Flickering Candles

They had been “seeing” each other on-line for quite some time. It was at his insistence that she’d finally bought a digital camera (“the better to see you with, my dear”). They had thoroughly explored the sweep and limits of her desire. Finally, Masterwolf, as he was called on-line, told her that they should meet, to do the things they had been talking about for so long.

When he told her, she was kneeling, bound firmly, and tightly with the cotton rope, dyed red that he had instructed her to buy. Her hands were free so that she could type, and so that she could do his will. She did not look into the camera’s eye, as that would have been the same as meeting his, something a slave was not permitted to do. Still, she was surprised, and a warm wave of happiness that he should find her sufficiently pleasing to take possession of off-line washed over her. Her nipples, each decorated with a ferocious little clamp, pulsated painfully as her heart leapt in her chest. Apart from the rope and clamps, she wore only the headset and mic, and a small butt plug.

He knew the city in which she lived, but ordered her to give directions to her house. She obediently typed out the instructions (though a girl would never giveinstructions to Master!). Master further instructed her as to how he would enter, how she would dress, and when he would be expecting to arrive. She was stunned: He would be here in less than twenty-four hours!

“Master,” she said, “This one must work tomorrow.”

It was true. Not only was she scheduled to work, her boss was expecting her to organize a presentation for the new product line.

“Yes. You will work. For me,” In the face of his confident growl, the new product line suddenly seemed insubstantial and silly. “Furthermore, if you defy me again then our first meeting will almost certainly be more pain than pleasure.”

“Yes, Master”—what else was there to say?

The earpiece gave the electronic click that let her know the session was at an end.

The following day was an agony. She awoke much too early and sat staring at the harbour far, far down the hill. She told herself she was considering the implications of what she was about to do, but really she knew it wasn’t any such thing.

She telephoned her office at seven-thirty. Her boss picked up the line.

“Hi, Tricia,” she said, trying not to let her voice quaver from the tension of lying and from the excitement of anticipation. “I . . .”

“Oh hi, honey,” her boss responded. “Look, your father just called looking for you. I told him you hadn’t come in yet.” There was a pause. “Oh Christ, has anyone called you?”

“Uh, well,” She thought very fast, “Yeah, actually, that’s what I’m calling about. I can’t come in today.”

“Well ofcourse you can’t, you poor thing. Don’t you worry. I’ll have Gerry give the presentation.”

She was nonplussed. She stared at the instrument for a minute.

“Uh, can he handle it?”

“Well if he can’t do it now, it’s time I found out.” Responded Tricia “You do what you need to. If you need a few more days for the funeral, that’ll be fine too—just e-mail me.”

She was so surprised at this that she almost said, "funeral?" But she reined in her tongue just in time.

Her boss said goodbye and hung up.

For a moment she thought of calling him, of asking what he’d told Tricia. But she knew he was on his way.

Now there was nothing left but to wait for Master.

For the next few hours she went about in a tingly daze. Her pussy was entirely wet the whole time. She couldn’t help but think. She’d seen his picture before, of course. But she’d never done anything like this withanyone. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder whether she might be meeting some psycho.

Then she dismissed the thought. It was unworthy of her, and more importantly of Him. Tonight he would possess her, take her, and make her all she wanted to be. There would be pain. Of that, she was certain. But she revelled in it. Suffering and obedience to her Master were what she wanted. There was no room for doubt.

Before she knew it, the sky was darkening. She went to her bedroom. He had given her strict orders:

First, you will strip.

That was easy. She allowed herself to preen in the mirror a moment. Her hair, dark and wavy, fell in a soft wave over her shoulders. Her eyes glowed as though illuminated from within so that they were brighter than the feeble bedside lamp, which cut the darkness only enough to enhance the shadows.

Her shoulders were golden, as were her smallish but firm breasts. She caressed her ass with one hand and then ran the hand up over her belly. The hand cupped her right breast, weighing it. Then she pinched the nipple hard, eyes looking into the mirror. When her lip curled in pain, she released the nipple, running her hand back down over her belly—not flat, but not puppyish either. She turned and bent forward slightly, her looking over her shoulder to the mirror. Her ass was still firm, the result of hours of exercise. It pleased her that she kept herself well for her Master. Her roaming hand smacked hard at her ass. Her pussy was shaven. Master had had her do that as soon as she bought the camera. She had squatted over a bowl and recorded the whole process. Today she had merely had to trim the stubble while she showered.

