‘Sorry, mistress.’
‘Stop doing things you need to apologise for and just get on with your task.’
‘Yes, mistress.’
He lubed his first finger and reached down the back of his knickers.
‘Turn around so I can see,’ I said.
He did, lowering the knickers down his thighs so I could watch his finger sliding around his star hole. He pressed in about the length of half a fingernail.
‘That feels very odd, mistress.’
‘Do you have any wine, Daisy?’ I asked in a bored voice. ‘I didn’t see any in your fridge.’
‘I have a bottle of red I use for cooking.’
‘I’ll find it. I’m going to get drunk, chat to some of my friends on your PC, maybe I’ll get myself off watching porn. Then I am going to go to sleep in your bed. You are going to stay here until you’ve got your fist up your arse. I suspect you’re going to have a long night.’
* * *
Later, I lay in the dark on Slave’s bed, resting fully clothed on top of his sheets. He was still in his lounge. A couple of times he’d called out for permission to go to the toilet, which I, being such a kind, generous mistress, granted. I then forbade him from speaking to me until he completed his task, so I didn’t know what he did if he needed relief after that.
He wouldn’t complete it.
My master had never even attempted to fist me and I’d had his cock stretching my arse more times than I could count. I moved onto my side and played a finger around my tight hole now. I smiled, recalling how I’d been when my lover started anal training me.
‘I’m not doing anything with animals,’ I’d said in all seriousness.
‘My dear, I may be hung like a very well-endowed horse, but why on earth do you think anal sex involves our furry friends?’
‘I read on the internet something about hamsters and matches. I know we go to some strange places, but I’m not up for that.’
He laughed. Then the laughter stopped. He grabbed my hips, pushed me down onto the floor, and raised my legs onto his shoulders. My skirt ruffled around my waist.
‘Little bitch, I want to fuck every part of you and I’m going to fuck every part of you. It’s not your choice.’
I gazed up at him, smiling and panting. He stared at my sex. His hands slid over my bare skin. He flicked a thumb over my clit; a tease rather than a seduction. His fingers ran down between my naked buttocks. I tensed, a subconscious action that had no connection with the lust and desire of my mind.
He slapped my breasts, then returned his hand to my arse. He teased me in the way he sometimes did with a whip; soft flirtations followed by hard strokes. He spent a long time gently caressing the fullest, fleshiest part of my bottom, then suddenly dived his fingers fully inside me.
As I remember it the only lube he used was spit. That is what I focused on at the time; him spitting on me. When I was a child my mother said spitting was the most disgusting habit, that only the dirtiest, worst-behaved children with unspeakably bad parents spat. I watched my lover’s glob of saliva leave his lips and be dragged by forces of gravity down to my body as if it fell in slow motion. It fascinated me more than his fingers probing inside me; somehow I’d grown into a woman who loved a man who spat on her. And it felt so beautiful and true. This was where I was supposed to be and this was what I was supposed to be doing.
After that first time I felt sore and conscious of a part of my body I hadn’t thought of before. But in retrospect, in contrast with what followed, my lover showed uncustomary gentleness when he introduced me to anal.
Later there were toys, there was hard, dry fucking, there was me in a toilet cubicle at work desperately rubbing my arse, trying to recapture the ecstasy I felt when my lover touched me. He created an itch deep inside me that only he could soothe. Is that a correct way to describe the way he made me feel? Yes. I’ve scratched my arse raw attempting to relieve the longing my body felt for him.
I touched myself gently now, a light tracing around my arse with the tips of my nails, teasing the sensitivity of my skin. Then I used all my strength to press into my skin. A moan slipped through my lips, but it wasn’t the same, it was a poor imitation. I needed my master.
I got up off the bed and softly moved to Slave’s lounge. He gave no indication that he was aware of my presence. From my position his face appeared creased and aged with effort. His body was twisted at an unnatural angle as he pushed two fingers inside him. He was up to the second knuckle.
