by January Rowe
Age and race is not important to me, only a females desire to be obedient and respectfull is required. Experience is a plus, but have no problem training one who is unexperienced, both should be bi sexual, or be very bi currious.
I own my home at a small lake resort in minnesota and both must be willing to relocate to me after a short time of chating online and over the phone. I am semi retired, so I will have pleanty of time to tend to both slaves. I will answer all serious replys, and I take this lifestyle very seriously, it’s not just a game for me, it’s my way of life.
Mon
***
I gave the Home Depot sign a good two weeks to settle—to be absolutely sure. Once certain I was over Ridge, I decided to return to Hell Mary’s.
I had some unfinished business with the DM.
I arrived late. Only the most devoted long-term couples were still using the playspace.
The DM was talking to Sandi near the entrance. She saw me and sent me an exuberant air-kiss. I waved. The DM gave me a polite nod. I slipped into the dressing alcove to get naked.
When I’d stripped and drew the alcove curtain aside, a big khaki-clad body blocked my exit.
“Do you have your head on straight?” the DM asked me.
His question threw me off balance. I had this cute and clever plan to get his attention, and this wasn’t it.
I blinked up at him, my heart skittering. “Yes, Sir.”
His face was stern and uncompromising. I thought he’d say he didn’t believe me.
“Put your clothes back on, Briony.”
No playing with him. My heart sank. Rejection didn’t feel good, even with my head on straight. “Yes, Sir.”
I ducked back into the dressing alcove and put on my clothes. The DM was still standing at the curtain when I stepped out. Sandi stood next to him, an odd grin on her face, making letters in the air with his DM laser pen.
Strangeness.
He gazed down at me. “You’re coming home with me.”
Chapter Six
I lay splayed out, still fully clothed, on the table in the doctor DM’s neat yellow kitchen. I was thrilled to finally be his quarry.
He didn’t live in the mansion of my fantasies. Instead his place was a somewhat sparse modern loft. He’d fastened my wrists and ankles to the table legs with mismatched dishtowels. I thought his bondage was hilarious. I absolutely loved it.
I tested my dishtowel bonds. Not fancy, but comfortable and secure, made up of intriguing knots. “Hey, they work.”
“Of course they do, my materialistic subbie.”
“I am not materialistic, Sir.”
“Oh, you are. You’re dependent on elaborate toys, on equipment.” He looked down at me with singular intensity, his earthy eyes eating me alive.
Savoring my immobility, I wondered if he would cut off my clothes. I couldn’t wait for him to introduce me to his experienced, confident loving.
I arched in my restraints, wishing I was already naked. “Do you have any toys?”
“Nope. Not a one.”
Another fantasy about the DM gone. He didn’t have an incredible dungeon in his basement full of neat equipment designed to torment me.
“I guess you doctors have to promise not to hurt people,” I said.
He brought his mouth to my ear. His incipient beard scraped my cheek, his woods and spice scent enveloping me. “The Hippocratic oath says ‘do no harm’. Doctors can hurt.”
“Will you hurt me?”
“Yes,” he said, drawing away from me.
A shock of pleasure arced through me. I almost came right then and there.
“And you’ll soon discover that my body is enough.” His brown-green eyes skipped over my face, studying it. “Are you still addicted to the endorphins of subspace?”
“No. My head is on straight.”
“Liar,” he said, his voice so low it was almost threatening. “You’re still a pain puppy.”
I felt exposed, breathless under his intelligent, intense gaze. I couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. I looked away. He was right. I could hear the soft, cushioning rush of the River even as I lay there. I wanted to float on it again. “Yes. I’m a pain puppy. I want the River, Sir.”
“If you so much as dip a toe in the River, I’ll jerk you back.”
I stiffened in my restraints. Still I couldn’t meet his gaze. “Jerk me back? Why? That’s cruel.”
“Subspace severs our connection. You’ll use the River to escape me. And I won’t let you flee domination, subbie. Not today. Not tomorrow. You will be aware of me and what I’m doing to you the entire time.”
