Nothing Less

by Reese Gabriel

  If he is hungry, I will serve him, fetching what he needs, remaining on my knees beside him. My cunt warms at his kindnesses, as he chooses to tussle my long raven hair (worn down, always down) or feed me bits of food. It is understood that I may retrieve scraps from the floor if he throws them, so long as I do not use my hands. I am thankful for these delicacies as I will not be able to take my own dinner till I have met all his needs. After dinner, or sometimes instead of it, I will tend to his personal needs. I undress him, using only my teeth. More often than not, I will pay him homage with my tongue, licking every inch of him. His glorious member we save for last. Serving him with my mouth is one of my greatest joys and privileges, one not lightly bestowed by my lord and master.

  I must be quite thorough in cleaning him, and I must not overlook his balls, the bottoms of his feet or even his behind. By the time I reach his crotch, I am feverishly panting. Having no pride or rights, I am free to beg him in any way I choose, though I may never speak without permission.

  Often he denies me speech, forcing me to beg to be taken with whimpers alone. If I annoy him too much with my girlish mewling, he may opt to give me a disciplinary swat or two on my ass. Being that I am his slave and slut, though, he knows this will only excite me more.

  I would come dozens of times a day if master permitted. But he is very strict about my earning pleasure. Unauthorized orgasms, along with certain other more serious breaches of discipline, are punished in the worst way possible. Isolation. Master uses the basement for this purpose. It is a place I detest, fear and crave all at once. I crave it because his usage of me afterwards is always unbelievably intense and satisfying. I detest it because of the devices there by which I am bound, controlled and punished. What I fear is when I am left alone. Hanging from my Master’s chains, or bound to the rack, or squeezed into the tiny punishment box...oh, how sorry I am then; oh, how I plead and beg. If my mouth hasn’t been gagged, that is. The worst thing is to be suspended from my arms, stretched to tiptoes, my back, buttocks and thighs fodder for the belt, or the deceptively thin and nasty little riding crop. Beaten, hurt, pathetic, he leaves me then, turning off the light, closing the door behind me.

  He ignores my tears, knowing I need the discipline. And how eagerly we both know I will serve him when he returns for me! At these times, he will invariably be very tender, even sometimes pressing his hand against me and allowing me to come as often as I wish.

  My eyes telegraph my thanks, my love for him, as I plunge over the abyss. There is no orgasm like that of a slave, a girl whose body is owned by a strong man.

  Everything is sexual when you’ve been opened in this way. I am aroused all the time, and even when I’m not conscious of it, there’s this little buzzing deep inside me, as if my little body is always wanting, always craving.

  How my heart soars when I see that look in his eyes, or when he snaps his fingers signaling that I am to serve him. Naturally I am allowed no hesitation, no delay. Even in public, I must obey instantaneously. I have been fucked over the sides of cars, in bathroom stalls, on my back in the dirt and mud. The very sight of an elevator makes me weak all over. My husband’s standing orders (pardon the pun) for elevator rides are that I must go to my knees as soon as the doors close behind us. If there are people inside, he will usually whisper to me that it is okay to stay on my feet.

  Usually. There have been times when I’ve stared intently, waiting for a countermanding signal and receiving none, have been left no choice but to drop down in the presence of witnesses. One time as I did so, an old lady looked at us in horror. Winking at me, my husband said to her, “She lost a contact lens.”

  You might think my husband would be jealous, especially since my curvy little body always draws stares, but actually, he enjoys sharing me. Since he owns me totally, he knows he has nothing to fear. Every hand, every cock, in other words, is an extension of him. I know that turns him on, especially when it serves to further humiliate me and enhance my slavery.

  At parties, he has been known to give me to friends or acquaintances. I must be on my best behavior when I lay for these men, because he’ll always ask for details afterwards. I must serve them as flawlessly as I would my own master, and he has joked on previous occasions that one day he will have a tattoo emblazoned on my breasts or ass which reads, “How’s my fucking?” and then listing our home number for comments.

