By Theodore Spoonbender (email@example.com)
A short story of an adult nature. Not to be read by
minors. If you don’t like this sort of stuff or you are
underage then don’t read. Contains allusions to naughty,
erotic goings on. Note that the characterizations are
mine. I do not like people stealing them for inclusion in
their own efforts.
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I first saw you from my bedroom window, tap-tapping along
on your high heels with your little tote bag on your
back. Short black miniskirt, shapely legs and a tight
white blouse, over which a dark jacket was draped
decorously. Gaping wide to show the swell of your
breasts. Thick dark hair cascading over your shoulders, a
perplexing mixture of trepidation and what looked
suspiciously like anticipation playing across your pretty
Pretty as a picture and far exceeding my wildest
I felt my cock lurch in my pants and I resisted the urge
to pump it a little.
You were just the sort of girl I went crazy for. I’d just
love to have just been able to take you and enslave you.
Binding you tightly with my bonds. Bending you to my
will, making you mine. Making you want me, desire me,
need me, beg me…love me. I could take you, mould you,
bring you pleasures beyond your imagining and pain, and
pain and suffering and pleasures. Until pain became
pleasure and pleasure became bliss. I could play your
body like a fine instrument.
Your slim slim body. One that would never see 30 again
but still firm and supple like a dancer’s. Erect and
tight like a model’s. And with that smooth silky skin
that only oriental girls possess.
Percy lurched again and I came down from my fantasy with
a sigh. It wouldn’t do to be seen gazing from an upstairs
window sporting a huge erection. Not around here, they’re
suspicious enough as it is. A man living on his own,
hardly ever going out except to swim in his secluded
pool. A millionaire by all accounts, richer than Croesus,
rumoured to have made his money on a couple of dot coms,
right as the boom was cresting. Lucky fucker, so why
ain’t he married?
Typical sour grapes. I was a man who had it all and they
wondered why I didn’t have this irresistible urge to give
half of it away and fill the house with kids.
Funnily enough I would. Given that I met the right woman.
Which I hadn’t up to then, wasn’t likely to either until
I hit a few newsgroups and a couple of fetish contact
pages. I had a fling with a few subs, tying them up,
teasing them mercilessly, fingering them till they came,
even spanking them if we both felt it was right. Course I
usually fucked them too. If you’ve got a slave then you
might as well use all the facilities as it were. It’d be
a cruel master that would deny his sub a little harmless
recreation through applied stimulation.
Technical terms again, I tutted. Once a scientist always
Recreation through applied stimulation, I like it.
My mind drifted recalling them all. Corolyne, sweet sweet
Corolyne. Sharp, almost arrogant features but oh what a
slave. What cunt control you had. I swear you could peel
a banana in there and how wet you got. How you loved your
crotch rope and that strategically placed little knot.
Sheila, short, plumpish – I nearly didn’t take you, I
like my slaves to be slim – but your eyes smiled at me
and I relented, a real softy at heart me. I just couldn’t
let a girl down when all you wanted was to be spanked and
diddled to an outrageous orgasm across my knee. In return
for a blow job. Or Alice and your suspension bondage and
those dildos and those glorious long afternoon fucks
while you squirmed in your tight bindings. Writhing in
lust or in humiliation who can tell, but you always
appeared on my doorstep week after week. Tote bag over
Filled with the toys that I would use on your body as you
squirmed and wriggled. Wide open so I could gain access
to any orifice in your body. And I did and you came and
we fucked and we came and you went home.
And the next week you were back again.
Then one day you vanished.
I turned when I heard the bell. I walked slowly down the
stairs, images running through my mind, of what I’d do
if…. I flung open the door.
“Is this er..” you tilted your head as you looked around
the door jamb, and I admired the auburn tint to your
hair, “..number 29?”
I looked you up and down slowly before answering. “It
“Then you must be er..” she stopped. Suddenly unable to
decide what to call me.
“Your Master?” I suggested mildly.
You stepped back a pace as I recall. Suddenly unable to
work out if this was such a good idea. You’d come half
way across the country, travelling with a small knot of
pleasurable anticipation in the pit of your stomach,
knowing but unknowing of what was really going to happen.
Secure in your ignorance. But here you were suddenly
faced with reality, here you stood face to face with a
real life Master.
I know what you were thinking, I look so ordinary. Not
the sort you’d expect to be a Dom. A little chunky from a
lack of exercise, from sitting in front of a computer,
making a million here or a million there. Most doctors
would just look at my ever increasing bank account and
tell me to just sit there, take it easy, smoke a little
if I wanted. Just sign this medical insurance form,
that’s right you know what to fill in the space where it
says doctor’s name.
