I'd been his a while. I wasn't always sure what I was of his, but I knew I was his. There were times I felt like a student, a trainee, a slave, a slut, a plaything, but always his.
What he was to me was a mentor, a guide, a man, a force of nature, a friend, a master and, added to all that, a secret. I hadn't found it in myself to expose to any of my friends, even my best ones, what kinds of things I was exploring. That meant that I couldn't tell them about him either.
I hadn't even told them that I was dating some normal, vanilla guy as I didn't want them to ask about meeting him. I knew I couldn't be anything but a puddle of lust in front of him, so some group date was out of the question – at least for a while.
A couple of my best friends knew I'd been hanging out at a new bar, and my best girlfriend, Amie, had insisted on knowing a bit more.
All I could tell her was that it was just a nice, comfortable pub in a nice area of the city that wasn't too far from my place and that I'd seen some good looking guys there.
He, my Master, of course knew a lot more. He had known from the beginning that I was as nervous and scared of all of this as I was humiliated and aroused by it. He always knew he could use my fears of exposure and my embarrassment in a kind of mental play that he excelled at. And so, when it slipped once that none of my friends knew where I was when I was with him, he pulled the whole story of my secret out of me.
From then on, it became one of his games of interrogation and torment to learn all he could about them.
One day he showed me proudly this old wheeled wooden office chair he'd found. He was proud of the deal, but most proud of a personal modification he'd made to it. In the middle of the seat there was now a vertically mounted rubber dildo. Since I had been naked from the moment I set foot in his place, he had me immediately slide myself down onto it. He cuffed my ankles together and hooked them up to the underside of the chair. There was nowhere I could go.
I never know what to expect, but it still surprised me when he wheeled me over to the computer. He had me log in and look up all the pages of my girlfriends while he was adding a butterfly vibe strapped right over my clit. There was a ring in the desk's surface he also strung the chain of some clamps through, before closing them tight onto my sensitive nipples.
He worked that vibe, my body and my mind like a Stradivarius as he quizzed me about every one on my friends. What they were like, what kinds of men they liked, if I was attracted to them sexually, which ones I'd fuck if I was drunk, which if I wasn't, which was dating, where did they go to school, where were they from, which I thought might be kinky, which I'd been tempted to tell about myself.
He turned the webcam at me. He took a couple photos with it, and I saw myself raw and ragged and glistening with sweat and need. He made sure the pics stayed up on the screen. He made me give him all of their email addresses. He made me tell him which of them would be most shocked if they got those photos in their email.
I was moaning, squirming, crying, throbbing and oozing out of my pussy all over the chair. In the end, I couldn't really remember all that he had asked or what I had told him. All that mattered in those moments was that I kept answering, kept telling him what he wanted to know, telling him everything, until he granted me release, turning me into a sagging, soaking slut bouncing on a dildo and cumming on a chair. I worried later, as I was leaning over to suck and lick the dildo clean with my hands cuffed behind me, just what I might have said, but there was nothing I could have done then. I knew as well that I'd do it all again as well.
As it was one of the many, varied and increasing ways that he would tease me and use me, I didn't think too much of it. I remembered it with a shiver and thrill from time to time, but that was it.
Until he changed that for me, that is.
Sometimes his use of me seemed so effortless, so inspired, it was easy to forget that he planned out so much of it, if not all of it. That was the case when he told me on one Friday that I was to clear my entire Saturday afternoon, night and Sunday for him. It was only then that I realized he'd been teasing me regularly but that he'd not allowed me an orgasm in a week. Gentle breezes were getting my nipples stiff and the slightest touch or suggestion had my pussy dripping like a cheap faucet. And so this was going to be the state I was in going to what was likely to be an intense, multi-day session of use. I got embarrassed just thinking about what a mess I was going to be.
