Six 03

Dear Cecelia:

A little more history about Sharon and Edward, Five and Six as we know them now.

You'll recall that after toying with me for a week, making me wait for her reply, Sharon agreed to next steps. She was the contact person - true to form, the natural dominant in their relationship, something they had realized and played with, but not yet too seriously, for the several years they'd been together since meeting in law school. Their engagement, it quickly became clear, was rickety. They'd announced nothing to their families and set no date, but did call each other fiancee and fiance among their friends and colleagues. I'd never dominated a couple before, much less an engaged one, and I was frankly daunted by the idea, emotionally and logistically, but also excited by the challenge and complexity of it.

I had them meet me at a nice Italian cafe downtown. I'd gone there fairly often and happened, at a club, to have met and casually played with a beautiful young African-American woman named Sheila who worked there, sometimes as host and sometimes as waitress. This particular night, she was waitressing and she sat us at an outdoor table.

"I'll have a dry vodka martini with a twist," I told her, "and so will they."

"I don't usually drink the hard stuff," Edward said.

"Shut the fuck up," I replied. "You'll speak when I ask you a direct question. And only then. Do you understand?"

His upper lip started sweating. He said nothing.

"That was a direct question, honey," Sharon whispered helpfully. I grinned at her, and she at me. She was getting into the spirit of things so quickly and nicely. I didn't know how long this would all last, but I knew it was going to be fun.

"Yes, I understand," he said.

"First off, you no longer have names," I said. "You have numbers. You, Sharon, are Five. You, Edward, are Six. I've successfully trained four submissives. I've tried to train about 20 besides that, but most flaked out on me or didn't make the necessary commitments. If you're lucky you'll keep your numbers. If you're not, you'll have your names back but mean nothing to me and go back to your thrilling existence on the filp side of the universe. Do you both understand?"

"Yes," said Sharon, looking more serious.

"Me too," said Edward.

Our drinks came, and I ordered an arugala salad with seared tuna.

"And for you, ma'am?" Angela asked Five.

"She won't be eating anything tonight," I answered for her.

"And the gentleman?"

"He had a big lunch and isn't hungry," I said.

"Cheap dates," Angela smirked.

"Don't be cheeky," I said to her. "Seriously. Don't."

She knew I was talking about more than a poor tip and retreated, the smirk wiped off her face.

"Don't think me unkind," I said. "I just wouldn't want food getting in the way of your alcohol. I need you relaxed and receptive."

A homeless man walked by strumming tunelessly on a ukelele.

"There are some ground rules. If you disobey them, you will be punished. If you are disobedient or careless on a regular basis, that will be the end of our relationship. I take them very seriously, so you will too. You aren't to have any sexual contact with each other without my express permission. Not so much as hand-holding or a kiss. I'll be generous, if you earn it.

"You're not to pleasure yourselves either - again, unless you have my express permission. You'll switch to my gym and a woman there named Samantha will take charge of your personal training and your diet. You've seen her, but you didn't know who she was. She was the gorgeous petite hardbody who walked over to you and stared at you during that gym visit when we first met.

"You'll visit the salon of this gentleman," I handed them cards for Andre's, "and tell him that you're my friends. He'll shave and wax you until you are without body hair. Keep a thin strip of pubic hair if you like - that's optional. But nothing more. You'll visit him at least monthly. He's expensive. Tough shit. You're lawyers."

My salad came. They sipped. I dined. They looked quite exhilarated and nervous.

"You'll check at least once a day for my texts and emails. They'll give you detailed instructions about where to go, what to wear, etcetera. Sometimes it will be to meet me. Other times I'll be watching you but you won't see me. Sometimes I'll have someone else watching you, someone you don't know, and they'll report back to me or send me photos. You have your contracts?"

They handed them to me in two separate envelopes. I opened them and read them discreetly and lowered my voice. "Both of you are averse to welts and injuries, understandably enough. Not into piercings. Fine, though at some point we might want to revisit that. You don't want to be identifiable in any sort of public situation. I'll respect that. If I take you anywhere compromising, I'll have you wear a mask or some such. You're both into role play, discipline, foot and ass worship, fetish clothing, bondage. At least you think you are. We'll see. In my experience, people tend to talk big, but . . .