Chunky, not beautiful, but a piercing set of grey eyes
staring at you. Sizing you up, deciding where to start.
To test you to find your limits and then take you beyond.
Far beyond where the pleasure tree grows, its fruits
bursting upon your body showering you with golden
sensations, the rustle of the leaves in the wind
snappling and rubbing while shards of white hot pleasure
dance inside your body. My fingers playing a symphony.
Pain, pleasure, pleasure, pain, pleasure, pleasure,
We stared at each other, you and I. I waiting for you to
make that decision, you wondering whether to flee. There
is no use denying it I knew you were, I could see it in
your eyes. You wanted to flee, to tear away, to escape
back to reality and boredom and certainty and planning
and orderliness and..and..
Our eyes broke and you looked down in submission. Staring
at my shoes.
“You must be my master,” an affirmation and an
interrogative in one short sentence.
“Must I?” I tried to be sardonic and I saw you briefly
lift your eyes in confusion. Was I teasing you? You had
just offered yourself to me and I was questioning whether
you would be worthy. This certainly wasn’t what you had
in mind. This was panning out much differently to how
you’d pictured it in your head.
We mentally tussled briefly, our eyes locked in mortal
combat as the electricity flickered between us. We knew
what I wanted, I waited, you tussled, cheeks fetchingly
flushed then your eyes dropped.
“Please be my master.”
You really were a sweetie you know. Standing there, hands
clasped in front of you, tote bag swinging by its strap
near your feet, looking down at my shoes. Looking ten, no
fifteen years younger than we both knew you were. What a
Popsicle. I was going to enjoy sucking you, licking you
all over, nibbling you with my teeth while you pulled on
your bonds and moaned from behind your balled up panties.
How could I turn you down. Damn I’m much too soft
sometimes, Call me a fool but I just can’t turn down a
pretty woman who was willing to submit to my every whim.
And all you could ever possibly get out of it was ecstasy
of almost biblical proportions.
“Follow me,” I said and led you inside, calling over my
shoulder, “and shut the door.”
I heard it clunk shut, I almost looked over my shoulder
to see if you’d run but I sensed you hadn’t. I led you up
the stairs and into the back bedroom. Which I’d had newly
decorated, just for you. You never knew that did you? You
thought I brought all the girls up here. Nope I got a
cellar for that. But then again you knew that as well
didn’t you. I mean you did get introduced. That’s where
the chains were.
This room was different. It was your room. Done up in a
style I knew you approved of.
Kinda big and messy with a huge bed with big brass bed
ends that could be used to secure a girl tightly while
her body was molested.
I turned to see you looking around as you nervously
entered, your tote bag clutched to your chest, your eyes
I sat on the bed and looked at you.
You looked down, your flush crimsoning your cheeks so
delightfully, feet daintily together. I gazed in awe at
you for several minutes. You were so perfect.
“Close the door,” you started when I spoke then did what
“Put down the bag and take off your clothes.”
I believed in brevity of speech with slaves. There can be
no doubts as to the purpose of my orders. It helped a
slave if she didn’t have to think too much.
I remember a flicker of a smile twitching my lips as I
watched you struggle. Eyes cast down, little hands
wringing at the level of your crotch. Willing yourself to
obey. You had wanted this remember. You had better do it
or you’ll be made to leave. To undertake the reverse
journey with the bitter tange of spent adrenaline burning
in your mouth as you contemplated how it might have been.
If only you’d done what your master had ordered by now
you could be……
I watched you fingers struggle with the tiny buttons on
the blouse, teasing each one free exposing more of your
silky skin as your jacket lay crumpled round your feet.
Slowly you unburdened yourself of your persona as the
buttons popped free, one by one they opened and one by
one your inhibitions dropped away.
Finally you were done, standing there wantonly, your
snowy white bra gleaming against your tan as it peeked
through the gap in your blouse. A slight moment of pause
then you started to pull the blouse from your skirt.
Giving me tantalising glimpses of your bra as you
wrestled with the smooth cotton of your broider anglais
You held you sleeves in front of you as you popped your
cuffs, then….Then you pulled off the blouse, pulling it
free of your arms then balling it and holding it in front
of your breasts.
I knew you could feel the heat of my gaze. I willed you.
And you didn’t fail me.
You dropped your hands and the blouse fluttered free. I
could detect no indecision in you as you selected the
next garment. It was the bra, inevitably the bra. A girl
will always remove her bra first. Well my girls did.
