Copyright © 2005 Jim Reader. All rights reserved.
Today I found out that this story won Honorable Mention in Desdmona.com's 2005 2000-Word Short Story Contest. Since Desdmona.com only retains non-exclusive electronic rights, I've rushed to get it posted here for my SOL readers, although you could go read it at the Contest site.
Today is my twentieth birthday. I've been her servant for almost two years now. I doubt she'll remember. Last year was celebrated with a well-deserved beating.
God, I love her.
When we first came here we were runaways who thought we knew it all. We knew she lived alone, was the heiress of a bakery fortune and that she lived alone and unguarded, close to the bad part of town. We never thought to ask why. So we pulled a home invasion, intent on robbing and probably killing her, but she turned the tables on us so easily. We were pathetic. One bottle of drugged wine and we woke up in the cages. She abused us... call it what it was, she tortured us. But we were going to take everything from her, hurt her, rape her, probably kill her.
Who could blame her? But at least we always ate well. She was never cruel in that regard.
She forces my face into her cunt and the scent, so exotic but so familiar to me, now brings me erect immediately as I lick and tease her, parting her flesh with my tongue to find her clitoris, to gently massage it. She hasn't bathed yet today and still smells of this morning's pleasure, but it is fresh enough to be good and I taste her, all of her, compulsively. My hands strain at the chains that bite into my flesh, drawing my arms together behind my back, and she smiles.
"You would worship me with your hands, little boy?"
I nod dumbly, not breaking contact with her moist folds. I am frantic to hold her in my arms so I can force my face deeper into her delights.
She calls me "little boy" as she always has, and I suppose to someone of her age, I am. She must be in her late forties, early fifties, but age has magnified, not diminished, her loveliness. She is smooth and supple, her hair a subtle red only now beginning to show traces of silver, her skin a comforting softness, her eyes capable of such compassion and love, such cruelty and anger. Her shape is rounded curves, a sag here and there providing comfort and an all too human beauty.
She reaches behind me, careful not to disturb my attentions, and releases me, chains falling to the floor between my knees. My hands wrap around her thighs, caressing her warm flesh, drawing her close to me, and my face presses deeper into her, fresh nectar flowing from inside her, coating my chin. My tongue flicks down and brings to my mouth the essence of my Mistress. Every taste of her is a blessing; every touch from her is a gift. I embarrass myself as tears roll down my face.
Unlike the mother whose abuse caused me to run away, she stops me and kisses the tears from my face.
"Does my little boy love me?"
How could I not love her? She has freed me.
Clothes are a prison that no longer confines me. I have worn none since the day she took me. Ignorance no longer enslaves me as she has taught me how to speak and how to think. What is freedom to die on the streets compared to the freedom of a life of love and service? Pain once scared me, but those bars are gone from my windows thanks to her and the lessons she has taught me. Now I know there is pleasure and there is ecstasy, and somewhere, far beyond where I once thought it dwelt, there is pain.
As I return to pleasing her she gently punctures the skin on my back with her sharpened nails. I moan deep in my throat, and the twitching of my cock reveals my nearness to climax.
She pulls me to my feet and straps a ring around my cock and balls so tightly my eyes water. Now I'm free to love her without worrying as much about spending myself prematurely. That is love.
As I thrust into her, holding her gently as she sits on the bed's edge, she brings her fingers, wet with my blood, to her mouth and tastes me. I am thankful for the ring as it's all that keeps me from exploding inside her. The coppery scent of my blood mixes with the smell of autumn leaves, cinnamon and nutmeg that is her fragrance. My vision blurs as I lose myself in loving her. I feel her shudder, stiffen, and her nails sink deeper into my back.
I am freed of my humanity and have become an engine performing one simple function. Pleasing her is the center of all things and I am lost in my service. After some time, with a slash of nails down my back, she is coming again.
I feel the slow trickles of blood down my skin, and I think of my sister, the girl who is no more. When I ran from our mother, she ran from our father. We lived on the streets and then we broke in here. She didn't understand, she never understood, the gift this woman was offering us. She fought and she raged, never allowing herself the sublime joy of submission. One morning her cage was empty. My Mistress and I don't speak of her often.
.... There is more of this story ...