He thought about it for a moment, as it angered her if she didn’t think he’d considered her questions properly, but he knew his answer straight away. ‘Yes, mistress, I would very much like you to touch me, or allow me to touch you, but it is an honour and a blessing to be allowed to serve you in any form you wish it.’
She may have given a slight smile, it was impossible for him to tell because of the command not to look at her. But he liked to think she did.
If he had pleased her with that answer, unfortunately it hadn’t lasted. In her presence he was dizzy, confused, hyper. Later on, when they were in the car, he had made a passing comment; it hadn’t even been in response to a question she asked, it was just him blabbering on.
‘I don’t know if it’s because of your own experiences as a sub but you seem to know instinctively how to punish me. I would like to ask you, if you’d allow me, whether it is your sub experience or the connection between us that makes you such a talented mistress to me.’
She said nothing, and was staring out of the passenger window as far as he could tell. So he’d wittered on. It was so difficult to stay quiet in her company; he wanted to talk to her, to communicate with her, so very much.
‘I’ve tried to think of you as a sub, but the idea of someone dominating you, maybe hurting you, causes me real, physical distress. Before I met you I can’t ever remember crying. As a kid, when they told me my mother had died, I didn’t cry then. But with you, I’m someone different. Just thinking of someone hurting you made me cry. I hate the idea of a man whipping you or anything like that. I’ve discovered through you I’m a humiliation slut. Those are the things that turn me on and you tapped into that straight away somehow. I’m not a pain slut. The idea of whips and leather does absolutely nothing for me.’
‘Stop the car.’ Her voice was ice. Her tone inarguable.
He pulled over in a lay-by.
‘You’re not getting it. I think you’re close and then you ruin it. All the work and time I’m putting into you, and you don’t understand. It doesn’t matter what you want. You serve. You do what your mistress asks you. It isn’t about your own pleasure and preferences.’ She opened the car door.
‘Mistress, please, don’t get out here. This is nowhere near where you asked me to drop you off. I can’t leave you here, it isn’t safe.’
‘You do what I tell you.’
‘It’s raining, at least let me get my umbrella out of the boot for you.’
‘Drive home, slave. Now.’ The car door slammed.
Against all his practical, logical thoughts, he did drive off and leave a beautiful single lady alone beside a road.
This experience had made him far more empathetic to addicts of all kinds. If people, even just once, got the same high off cocaine, alcohol, food, cigarettes, whatever, that he got from being in the presence of his mistress, he knew exactly why they kept going back, leaving all the rest of their life in tatters, because after such elation nothing else seemed to matter any more.
She’d ordered him to find a woman who was looking for a slave to whip. He had, and tomorrow he would go and meet them.
His mobile rang. Once. A smile spread over his face. He grabbed his phone and immediately responded to the signal from his mistress that he had permission to call her. He snuggled naked under his bedcovers. ‘Hello, mistress.’
‘How are you –’ Her voice disappeared into a muffle, as if she had moved her mouth away from the phone.
This frustrated him so much – she was quiet enough to begin with – but he was determined not to make any mistakes. ‘I’m sorry, mistress, I’m a cock-loving slut and I didn’t hear what you said. Would you please be kind enough to repeat it for me?’
He felt a glow of pride; he’d got the words right this time.
There was no recognition of his achievement in her voice. ‘How are you feeling about tomorrow?’
‘I’m excited, mistress.’
‘You will behave in an appropriate way to bring credit to my training.’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Remember you’re my possession, slave. Take care.’
The phone went dead.
Dean’s initial response was sinking disappointment. Tonight wasn’t going to be one of the nights she allowed him to talk to her about anything, everything, nothing, as she fell asleep on the other end of the phone line.
Then he thought on her final words; it was a soothing caress to his mind.
You’re my possession .
He belonged to her. There was something special between them; he wasn’t mad for feeling the way he did, for obeying all her commands.
Take care .