Maybe not Stephanie. Stephanie was always different. I
made her cum on a bus once, chewing her orgasm into the
lapel of my jacket as she tried to suppress her shrieks
of pleasure. Funny little thing Stephanie……
I watched as the clasps came undone. With a fluidity of
motion that a ballerina would have been proud of you
brought your hands to your chest, cupping the cups which
cupped the breasts that…..You showed me.
You dropped the cups slowly, breathlessly, hoping I’d
like them. Don’t lie I knew you were. I remember the
darted little glance when you thought I wasn’t looking.
Trying to gauge my reaction as they hove into view. They
were perfect and you damned well know it. Perfect,
Nicely rounded, not too large with firm pointing nipples,
that looked far too fragile to take the pinch and the
weight of a nipple clamp. But they could couldn’t they?
We had some fun, me and those nipples. Yes and those
breasts, but this was just a foretaste of what was to
come. They were mine, you were offering them to me.
You little minx, you knew exactly what you were doing
didn’t you as you held you hands under your breasts
scooping them up into delicious handfuls, offering them
to me. As your eyes stared submissively at the ground.
I cleared my throat and your hands flew to your skirt. It
was tight and short, jet black against the tan of your
stockings. You twisted it around slightly and undid the
catch. The zipper buzzed harshly in the silence of the
room and I watched as the tightness of the fabric gave
way. You pulled it down so daintily. I just loved that
about you, you were always so dainty in everything you
Your panties were white, which surprised me a little.
Maybe it shouldn’t have done, given your bra. My little
slave girl, wearing white panties. I mentally tutted. You
wouldn’t be entitled to them much longer.
Nice girls wore white panties but howling screaming
orgasming sexslaves wore black or none at all. White. Oh
no no no, they won’t do at all.
Is there a school somewhere where they teach advanced
panty removal classes? If not where do you all learn to
do it the same way. Some faster, some slower but all the
same technique. Maybe there is only one way to
comfortably remove your panties. Maybe when I do it I
don’t use the same techniques, especially when I feel
that a certain set of buttocks needs a little discipline
or a vagina requires a serious seeing to.
I know what it is, you use two hands. And you choreograph
the movement of your upper body to the sweep of the
panties as you push them down over your tan thigh highs.
Personally I prefer to let the panties go last. The
penultimate sacrifice as you bare your body and offer
your secrets to me in one smooth motion. Standing on one
leg then the other as you pull them free.
You stand with your crumpled panties bunched in your
fist, uncertain of what to do next.
I let my eyes slowly traverse your body as you quivered
in embarrassment. Beautiful, absolutely stunning. What an
instrument of pleasure you had yielded up to me. Now I
must tame it.
I held out my hand and you must have caught the movement
out of the periphery of your eye. You looked up then
stepped forward handing me your bunched up panties. I
grasped them and felt their damp heat, before dropping
I took your hand and pulled you towards me, indicating
that I wanted you to stand with your legs straddling
Gently I took your hands and placed them on your head.
“We are going to conduct an interview,” I said.
“An interview?” you were obviously puzzled.
“Yes an interview. I want you to tell me why you want
this job and I don’t want you to stop or get distracted.
Whatever I do. Do you understand?”
“Yes as my slave, tell me why you’re worthy.”
“Oh,” you murmured. Again that unexpected test.
You paused then started speaking, slowly with a tiny
voice. Telling me how much you wanted to be my slave and
how you wanted to be dominated and…
Using only the fingers on one hand and touching only your
gushing little pussy I made you cum. You squealed
delightfully as you came and your writhing just drove me
It was the first orgasm of many.
Your body was mine.
And so, despite the fact you never finished the
interview, I graciously gave you the job.
It was a glorious first weekend wasn’t it?
I touched and learned.
How you like having your neck kissed and your earlobes
nuzzled and how you liked the burn of the rough hemp rope
that was tied tightly around your breasts imprisoning
I learned so much about you that weekend.
Learning to spank you, softly at first, hands almost
fluttering on your quivering bottom. Then the slaps and
the writhing and the musty smell of your sex. And the
orgasms. Once I didn’t even have to touch your sex, you
just came as I cracked my palm meatily across your silken
cheeks. With you grinding your crotch into the rough
denim of my thigh.
And those ropes lashing you into various poses. Making
you cook my dinner and serve me while that vibrator
buzzed purposefully inside you, held in with a cruelly
tight crotch rope. Then making you kneel under the table
and blow me as I ate my dinner.
While the vibrator ground away.
And we came. And I was a kind master because I’d let you
cook enough such that there were sufficient scraps for
you to eat out of your dog bowl. As you knelt with your
hands tied behind your back and I flicked a light whip
over your asscheeks as they thrust up invitingly at me.
