It’s purely symbolic.
Nothing but a title that creates an illusory relationship between us.
It’s no secret to you, or those who know me, that I’m not any more dominant than my quiet, amicable and agreeable demeanor projects; it can even be successfully argued that I’m not the most deserving of suitors for such moniker. However, that’s just what I am… at least called… by you: Master.
Enunciating it still chuckles me up silly. “”Master…” kkkk, hehehe,” I quietly giggle as if a grade-schooler hearing “Uranus” for the very first time. A reaction that alludes to layers of suppression weighing down an inept super ego. Yet, there is a delightful significance to being called Master: arousal! An invigorating insatiability that rises up through me, blasting into a million-and-one-nearly-atomic-particles of lust that scatter all about you, to repeat again and again.
But behind all the giggles and stiffened reactions, the struggle between my innate personality and the emotions drawn by “Master” breaks from its restraints very late at night; much after it’s become obvious that sleep no longer requires further indulgence. The walls of the room are forced to expand trying to contain all of those times I wondered how our intimate agreement came about. “Master & Slave” flashes in neon pink all about the room. “Master” is as clear now as it was when you first said it. Oh… despite the presence of skepticism and inadequacy I still feel as invigorated as if the first time hearing it.
Our relationship is a mutual agreement between “giveth” and “taketh” of sexual nature. “You shall give, and I shall take… whatever it is you deem I deserve,” is precisely how you phrased it initially.
Play normally began with similar commands intended for cerebral foreplay –how I always enjoyed hearing you ask for penance. The manner in which your mouth rolled the musts to endure that atoned your misbehavior — until you pleaded for action. Eventually, that euphoria diminished. It withered away as the joy turned nearly contempt knowing that behind my capability to threaten your mind naughty, there was a failure to realize the verbal prowess. Transgressions that once made your mouth lush anticipating my reaction no longer excited you. They, in turn, reminded you that there wasn’t and isn’t a capital “M” prefixed to “aster“. There is simply no commander, even slight dominance to merit misbehavior.
The disappointments compounded rapidly until your desire to join me in adult play moved on. One, two, three, to too many more; each after another misbehavior meeting your disapproval until finally you abhorred every single one of my consecions. My inability to “giveth” what you “wantedth” destroyed all illusions of both “Master” and “Slave”. I received each challenge by backing off, by willingly accepting an unwarranted defeat time and again. And that, you couldn’t overcome.
Well aware of “rules”, I was still unable to respond accordingly. I unequivocally believed that satisfying you was achieved through “gasms” and consummation. Never once did I considered the results of not dabbling in my role. It was, perhaps, when little could be restored that my denomination grow heaviest and most worrisome. It all came to an unfathomable realization when calling you a plethora of well delivered nouns no longer compelled thrill in you and arousal in me. The playful, thirsty and willing partner was gone, replaced by a sexually indifferent individual; one whose infractions were intended to shame me, be it privately or not.
Perhaps death to the old and dawn to the new is true after all. At least so it read my horoscope for August 21st, 2017, and how dearly much I desired it to be factual.
It was the day of the much anticipated solar eclipse. We were to be guests at an invitation only gathering held at Plunge. A rooftop pool located at the Ganesvoort Hotel in New York City’s meat packing district. Hours before departing, an argument ensued where you questioned my ability, my vigor, and my desire to indulge your whims. Even your longing to remain in the relationship was raised. It became increasingly obvious that you unequivocally bound masculinity to an ability to please you in more ways than I had demonstrated. You no longer saw me as a man.
Resorting to the very behavior that had cease to affect you, I warned about the outcome of your actions; of the grave consequences which you’d have to endure if this deluge of infractions were to continue. Inconsequential… all of my verbal attacks, inconsequential a best! You reacted by voicing your displeasure, throwing the outfit you were to wear against the wall, claiming that another one was going to be wasted. It all ended with your condescending tone stating to “go dress up for my “punishment” and wait in the car.” You mocked again and again until it was time to depart.
The hour-plus silent journey into New York City was seldom disturbed. Your infrequent gasps alluded to both your presence and wishes to be absent. I wondered if this drive was destined to be our very last encounter. How different was the future to be? I reminded myself time and again of he horoscope and the dawn of a new, yet life apart. Were it not for the change of landscape from lush vegetation to mortar, brick, cement, steel and polluting noise it would felt as if we were fast approaching nothing.