I stuffed the contracts back into the envelopes and put them in my purse. "It's a start." I said. "I wonder if you really understand what giving yourself to someone is - body and soul. We'll find out."

I ordered second martinis for Five and myself. Six looked a little sad and left out.

"Beneath the table cloth, undo your fly," I ordered him.

"Excuse me?" he said by reflex from being too long in the civilized world.

I kicked him hard in the shin.

"Ow!" he said too loud. "Shit," he said more softly. Then it started to sink in. It's hard at first, isn't it, Cecelia, my dear?

He did as he was told.

"Slowly pull your cock out of your pants. Good. Now start to masturbate. Slowly. Don't let anyone see you, and don't let it show on your face."

He did his best, though a close observer would surely have noticed something odd about him, perhaps mistaking it for indigestion.

The two martinis arrived.

"Don't stop," I told Six. "When you're about to orgasm, place your left hand like a cup under the tip of your cock to catch the cum.

He was sweating now and looking off to one side, at a patch of empty sidewalk, at nothing.

"Look at me," I said.

He did, and about thrity excruciatingly long seconds later he shot his load with a sudden exhale. Five and I watched him. She looked deeply excited and a little disturbed.

"Did you do what I told you with your left hand?" I asked him, sipping my delightfully frosty cocktail, which was rushing blissfully to my head and making me feel a bit reckless.

"I did, Diana."

"Call me Mistress. Or Mistress Diana. Or Ma'am. Or Madam."

"I did, Madam."

"Good," I said. "Now when I take the next sip of my cocktail, I want you to discreetly lick a little of the cum out of your hand. Just a tiny little taste."

I sipped, and so did he, making, I thought, just a bit of a face as he did so. Perhaps he'd never fully tasted himself before. I always assume everyone does such things, we being mammals and all, but who knows.

"Well done," I said. "Now Five" - I turned to her and had, I'm quite sure, her utmost attention - "when I count to three, you pick up your martini, and I want you to down it in several big gulps. And when she does, Six," - I turned back to him - "I want you to discreetly lick up all the rest of your cum like a greedy little cat. . . . One . . . two . . . three!"

They did as they were told, and that indescribable look of pleasure and entrapment and craziness - you've seen it many times, haven't you, love - came over them and thrilled me.

I let them collect themselves and finished my dinner. Angela came over to the table and I told her to give Six the check. Five and I were going to powder our noses.

As Six, no doubt, tidied and collected himself in the viscinity of his crotch and napkin beneath the tablecloth, Five and I walked through the narrow establishment to a small W.C. at the end. I opened the door for her and stepped in after her, locking the door behind me. Through a tiny cracked-open window high up, we heard the sounds of trucks and passersby enjoying the pleasant autumn evening.

Five wore a silky blouse, a short skirt, and, as instructed in my most recent text, silky blue thong panties. She turned and faced me. "I don't really need to pee or anything," she said, uncertainly. I slapped her and reminded her that I hadn't asked her anything. She put her hand to her cheek in some astonishment at the force of the blow.

"Lift your hands behind your head," I instructed. She did. I stepped behind her, reached down with my left hand and lifted her skirt, and started to gently finger her with the other hand through her panties. "Tell me whose clit I'm fingering," I said.

"Mine," she said, almost in amusement at the silliness of the question, thinking, perhaps, that it was some frivolous lovers' repartee. I pulled my right hand away and slapped her ass hard. Then my fingers returned to her clit.

"I'll ask you again. Whose clit am I fingering?"

She got it, through the vodka and the strangeness of the night.

"Your clit, Mistress. Yours to do with as you please."

I ordered her to spread her labia for me. I lifted my hand and told her to spit on it. When she had, I returned it to her pussy and combined her saliva with her cunt juices to provide a little extra lubrication as I circled the clit faster and faster with my finger.

"Not until I say," I whispered in her ear. She nodded. She whimpered a little. I kissed her coyly on her cheek and told her she was beautiful and that I'd dreamed about this ever since first meeting her at the concert.

"I wanted it too," she said. I stopped with her clit, slid my hand beneath the bottom of her blouse, tugged down one diminutive little bra cup, and pinched and twisted the nipple hard."

"I didn't ask you if you wanted it too. If I wanted to know that, I'd have asked you, right?"