Saturday, at noon exactly, I appeared at the bar; I'd learned my lesson about being late. Arriving and waiting for him to be ready for me was always an embarrassing experience. He required a certain kind of look from me when dressing for him. In public, it usually wasn't too scandalous, especially when coming to his bar. It did, however, always require me to be braless and wearing a low cut top – either some kind of scooping neckline or something with buttons or snaps or zippers that is opened significantly. He insists that when I arrive that I remove any coat that I might be wearing immediately and that I do a full lap of the bar, as if I was looking for someone – when really I am making sure that everyone notices that some slut with her tits bouncing around had entered the bar. Today I had paired a red scoop-necked t-shirt with a black miniskirt.
Then I have to sit and wait for him. Sometimes he's busy, finishing something up, or sometimes he just likes to leave me on display for a while. He's even taking to insisting that I carry around a copy of The Story of O, so that I have to read a book that will raise eyebrows while I wait.
That day, I only had to wait about twenty minutes and I only had to endure one man actually buying me a drink, which of course I had to accept thankfully, making sure to arch up to him in thanks, giving him the best view possible down my top.
He sat down and joined me, ordering fresh drinks for both of us. We talked, we caught up, we told stories and we laughed and shared. It was times like this where my mind and heart really raced and ached. I knew that there was something coming, but it was not like either of us were stalling or making time. He actually enjoyed spending this time with me, for all the reasons. There was a care, a growing friendship, if not more, that made me feel cherished, and only strengthened his hold on me.
Then, as there always was, there was the signal – the start.
"I do like that shirt, Kiki, but I've got one better suited to our walk to my place," he said smiling. He placed the folded top and the small table and slid it over to me. I was just reaching out to the white square of folded cotton when he placed four wooden clothespins and a little bullet vibe on top of it. "Pleasure and pain for you. It's going to be a fun walk. Two on easy of those pretty pussy lips, and slide that vibe up inside deep. Oh, and do refresh your lipstick too. It's such a nice red that I think you should add some to your nipples too."
My mind started working right away, even as I pulled them into my hands ... even when it was only going to be minutes before I would be having them on me, the anticipation was making my heart pound, my skin warm and my nipples stiffen immediately. There was no use even thinking about mercy, so I got up and made my way into the back and down the stairs to the small bathroom.
I decided to put off the cruel bite of the clothespins as long as possible, so I started by pulling my t-shirt over my head and off my arms. I stood there for a second, the chill of the air giving me fresh goosebumps, looking at myself topless in the grungy bathroom as I pulled out the red lipstick. I repainted my lips, rolling them to blot them, then carefully dragged the lipstick over my stiffened nipples.
I unfolded the top I was to wear and I whispered a curse, "bastard" under my breath, shaking my head. It was a tank top, barely. It was white cotton, that kind of cheap cotton you can only get in Chinatown or at Walmart in shirts that are less that five dollars. And of course, I was going to be braless, with bouncy tits and stiff nipples painted red for extra effect.
Pulling it on, it was worse than I thought. It was cut so low in front that my nipples were barely covered at all. Even the sides were low enough to expose the curve of my breasts. As feared, the thin ribbed cotton made kept very few secrets, and there were definite red circles visible – all the more prominent thanks to the erectness of the crinkled flesh in the middle of them. It's tight too, no doubt purposefully chosen to be a size smaller than I wear.
I take a deep breath, and I continue. I hike up my skirt and I pull down my panties, sliding them down my thighs and stepping out of them. He hadn't specifically told me to get rid of them, but there was no way they were going to fit over the clothespins. I spread my legs and reached down, pinching at myself, getting enough purchase to put the first clothespin in place. I eased it closed slowly but there was no avoiding the pain. By the time I had all four on, I was moaning out loud and my fingers were trembling and sticky.
I wondered how long all this had taken. I didn't want to keep him waiting too long, so I figured I'd better wrap it up and get back to him. I pushed the little vibe up inside me and I smoothed down my skirt. I gathered up my panties, rolled them inside my red top and left the bathroom.
.... There is more of this story ...