She was concerned about him. That was enough.
That was enough.
Dean pulled up outside a terraced house. Last night, his mistress had asked how he was feeling and he hadn’t known how she expected him to reply.
Once she’d understood how little sexual experience he had, his mistress had ordered him to do more research on the internet about the BDSM lifestyle. She told him to use more specialist meeting sites to find a woman to whip him. But he hadn’t found anyone who compared to her. His feelings about how unique she was were confirmed again and again when he began to chat with new people in the scene. It was difficult to explain that he was owned but was being told to play with others.
‘So why doesn’t your mistress want to keep you to herself?’
‘Mistresses don’t share their slaves.’
‘If she doesn’t want you, I’ll give you a trial.’
He had to keep checking his contract and rereading the second rule: “The slave must never discuss his mistress, his relationship to his mistress, or anything that occurs while they are together, with any other person.”
It seemed clear enough on paper, but he continually got confused with what to say. The reaction from the reports he had to make twice a day to his mistress was generally anger when they detailed one of his online conversations with other women. He managed to get something wrong even when he was trying his hardest.
Eventually, his mistress gave him a standard reply to use for certain questions. ‘I am owned and only available for casual play and service.’
He formulated another response he frequently needed. ‘I’m sorry, I am not permitted to talk about my mistress.’
If a woman was too persistent in trying to get more information from him, Dean texted his mistress for advice and to his relief she always told him to desist talking to them.
It seemed near impossible to remain constantly humble and polite, like his mistress trained him to be, and to satisfy these women’s questions without breaking any of his rules.
The men were the worst. He never approached one knowingly, but sometimes they began talking to him, and were so demanding and insistent. Plus Dean’s mistress seemed to be amused when males flirted with him, and she never ordered him to stop talking to them.
But through it all he had found a woman who wanted to meet him without making any claim to him being her own personal slave. She was called Mistress Janet and she spoke to him as if they were equals, confessing that she wanted to dom but had no experience of it and wanted someone to practise on.
He double checked the address that he’d written in the slave journal his mistress had ordered him to keep, then he went and knocked on the door.
He heard movement inside the house. Was there giggling? He smoothed down his suit jacket (his mistress had ordered him to wear a suit whenever he presented himself as a slave) and went through everything he’d been taught. His life had changed so much so quickly. Every day he went to sleep and woke up in the morning with the same thought; what a lucky man he was.
The door opened.
Dean dropped to his knees, his head bowed. ‘Thank you very much, Mistress Janet, for letting me have the honour to serve you.’
‘Mistress Janet is waiting for you in the lounge. I’m Mistress Smith.’
Dean’s heart beat fast. Mistress Ja
net hadn’t mentioned anything about there being anyone but her present. He waited to be given permission to get up, but Mistress Smith didn’t say anything. He could feel her gaze on him as if it was a physical thing crawling over his body.
It was daylight. Cars were passing in the road behind him. Any neighbour who looked out of their window would see him. All he could see were the black, pointed toes of Mistress Smith’s shoes. His cock hardened.
There was another woman in the hall, a more nervous, higher pitched voice. ‘Why isn’t he coming in?’
‘He’s obviously been well trained,’ Mistress Smith said. ‘It’s rare to see such a well-trained slave.’
‘You can stand up and come in now … What should I call you?’
‘My mistress calls me slave or slut.’ Damn, he thought, did that count as talking about his mistress?
‘What’s your real name?’ The woman he presumed was Mistress Janet bent down to him, grabbed his elbow, and half pulled, half dragged him into her house.
‘Dean.’ He scrambled to his feet, fully aware it didn’t present the image of quiet composure that his mistress always carried around with her.
‘Dean? That’ll do. Come into the lounge, Dean, and meet my other friend, Mistress Vee.’ Mistress Janet took his hand and led him into a cream-coloured room with cream-coloured furnishing.