She nodded.

And back to the clit. About a minute later, I gave her permission to cum. I marinated my hand in her juices, then smeared them across her face. I washed my hands and, leaving the room, said, "Clean yourself up, bitch. You're a mess. We'll meet you outside."

She looked exhausted, and in heaven.

***

The weeks that followed, Cecelia, were playful and exotic. I'd leave daily or twice-daily instructions about novelties and lingerie and restraints to buy. Sam met with them at the gym as a couple or individually and started to firm up their already impressive bodies and to completely reconfigure their diets (as she had yours and mine, to impressive effect, no?). She became fast friends with them as a couple and individually. They knew she reported back to me. I knew she gave them advice about what I like and what I don't. She explained to them that she was a casual submissive to me but that you owned her and let me play with her at your discretion and with your permission.

On those occasions when I let them speak freely, Five and Six confided that they were obsessed and distracted by their new kinky second lives. They worked tremendously efficiently so that their nights and weekends would be free to play, as play had been redefined for them. They kept up minimal social contact with their other friends but tried to keep their calendars as free for our games as possible.

I became a frequent guest to their modest but tasteful apartment. Beautiful, large collages by the Swiss artist Zed. An upright piano on which Six would entertain us with Brahms and Schumann, Debussy and Ravel. I had no idea how good Six was. He'd thought briefly in high school about being a professional musician. What we held back on in food - superficial, weight-obsessed, hedonistic monsters that were - we made up for in fine wine, the occasional pot brownie, and tripper or chillax pills.

They clearly loved each other but were also beautifully lost souls. I completed them, and I say that only partially ironically. I was the puzzle piece they had been waiting for and we all knew it.

I'd relax on their sofa, sometimes declaring it a Vanilla Night and just engaging them in conversation. I've picked really smart ones this time, Cecelia, I have to tell you. Their sophistication, their reading habits, the museums they like to visit, concerts they go to, and so on - they're not just another young stud or studlet waiting for my crop. They fascinate me. I brought up the book I'm writing on Santelli and his ethical miasma, thinking it would bore them to tears, but they pressed me on various points and soon it was an hour and a half later and I had ideas for new chapters about how his war history influenced his skepticism toward Kant. That drained me to the point I literally couldn't even think about sex any more that night, and you know that's rare for me, so I just headed home and wrote until two in the morning.

More typically, though, I'd have them fuck and suck each other in pretty much every way imaginable. Sometimes I'd just watch. Sometimes I'd pleasure myself while watching. I really wanted their hands on me as well as on each other. And I wanted to fuck them rather than just watching them fuck each other. But I held off. I'd stunned her I think with my aggressiveness in the restaurant restroom that evening, and I wanted to retreat from that for the time being and get a better feel for their own rhythms and dynamics.

She became quite adept at a snap on double-sided dildo that was inside her even as she penetrated his mouth or his ass. For the latter, he gradually relaxed and opened himself to her more freely and more joyfully. The idea of it and the prostate stimulation made him cum prematurely. I coached him to breathe through it and try to hold on longer, literally timing him and spanking or paddling him if he failed to contain himself that extra 30 to 60 seconds.

"May I ask you a question?" Six said during a brief Free Speak period at the end of a delightful evening. "We love to host you. I mean we seriously love to host you. But might we some day get to visit your home?"

I smiled. "I was wondering when you'd have the nerve to ask," I said. "How's Friday night?"

**

Samantha, wearing only boots and a thong, met them at the door. "Wow," Six said, putting down the leather satchel I'd bought them as a slave gift. "I mean, am I allowed to speak?"

"Thank you for the 'Wow,'" Sam said. "But no, don't talk. This isn't a Vanilla Night. Have a seat and I'll bring you your cocktails."

She showed them to my living room. And though they knew better than to say "Wow" again, they said it to each other, I spied from the kitchen doorway, with their eyes. I gave Sam the drinks on a silver tray and followed her over to the living room.

"You may each ask one question," I told them.

"This place is huge, and gorgeous," Six said. I came over and flicked him painfully on the neck.

"That wasn't a question," I said. "For a lawyer you can be pretty obtuse."

"How can you afford this?" he asked.

I slapped him.