  “Follow Mr. Jones to the bathroom,” he might whisper in my ear at a dinner party. In my slinky black dress, or maybe my off the shoulder red one, eyes lowered, I go. Sometimes they nearly come on the spot as I undress, revealing my lack of underwear, not to mention my total submissiveness.

  My husband recommends my mouth especially. This is very good for quickies, and I have lost count of the strangers he has ordered me to fellate in our time together. I must admit, it adds a certain heat to my glances, a pout to my lips as I parade myself in the skimpy outfits he chooses, knowing that any one of the men I arouse—or all of them—may be given use of me at my husband’s whim.

  I feel so desirable, so sexy, and ironically, so safe, knowing my sexuality is so totally controlled, so out of my own hands. My man loves me, as I said, and I suspect at times, he may even be indulging my fantasies and not his as he reads from my glances or from the twitching of my lips how I would wish to be “abused” in a given situation.

  We’ve brought strangers home before, both male and female. They sometimes pretend to be disgusted by my actions and status as slave, but secretly I know it arouses them, or else my master would never have chosen them. He is very wise about these things.

  On rare occasions, he will allow others to beat me, within reason, and of course it goes without saying they may do as they wish with me sexually. And yet he knows my limits, and neither he nor any other would cross them.

  It took me so many years to find this man, someone who would unlock my secret self, who would be for me the perfect foil to my own natural masochistic tendencies. He’s never once done a single thing I haven’t wanted, though of course, it can never explicitly be about my rights or my needs. In past relationships, I found men were of two types. Some were sickened by my submissive needs, and though they might have played along a little, I was a freak to them, a joke. Once in college I gave a boy I liked and trusted very much a whip, which I had hoped he would use on me. We’d had a lot of discussions about it, even practiced a little light bondage. He’d claimed to be hip to S and M, but as soon as he opened the present, he started laughing hysterically.

  The next day, he told all his buddies, and my reputation was sealed for the rest of the year. The second type of man, very rare in my experience, is the closet abuser, who hasn’t the imagination or sensitivity to understand the psychological beauty and delicateness of true power exchange. Against better advice, I agreed once to meet such a man I’d met over the internet. We arranged to rendezvous in a public dining place, and he was very polite—for the first hour or so. Then, about midway through dinner, his mood changed. First he ordered me to take my underwear off at the table. It was a crowded restaurant, and I didn’t want to do it. He started threatening me, and finally compelled me to go to the restroom, where I was to take off my bra and panties.

  I was really hurt, because I’d worn a very pretty dress, and he hadn’t even noticed. I was halfway down the dimly lit corridor, when I felt him behind me. I turned around and tried to scream, but he grabbed my mouth and forced me into the men’s room. I am quite sure I would have been raped if Bill, the man who was to become my husband, hadn’t come along in the nick of time. Bill is six-foot-two, very muscular and works as a security chief for a large company. Before that, he was in the military police, so you can bet my date had picked the wrong night to get out of line.

  Bill yanked him off me so hard that I thought my date was going to fly through the roof. The guy started whining and protesting that I’d started it by coming into the men’s room after him, but all it took was one look at my terrified face and torn dress for Bi
ll to figure out what was really going on. I’ll never forget what he did next.

  First, he asked if I was okay and if I wanted the man arrested. I said I was fine, and that I preferred to drop the whole thing. He nodded brusquely. Pinning one of the guy’s arms behind him, Bill made him face me so he could apologize. Blubbering like a baby, he told me he was sorry. Then Bill grabbed him by the collar with both hands and looked him square in the eye.

  “You ever so much as drive on this girl’s street or dial a number with digits close to hers and I’ll hunt you down. And if that happens, you better pray to God some cop picks you up first, understand?”

  I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing when the dark evidence of wetness appeared down the man’s pant leg. “Y-Yes sir!” he stammered. A minute later, he was gone. I think I must have been in shock, because I got hysterical, laughing and laughing and then crying. Bill had been out with some friends that night, but he offered to take me home. We ended up going for coffee and we talked for four hours straight at a little all night diner.