Once parked you took the lead by quickly walking towards the elevator. Before even fully walking inside the lift, you reached for the button panel attempting to close the doors on me. It was a futile attempt that garner no reaction from either of us. Mid way the ascent some civility returned as I spoke: “The doors will open overlooking the pool. Hand your belongings to the attendant. Everything you are carrying but, of course, your outfit. The top of our hands will be color stamped burgundy. It reveals our identity to security. It also gives me, and only me, complementary drinks and other certain liberties.”
“All of it?” you disgruntledly questioned. A small affirmative nod was my response.
When the elevator’s doors opened, two charming fellows greeted us hello. Both dressed in body fitted suits; one black, the other orange. The smaller fellow wearing the black suit stood in front of the larger fellow dressed in orange, nearly blocking him completely.
“Parties…,” you huffed while handing them your items.
“Thank You! Your companion can claim these at anytime. Please, the floor is yours. Enjoy the event.”
As we look to walk away from the two fellows, one of them hands me a briefcase. “Sir, as you requested. The combination is 8,21,17. Enjoy.”
Indifferent to our relationship, you barked to fetch you a drink, completely ignoring the briefcase. You walked off towards a small group adjacent to the pool, I went towards the bar. Once at the bar I placed the briefcase on it, adjusted it, took a deep breath, entered the combination and full of doubt, opened it. Nicely tucked inside were a flogger, with a collar and leash.
“I like those,” came from behind the bar. A mature, dark skin, long-curly-hair-in-pony-tails, deep piercing eyes, and calming demeanor bartender. “Someone must have misbehaved to earn such treats,” She continued.
After a few minutes engagement with the bartender, I close the briefcase, grab it along with your drink, then head towards you. During my approach, I can hear some of our discontents being revealed to an older couple you’ve met. From behind you, reaching between your right elbow and flank, I hand you the drink: red sangria. You ignore it, ignore me until completing your thoughts, then grab it. I walk around you, introduce myself, too ignoring you for the duration of the formalities. After the pleasantries conclude, I excuse myself, get on one knee to place the briefcase on the floor, flip it open, and grab the collar and leash.
With a calculated ascent, I look towards the couple that’s been curiously staring at the items on my hand, smile at them and turning towards you, I deliver a heartfelt smack to your right cheek. “There, there… pick up your hair on the back that I’m going to put this collar on you,” I ask in a mixed emotions tone. All intentions were to stop there, then return to the bar to sip on the double of Catskill Straight Rye Whiskey. But, that wasn’t enough. Instead I recoiled, quickly shooting forward, grasping your bra and tearing it clear from your chest. A sudden jerk enticed a few sweet moments of sway before seeing the leash come to a rest between your breast. It’s bottom end resting not two mouths away from the top of the camouflage booty camp shorts. Left there wearing your breast, booty camp shorts and a pair of mid-calf-high-straps-three-inch-heels, “This is how I want you.”
Visible was more than your heavy breathing and palpitations against your breast; along with it, “You shall give, and I shall take… whatever it is you deem I deserve,” came rushing back into the pupils of your eyes, notifying me that you were smacked awake, and willingly awaiting penance. The traces of sangria that had spilled upon your hands through the jerking of your body when your bra was torn off, soaked your hand in prelude to the evening. I grabbed the liquid moistened hand, kissed the sangria while raising my gaze to look at you glisten.
Your eyes grew flirtatious, lower lip caught between your teeth, “Now?” you asked. I raised my hand to your lips, hushing you from further conversation. “Yes, now. You “gonna” be a good girl,” I responded.
Myself caught by the shock of overcoming years of inaction, I had neglected the attempts of the older gentleman to interject against my ill discretion.
“Look here young fellow, that is no way to treat a lady,” gently placing his hand on my shoulder as if about to deliver a comforting account. His companion used the opportunity to cover Cece with her scarf, “cover up yourself, young lady.”
“I’m so sorry. Thank you for your concern. I really am okay. I had nearly stopped waiting…. or at least I thought I had, on the way here,” You replied to the concerned interjection. To which I added, “It’s her wishes my dear.”