"I told you you could ask a question. And you blew it. So now you can't." I was, in case you hadn't gathered, in full domme mode, with tight leather pants and a revealing sleeveless translucent blouse over a minimal lacey bra.

"Philosophers don't earn much. Seriously, how can you afford all this?" Five asked. She took a nervous sip of bourbon and soda. I walked over to her and slapped her too.

"That was a statement and then a question. What is wrong with you people?"

But then I sat, sighed, and explained. "Family money and a fortunate brief marriage - fortunate and fortunately brief, that is - to a hedge-fund manager who turned out to be an astounding prick. My attorney was an even bigger prick, but a prick on my side of the equation, and I hugely multiplied my yearly income for life. A shitty first marriage can be an exceptional investment."

Outside, the rain picked up and, its sound muffled through the thick curtain, thrummed against the sliding door to the balcony.

"Six, a little music please, would you?"

He sat down at the Baldwin, got settled on the bench, and played a few chords.

"Some of those strange, sad Ravel waltzes you played the other night would be nice," I said. "I liked those." He nodded and began and in posture and performance warmed to the excellence of the instrument.

"Five, you come sit by me." She did so.

"Sam, I bet Five would like to put her feet up."

I could tell Five wanted to object, to say she was just fine and no thank you, but she held her tongue. Sam came and got on all fours in front of her spot on the sofa.

"Go ahead, sweetie," I said. "You won't hurt her."

Five carefully lifted her heeled shoes and placed them on Sam's pale back, ankles crossed.

"She has a beautiful ass, doesn't she?"

"Yes, Mistress," said Five.

"That's what years of running and biking and lunges and weight machines'll do for a gal, right Sam?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Five, did you go the Izami exhibit today like I suggested?"

"Yes, Mistress. We did."

"And did you kiss and neck and grab each other's asses in the walkway to South Building?"

Five nodded and smiled.

"And did people stare and mutter at you?"

Her smile broadened. Another nod.

"I know you did," I said. I picked up my phone and showed her the photos, which were surprisingly close and well lit.

She turned to me. She raised a brow questioningly and pointed at me.

I took her chin in my hand, a bit roughly, and told her never to point at me. That it was rude.

"No," I said, letting her chin go. "I didn't take those. Two took them."

She looked puzzled.

"You know, you're Five, he's Six," I tilted my head toward the piano, where her boyfriend was playing with a sad, thoughtful intensity. "And the photograph was taken by Two."

Five looked bemused and thrilled at the voyeuristic implications of the day. She took a serious gulp of the bourbon, then coughed a little.

"Do you need some water, honey?" She blushed and shook her head adorably.

"If you'd free up your footstool there, Five, I think we're ready for dinner to be served. Sam?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

Sam got up from the floor, stretched her gorgeous taut torso this way and that, and headed toward the kitchen, her toned hindside drawing Five's intense attention.

"I know, right?" I laughed and she chuckled too.

The simple menu was endive salad and chicken picata with some overpriced pinot. I allowed free talk and Six nervously gushed about Izami's bold colors and fearless brush strokes. "But somehow the image is there behind the image, the figures that more intense for being obscured," he said.

"I thought you'd like it," I smiled at him - he looked so nervous, I wanted to make him feel a bit more at ease. But only a bit. I showed him the photos of him and Five making out and getting grabby ass in the museum hallway. Like Five, he looked both rattled and turned on by the pointed invasion of privacy.

I told Sam she could serve herself her dinner. She brought her plate over to the table and started to sit down.

"No no," I chided. Bring me your cuffs, your collar, and your leash."

Whe she returned I cuffed her hands behind her, attached the collar and leash, and set her plate on the floor next to my chair. She knelt awkwardly, lowered her face to the plate and awkwardly ate, as best as she could from the fish filet and jasmine rice. Five and Six stared. They couldn't help it. It was ridiculous, and savage, and beautiful. Now and then I wiped Sam's smudgy face off with a napkin.

"Five, be a dear and bring her some water. Maybe in a soup bowl - something shallow enough that she can get to it. They're in the cabinet above the espresso machine.

As Sam ate and slurped away, I petted her. She took a break from the food, I napkined her off again, and she rubbed her face and hair up against my leg. "That a girl," I cooed to her.