  I hadn’t even realized up to then how sad my life had been, and how lonely. He confessed it had been the same for him. He’d been married twice, no children, both times having been cheated on by his spouse. I don’t know what made me so comfortable with him, but I spilled my guts, telling him about all my submissive fantasies, dating back to fourth grade when I would pester the boys day and night to tie me up in the old barn. Cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, I didn’t care what it was, so long as I ended up immobilized, helpless and under the boys’ control.

  The whole time I talked, he just rested his big brown eyes on me, and I felt so safe. He wasn’t the most handsome man, with his flat nose, crew cut and thick jaw, but to me he was the most beautiful thing in the world. When I was done, he just looked down into his coffee cup, gripping the ceramic object in his big hands, like it held the inscrutable answers of the universe.

  “I want to tell you a story,” he said finally. And that’s when he told me about his one and only experience of sexual domination up to that point. It had been in the Orient, during his military career. He’d been enjoying a rare night out, at one of the local watering holes. He was well known and liked by the locals, since it was his job as an MP to deal with rowdy GIs. One of the owners, a little sad-eyed man, came up and asked Bill if he’d like some company. He was drunk enough to accept, and the man winked, telling him he had a special treat for him, something “very nice, very good for law and order man.”

  He’d expected a plainer girl, one of the tired streetwalkers that haunted this district. To his great surprise, what he found in the bedroom was a vision of beauty, slim and lovely, skin as smooth as silk, eyes like jade. The girl was barefoot, propped up on her elbows and wearing a pink bra and panties. It was when she lay back, smiling and flexing her leg that he had his real surprise, though. The girl was chained at the ankle, secured to the foot of the bed.

  Seeing his sudden concern, she reassured him in broken English. “Don’t worry, please sir. Key on dresser. You unchain me and use me how you wish. Only reattach afterward.”

  Being a cop, his next question concerned her safety. “Are you a prisoner?” he asked, in both English and the native language.

  She laughed. “No sir, if it pleases sir, I am Mei Ling. Mei Ling is slave.”

  “Slave?” This was a word out of history, fantasy. Sure, there was slave trafficking even now, but to this point it had been remote, statistical, a police problem. Here was a real live girl, one who was personally turning him on.

  “Family sell Mei Ling for debt,” the girl explained. “Mei Ling happy. Please to use Mei Ling body?” She stretched out her arms now in a way that left no doubt that she was his for the taking. Putting another dose of scotch under his belt from the complimentary bottle, Bill worked up the courage to order her to strip. She obeyed instantly.

  “Mei Ling, you property,” she enthused, in a voice too sultry to be ignored. “Unchain Mei ling, she show you.”

  What she showed him in the next few hours was nothing short of revelation. Bill didn’t just tolerate the slave gig, he got off on it, big time. He literally lost count of the orgasms as he possessed the girl, fulfilling her status as chattel in ways she herself had never dreamed.

  Mei Ling was a dream of submissive pleasure, an explosive, radiant package of sexuality. It would have taken a book to account for all of it. And when he heeded her plea to take off his service belt and discipline her with it, he thought they would both go into orbit. By night’s end, he believed what she’d said.

  Mei Ling was happy, and so was he. Several times more in the next few weeks, he returned to the girl. So smitten was he, he’d seriously entertained the notion of buying her freedom, marrying her and taking her back to the States. But Bill was a soldier, often away on difficult assignments, and a girl like her could never be left alone. She needed to be loved, to be dominated and possessed, on a constant basis. Ultimately, breaking both their hearts, he decided to leave her. A few months later, new orders came in and he was off to the Gulf. Two short, miserable marriages later, along with one honorable discharge, and here he was, telling his deepest secrets to a girl he’d just met in a men’s restroom.

