From over a year ago. April 29, 2007. We hadn't met yet. We hadn't seen pictures of each other. We just knew...
The philosopher begins:
(Here's a story for you kitten. . .I hope you like it. It will give you something to masturbate to. . . even though you are forbidden to masturbate tonight. It's a bit rough as stories go. . . but leaves room for all sorts of interesting elaborations. . .perhaps my naughty little kitten can add to it. . .)
My little kitten is nervous.
She was told the rules of the game, and she was nervous. "Rules" she thought. . .there was just the one: "Obey". The rest was in the hands of her master, who would never hurt her.
But still. . .
The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts and bringing her back to the present moment, the present location. Which was noon, at Union Station. She was sitting near a public phone, and it was this whose ringing had startled her. She swallowed hard. . . and answered.
"Go to the newsstand, kitten. Go to the stack of Cosmopolitan. . . the third one from the bottom."
Then a click. The game had begun.
She went to the newsstand, and obtained what she hoped was the correct magazine. It was: as she flipped through it, an index card fluttered to the ground. It read:
"Lost and Found. Manila envelope marked Odile Roissy."
She went to the lost and found, and inquired if anyone had turned in a large manila envelope with the name "Odile Roissy" on it. Someone had. . . and since it didn't seem to be valuable. . . the man behind the desk handed it over to her without seeing ID. Was he smiling as he did it? Did he know why your cheeks were burning?
She opened the envelope, to find a smaller envelope, and a note.
"Open in private".
She went to the ladies room, waited for an empty stall, and when she was alone, opened the smaller envelope. It contained a bright red thong, and further instructions.
"Put this on. Leave old panties behind. Go to bookstore. Story of O, page 43."
She did so, blushing furiously. The thing was thin and silky. . . offering her pussy hardly any protection at all. She may as well be nude. . .except that it was so smooth and silky. . .it felt soooo goood! She hung her old panties on the stall's coathook (a boldness that should earn her extra points, she thought) and left quickly, lest anyone should find them too quickly.
Exiting the restroom, she looked around. That must be the bookstore. . . a Barnes and Noble that catered to the commuter.
She found the only volume of the novel, and checked page 43. Sure enough, a message was scribbled there.
"Take a taxi to your favorite department store. Women's clothing section. Go to dressing room. Remove everything but the thong. Do not lock the door. Find package under seat."
She followed these instructions to the letter. The package hidden under the dressing room chair contained a message and an object. . . an object that made her catch her breath. The message read:
"Put this on and wait."
The object was a blindfold. She put it on.
And waited. . . all but naked, unable to see. The dressing rooms were monitored against shoplifters; what must the security guards be thinking? The thought made her cheeks burn even more. But she was good. . . she obeyed, sitting absolutely still, and straight, her legs parted slightly.
It seemed like hours that she waited. . . but she couldn't be sure.
Finally. . . the door to the dressing room creaked open slowly. . . she felt a finger tug at her thong, rubbing it against her by now soaking wet pussy. . . and the pounding of her heart almost obscured the whispered voice that appeared right next to her ear:
- - - - - - - - - - -
Thank you, Master.
i always like your stories.
i always like your messages.
i like everything you've every written to me.
when you bought me at the slave market,
you paid with words.
part of me wants to write the next chapter. part of me likes leaving it hanging. it is the unknown, the anticipation, the fear, which is always so exciting.
on the other hand, in addition to inciting flames, the story raised questions and comments. some are nitpicking, but sometimes i can't help getting out my red pencil... on the other hand...
1. would you like to have me wearing a thong? once i have money coming in again, i could get one, just for you. pink, if that's what you would prefer. or red, or whatever... a ritual object for me to put on at the beginning of any long session. i want to please you, i want to excite you.
2. once again you stirred up the warm feelings. warm feelings in my heart, as opposed to the burning in my cunt. when right off, you spoke of [my] master, who would never hurt [me]. you make me feel so safe, so treasured, so embraced and calm and happy. and you draw the net
tighter around me. even the tigress doesn't really want to break free.
