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.
Walking was a constant torment. With the amount of time it had been since I'd cum, the vibe and the humiliation were working on me immediately, and I felt my pussy sizzling and leaking. The clamps, the fucking clamps, gave me a shot of pain with every step, every time they hit my thigh or tapped against each other, and I was bouncing between pain and lust every second.
I look up when I reach the stairs and there he was waiting and watching, a smile smeared across his face. He called down to me. "Come on, Kiki, we don't have all day."
I come up the stairs, trying to hurry. The pain is building, as my thighs slide up and down, but he was more concerned with the way my breasts bounce.
He led me right outside, and he put my hand in the crook of his arm as he led me down the sidewalks. I can tell immediately that he was choosing a roundabout route. He kept up a pace that was punishing on my pussy and that keeps my tits bouncing around in my tiny top recklessly.
He commented on men he sew staring, laughing out loud. After a couple of blocks, my pussy is screaming in pain and I was starting to wobble a bit. He noticed wordlessly and chose to rebalance my sensations by flicking the remote vibrator on. By the time the humming hit I was tenderized to an extreme and the shocking sensation made me gasp out loud and stumble.
And so he takes me to his home, kept on the razor's edge of pain and lust, halfway between tears and orgasm, and all with my breasts threatening to pop out and flash any number of lucky passers-by.
Upon arrival, he had me strip completely as soon as I am inside the door. My clothes go into a small box in the entry closet that he had thoughtfully labelled "the slut's things." It locks, of course, with a key he keeps on his person at all times.
He tells me to get into his room and to lie on my back on the bed with my hands behind my head and knees up and spread. I get into this mortifying position quickly and I wait. About ten minutes later he steps inside with a cold beer in one hand. He inspects me intimately, tapping at the clothespins, noticing how they've left quite a mark on my swollen lips. He pulls them off, one at a time, laughing about the indentations they've made. As a gift to me, once the pain of recirculation hits me, he presses the beer up against my cunt. It's embarrassing but an immense relief.
"Sit up," he commands. He tosses bits of fabric at me. There are thigh high stockings, black, trimmed in white ruffled lace, as well as a number of things like look like white lace garter belts. "Put on the stockings, Kiki," he instructed without explanation.
I complied quickly, and soon I was standing before him wearing only them. He dangled a pair of stiletto pumps on his finger, outstretched to me, and I slid my feet into them.
"Give me your wrists."
As I extend them, like I would to receive cuffs, he just snaps a lace garter around each wrist.
"Hands behind your head now, Kiki."
When I was in position, he took two more of the elastic cuffs, and snapped them onto me, one around the base of each breast. I looked, and felt, like an exposed fool.
"I know you like costumes, Kiki, so here you go. You're a French maid. Now, I need you to clean my apartment. I expect the washroom gleaming from top to bottom and I want the living room, dining room, kitchen and bedroom to be spotless. I think you understand that disappointing me would not be a good idea, correct?"
"Yes Sir," I answer in a throaty near whisper.
"Good. Now there is just one more thing before you start. Spread your legs."
I stepped my legs apart, my elbows still high and pointed outward. He curled his fingers into me and pulled out the tiny vibe. He pulled out a butt plug, pushed it inside my shamefully wet pussy and twirled it until it was soaked. He bent me over a bit as then stuffed my ass full of it. I barely had time to react when my pussy was filled again, this time with a rubber dildo, even larger than the plug.
"Now, we can't have these going anywhere," he mused as he drew out a length of rope, doubling it and pulling it around my waist. In seconds, his expert hands had drawn the rope down between my spread legs and back up again behind me, threading through the rope once more and then back again. He tugged on the rope and knotted it off, jerking the toys even tighter into me, and trapping them in place.
"There. Now get to work. You've got a lot to do and you need to be finished by six o'clock." He walked out of the room without another word.
Stunned, it took me a few moments to even move. The toys held so harshly inside my by the tight crotch rope were both uncomfortable and maddeningly teasing. My appearance, however, was much more a distraction. As I looked at myself in the mirror, my eyes roaming over the lace trim now applied to my wrists and breasts, and standing atop the high heels with frilly stockings decorating my legs, I felt more slutty and on display than I would have been naked. My pussy lips were still reddened and swollen from the torture of the clothespins.
I had no time to feel sorry for myself, as the task of cleaning his place from top to bottom was going to be quite a challenge in the time allotted, and I had no idea if there would be further challenges added onto my ability to work freely. I would have loved to start in the privacy of his room, but all the cleaning supplies were kept under the counter in the kitchen.
I was entirely ignored as I cleaned. He had set himself up at the dining room table, working and writing, and he would barely look when I would pass nearby.