  We both laughed at the humor of it. But when the moment grew more serious, I put my hand on his and I told him that I thought Mei Ling was the luckiest girl in the world. Bill looked at me very curiously, as if deciding something. A moment later, he pulled a ten-dollar bill from his wallet to cover the coffee and slices of pie and took my hand.

  We ended up in his bed, though our lovemaking that night was anything but kinky. I think we both just needed sheer human connection, man and woman, working out so much pain and loss between the two of us. The next morning we began to talk seriously about our future.

  Three months later, we were married. It was a blissful courtship, and the moment we’d decided on the course of marriage, we ceased all sexual contact. We both wanted it to be special, and we knew that when we did come back together on our wedding night it was going to be on very different terms, one most people wouldn’t, or couldn’t understand.

  The ceremony was a simple one. Neither Bill nor I have much family, so we opted for an old army chaplain buddy of his to do a private ceremony. I never did find out if this man knew about Bill’s interest in domination, but I did feel that our union was really being blessed in our own way. When the chaplain said the part about marriage bonds, I felt a secret thrill. And when Bill put the ring on me, I nearly swooned because we’d already decided that his ring was to be a symbol of my bondage to him, my submission as slave. On his finger, I put my own ring, the one acknowledging him as my master.

  When I said, “I do,” having promised to love, honor and obey my husband, it had a charge and meaning for us no vanilla couple could ever understand. Under my simple white dress, inside my tiny silk panties, I began to cream. I couldn’t wait for him to pronounce us, so we could drive out to our hotel room waiting for us beside the ocean.

  That night, in the dining room, at exactly nine-forty—which was the exact time we’d met—Bill told me to take off my panties at the table, just as we’d arranged. This time, for the right man, I obeyed at once. It was very exciting, because at least one other couple had a pretty good idea what we were doing.

  Bill took the underwear from me, inhaling my musk deeply. I blushed, because they smelled richly of my sex. He snorted like a bull, and then grinning, he stuffed them into the pocket of his tux. “Let’s have a toast,” he proposed, to which I promptly raised my glass of champagne.

  “To my new bride,” he declared, “and to my slave, whom I hereby designate as Christy Olson.”

  I drew in a quick little breath. I’d been born Christine Jones, but now I was Christy Olson by my husband’s will. I understood now that my name, and everything else about me was up to him.

  Bill ordered for me, choosing something I liked, but which was very light. He intended to keep me trim, he explained,
with one of those big winks of his. The food was marvelous. I had very much wanted the cheesecake for dessert, but Bill ordered a sorbet for me instead. When he told me that he preferred for me to sit up straighter, for better posture, and that he was dead set on my growing my hair much longer, I had an orgasm, right there at the table—a little zinging one that signaled to every fiber of my being that I had found a man strong enough to take me in hand, at long last.

  Later on we watched fireworks from the balcony while Bill sipped more champagne. Did I mention that the day of our nuptials—and with them the simultaneous declaration of my slavery—came on July Fourth, the same day as America’s freedom? Actually, he did most of the watching as I knelt at his feet worshipping his wonderful cock. As I sucked blissfully, Bill described for me the colors and patterns. I hardly listened, as my own mind was lost in a whirl of thoughts, ideas and hopes.

  How well founded those hopes proved to be! Truly, not once have I ever been disappointed. Sure, we’ve had tiffs and debates and all the same problems as other couples. But so long as Bill has the last word, exercising that boundless compassion, wisdom and toughness of his, I am happy.

  We’ve been together five years now, and I look forward to many more of them, secure and safe in the bonds of matrimony.

  Chapter Eight

  Discipline For Chelsea

  Chelsea Rivers was, by anyone’s definition, a bitch on wheels. At twenty-eight, she was already a partner in the firm, with a win-loss ratio that would make any litigant in the country drool. Courtrooms across the city were littered with her victims. Not to mention barrooms. It didn’t help, of course, that she had a body to die for, with lean, sexy curves and long silky black hair, hair as black as a raven’s wing.