, it's so consuming, and I really, really need to cum, now.
"Who owns you?" he demands, and his fingers, if possible, plunge deeper, stroke faster, press inside harder, and I give a sob of frustration and unmet need. He likes to do this, to bring me to the edge and force me to hover there, and it hurts so goddamn bad right now.
"You! You do, Master," I say, but my voice sounds strange in my ears, all thick and gravelly. "I am your whore, only yours." I'm panting like I've run a race, and my heart is pounding in my ears.
"MY whore," he says, and his voice is both triumphant and possessive. If I were not drowning in a maelstrom of my own desire, I might feel a touch of triumph, myself.
But finally, finally, Master decides I've endured long enough, and he leans in close once again. "Cum. Now."
My orgasm breaks over me, pulling me under and tossing me violently sideways, like the undertow in the ocean. If he were not bracing me I really think I would have fallen. I throw my head back and wail, my voice sounding a long, winding cry as my entire body tenses and then explodes. I have never experienced a blackout orgasm, like other people have described, but this one comes damned close, leaving me dizzy and almost disoriented when it passes. I find myself panting in great gasping breaths, my body shaking visibly, my head resting on Master's shoulder, though I do not remember leaning forward - or maybe I fell into him? I really don't know.
His hand is stroking my back - I love it when he does that - only I can't remember when he started. I just know that he is. I feel wrung out, and suddenly exhausted, and (this thought makes me laugh tiredly in my head) I think that this climax will hold me for a while. Master shifts so that I can basically fall onto the bed, and I curl up with my knees drawn up nearly to my chest, lying there next to him, panting and still trembling and utterly worn out. Perhaps in a while I'll have energy enough to go try out that amazing tub, and I will admire my bruises and soak away my soreness, but right now, I don't want to move even an inch.
Master draws up a light blanket and covers me with it, and I mumble a tired "Thank you, Master." And I mean it - not just for the blanket, not just for the orgasms, not just for my pretty bruises, but for the care and concern he shows as he guides and mentors and owns and commands me.
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