Security responded promptly. Assuring the older couple, and the crowd that had formed around us, not to be concerned. To note the various identifying hand-stamps around the room; that ours, differing from all others, granted the freedom to misbehave as we wished.
I returned to the bar mentally and physically stimulated; fully aware that you shared the sentiments. By then some folks had gathered around me but, remained silent until the bartender asked “when is it my turn?”
“At my pace? Not tonight, maybe not even tomorrow, or in a few years. I’ve been known to be rather slow,” I replied.
The pleasantries between the bartender, fellow bystanders and I lasted until the shock of the moment had been forgotten. Folk seemed rather excited, some certainly showed discomfort yet, fancied a go at the details of adults at play. To a fault, my half-dressed-companion mixing in with the crowd with a leash tied to her neck, lapsed my mind. It must have been obvious that I turned to look for you, because you too, looked for me. I had allowed your drink to grow empty. Unlike prior de facto behavior of barking out orders, you crossed your legs, tilted your head, slightly swayed the empty glass from side to side, and shrugged your shoulders.
“Injustice,” I thought out loud. Booty camp shorts meant to provoke rendered inoperable behind crossed legs. “Injustice,” I cried again. My mastery of your figure quickly sought justice. You had to be revealed to my approval. “Such a cover up as if Sunday Mass is bloody pointless,” I murmured.
With the company of a tall glass of sangria I make my way to you. I take time to stare at you. To look at your breast, the collar, the leash freely placed between your chest; I follow it down all the way to your crotch. You look at me with bright, smiling eyes, watching me replace the empty glass with a new one, and simultaneously helping your hand up to your mouth. “Drink. I’m going to take liberties with this picture,” I say while staring at the tip of the glass against your lips. The motion of your throat giving passage to the liquid surfaces memories of coughs, gags, and saturation of your mouth.
Grabbing the leash where it meets the collar between my fingers, then briskly sliding my hand down to meet the lose end, I pull you towards me. Your “giveth” and “taketh” stare that finds solace with selective behavior nods in approval. I can feel the anticipatory warming of your body detonate. It’s as if fully aware of the soothing about to receive through some of this and a lot of that.
Rather than permanently stopping at the end of the leash, I release it, intently awaiting the gentle slap against the tender of your belly, before resuming this venture. My left knee meets your crossed legs, easily penetrating the crossing blockade. Your body relaxes welcoming the separation. I push your legs apart until I’m appeased that the separation concedes full allure. Nothing exaggerated in fact, simply enough to feel a full hand’s cusp of you, followed by an unobstructed spank. I signal with my face for you to have another sip then, I reach down to squeeze my fingers between the top of the booty camp shorts and deliberately tug upwards until they snuggly wedge between your labia. A tasty slap culminates my hands tracing and sculpting of your form.
“I want it like that. All night!” I command.
Once again I grasp the cloth covering your labia and dislodge the wedge, much to the delight of surrounding observers.
“Fix it,” I whisper.
“Yes, Master,” you whisper in response.
A quiet storm hushes poolside as your hands deliver the very same message to your booty camp shorts as I had previously delivered. Snug, improperly wedged to my enjoyment, just to where an advanced education isn’t required for meaning.
“I like that. You are wet. Look at my fingers.”
“Yes, I am Master. I am.”
“Turn around bad girl.”
“Like this, sir?” you ask.
I cusp both your cheeks with my hands right where the thighs meet the buttocks then, deliberately raise your cheeks while spreading them. I release.
“Squeeze the shorts between your cheeks,” I spank you, then walk away.
Wandering eyes gawk, react with disbelief, shock; some smile and others look away. Voices grow discernible, occupying the space growing between you and I. Curious men talk about drawing closer for a better look; women wonder about whatever feelings you might be experiencing, and, little to any surprise, the more prudent in the discourse of civility rush to your aid.
Adulation welcomes me back at the bar. The bartender reveals a joy that would have otherwise been replaced by stagnation from what could have been another gig filled with stale decorum.
“Bravo. Well done. I fancy her lips against mine. A mouth full of her. She looks wet,” the bartender chatted on. “Can I taste her from your fingers?”
She reached for my hand and I for the double of Barrel Strength Whistle Pig Drink Up New York Rye awaiting my arrival. “I thought the moment merited it,” reiterated the bartender swaying the bottle of rye by the neck, “I am further excited in anticipation of the next event.”