Give yourself twenty hard spanks with the leather belt.

The belt was identical to one he owned. He’d sent it on their three-month day. She hated applying it, but she'd been ordered, so she would do. She took up the brown length of the belt—it smelled like him, like she thought he would smell, a faint hint of Drakkar and . . . jasmine? And beneath that a deeper, more masculine scent.

With a deceptive ease born of practice she swung the belt around herself so that it smacked into her buttocks. Tears came to her eyes after the eighth stroke, but she continued. On the ninth stroke, she accidentally swung the end of the belt so that it struck her shaved pussy, and squealed aloud. Still, she continued . . . fifteen, then eighteen . . . she gasped for breath, her ass red, along with the extra marks where an unexpected backlash had caught her thighs, body, or cunt.

Now you will empty yourself. Use warm water. Do it in the living room, where you did before.

Of course, he would require that her asshole be squeaky clean. She used the hot-water bottle with its surgical tubing, kneeling over the hassock the way He’d made her do when He’d first ordered her to give herself an enema. She slowly worked the rubber tube into her anus—she used a little lube, although sometimes Masterwolf would make her insert it without any lubrication except the juices of her pussy.

She got up, glancing at her living room, and made her way into the bathroom. Master had not instructed her to hold the liquid inside of her—sometimes he made her plug her ass for hours. But she repeated the process to be sure she would be thoroughly clean and available for His use.

Have you done that? Good slut. Now dress: you will not of course require underwear except as gift-wrap, but you will wear a black thong and brassiere for this first night.

Thigh-high stockings and “fuck-me” heels completed the outfit. She knew that he would strip even these from her, that she would eventually wear only red silk.

Put in the emerald earrings.

The earrings were devilish; a gift from him. From each mounted emerald, a fine gold wire curled upward and inward, so that it gently brushed the inside of the ear. Suddenly she felt as if her feet were a mile from her head. She took hold of the edge of her dressing table, almost made dizzy by the intensity of the sensation. It would be hard to walk in heel. But she didn’t expect to be walking much. Not on her hind legs, anyway. She almost grinned at the thought, but then sobered somewhat as she read her Master’s next instruction.

Clamp your nipples

She had expected this, but still felt a momentary shudder of anticipation, desire, and a little fear. Always before, she had been the one in charge of how tight the clamps would be. Tonight, for the first time, Master would physically check. And if they weren’t tight enough? She was sure he’d make them tighter.

She reached under the bra and almost dispassionately screwed the little squares of torment onto her tits. Once she released the brassiere, the extra pressure tore through her nipples like a wave of fire. Her pussy was already wet.

Prepare me a drink.

Easy. Crown Royal on the rocks. She’d dreamed of serving him with a tray, kneeling at his feet while he rubbed a single ice cube over her and sipped his drink.

Now get twelve white candles. Light ten.

Once again, he had been very exact. She set the candles down in two rows along the entryway.

Now wait by the door, facing away. Once you are in position you will blindfold yourself. I will arrive at eight-thirty precisely.

She went to the door.This is me, the slave; obeying my Master’s commands . . . will he beat me? She wondered.

The red bit of silk went across her eyes. She never once thought of doing anything but Master’s bidding. She would please him, no matter what.

Her heart was pounding. Suddenly she realised she had no idea what time it was. But she didn’t dare peek. If he came in and found her unready, she would surely be punished. She had only been there minutes, it seemed. And yet it seemed like forever. Her breasts, her aching nipples, seemed to swing in the air, confined though they were under the constricting bra. Her ears, teased by the emerald earrings, buzzed dizzyingly. The candlelight wasn’t strong enough to penetrate her blindfold.

She took a deep breath, and in the silence heard the tiniest noise of the mat at the front door being lifted. The key that she had left underneath it as per His instructions scraped in the lock, and the door swung open.

She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t even know who it was. Perhaps a neighbour had seen her stash the key and had come to look for his own amusement. She knelt, nearly naked in the centre of her hall, feeling the big man enter behind her.

Then her heart smiled inside of her as her nostrils detected Drakkar and . . . was it jasmine?

