The Loft Pt. 01

So there I was, lying on the floor in the fetal position.

But not from any oppression; because I was deeply fulfilled.

Let me back up. W had organized a meeting of the Queens — she and three other Dommes in a party-hosting rota — food, drink, conversation, and...sexual abandon.

The rule is, whoever hosts is the Queen, and the others, while Dommes in all other quarters of their lives, are the subs. Invariably, the Queen has a slave on hand to help with the service. That's where I come in.

A week earlier, W had asked if I could keep Friday and Saturday open (I could), then on Thursday night the instructions came. The next afternoon I was to shop for the groceries and booze (she sent a list), then go to her Venice loft. I knew the garage code and where to find the spare key. When I entered, there were two Kitchen Safes on the counter, with a note. I was to put my keys, wallet, and phone into the small one, my clothes into the large one, and set both timers to lock the lids on for 16 hours.

That done, I took a shower, toweled off, and slipped into my CB5000 chastity cage. W didn't have to put this particular action on the list. It was understood between us.

What a rush to be naked and caged, anticipating the arrival of my Queen and her friends. I pulled open the French doors. The warm breeze slipped past me and licked its way into the room. The lambent afternoon light, broken by the swaying trees... Friday, week over, work done, clear sailing ahead. I took a deep breath. I felt alive.

The loft was still orderly from when I'd last cleaned, but it needed to be dusted and swept. That done, I washed my hands and set about prepping the food.

I relished the snap of the knife through the cool carrots. The cutting board was thick and sturdy. And oh, that slip of the paring blade into the skin of the peach. A little juice expressed, quickly licked away.

W arrived. The sound of the garage door closing was my cue to kneel by the front door and wait. Each step on the stair quickened my pulse. I love the anticipation. Eager to feel her presence, not knowing what I'd be told to do...perhaps lucky enough to touch her, even moreso to be touched by her...

The door opened and she pushed in, computer bag over her shoulder and her small suitcase rolling behind. She paid me no mind.

"Ugh. So glad to be out of that traffic!"

She threw her suitcase on the sofa, sat on it for a second, popped right back up, and went over the kitchen island. She slid out her laptop. It opened, a gigantic silver maw.

Then it happened.

"Where's my wine?"

Fuck. She'd instructed me to chill the wine and have glass waiting when she came in. I'd put it on ice but hadn't poured a glass.

"Not a very auspicious start," she said as she walked over.

I wanted to apologize, but I'm not allowed to speak unless asked a direct question.

She stood so close the cotton of her short summer dress brushed the tip of my nose.

"Apologize."

"Mistress, I am so sorry. I totally fucked up. I put the bottle on ice, but—"

She cut me off with the snap of her fingers and pointed at the open doorway.

"Here."

I crawled to the spot. Now I was visible to the neighbor lady in the loft above the garage next door...should she happen by.

"Say 'I'm sorry, Mistress' until I tell you to stop."

"I'm sorry, Mistress. I'm sorry, Mistress. I'm sorry, Mistress—"

As I droned on, she pulled her dress up.

"Back on your heels."

This lowered me down, and she stepped in so her pussy was an inch from my face.

"I'm sorry, Mistress..."

It started with a few small spurts, then gathered into steady stream. She swung and dipped her hips so her hot piss hit every inch of my face. She made sure to fill my mouth as I spoke — I sputtered through my mantra — and even reached down to tilt my head and get some in my nose.

When it was over, her hand still on my head, she looked down at me.

"Stop...Do you want to lick my cunt clean?"

"Absolutely, Mistress."

"Do you think you deserve to?"

"Absolutely not, Mistress."

"Good answer."

She bent down close and spit in my face. Then she audibly hocked to gather more spit then let it fly.

"Go get my wine, clean the piss off the floor, then back to meal prep."

Except for the odd contortion to keep piss and spit off the food as it ran down my face and chest, the rest of meal prep was uneventful. Until...

"Is there any string in the kitchen?"

I checked the drawers and found some.

"Yes, Miss."

"And grab a gallon Zip-loc bag. Then crawl them on over here, baby."

I stuck the string roll in my mouth and crawled to her feet. For some reason she was sitting on her suitcase again instead of the cushions, forced to lean back uncomfortably. She threw herself forward and drew my face up to look at her.

"I had four fucking meetings today, so I had to wear these heels non-stop. Lucky you."

She took the string out of my mouth and handed it to me. Then she took the bag.

"We'll save this one for later," she said, slipping off the first heel. I could smell the sweat on her foot. I could feel its warmth at a distance. She slid the heel into the bag and sealed it.

"Clean." She rested the ball of her foot on my chin and I eagerly split her toes with my tongue. Sweaty and sour, sure, but her sweat. Her sour. Pleasing her.

I got to enjoy that for about a minute. Then she took off the other shoe and contemplated it for a moment.

"I think...I don't want...wait—"

She went into the suitcase and came out with a pair of panties.

She sat on case and moved her legs apart.

"Don't want you missing out on any of my scent."

She lifted the front of her dress and rubbed her pussy with the panel of fabric, wiping upward on either side of her lips, then splitting them, then pushing the cloth inside. Finally satisfied, she looked at me.

"Open. Stick out your tongue."

I obeyed and she carefully pushed the wet crotch of the panties against my tongue. Then she folded the bands on top and lifted my chin to close my mouth.

Next, she unwound some of the string.

"Oh shit. I forgot to have you bring scissors!"

I made a move to stand, but a firm hand slammed down on my shoulder.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, but did I tell you to get the scissors?"

"Nrr Mithh."

She hocked and spit in my face. I contemplated the warm drip down my face as she got the scissors.

She snipped a long length of string then picked up the heel and put the opening over my nose.

"Hold."

As I held the heel in place, she wound the string around my head several times, then tied it off. I'd be forced to smell her sweaty shoe as I finished prepping for the party.

"Perfect! Stand up and spin around for me."

I certainly felt foolish, but standing up brought another feeling to my attention: the pressure of my cock straining at the cage! It never ceased to amaze me how dialed in Miss was to my various sweet spots, the overlap in my Venn diagram of Humiliation and Sexy.

As I spun for my Queen, she took pictures with her phone.

"The girls are going to love this little appetizer!"

Speaking as she typed: "My drenched panties in his mouth. Send!"

She motioned me over to kneel in front of her. When I was down, she hugged me and whispered in my ear.

"My good boy. When that shoe airs out you let me know so I can tie the other one in its place. Now back to work."