‘Hi.’ Mistress Vee was slender, with long, stockinged legs. She got up from where she was sitting and held a hand out for him to shake.
He took it in his and planted a single kiss on her fair skin. He hoped that was the right thing to do, gallant rather than too forward?
Mistress Janet chucked him under the chin. ‘He’s sweet, isn’t he? He’s been so polite and nice online that I knew he would be the right person to meet.’
‘Come on. Let’s take him down to the dungeon and get on with this. I’ve got a date tonight.’ Mistress Smith stood in the lounge doorway.
The two other women giggled.
‘Sus … I mean Mistress Smith has had a lot of experience, so she’s going to show us how to whip you,’ Mistress Janet said.
Dean nodded, but he couldn’t concentrate; the word “dungeon” had sent thrills through his body. His mind filled with delicious, scary images from the forbidden books he’d read as a teenager.
Mistress Janet took a tighter grip on his hand and he was led through to the kitchen, then down some narrow stairs, with Mistress Smith before them and Mistress Vee behind.
The ladies’ heels clicked on the bare stone, the air smelt dank and heavy. One bare electric light bulb lit the whole room. There was a wooden chair and some rope in the middle of the floor, a discarded bicycle leaning in one corner near a stack of rusting paint cans. Someone had started to paint the basement white, but hadn’t got far; the walls were mostly a sickly green.
In no part of his imagination had he pictured a “dungeon” looking like this. But then he hadn’t pictured a mistress looking like the woman in her jeans and flat shoes whom he now adored more than anything. He loved her even more for not feeling the need to conform to any stereotype. So this basement, with these three women, might not be what he was expecting, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to be an incredible experience.
Mistress Smith put two fingers under Dean’s chin and lifted his face up. ‘Look at me.’
He saw her eyes first. They were incredibly striking; one was blue and one was brown. He’d never encountered anyone with different colour eyes before, and he found it utterly enchanting. She had thin, arched eyebrows, and although the rest of her face was made up, her eyes were bare; she must know they were striking enough on their own with no need for enhancement. Thick, brown hair hung loose down her back, and he could see the start of a tattoo under the thin strap of her black dress; red, yellow and orange flames stretching out of his sight over her right shoulder blade. Her body was voluptuous. Gazing at her breasts, Dean’s breath caught in his throat. They were so large, fighting against the material of her dress.
Dean hoped he wasn’t gawking too obviously. His mistress had told him to extend his notion of sexuality; she’d sent him links to BBW sites. The photos and videos that had appealed to him most were the ones where slim white men, like himself, were having their faces pushed into the bosoms of ebony beauties. Squashing had fascinated him; the images of larger women bouncing up and down on men, their whole bodies quivering, had become ingrained on his mind constantly reappearing when he went to sleep. Somehow it made him remember being under Mistress Crimson’s bed, the constriction of his chest, the stench of sex filling his lungs.
He turned his attention to the other two women. He’d already noticed Mistress Vee’s stunning legs; she had short blonde-brown hair in a bob and wore black rimmed glasses. Mistress Janet didn’t quite look like her photo, but then her photo had been blurred and poorly lit. She was small; he would be surprised if she was the 5 foot 5 she put in her profile even with the stiletto heels she wore. Her hair was loose and dyed a silvery-blonde colour. Her figure had a roundness to it that gave her a kindly look. The way they’d chatted online could never be called kindly, though.
‘Mistress Janet tells me you’re owned,’ Mistress Smith said, drawing Dean’s attention fully back to her. ‘How does your own mistress punish you?’
Dean opened his mouth before remembering to restrain his instinctive reaction to always answer a mistress’s question. ‘Please excuse me, Mistress Smith, I am not permitted to talk about my mistress. That is one of her rules.’
‘You’re with me now. You are under my rule, worm.’