“Good evening slave,” He said. Her racing heart jumped into her mouth. It was His voice! Shorn of the usual hiss and static of a telephone line it was smoother than she’d dreamed. It wasn’t quite as deep. He seemed younger, more vital, in real life.

The slave heard a heavy bag drop on the floor. There was a jingling of chains. Two firm hands (O enormous hands!) grasped her shoulders. Hot breath on her neck. His fingers stroked down her body—she felt the heat building inside of her at his touch, the touch she’d so desperately wanted for so long. She moaned slightly.

“You may stand.” He said. Phrased as permission, it was His first real-time order to His slave. Carefully, slightly dizzily, she stood up. The blindfold made it harder to stand on the high heels without staggering, but the slave was graceful, nevertheless.

His fingers explored her wet warmth, and then withdrew, tickling her clit on the way. The other hand slid down between her buttocks. She caught her breath as he gently, insistently forced his finger into her, tugging at her thong. He kissed her without any warning except the warmth of his breath on her lips. The heat coming from his body was radiant and searing to her. When the kiss ended, he pulled off the blindfold.

“You may look at me, slave.”

Craggy face with bushy eyebrows. Grey in the hair and the neatly trimmed beard. Amused eyes, hazel, with little crow’s feet that belied how stern they seemed. Tall, taller than her. Body slightly thickened through the middle, but well muscled for all that.

He released her.

“Now get your eyes back down. I said you could look, bitch. Not stare.”

The slight chastisement of his voice made her even wetter. He stooped to open the black gym bag he had dropped in the hall. Out came the toys: the wide cuffs for her wrists, the wider ones for her ankles, the even wider ones that would fit her thighs. These she saw in the corner of her eyes as he rooted them out of the bag. Other toys, obscene in shape, pleasurable and painful in purpose, joined the growing heap. After a while, he seemed satisfied.

He stepped forward, up behind her. She trembled slightly, anticipating glorious pain and pleasure. His hands, slightly cold, encircled her neck. Quietly he passed a leather collar around her throat.

“This is it,” he said “if you want to stop or talk about anything, you may say so. Otherwise, I will lock your collar and we will begin.”

She stayed mute, desperately wanting him to close the lock, unable to say so. Wanting with all her self to be his slave, to have the decisions taken from her.

The lock clicks shut. The hallway seems to expand away from her. Heat from her belly, fire in her clamped nipples, the throb of her engorged clit. This is all she is.

From the corner of her downcast eye, she watches him. He moves like something on the prowl. From his belt, he takes an enormous knife. She quivers in terror—she has always had a horror of blades. She has never mentioned this. As he approaches her, a violent trembling seizes her. He stops, seeing her distress, and frowns.

“Is there a problem, slave?”

There it is. It’s the code for ending a scene if necessary. She can tell him, get it out. Then the thought comes roaring in:

I will OBEY! He is my MASTER and I am his slave. I adore and worship him, and I respect the gifts he gives me: the gift of understanding, the gift of pain, the gift of obedience, and the gift of his respect for my submission! I will NOT betray him!

Suddenly, her tremor eases. Eyes downcast, she permits herself the tiniest, tightest smile.

“No Master”

The brassiere goes first, dropping like a flag of surrender to the floor. Then the thong, barely noticed as it is slashed into two neat pieces and slides away. Now the knife is drawn expertly down each of her stockings. The feeling of them peeling off her is the most erotic thing she can remember in her life.

Naked, her skin is tawny in the light of the ten flickering candles. Momentarily she wonders why he ordered her to provide twelve. What did he want with the other two? She almost smiles again. He’ll let her know when the time is right.

He doesn’t cut her shoes off. Instead, he undoes them so that she can step out. Without words, she bends, slips to the floor. Her buttocks resting on her calves, thighs spread, breasts presented forward and hands clasped behind. His crop tickles her chin and she lowers her head.

“Kneel up” he breathes in her ear. Just his voice and she wants him, needs him, to spear her in her secret places, to give her the pain and subjugation she wants, deserves, needs.