I tugged on my bonds, sensing the terrycloth bite on my skin. “You can’t stop me from reaching the River, Sir. You won’t even know.”
“I’ll know.” He grabbed the sides of my face, forcing me to look into his eyes. They were so dark and knowing. “You think you want pain. But what you really crave is emotion, connection, attention. I’ll give you that in spades. But on my terms. Not yours.” He let me go.
I thrashed on the table, annoyed by his interrogation, by his psychoanalysis. I was looking for a scene, not a lecture. Unimpressed by my tantrum, he ignored it. Finally I quieted, exhausted and unhappy.
“Are you hungry?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes, Sir.” I was hungry, but not for food. Not for attention, either. I was starving for sex. When would he finally rip off my clothing?
He walked away from me and opened his fridge.
“Shouldn’t I be cooking for you, Sir?” I asked.
He looked over his shoulder and laughed at me. “You know what I like to eat, brat? You know where anything is in my kitchen? Do you even have free hands?”
“No, Sir. But I’m a very good cook.”
“So am I.”
I was acutely aware of his every move. I couldn’t help but admire his competence and ease as he worked in the kitchen. I loved the way his polo shirt molded to the muscles of his shoulders and how his khakis emphasized his fine ass as he bent over. Aching, drawing need consumed me.
He centered a china plate piled high with a fluffy omelet on my pelvis, directly on top of my sensual switch. The plate was really, really warm. That was just what I needed—more heat there.
I flinched.
“You don’t like eggs?”
“I do,” I gasped.
He fed me and fed himself. The omelet was delicious, airy and aromatic. As he nurtured me, and the heat of the plate oozed into every part of my body, something inside me shifted. I wanted him to be my One.
“I haven’t had sex in months, Sir,” I said. “I need a good fuck. Will you fuck me?”
“No topping from the bottom, subbie.”
Chris enjoyed keeping me off-guard, unbalanced. Insecure.
Why hadn’t he ordered me to undress before he bound me to the table? If I’d been lying there naked, he’d have come up with the idea to have sex himself.
When the omelet was all gone, he tenderly wiped the corners of my mouth with a soft paper napkin.
Soon we’d start the scene. A flutter of nervousness raced up my spine.
I needed to get a handle on our power exchange. “What are your rules, Sir?”
A gentle expression settled on his handsome face. “I don’t have a list of expectations, Briony. My wife—”
I didn’t hear much of the rest of the sentence. I think I heard the word vanilla, but it was drowned out by Wife! Wife! Wife! My potential One was poly. The DM wanted a little thrill from me because his wife couldn’t deliver.
Fixed to a kitchen table, it was way late for me to make a graceful exit. So I moaned, miserable. “You’re married?”
“No. I was married. I’ve been a widower for two years. My wife started out vanilla, and she stayed that way. You’re the first woman I’ve brought home since she died.”
Unsettled, I blinked up at him. Sure, I was relieved he didn’t have a wife. But if I was the first woman he’d entertained, he’d have very high exp
ectations. And I still had no idea what made him happy. I hoped it was giving orgasms.
He untied me and lifted me off the table. I was surprised. I thought he’d play with me as I was bound. Maybe he really meant it when he said his body would be enough.
I barely had time to shake out the bondage stiffness before his big hands curled around my upper arms and he drew me close against his iron chest.
His physical size, his woods and spice scent, his confident demeanor, his unpredictability all overwhelmed me. Tightness coiled in my belly. “I need a safeword.”
“Safewords short-circuit intimacy and communication, Briony. I’ll know when you’re in distress.”
“I’m not a slave, Sir,” I said, staring up into his strong, square face. “I need a safeword.”
“How about just telling me you’re not enjoying yourself?”
I shook my head. “Give me a safeword, Sir.”
“Use ‘red’ if it makes you feel better.”
“Red’s the safeword Ridge gave me,” I said. Wistfulness colored my voice.
“I know.”
“How could you know that? I never used it at Hell Mary’s. Not once.”