Silently, I withdrew back to the bedroom. I rubbed my thumb over my clit with no expectation of orgasms. I waited for tiredness, until I felt disconnected from Slave, from his flat, from the bed I lay on, from my own body. Until I was nothing more than a collection of atoms held together by luck. In my dreams I dispersed and floated throughout the world; I was part of the air. I found my lover, I entered and filled all the cavities of his body. And then I was finally still.
When I awoke the sun was too bright, shining through his thin curtains. I smelt cooking meat. For a moment, I thought it was me burning, set alight by the furious sun, a tool of an angry God removing the temptation of my flesh and withering me back to bone.
Then my brain normalised and I recognised the scent of bacon. I found Slave in his kitchen, busy cooking. He was wearing the clothes he’d met me in yesterday. When he saw me he dropped to his knees, almost knocking the handle of the frying pan and pouring hot oil over himself.
‘Sorry, mistress. I wasn’t sure what to do this morning. I thought about it a lot, whether I should stay in the lounge because you hadn’t given me permission to leave, but I thought that it was more important to think of your comfort first and prepare breakfast for you because I don’t think you ate anything last night. My own stomach is hurting and I’m feeling dizzy, and I realised you might be feeling the same.’ He looked as if he was going to raise his head to look at me, but instead he bent completely over so his forehead touched the lino. ‘I hope I didn’t do wrong. I’m fully aware that you told me to stay in the lounge until I’d managed to put my fist inside me. I didn’t do that. I managed to get four fingers inside me, I’m not sure how deep – I think the second knuckle. I know that isn’t what you told me to do, but I only stopped and came out here thinking of your comfort.’
‘Don’t start the morning by lying to me, slut.’ I glanced at the tray he’d prepared: a glass of orange juice; a cup presumably ready for the coffee he was brewing, and a mug with a tea bag. There was a small silver vase with a rose in it and a plate with a fresh croissant on it, a bowl of muesli and a small jug of milk. At the side was a selection of fruit that there wasn’t room on the tray for. The frying pan contained sausages as well as bacon; there was a carton of eggs out and a sliced brown loaf next to a stainless steel toaster that shone as if it was sitting on the shelf in Debenhams.
‘I think you’re being unfair, mistress. I’m not lying, I thought a long time about what you’d want me to do and decided that I should provide a breakfast for you as you’re my guest and my mistress.’
‘Don’t continue the morning by contradicting me.’ I picked up a banana off the side and passed it to him. ‘Show me how well your training is going. Put this up your arse.’
‘Now, mistress?’
I sighed. ‘Drive me home, slut.’
‘Sorry, mistress. Sorry. Please don’t punish me in this way. I didn’t mean to ask a question without permission. I’ll put the banana in now.’
For a few minutes I let him struggle around on the floor with his clothes and the fruit.
‘Drive me home. Now.’
‘The banana is quite soft. If you let me put it in the fridge it’ll get harder. I’m sure I’ll have more success.’
‘You have an order.’
‘I made muffins. They’re in the oven. There’ll be ready soon. I made blueberry and apricot and chocolate because I didn’t know which one you liked best.’ His voice was a mixture of pleading and stubbornness and resignation.
/>
He was a child. I doubted he’d ask, but maybe what he really wanted was to be dressed in a nappy, given a bottle of milk, and tucked up safely in bed. Sometimes I did imagine him as a schoolboy and me as the dominating teacher caning his skinny little bottom.
‘Turn off the cooker and drive me home. It’s not a complicated order.’
He obeyed with reluctance; slumped shoulders, sly looks at me out of the corner of his eyes. I didn’t bother thinking of a different punishment. Losing me when we could have had the day together was surely enough.
We drove back in silence. A couple of times he opened his mouth, but he managed to restrain himself and not whine or protest like he had done on other occasions.