I swept, I mopped, I dusted, I scrubbed, I did dishes and I tidied. I grunted and moaned and I perspired and I leaked from my bound and teased cunt. I was a mess. I knew, as I was on my knees, bent over scouring the tub and toilet, that I was far from sexy – but that I was entirely humiliated.
It was nerve-wracking as well. I needed to be perfect, so I would go over the same spot over and over, or return to places I had cleaned before to search out any speck of dust or grime I might have left behind – all while racing the clock and fighting my own discomfort and shame.
With about an hour to go before my deadline, he rose. I tensed, expecting some kind of inspection, but he still took no notice of me. He simply grabbed a robe, stepped into the bathroom and showered. I took the opportunity to clean the area where he had been sitting and working.
After finishing his shower, drying himself and shaving, he returned to his room, calling out as he did do.
"Kiki, in here, now."
I was immediately gripped by fear that he had found some fault with my work. No such reprimand came and he simply pointed to the corner of the room, instructing me to stand there, facing the wall, while he dressed. It was driving me crazy to be dressed up in this humiliating get-up, put to work like a servant, all while having my body filled up in a way that could only tease me but still keep me from orgasm after such a long drought.
When he allowed me to turn back to him, I couldn't stop myself from smiling widely. He looked so handsome. He was in all black from head to toe, gleaming black shoes, black dress pants and a crisp black dress shirt open to show a tight grey t-shirt beneath it. He was even wearing cologne.
Then it hit me. He was dressed to go out. Oh god, where was he going to bring me? I was a mess as I was, and I had nothing here to wear that could match the level of his outfit. That fear was short lived, however.
"You've done a good job, slutty little Kiki. The place looks better than it has in quite some time. Just what I needed for my company tonight. And so, since home is ready, it's time to get you ready. Hands behind your head, elbows out, and legs spread. Now."
There was too much to process as I jerked my body into the prescribed position. Company? Who was coming over? What was happening? He offered up no more clues as he started to release the crotch rope. At least that would offer me some relief, I hoped.
The dildo was drawn out of my sex with a humiliating slurp. Dreams of relief were dashed as he pushed the slimy toy into my mouth crossways, like a bone in a dog's mouth. He bound it there, tight, using thin cord around my head. The taste of my own lust oozed over my lips and my scent filled my nose. My pussy, feeling hungrily empty, was quickly refilled with a larger toy, a vibrator this time, I noted ominously. He re-tied a crotch rope onto me, tighter this time, and I felt it pull into my flesh.
He knelt down and I felt the hateful heavy metal shackles lock onto my ankles. They fit right above my shoes, and were linked by maybe a food of industrial chain. Any movement I had to make in them was difficult and loud.
He pushed me backwards, and I stumbled before managing to keep my feet under me. He didn't stop until I was completely inside his closet. He lifted my hands up, and cuffed my wrists together over the rod inside. Oh fuck, he was actually going to leave me in here!
He actually laughed out loud as he stood back to take in the view. "Almost perfect, Kiki. Just one ... no ... two more things, I think."
I think my eyes welled full of tears when I saw his choices. First was the large permanent red marker he loved so much. The last time he used it on me, it took two weeks with consistent scrubbing before my skin was free of the marks. He stepped close to me, letting me inhale its strong aroma. Then he set to work. In large block letters, writing across the tops of my lace-trimmed breasts, he wrote "SLUT." Fuck. I was going to have to wear high-collared tops at work for quite a while, not even counting was awaited me then.
Next were the clamps. Tweezer-style nipple clamps with a dangling chain between them. He closed them on my stiff buds – tight enough so that I felt them intimately, but loose enough that I knew I'd be wearing them for a while. His smile was ear-to-ear, even before he turned on the damn vibrator to its lowest setting.
He stepped back and took a photo with a vintage Polaroid camera, and when the photo slide out, he taped it to the back of the closet door. He closed the door, nearly all the way, and I could see the image of my own degradation appear before me as I heard the outer door shut and locked.
I couldn't tell how much time passed. There was no clock or watch I could see, and once the room fell into darkness after the sun set, I was pretty much alone with my thoughts and sensations. My jaw was sore, my arms were tired, my nipples throbbed and my full ass ached. Most of all, my pussy was constantly tormented with the low buzzing sensation. My clit was swollen and it seemed like I could feel my heartbeat in it. Juices were oozing down my thighs. Every time I tried to move, to find some way to find a more comfortable posture or position, I would only discover some new soreness.
I tried to imagine what possibilities I feared most, but gave it up quickly as my mind could never quite reach the levels of imagination and depravity that his did.
Finally, I heard the door's locks being opened. Sounds were dim and distant, but I could tell it was him. He was with a woman.