He bent his head to touch his nose to mine. “But you did cry ‘green’ every time you thought I might intercede in your play.”
Chris knew me well. He’d seen me in ecstasy, in misery, and in the intoxicating mixture of both. He’d heard my little sighs and screams, seen my sweet tremors and my agonized convulsions. I was way disadvantaged, I didn’t have a clue how to serve the DM of Hell Mary’s. Which was the whole thrill of being dominated by a new man, I supposed. He’d make his needs known.
I felt a rush of pleasure. I couldn’t wait to begin.
He released me. “Nothing exists except you and me. My body and yours. My mind and yours. My emotion and yours.” He tipped my chin with his knuckles. “You’re a slave. Your name is Emerald.”
My excitement gave way to anxiety. Ridge and I had tried play-slavery a few times. I wasn’t too good at it.
“Emerald,” I repeated dully.
“Master travels. He goes on many business trips. You worship your handsome Master.”
“Master isn’t very modest, is he?”
His eyes seemed to throw off sparks. He wrapped his hand in my hair and jerked my head back. “Don’t be a smartass.”
His tug hurt and electrified. But I knew if I continued to be a brat, Master would punish me in a way I wouldn’t enjoy. He expected compliance. I lowered my eyes, trying to get into a slave frame of mind. Obedience. Service. Love.
I bit my lip. Obedience was the hard part.
A slave’s absolute surrender is worlds apart from submissive deference. A slave doesn’t experience the strain and stir of negotiation. A slave doesn’t have limits. A slave doesn’t have safewords. The union between slave and Master is supposed to be glorious and transcendent. But it costs the slave her integrity and identity. I never got close to that supreme sense of oneness during my slave play with Ridge. I remained Briony.
“Your Master is Gorean,” he said, letting go of my hair.
Gorean? Why did he have to pick such an extreme form of slavery? I had plenty of Masters and slaves as friends, but none of them were Gorean. Goreans were nearly mythological in the BDSM community, like unicorns or fairies. We’d all heard about Goreans and their culture, but we weren’t likely to ever meet one in the flesh. Goreans kept to themselves, never playing in public. In fact, they didn’t play at all—their interactions were 24/7.
No way could I pull off being a Gorean kajira. I wasn’t nearly submissive enough. Plus I was a natural-born smart-mouth.
The DM slid his hands up my arms to mold my shoulders. His firm touch made my senses spin. I desperately wanted to serve him with the proper humility. I looked up at him. His expression was soft, his hazel eyes gentle.
“Though he’d never tell you, Master is in love with you, Emerald. You know this because he keeps you under the strictest discipline. He expects and gets your fidelity. He enjoys inspecting you thoroughly after his absences. You yearn for those inspections.”
Our scene would include sex! Being a superior lover was one element of the Gorean masculine ideal. I was going to get what I needed—raw, hard and long. My excitement vaulted.
“You’ve never failed Master’s examinations,” he continued. “If he ever found you guilty of sexual misconduct, he’d stitch your labia up tight, and you’d never have an orgasm again.”
I stepped back from him, my anticipation replaced by fear. I didn’t want to get stitched up. Not even temporarily, as part of a scene. Sex would be impossible. The surgery wasn’t just an idle mindfuck, because the DM was a doctor. He’d actually know how to sew me up.
“Why should you be afraid, Emerald?” he asked me. “You’re faithful, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I gasped, still uneasy. I wanted so badly to give the DM the scene of a lifetime, but why did he have to threaten to sew me up?
And then I knew why. Chris was a mindfucker. He enjoyed invoking emotion. Any kind of emotion. Lust or shock or terror, it didn’t matter. Shock was probably his favorite. He claimed I craved emotion, but he was wrong. He was the one who craved it. I planned to give emotion to him full measure.
“Take off your clothes,” he said. “Lay them on the kitchen chair.”
I did as he ordered, reminding myself how my Master loved me, and how very meek and compliant I could be if I really, really tried. And how I’d be rewarded with a great fuck.
“Wait in the bedroom,” he said, “first door on the left.”