Small chat, some more sips of this appropriate spirit, and a long pause before recognizing that my fingers had been mouthed clean from the lustful soaking from minutes ago. I grew quiet after a while, distracted by the absence of you figure comforting my hand. I contemplated the venue, those adjacent, those far away, even the distinguished yellow planters around the pool. I used the time to keep to my own company when time demanded my presence else where.
Whatever is left of the double of rye I place gently on the bar, then slide it to the opposite corner where the bartender entertained inebriated guests. She catches the sliding three finger tumbler, looks for the bottle then, instead of tendering the drink, she urges me to go on.
“What’s her name…” is the last I recollect before dismissing the torment that my hands had lost your scent with the realization that I still held the flogger on my left hand, and not all was necessarily final.
Two of the people conversing with you point in my direction, alerting you of my advance. Your hands run about the booty camp shorts, shifting them about, adjusting just so where it best displayed her – It is dearly invigorating to watch as your hands shift the commando shorts all about in the rear, slightly spreading your cheeks to improperly nudge them where you’d know I’d approve.
“Yeah, yeah. You got it,” a fellow says, just as I reach around from behind to grab the leash and spin you face to face. Away from all the obstacles, at least those obstructing the bar… we walk to a clearance, “hinge at the waist,” I say.
A heartfelt slash across the chest revealed the seriousness.
Startled you tense, asking, “I earned this, didn’t I? For being a bad girl?” You hinge at the waist, raise your head to look at me, and quickly return your gaze towards your perked ass. Another flog just on your right cheek, another the left cheek, a combined one.
“Squat! Hands behind your back.”
Your breast are shaped firmer by your hands position behind your back. Maybe the position displays them in ways other methods can’t, perhaps it’s your arousal reacting to my timely behavior. I engulf one with my hand, run about both of them, touching, slapping, tugging at the nipple, pinching, teasingly twisting them.
“Grab your breast, push them together gently, don’t be medieval. I want you more tender than brute.”
I look at your body, legs spread in a squat, distressed hair strands falling on your shoulders, other strands towards your back, and rest remained to the front, nearly reaching the top of your areola.
“Pinch your nipples until it hurts then release.”
There is that stare again! You look at me, blinding me with your appetite.
“Unzip me!” I drag the flogger’s tresses across the back of your shoulders, down your back, then down your breast until all of your long hair rests on your back then, with a swift jerk of my wrist I strike your persona. That catches your attention. Longing erupts from your eyes. The cravings ignored through out or relationship where being buried as a group right here, right now.
“Pull me out.”
“Hands behind your back.”
I dip myself into your mouth.
Once, twice, thrice… the last of which I firmly grasp your head, holding you throat-deep until you whimper, gag, cough, then tear to my delight.
Withdrawing… I zip up, grab you by the leash and stand you up. A tender pussy flog. “Today, I’ll take whatever I want,” I say, leaving you behind to curious minds.
As so – gagging, coughing, soaking me with your saliva, me back to the bar for a chat, for a drink, to return to you – we continue well into the eclipse.
Most times I hold you firmly against my abdomen for as long as I deem necessary. Fully inside of your mouth, I watch you react to my comfort. I can feel myself throb, nearly wanting to reach all the way down your tummy and explode all my intentions into you.
The sight of a shaft and head covered in your spit leaves me gasping each time. I stroke it once, maybe twice just to feel the sensation of holding myself while covered with your saliva; pull it downwards just enough to increase the tension, then release me to force a hearty slap against my lower abdomen. Slap! goes the wet sound.
I walk away the same way I arrived. Aroused as if the very first I feel your mouth devour my cock.
“Time to prepare for the height of the eclipse,” is announce by the lovely folks who greeted us upon arrival.
Equipment to facilitate viewing of the event is passed around to all but us. Ours are brought by the host who’s finally made an appearance. “Welcome to the party, Martha,” I greet her.
“I’ve been watching you,” staring down at my crotch then your lips. “Cece, dear, you’ve produced a soaking; right there on the…,” Martha says while cleaning your lips with a napkin.