3. something slipped right by me when i read it the first couple of times. how could i have been so slow? it only just clicked. now i know where it's going, at least now that it is in my hands. in my mind. thank you.
4. in the nit-picking category. i'll assume you'd know what was my favorite department store... tho do i actually have one? i don't dress like a normal Washington career woman, so either i go up to LL Bean's or to shops with pretty, brightly-colored rayon clothes, little tops to wear with jeans or khaki pants, which cling and show off my nipples... but in any case, you would have needed to specify which changing room within the dressing room. there are lots. (and i sure hope they don't REALLY have secret cameras looking into the rooms! that's a whole other movie... :-)
and now i will write...
- - - - - - - - - -
She gasped, and tears rose to her eyes, until they were as wet as her tantalized pussy. . . tears of relief, and, more than anything, tears of joy.
Until now now, she had assumed there had been a local accomplice. A friend from grad school, perhaps? (He must have SOME friends, somewhere, despite that fact that he almost never mentioned any.) Or perhaps a stray sibling; there were so many, it wasn't unlikely that one occasionally wandered down to DC. And there was no reason the accomplice needed to know the contents of the envelope, or of the package, or even the meaning of the index card.
She knew he had been testing her. But she never suspected what the reward would be for getting an A.
The reward was that voice. And the man who went with it.
"My perfect slave," the familiar voice now whispered. "My tigress. My selkie."
"My master..." she breathed, in wonderment and gratitude. "My master!"
She turned her face towards him, this man she knew so intimately, this man with whom she spent hours every night, this man whom she had never seen, whose picture she had never even seen, but who ruled her body and mind.
She still couldn't see him. She was still blindfolded. But it didn't matter. He was there.
He pulled her to him and kissed her. First slowly, gently, reveling in the taste of her, then harder, almost desperately, as if he couldn't get enough, as if his tongue couldn't go deep enough. Which it couldn't.
"Who owns your mouth, kitten?"
"You do, Master, you own my mouth."
His hands began to explore her breasts, cupping them, caressing them, eliciting sighs and moans, until he took the nipple of her left breast between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed and twisted progressively harder until she cried out in pain and pleasure.
"Who owns your breasts, kitten? Who owns your nipples?"
"You do, Master," she gasped. "You own my breasts. You own my nipples."
He reached down, he reached down and yanked at the thong until the strap broke. He reached down to the overflowing bowl of honey over which he had been salivating for months, that warm, wet, silky pool that inspired erections nightly and, far too often, daily as well. He
penetrated her with his fore and middle fingers, and his current erection nearly burst his jeans.
"Who owns your cunt, kitten?" his voice with hoarse with desire.
"You do, Master. You own my cunt. No one but you."
Regretfully, he withdrew his fingers. He couldn't wait until later, when they would return, followed by his tongue. Followed by his cock. Later.
She slid off the bench and assumed the position of perfect submission. Kneeling, now completely naked, knees spread as wide as she could manage, her pussy open to him, available to him, offered to him. Head bent down, eyes beneath the blindfold cast down.
Placing his fingers under her chin, his fingers that were still wet with her juices, he tilted her head up, and completed the catechism.
"Who owns you, kitten?"
And overwhelmed with joy and desire, she replied,
"You own me, J---.
You know you do."
And he removed the blindfold.
They gazed at each other, drinking in features, adjusting the vague images they had held in their minds for so long. They sank into each other's eyes.
But there was no time now for self-indulgence. He reached into the small shopping bag by his side and pulled out a wide strip of leather, embossed with Celtic knots. He leaned towards her, and fastened the it around her neck. It was the long-promised collar. Reaching once more into the bag, he took out a chain, and fastened one end to a D-ring on the collar, slipping the loop of leather at the other end around his wrist.
"Stand up, kitten. Stand up, my slave."
She did her best to be graceful. And was surprised by how embarrassed she now felt at standing naked before him. She blushed and looked away.
He ignored her discomfort. And opening the door of the little dressing room, led her out into the store.
It was time for his final exam. The course? Dom 101.