I’d formed a habit of ordering him to meet me and drop me in different parts of town. It gave me an aura of protection that he knew so little about me, and although he insisted otherwise, he liked the mystique, the puzzle, the fact that nothing would come easy to him, if it ever came at all.
On this day I got him to drop me off outside my lover’s house. I don’t know how that worked in reference to my aura of protection, I just knew at the time that was where I needed to be.
I dismissed Slave with silence and a wave of my hand as if I was brushing away a fly. When he’d driven out of sight I walked up the path of my master’s house and stood in front of the door. After somewhere between five minutes and an hour of waiting I sent my lover a text.
I am outside your house.
He replied almost instantly.
I know.
I brushed my fingers over the two words on the tiny screen and bit down on my lip. I texted back without thinking, my intentions forming with the black, blocky letters rather than thought out in my mind.
I am going to stay here for maybe an hour longer, then I’ll go home.
The reply was longer coming this time.
Good.
I swallowed hard. Was it good that I was here, or good that I’d said I was going home rather than becoming his very personal stalker?
I stared at the word as if it was the answer to all the uncertainties in the universe.
Quarter of an hour later, another text arrived.
I appreciate your cakes and letters.
I smiled and, for the first time since I arrived, noticed how sweetly the air was scented with flowers and cut grass and hope.
Chapter Ten - Boss
I sat in the office, important files, urgent paperwork piled up around me, the air filled with the soft tapping of memos and meeting plans being typed out. On my computer I had all the relevant files open for my work, but they were all in the background of my mind. I read through an email from Slave.
Dear Mistress Beatrice,
I cannot tell you enough times how happy and blessed I feel to be in your realm. I am constantly glorified by your presence. No one in my whole life has had the effect that you have on me. I know you’ve told me that I don’t know what love is –
Did anyone know what love was? Did anyone truly want to know what a rank, filthy, destructive thing love was?
– and that I should never contradict you, but if what I feel for you isn’t love, I have no idea what it is.
A desperate psychological need to fill the black hollow of childhood.
Probably best described by that “cover all darkness and pretend it’s pretty” word: love.
He kneels down in a public place; lies prostrate at my feet, the tip of my shoe on his neck, his face pressed into mud; squeezes his balls in response to a single word command; rolls naked in stinging nettles; likes to pretend that in a world of billions of people, I am special; all that should give him the right to use whichever four-letter word he wanted.
You have shone a light on my life and shown me how grey it was before you. I despair of all the time I wasted before I knew you, and that if we never met I would never have experienced all the great art and literature you have ordered me to study. I’m enjoying listening to Liz Phair a lot.
Liz Phair? Why had I ordered him to listen to Liz Phair? I barely knew who she was, or what her music sounded like.
The track Flower is particularly hard to hear, though. I’ve managed not to touch myself since you forbid me that until I get my fist up my bottom, but when I hear that song I get so hard and my body becomes sensitive. I never realised music could have that effect on you.
Flower . I understood now. My lover and I had fucked hard and fast to that song once. Impulsive and immediate when it came on the stereo. A glass had broken – I’d dropped it, or he’d swept it off the table. I only remembered the purity of the sound as the glass shattered, the glittering, dancing light, like diamonds, and, later, the bright red flash of blood on the sole of my feet when I accidentally walked over it. My lover inside me, my body swallowing him. He exploded a second before the song finished. I had a breathless high that lasted for an eternity. But it was only two minutes. Two minutes when we understood and knew each other perfectly and the world was right in its wrongness.
I wonder how you know me so well that you tell me things I am going to adore when I have no knowledge of them. You are so wise and clever. I don’t know if you appreciate how amazing and unique you are. There really is no one else like you.
He had to say these things; he needed to believe I was extraordinary, that our relationship was once-in-a-lifetime special to justify his overwhelming desire to obey and be dominated. In his Christian, structured mind, dressing up in women’s underwear was more acceptable if it was for love rather than pure kink.
