moment we got there, I did. She left an hour later. I stayed and didn’t come home for two days. I played with some guy—I don’t even remember his name—but it was nothing. A flogging. Nothing, yet everything . After him was Madame Cerrine. I played with her for four months. She tied me up. Flogged me. Caned me. Fucked me with a strap-on. She used a violet wand on me, my first foray into electrical play, which I loved right away.
Her little apartment on the Left Bank is too warm in the summer, but a small breeze comes through the open window, caressing my naked skin as I kneel on the floor. She loves my being on my knees—I’ve hardly stood upright the entire time we’ve been together.
“Again, cherie,” she commands breathlessly.
Bending to do her bidding, I lick her slick cunt, one slow stroke up, then slowly down, pushing my tongue inside her, just the way she likes it. She grasps my hair, pressing my face harder into her fragrant sex, and I love it, love being forced.
I lick fervently, until she shatters, cries out, her pussy convulsing around my seeking tongue. I love the taste of come, male or female, but I swear hers always tastes like perfume smells. I look up, and as always, she looks perfectly put together, her blonde hair in its tight bun, her red Chanel lipstick not even smeared.
She smooths a palm over her perfect updo, then tells me, “Get my wooden paddle and I will give you your reward.”
I fetch it eagerly from its cupboard and bring it to her, my knees rubbing on the carpet. Sitting up, I present the paddle to her as if it’s a gift, and perhaps it is. My gift.
“Come here.”
I lie over her lap, my hands on the floor, my toes bracing my lower body. She is warm against me, her corset stiff in contrast to her soft lap.
“Count now, my darling,” she purrs, and hits me.
“Un!” I cry out in French as she has ordered me to do, the pain making me yell.
She hits me again, and this time I move into it, into the swing of the heavy wood. The impact rumbles through me, pleasure swarming me even as my ass stings. And as she paddles me, harder and harder, she pushes her clever fingers into me, making me come. I am coming and coming, screaming the count.
“Trois! Quatre! Cinq! Six! Sept! Huit! Neuf!” And finally, breathlessly, “Dix!”
She made me love her. They all do. But she wanted to own me, and I wanted to experience. She cried when I left her, but I had to go. And she is nothing now compared to the Master. No one is. My mysterious Master who ignores me for days, and sends me to be abused by someone else.
I wipe the tears as they slip onto my cheeks. All the damn crying! But I can’t help it. It’s one of my favorite and most loathed humiliations.
I hear footsteps, and I watch from the corner of my eye as he leaves the room—I can’t stand to really look. I am empty and filled at the same time. The Master touched me, watched as Gilby fucked me, beat me. I saw the excitement and what I could swear was some sort of adoration in his sapphire gaze. And this idea feeds me—that he is pleased with me. Wants me. But now he’s leaving me once more. I am not so foolish as to expect anything else from this gorgeous, alluring, utterly dominant man with a house full of beautiful slaves.
I want more, and it is a deep, rabid craving that cuts into my insides. But as I said, I’m selfish.
A few minutes later the sisters enter and one of them has gentle hands and the other’s are rough on me, even pinching me here and there and pulling on the chain around my neck. They help me down from the table, steadying me as my head rushes with my post-orgasmic haze, and with the punishment my body has received.
They take me into a bathroom, remove my chain collar and put me into a hot shower, both of them getting in with me and washing me quite thoroughly. I am beyond spent, and still their smooth little hands feel sensual on my skin—that and the warm water as it spills over my sore
Her little apartment on the Left Bank is too warm in the summer, but a small breeze comes through the open window, caressing my naked skin as I kneel on the floor. She loves my being on my knees—I’ve hardly stood upright the entire time we’ve been together.
“Again, cherie,” she commands breathlessly.
Bending to do her bidding, I lick her slick cunt, one slow stroke up, then slowly down, pushing my tongue inside her, just the way she likes it. She grasps my hair, pressing my face harder into her fragrant sex, and I love it, love being forced.
I lick fervently, until she shatters, cries out, her pussy convulsing around my seeking tongue. I love the taste of come, male or female, but I swear hers always tastes like perfume smells. I look up, and as always, she looks perfectly put together, her blonde hair in its tight bun, her red Chanel lipstick not even smeared.
She smooths a palm over her perfect updo, then tells me, “Get my wooden paddle and I will give you your reward.”
I fetch it eagerly from its cupboard and bring it to her, my knees rubbing on the carpet. Sitting up, I present the paddle to her as if it’s a gift, and perhaps it is. My gift.
“Come here.”
I lie over her lap, my hands on the floor, my toes bracing my lower body. She is warm against me, her corset stiff in contrast to her soft lap.
“Count now, my darling,” she purrs, and hits me.
“Un!” I cry out in French as she has ordered me to do, the pain making me yell.
She hits me again, and this time I move into it, into the swing of the heavy wood. The impact rumbles through me, pleasure swarming me even as my ass stings. And as she paddles me, harder and harder, she pushes her clever fingers into me, making me come. I am coming and coming, screaming the count.
“Trois! Quatre! Cinq! Six! Sept! Huit! Neuf!” And finally, breathlessly, “Dix!”
She made me love her. They all do. But she wanted to own me, and I wanted to experience. She cried when I left her, but I had to go. And she is nothing now compared to the Master. No one is. My mysterious Master who ignores me for days, and sends me to be abused by someone else.
I wipe the tears as they slip onto my cheeks. All the damn crying! But I can’t help it. It’s one of my favorite and most loathed humiliations.
I hear footsteps, and I watch from the corner of my eye as he leaves the room—I can’t stand to really look. I am empty and filled at the same time. The Master touched me, watched as Gilby fucked me, beat me. I saw the excitement and what I could swear was some sort of adoration in his sapphire gaze. And this idea feeds me—that he is pleased with me. Wants me. But now he’s leaving me once more. I am not so foolish as to expect anything else from this gorgeous, alluring, utterly dominant man with a house full of beautiful slaves.
I want more, and it is a deep, rabid craving that cuts into my insides. But as I said, I’m selfish.
A few minutes later the sisters enter and one of them has gentle hands and the other’s are rough on me, even pinching me here and there and pulling on the chain around my neck. They help me down from the table, steadying me as my head rushes with my post-orgasmic haze, and with the punishment my body has received.
They take me into a bathroom, remove my chain collar and put me into a hot shower, both of them getting in with me and washing me quite thoroughly. I am beyond spent, and still their smooth little hands feel sensual on my skin—that and the warm water as it spills over my sore
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