He binds her with a rope. First over her shoulders, around behind her neck, then looping forward again. Her throat is subjected to gentle pressure as he arranges the rope so that the collar will not interfere. A knot is made between her breasts, and the ends of the rope cross before her. The ends are brought around to her backside, where they are drawn down and through her legs, then pulled brutally tight. The rope is soft, but her bruised and constricted pussy feels chafed and raw. He produces another, shorter length of rope. Seizing her left breast he tugs hard on the clamp fastened there, tugging a half-gasp, half-shriek from her. The shorter rope winds around her body and between her breasts, getting tighter with each pass.

Master releases both nipple clamps, making her shudder and bite her lip as blood flows into her tingling flesh. He continues to wind the rope about her breasts until they protrude, jutting into the air, nipples fully and firmly erect. She is proud of her tits. In spite of feeding two children they are still decently firm, and although they aren’t huge she knows her Master treasures them. The longer ropes are passed around her hips and tied tightly. Master reaches between her thighs and seizes her clit between thumb and forefinger, tugging and pulling at it so that it stands rudely forward between the ropes across her cunt, and sending shivers through her at the sensations concentrating in her crotch. With his slave artfully bound, He gently pushes her back to the seated kneeling position, forcing the ropes to bite even tighter. She moans quietly as he pushes her to all fours.

“I will train you in submission, slave. I will bind and beat you. I will use you as I wish, do you understand?”

“Yes, Master”

A finger in her pussy, and another entering her ass:

“Your cunt is wet, slut.”

“Yes Master.”

“Should I fuck that slave cunt?”

“Oh, please yes Master!”

“Or this tight slut ass of yours?”

“As it pleases you, Master.”

He looks at her with appraising eyes. The hardwood floor of the hallway seems glued to her sweating palms. Her ass is discomfort, but somehow feels good. Her cunt is on fire as her probes and pinches her lips between the thick cords. When he touches her clit, she bites her lip to keep silent.

She still has her eyes down when pain shoots through her clitoris. Bound as she is, it’s hard and painful to wriggle, but she does.

A hand smacks her ass “Down, bitch!”

She sees the glove stretcher he’s tucked behind the rope at her cunt, tightly pinching her sore, swollen clit. His hand holds her hair so that she cannot look away.

“You are beautiful, slut-cunt” he says, “You need to learn manners, though.”

“Master, forgive your slut!”

“Of course I’ll forgive you, slave—as soon as I’ve whipped you.”

He uses the riding crop. Ten on each breast, ten on her tender pussy. At number seven she realizes that she’s about to come.

“. . . Seven . . . OhgodMastermaytheslutcum? . . . ugh . . . Eight . . . Nine. . .”

“Come.” He says.

The word “ten” is lost in her orgasm.

He doesn’t stop. Twenty slashing cuts to her ass. And now she hears a tube of something squeezed. Something cold drips on her hot ass as he rubs it over her hole. Then his cock, thicker than she thinks it could be, invading. She opens her mouth and takes deep breaths. For all that he has made her practice with a dildo, the real thing is different. She’s conscious of enormous warmth, of being deliciously skewered.

“You are mine” he slaps her ass, hard.

“Yes Master, your slave, your slut, your whore.” Hard to talk, she inhales a rasping breath as he sinks himself undeniably into her anus. Hungrily, he pounds at her, she defiling herself, calling herself his bitch, his cunt, his cum-swallower. He yanks her nipples and slaps at her bound breasts. She screams. Amazingly, she feels the beginnings of another orgasm as his hands clamp her tender assflesh and he fucks her even harder. She feels warm fluid dripping from her ass as he withdraws, firing his come over her back and neck. His finger has found her clit again, and the cruel glove stretcher nips her as it’s pulled free. She comes in a wave of pain, pleasure, lust, and submission.

She doesn’t come to herself properly for a while. Finally, she finds herself kneeling beside him holding an ashtray and his drink as he watches a movie on television. For the moment, she feels disappointed. Is this all there is? Then he looks over at her:

“Did you enjoy that, slave?”

“Yes, Master, very much Master.”

“Even your punishments? The pain?”

“Oh Master, I loved it!”

“I?” He asks.

Her eyes fly open, and she hears the jovial tone in his words.

“You’re going to be punished for that. There is no ‘I’ inslave.”

But, he thinks,that can wait until later. The movie is good.

And kneeling by her Master, bound in rope, cunt and ass sore and dripping, wearing her Master’s drying come in her hair and on her skin, the slave knows her real place at last.