We take the eclipse viewing apparatuses from Martha… “It will be about an hour before viewing peaks. Would you care to come mingle with me? Of course there is no need, you may go about as you were. But, I have unfinished matters to cater for which I’d like your input,” Martha says to me.
I never really give her a direct answer. Instead, I turn to you, insert my fingers through the top of the shorts then, sway the shorts downwards, coming to a stop at your thighs. “There, there good girl. Come out and play,” I say while tracing your shape with my hand.
“Look at your moisture against my finger. This is how I like to see you. Have a taste,” putting my finger in your mouth.
I feel the sensation of my finger being sucked down at my crotch where I’m being detained behind a zipper and under pants… aching to do more than remain captive.
By now a sizable crowd has gathered about us. A few spectators grow daring by reaching out to touch you. Martha — the doll she is — responds to the transgression by requesting of security to escort the offenders out of the premises. They reluctantly depart after many fruitless apologies and vows to contain their eagerness.
I tell Martha that I didn’t much mind it. Had they been invited the outcome would have certainly been different. Cece would have enjoyed it.
Grabbing you behind the head, I pull you into my lips where we kiss while I flog your bare ass until the tresses turn your firm cheeks a delightful colour.
“Mhm, mhm… I’ve be…en such a bad girl. Teach me to behave.”
Extending my hand out towards Martha, handing her the flogger, she too is pulled close to me where I direct her to unzip, expose, and have a mouthful of me. You and I still kiss. My left hand guides Martha down my shaft, and my right soaks in lust between your labia. By now, Martha has dropped the flogger, unable to flog you as I had requested. Instead, her hands push hard against my thighs, digging in, until freed to come up for air.
The drive of my hips into Martha’s throat continues, while I trace, sway, spank, slide, construct figure eights with my fingers on your pussy. Half my hand glistens from the saturation that’s made it down your inner thighs.
Martha –oh, my doll– uses the opportunity to shift from me to you. I allow her to pull away from me and reach your pussy. She grabs hold of your cheeks, spreads them, and fittingly places her mouth on you. I interrupt Martha precisely to spank her lips with me then slide myself between your legs without penetrating. Martha reaches between us to grasp my sac, squeezes firmly. “Don’t be shy,” I tell her.
Before I have a chance to further soak up my shaft, Martha forces me inside of you with a quick shove of the top upwards. Your eyes detonate, opening nearly larger than the eye sockets. Martha giggles like a school girl then, pulls me out to clean me with her mouth.
On the way home you are as chatty as I’ve ever known you to be. “I can not believe we missed the peak of the eclipse. My ass feels so tender. You came in public. It was everywhere. My ass, lips, thighs, Martha’s mouth. Martha seemed to enjoy your cock soaked with my secretion. Did you notice she was stained around the mouth when we left? I’m swollen! Do you think many people there had ever experienced much like it? I don’t think so. Nearly every soul in the place didn’t give two hoots about the eclipse, choosing to watch me be taught a lesson. I coughed, I spit, I gagged, I screamed, I resisted, my eyes teared up, look at my eyeliner down my cheeks; I gave up the ass. I came four or five times, shit! Don’t think I didn’t see you let the bartender feel you fully engorged. I liked it anyways. You felt so good piercing through me. And, and, when Martha spread my ass, the rush of cool air further excited me. I like that you lined up us and throated us. Smacking us to take what you dished. Asshole, where has this been all this time? Oh, and taking turns, you and Martha sucking me. I like that. Why didn’t make Martha get fully naked?”
“There is time for that, for Martha to get naked in the future,” was my lone interjection to your monologue.
These days Cece is far happier than at any time during our relationship. She still speaks of it as if having occurred moments ago. Her pleasant mood lasts weeks on end. Each time she’s punished, she follows it with playful transgressions, leaving notes about the house as to how she’s looking forward to being a good girl.
Yet, from the events of that day, my mind still toils with Cece’s attire and make up. The revealing booty camp shorts snuggly tugged between her lips. The leash hanging from her neck below her navel. Her thighs shapely leaving the bottom of the shorts, down to calves perked by high heels. The discolored lips, and running eyeliner. The ass exposed and flogged. The look of the crowd as she stood waiting for me to come take my keep.
That’s’ what I recall most. The shape of her persona with shorts dragged down to mid thighs, gloriously revealing my bounty.