Chapter 9

Sylvia wobbled and wiggled a bit but found a body position she said she could maintain.

“Keep quiet and completely still unless there is an emergency.” I said. “Close your eyes and keep them closed. I will not cover your ears and nose. Be prepared to offer the rest of your body as a salad and fruit bar. First things first, open your legs a bit. This has to be done first, because later I cannot reach it.”

I grabbed a banana, wrapped a condom over the end until, well, almost halfway, and lubed it with water-based lube. It didn’t surprise me as it slid in easily. I peeled the banana, the part that stuck out of her pussy, of course, and cut the peel.

“Close your legs slowly and carefully, little one. Good, that’s it. Well done. Comfortable again?”

She didn’t react. It took me a moment to realise that I had forbidden her to move and speak, so asking questions is maybe not the brightest thing I could have done.

“Very good, little one. You’ve passed that test. Keep still and keep quiet.” I put garlic sauce on the outside of her left leg and barbecue sauce on the outside of her other leg. The inside I decorated with a salad you could buy in the shop. The only thing you had to do is add the sauce that was in a separate plastic bag, mix it well and ready was your salad. I had bought a Ceasar chicken salad and a shrimp salad. I poured the salad into the groove between the two legs and sprinkled the shrimp that I had bought separately on top as a garnish. The bent banana looked positively perverted between her legs. Her Venus hill I covered with assorted fruit (yes, also ready-made, you think I have time to be the next Gordon Ramsey?).

It needed a bit of work because it was a little slippery up the hill, but finally I’ve got it covered. Her belly I covered royally with cold fruit yogurt, her tits with whipped cream, the genuine stuff, not from a spray bottle. It sticks so much better and it put the twin towers to shame. A cherry on top, of course. The rest of her chest has a different fruit yogurt. This was banana yogurt, my favourite. Her eyes I covered at last with slices of kiwi and in her mouth I held a quarter of an apple to her mouth.

“Bite in it, little one, and don’t let go. Good girl, little one. Almost done.”

All over her hair I poured brown custard and her face I decorated with Skyr, so much more stiff than quark so it stuck better on her face and made decorations more easy.

I took a moment to admire my handiwork. It looked nice. Perhaps not perfect, but nice. For two minutes I took pictures from every angle, so Sylvia could see how pretty she looked later. For now, I was hungry. The salad I ate with my fork and a dull knife. I occasionally poked her leg with my fork, but Sylvia didn’t budge. Who could lie down covered in food as if she was a statue? My Sylvia could. I God, how I loved this woman. After had I enough of the salad, never enough of shrimps so I went looking with my fork for those, I licked the yogurt from her body. The fruit I saved for later. You can imagine what my face looked like after I was done with the whipped cream. She tasted GOOD!!

To ease boredom, I talked to her.

“Girl, you taste so good. I’m going to eat your tits now, mmm. Your titties taste divine. I wonder if I can bite in them. Yes! Yes I can. I left her face and hair untouched and went back to the fruit. That tasted fresh and nice. Orange, apple, pear, mango. And of course. Banana. I wiggled the banana a bit as I ate it until it disappeared into her cunt. Then I opened her legs, took away the banana and feasted on her pussy. I took my time. I knew all the sensitive spots. I knew the way she liked her pussy eaten. So I did. Because she was the best slave girl in the world.

The cleaning up of both my girl and the upstairs room took longer than the preparation and the meal itself. But it had been worth it. Now my love was snuggling beside me in bed. I was happy I didn’t buy the bed in Kink Paradise. What fun is there being in bed all alone and your girl one floor below you? So we made tender love one more time at the end of a perfect day.

The next day we both spent working on the collaring ceremony. Making a big fuss about collaring is discouraged by the textbooks if you don’t have a contract written, if your rule book is not complete, and if your girl is not properly trained. The general idea is to write all the things you like and love, and the next step is to train your girl to execute all things from the list one by one. So they say - whoever they are: she doesn’t deserve her collar yet, put a simple training collar on her until you have trained her well. But I’m stubborn enough to ignore all that good advice and collar my girl without the training period. Foremost, because my little one is so eager to please me, it sometimes looks as if she’s training me, instead of the other way around. Second, because I don’t have a year to train her. Who knows what our situation might be in a year? Perhaps we will be grandparents by then. It’s highly uncertain that we will continue this lifestyle for more than a year. We could both be fed up with it by then. So what is the use of a perfectly trained slave girl and then stop living the life?

Before we went to sleep last night, I told her to contemplate today about what she would say to me in this ceremony. Forget about a ceremony of roses with white roses and blood. Forget about a ceremony with family or friends. This is about us, and we don’t need a bunch of strangers to watch the start of our new adventure.

Sylvia had spent most of the day in her room and for a long time, I only heard her sewing machine. She liked to make her own clothes, and she was great at it. I climbed up to the dungeon and absorbed inspiration from its ambience. It smelled of leather and ceder. There was not a ceder beam in this attic, but Sylvia plugged in a few of those electric air fresheners with a ceder smell. Fake it till you make it?

Finally, I went to the kitchen again to make us lunch. We quietly enjoyed our sandwiches, stealing quick glances that took us back to the awkwardness of being 14, unsure of how to talk to one another. We got both took our time to get ready for the ceremony. I shaved twice and put on the expensive after shave. The bottle that was only used on special occasions. Because it was so bloody expensive. But it smelled nice, I had to admit. I owned two suits. One ‘funeral’ suit, dark blue, almost black. And one combination of beige pants and a dark brown jacket. I choose the latter. After I ironed my white shirt, I choose a green tie with white dots on it. My dad left me a big box of ties. I even polished my brown shoes. I could have chosen my normal casual outfit, but I knew Sylvia would put a lot of effort into dressing up, and I wanted to show her I appreciated that.

True to her punctual nature, Sylvia entered the stairs to her dungeon precisely at 15:00 hours. I was waiting for her with a small bouquet of white flowers. Her bridal bouquet also comprised white flowers. She was nude, gloriously nude, and was holding in her hands a pile of clothes in three colours, yellow, red and dark blue. With outstretched arms, she held them as if she was offering them to me, obscuring the view of her breasts. She walked towards me until she was only two steps away from me, looking into my eyes. I could only see love in there, no sign of fear or anxiety. Good. She laid the pile at my feet and took two steps backward. She’s almost a head shorter than I am, so now she could look me straight in the eyes without looking up. Her hands in her neck that lifted her titties just that bit so they even looked more delicious. If you looked really well, you could see one faint stripe on her left tit, where the flogger had been a little out of control, but that was the only visible ‘damage’ of the punishment yesterday. Of course, her backside showed visible signs of the punishment, unlike her left tit where only one faint stripe could be seen. I laid the flowers on the floor next to the pile of clothes.