Dean stared into Mistress Smith’s enchanting eyes. What was the correct behaviour here? His mistress, his beloved mistress, told him that he must obey and be respectful. Just last night she’d blessed him by speaking to him, especially to command him to be a credit to her. Was it worse to break a rule and talk about his mistress, or to remain silent against Mistress Smith’s order and risk bringing shame on his mistress through his misbehaviour?
Luckily Dean did not have to answer his own quandary as Mistress Smith asked him another, different question.
‘Before we begin, what is your safeword, slut?’
‘I don’t have a safeword. My mistress has taught me that I am there for the pleasure of others and my own feelings don’t matter.’ Dean bit down on his lip. He was trying to be careful, but words just blurted out when he was excited, as if he really was a pathetic creature with no control over his tongue. Would his mistress consider that an infringement of her rules? Was it a large enough disclosure that she might terminate his trial?
‘Maybe your mistress doesn’t hit as hard as me.’ Mistress Smith’s voice was so deep and threatening that it almost made him forget his concern through equal amounts of excitement and fear. ‘Choose a safeword, worm. I promise you, you’ll be grateful for it once I start.’
‘Bookshop,’ Dean replied. ‘But I won’t need it.’
He curled and uncurled his fists by his side. If he could withstand whatever punishment these women gave him, would it be enough to please his mistress and make her forgive his other errors?
‘You’ll be screaming it out. Begging me for mercy.’ Mistress Smith took a step closer to him. ‘Trust me, I’m being kind to you not following your mistress’s example and allowing you to have an out.’
Dean could smell her perfume, but stronger than that was the scent of cigarettes and alcohol on her breath. It made his cock hard thinking that these ladies might have been drinking before his arrival and wouldn’t be fully in control of themselves. His logical brain was scared, though; if he used the safeword would they actually stop?
‘Come on, Mistress Smith.’ Mistress Janet stepped forward. ‘I want you to teach us how to whip the slut.’
Dean was their toy. This was what his mistress wanted. This was what he wanted. What he had always wanted.
‘Let’s get him naked.’ Mistress Vee came to his side, her heels clacking on the floor. ‘I want to see him naked.’
She started to pull on his jacket, but Mistress Smith stopped her. ‘Do a striptease for us, Dean. I want to see you dance.’
The women all stepped back together as if they were one multi-headed creature.
Dean took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He imagined he was alone with his mistress. She was lying on a bed, dressed all in black leather.
Amuse me, slut. Dance for me. If you impress me I’ll let you kiss my boot .
He moved his hips, circling, writhing, thrusting. His hands were on his jacket, teasing it on and off his shoulders. A sudden old image of Morecambe and Wise dancing in their kitchen flashed into his head. Dean felt the ridiculousness of his situation and opened his eyes.
‘Carry on, Dean. I was enjoying that.’ Mistress Vee smiled at him.
‘No man has ever stripped for me before.’ Mistress Janet was wiggling her own hips to an inaudible beat.
Despite their encouragement, Dean became awkward as he removed his clothes, more aware of the coldness of the basement than the potential sensuality of undressing for three mistresses.
‘What’s wrong, Dean, don’t you like us?’ Mistress Vee came over to him. Her fingers circled around his cock as if it was the most natural thing, no more unusual than shaking hands. A lot less unusual than standing naked in front of three strangers.
He stared down at her fingers; her nails were bitten and the red varnish was chipped. He thought of his mistress’s elegant hands. But his mistress had warned him against comparing women. He had to appreciate the kindness of any lady who was generous enough to spend time with him.
Still, he felt strangely detached as he watched Mistress Vee wank her hand up and down his length. His body was reacting to her, though. When Mistress Smith pulled Mistress Vee away, he longed to continue what she had started and touch his cock until he came. But he didn’t. Not without permission.
‘He’s here for our amusement, Mistress Vee,’ Mistress Smith chastised the other woman.
‘I get amused pulling him off.’ Mistress Vee giggled. The hard tone in her friend’s voice obviously didn’t affect her as it did Dean.
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