“Yes, Master.” I headed down the hall. I had to commit to the scene fully if I wanted to discover the potentials of our relationship. No holding back. I was a slave named Emerald. I adored my handsome Master. I worshipped him. I was in awe of his masculinity.
Before I got to the bedroom, I heard steps behind me. My Master. After an erotic inspection, he’d fuck me. My heart thumping, my inner thighs drenched, I turned to welcome Master with a big smile on my face.
But Master stared at me like he didn’t know me. Hostile. Impatient. My smile faded, and confusion replaced lust. Why was he upset with me? What had I done wrong?
As he strode toward me, I remembered I wasn’t supposed to just stand there. I was a slave and expected to drop to my knees, eyes downcast. On my way down to my knees, Master grabbed me up and shoved me down the hall, into the bedroom. Unbalanced by my Master’s irritation, I pressed myself against the bedroom wall, trying to be small.
“Where are the valuables?” Master hissed.
I stared dumbly at six feet five inches of intimidation.
“Don’t you speak the language?”
“Y-yes.”
“Well, where are they?”
I had no idea what he was taking about. I stood there, mute. This man glaring at me was a robber—not Master.
He shook his square head, scowling. “You’re fucking useless.”
The intruder strode about the bedroom. Carelessly ripping out nightstand drawers, he searched for the valuables. Clatter. Destruction. Violence. He moved to the dresser. Shirts spilled out. Underwear. Socks. Fear settled in the pit of my stomach. Master demanded neatness. He would punish me for the mess. The robber moved on to the closet, hurling clothing out onto the floor.
“Please, Sir,” I begged. “Please don’t wreck the house.”
The robber turned, his eyes flashing with anger. He stepped toward me. He grabbed the side of my face with one huge hand. I thought he might twist my head off. Instead, he slapped me with surgical precision. The sound was loud and unpleasant.
“You either help me find it—or shut up.”
I covered my stinging cheek with my hand. I was desperate to get this awful man out of Master’s house.
I took a few steps toward him, my posture pleading. “What are you looking for, Sir?”
“An emerald. It’s supposed to be here, in the bedroom, lying out in the open.”
His expression was crude and dismissive. “Right.” He shoved me to the floor.
I landed indelicately on my ass. I scrambled to stand again, cover up my exposed parts, but it was too late. The robber’s dangerously glittering eyes traveled over my body, as if he just now realized I was naked. Lust replaced contempt. He saw opportunity.
He was going to rape me.
I couldn’t let that happen. If the robber penetrated me, Master would punish me. I’d get sewn up. With a cry of despair, I tried to get away from the intruder. He easily overtook me, dragging me up against his huge, muscular body.
“Master will kill you.” I kicked and punched him.
He threw me onto the bed, knocking the air out of me. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move.
The intruder pulled a foil packet out of his back pocket. He held it with his teeth while he took off his pants and boxers. With a contemptuous smile, he broke open the packet and sheathed himself. His erection matched the rest of him. Big and muscular and mean.
Sex promised to be bruising and passionate. The kind I craved.
But Master would find out. He would sew me up.
No matter how good sex with the intruder might be, it wouldn’t be worth permanent chastity.
The robber seemed to enjoy my helplessness and the way I admired his big cock.
“You want this,” he said.
“No.”
I realized if I could speak, I could breathe. I rolled off the bed, ran out of the bedroom. The intruder chased after me. He grabbed me by the hair, yanked me toward him. It hurt. His gigantic, latex-clad erection pressed against my lower back.
I tried to pull away, but the intruder jerked me back against him, sharp and brutal. His palm pressed hard against my pubis to hold me still. He fondled my tender folds. I felt the blood rush to my clit. My heart stuttered as he spread my juices. I mewed with need and horror.
I wanted the robber to fuck me.
“No!” I cried. I was loyal to Master, not to this usurper.
The intruder whirled me around and pushed me into an overstuffed chair. He jerked my knees up so my legs draped over the padded chair arms. Pressing my thighs down so I couldn’t move, he gazed down at me, all cruel need.