I tasted blood in my mouth. I was biting down on my lip. A thought was creeping into my mind that I could hardly bear to register: all the things I was applying to Slave, was that how it was with my lover?
I swallowed hard and focused entirely on Slave’s email.
I found a master like you instructed. I met him online and he invited me over that very night. He had such a posh flat, it was unbelievable. He was an older gentleman but as soon as he saw me he said I was too old for him; he preferred younger men. He said I could clean his toilet, which I did although it was already spotless. Then he came in to the bathroom and told me that although I was too old for him to fuck, I could give him a blowjob. I did this. It felt rather strange when he came in my mouth. I imagined you were there, laughing at me. Then the man told me to go home. I don’t think I’ll see him again.
your blessed slave
I reread this last passage several times, smiling. The detached, unemotional way he had of describing sex was almost enough to make me forget the traitorous thought I’d had about my relationship with my lover.
I’d told Slave that he had to tell me everything, give me all of himself, but still he wrote emails like this. Could it really be that the intimacy and boundary-breaking act of performing oral sex on another man was nothing more than “rather strange” to him?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but how to reply to him? Was I supposed to reward him for finding a man to meet so quickly after I gave him the order (I think I’d told him last Friday and today was Tuesday), or should I punish him because he had failed in his given task of finding a man to fuck him in the arse?
I thought about my relationship with Slave more than anything else. My relationship with my lover was beyond thinking; it was the beat of my heart, the electric message of every nerve, the movement of food through my bowels, blood and guts and mess, the ugly miracle of everything working underneath the human skin. My lover was all that was necessary for my life.
Slave was different. I gave him tasks I didn’t expect him to complete, but experienced a strange thrill if he did, and an inexplicable sense of disappointment, sometimes real anger, if he failed.
I viewed it in practical terms, a perfect symbiotic balance. I gave him the dominance he wanted; he gave me the distraction I needed. Simple. When it was over, I would go back to my master, tell him everything, show him I’d experienced other sex and was certain I still wanted him, then my life would be as it should a
gain. After his time with me, Slave would be well trained in obedience and would find a mistress to love and cherish him. The two of us were helping each other to our separate happy endings.
A low voice interrupted my thoughts. ‘I can’t keep track of you.’
I turned my head just a fraction to look at Joe and gave him a half smile, waiting to see where this conversation would go.
‘I noticed you stopped working weekends. Now you’ve stopped working at work.’ He kept his voice quiet and leant over my desk, picking up the file on the top of my heap. To anyone else we looked as if we were having a normal conversation. ‘You flirt with me. We have mad, crazy sex. You more or less stop talking to me. You kiss me in the middle of the street. You act as if we’re just normal work colleagues.’
‘You’re wrong. I never stopped talking to you.’ I widened my smile.
‘You’re not like any other girl I’ve ever known.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me. Although I am far more woman than girl.’ A blatant lie. I belonged curled up in a foetal position on my lover’s lap, making myself as tiny as possible while he stroked comforting fingers through my hair.
‘You are all woman and so much more.’
‘And I’m sure you are all man, whatever that means.’ I gave him a wink. ‘So how are things with you? Did you have fun running up and down hills in the Lake District at the weekend?’
‘It was Yorkshire. But it doesn’t matter, I didn’t make it. On Friday I was experimenting with raw chillies. It was something that a friend advised me, how a chemical in the chillies can help with …’
‘Bored.’ I surprised myself by the rudeness of my voice cutting through his.
Joe smiled and shook his head at me. I saw something flash in his eyes that I recognised. With his sculptured masculine physique, was he just the same as slim little Slave, yearning to be a naughty boy being disciplined by a strong, confident woman?
I scratched one finger down the leg of his trousers, over his thigh and curving around to finish by pressing down on the sensitive place behind his knee. ‘Tell me what happened, then, just skip the boring part and go straight to the action.’
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