While the vibrator ground away.
And the callisthenics, helping you to stay slim and
beautiful just like I wanted you to be. Dancing and
While the vibrator ground away.
You orgasmed in the middle of a routine once. Do you
It was absolutely scrumptious to watch. I wish you could
have seen yourself, frantically rubbing your breasts and
your crotch as you moved slowly to the pulsing music.
Sinuously dancing and writhing as the orgasm built in
your body. Then the tsunami as you dissolved into a
mindless jelly as the orgasm burst fully upon you.
Scrumptious I tell you, you were scrumptious.
And our sex was the best, beyond belief and human
understanding. Power and joy, coarse ropes and soft flesh
and hot, wet cataclysmic pleasure all served up raw on a
bed of satin sheets.
Then those other weekends. Do you remember those too?
You didn’t tell me what to do, it wasn’t a slaves place
to propose. I proposed and I disposed. But I learnt. It
was like understanding a deep and complex piece of
machinery that must be thoroughly investigated until I
could coax the most from it.
We never even needed a safeword did we? The subject never
came up. Somehow I just knew when I was pushing too far
and too fast. Like a driver lost in a maze of country
roads I just backed up and took a different direction. It
was so much fun wasn’t it?
I rejoiced the day you moved in. Funny really but I never
even considered that you had another life. A life where
you were an executive, a clerk, a whatever you were. One
day it didn’t matter. There could only be one job for you
then. You were mine, my slave, my foil, my temptress, my
I loved you, I’m sure you knew that. Loved you deeper
than the deepest ocean. Ok so I punished you, when you
deserved it. I loved your little pouts and your dewy
cheeks as I made you stand in the corner, your bottom raw
and aflame. But I was never cruel now was I?
You wouldn’t have stayed would you? You were a slave but
you were free. It was freedom that only a dedicated slave
could enjoy. Freedom from inhibition, freedom from
stress, having a single focus in your life. To make me
happy and if I was happy you were happy and what was the
occasional sore backside when you had a life of ecstasy
and unmitigated happiness.
Can you remember when I used to take you to the mall?
Making you wear those ultra short skirts with those tiny
little panties? I used to smile as I watched you pulling
down your skirt while I drove, trying to protect your
innate modesty. Didn’t do you a lot of good though now
did it? I nearly laughed when that gust of wind raised
your skirt. I didn’t of course, its very bad form for a
Master to laugh at his slave. Humiliation is one thing,
cruelty is another. A Master should care for his slave,
not poke fun at her.
That was the secret wasn’t it? That’s why Doms and subs
have almost sublime existences. And why vanilla couples
are always at each other’s throats. It’s the nature of
the relationship. They could never understand it could
they? The feminists curling their lips in disgust when
they saw what you had become.
We never met a happy feminist did we? Not truly happy.
With their pathetically downtrodden husbands or dungareed
girlfriends. It used to amuse me as you tried to explain
what you were about, why you were ecstatically happy. But
they just didn’t understand. Poor things, we both used to
commiserate on their bad fortune.
A true Dom makes it his job to learn all about his sub.
And that is the key to their mutual happiness. He has a
far deeper understanding than any vanilla partner could
ever have. Because that is the secret of this type of
I knew what made you tick. How you loved to have sex in
the shower or the pool, how you loved it when I
manhandled your breasts or teased you, holding off your
orgasm until you thought you’d go mad.
Then the release.
A muted power that arched your back and almost stopped
your heart. I know you told me once. The little death you
called it. I remember. I remember everything. The sweet,
the honey, the very essence of you.
God I loved you.
And then one day, thirty years nearly to the day that I
met you, you left me.
I will never forget you. Cannot forget you. You were my
slave but you were my life.
Thank you my love. I’ll miss you always.
Tears ran down the old man’s cheeks as he leant forward
and kissed the lips of the woman lying at peace in her
“Bye my love,” he whispered then turned as an arm snaked
“Come on dad, its time we were going.”
He turned and looked at his daughter, “You think she was
“Mum? Happiest person I ever met,” it was true too,
everybody commented on her cheery smiles and carefree
“Think she’s happy now,” he let his eyes wander upwards.
“I think she’s living in a wonderful place and I’m sure
she’ll be really happy.”
He started to shuffle towards the door and his daughter
did a double take. She was sure he muttered “I hope they
got big dildos there. She always liked a big one.”
She shook her head, not her dad. It couldn’t be, it was
too far fetched. She must of misheard.
I mean who has ever thought of their parents having sex?
(c) 2000 Spoonbender.
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