I told Pierre about the last labor during one of our last evenings in the flat in
Paris, before leaving for Provence. We had already changed for bed but lingered on the
sofa while he finished his second cognac. He wore a pair of crimson silk pajamas. I curled
on the sofa with my head in his lap; automatically, he began to toy with my hair; I loved
it when he did that.
In that dreamy state I began to narrate the whole episode. He continued to play
with my hair, occasionally scratching the back of my neck. Listening; listening without
interrupting, his fingers tracing complex patterns on my scalp and on the nape of my neck.
As I dwelt on the details of the story I sensed his growing excitement; silk pajama
bottoms are useless to conceal an erection. Despite the growing evidence of his arousal,
he continued to play with my hair as languidly as he began.
I got out of the sofa and removed my baby doll night gown and my panties; once nude
I curled again on the sofa with my head in his lap. I did not fail to notice the smile on
his lips when he saw me undress. I loved to be nude while he remained fully dressed. My
nudity emphasized my subservience; it framed my submission in clear, obvious terms.
I had reached the end of the last labor, the helpless agony of the pestles fresh in
my mind. I wanted to prolong this moment, this connection, much more intimate than sex,
when it almost seemed that thoughts flowed freely from my mind to his and, to a lesser
extent, from his to mine. A different me just wanted to be fucked.
I began to talk about my birthday experience, about being tied, about waiting for
the skewers to violate my feet, about the whip and about the tableaux of pure pain I’d
created for him. His cock, rock hard, threatened to make its way out of the pajamas yet he
persisted, leisurely twirling my hair on his fingers.
“You enjoy seeing me in pain,” I said, “that is obvious; yet you very seldom hurt
me or whip me. Why?”
His fingers paused, for a brief moment, before resuming their hypnotic caresses. He
did not seem inclined to answer. Not yet.
“Why don’t you let me call you master?”
This was the million dollar question. That was the one thing I most wanted, to call
him master, to be owned by him, to be his slave, for as long as he would have me. The
thing he continued to deny me.
The first time he refused to let me call him master, about a year ago, I had asked
him, almost playfully, and did not attach much importance to it; the second time, however,
I offered myself to him, for Christmas, nude, on my knees, in front of our Christmas tree.
After kneeling I prostrated my torso on the floor, I still remembered the feel of the
carpet on my nipples, extending my arms, wrists crossed in front of me, towards him.
“Take me as your slave,” I pleaded. “Let me call you master.”
He took a long time to reply; by the time he answered I knew, already, that he
would refuse me.
He caressed my head, very gently, and said:
“You are too young, little Andromeda.”
In a flash of illumination I realized that my whole labor idea was my way of trying
to prove him wrong. My attempt to force him to take me seriously.
“Why?” I asked again, my voice almost a whisper.
With his erect cock, tenting the silk before my eyes, I heard his answer.
“You are the best sub I’ve ever had; the best any master could wish for.”
His voice, firm at the beginning of the sentence trailed off into silence so that
the last three words were almost imagined rather than heard. His hand stopped moving in my
hair, remaining there, as if forgotten.
I wanted to ask, again, why, but did not. Instead, I caught his hand on mine and
brought it to my breast; he cupped it feeling its softness. I brought his fingers to my
nipple, which he pinched lightly, bringing it to attention.
“Why do you never hurt me? I know you want to, you like to.”
My fingers over his, encouraging.
He pinched the nub of flesh making me gasp in pain and excitement.
“Harder,” I breathed.
He did; I gasped again, feeling my blood flow to my pelvis, my lips begin to swell,
my juices begin to flow.
I freed his cock and kissed the engorged tip. His odor, penetrating my nostrils,
lighting fires in my belly. I took him in my mouth, feeling his length with my lips, the
ridges of his veins, filled with blood, teasing my tongue.
He pinched my nipple again, adding a little twist to it. My gasp, over his cock,
caused thrills of ecstasy to ripple down his organ. I wondered if he would come in my
mouth for his pleasure, ready and willing to be used thus, although I needed to be fucked,
badly, preferably in my pussy. My needs and desires, unimportant to me, I wanted to be
used as he wished for his pleasure.
He plucked me off his organ, my mouth dripping, his cock shiny.
“Let’s go to bed.”
There he laid on his back, his cock rising to the sky and I climbed on top of him,
taking him between the folds of my sopping pussy. Feeling his girth distending the walls
of my tunnel and, in this position, felt the little jar of my insides that signaled that
his glans hit my cervix. I squeezed him with my pelvic muscles, my eyes closed, as I
focused on my own pleasure. His hands fondled my breasts, perhaps harder than I wanted, my
period was coming soon, but, I was sure, with much less force than he would want.
I opened my eyes, watching his face as I bounced on his cock or squeezed and
released him with my pelvic muscles. His eyes were open, looking at my, now at my face,
now at my breasts, sometimes descending down my torso to watch his rod penetrating me,
probing my depths.
We came together, this time, I whimpering in oblivion, he grunting in spurts. I did
not roll off him immediately; I dropped forward on his chest, my thighs open, holding his
cock inside me, squeezing him inside my pelvis. He kissed my lips.
I slept, beside him, nude.
The following day, he sent me to Kythira, to Irene.
The flight from Athens to Kythira was a bumpy ride on a little turboprop aircraft
that sat, at most twenty people. We walked from the parked little plane to the terminal.
The sky was the purest blue, not sky blue, but a much deeper shade, almost but not quite
navy blue. The sun baked the tarmac releasing the odor of asphalt and jet fuel to mix with
the rosemary and thyme from the nearby hills. After picking up my carryon (the plane was
so small that carryon luggage wasn’t allowed in the cabin) I followed my fellow travelers
out of the terminal.
And I saw her. Standing outside, dressed in a simple, long, linen dress that waved
in the breeze; her black hair framed her face, her eyes luminous, her smile radiant. I
froze, stunned; someone bumped into me from behind. I barely noticed.
“I am here.” I said.
I wished I could meet Irene without looking like a drooling idiot, but that was
impossible. The sight of her wiped my mind clear of any spark of wit, or even cognition.
Every time I saw her face, the universe had a new center, her mouth.
I stood in the terminal, immobile, my carryon hanging from my hand, and would still
be there if she hadn’t extended her hand, taking mine, and said:
“Come,” while kissing me on the cheek.
I followed her to her car, a Volkswagen convertible, tossed my bag on the rear seat
and got in the passenger’s side. We took off; her spacious house was on the East coast of
the island; the drive was beautiful, through the hilly countryside, the hot breeze blowing
thyme through our hair.
Her house was on a bluff, overlooking the sea, a ten minute walk from the beach.
Like most houses the walls were whitewashed, the windows small to keep the heat out except
where they faced the sea, where they were larger to take in the view and the sea breeze.
I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her lips, or to be taken in hers and
kissed by hers, whichever came first.
She took me in her arms, as soon as we got out of the car, her lips found mine,
open and willing. We entered the house, my arm round her waist and hers round mine; I
forgot the bag in the car, all my senses wiped out by the light of her presence. The sea
breeze and the shade lent coolness to the house, totally different in nature to canned air
conditioning.
I followed her to her room; I sensed the space surrounding me, but saw only the
blur of a bed. Felt the kiss of her lips on my neck, the perfect teeth nibbling on my
skin. My clothes came off, dropped, forgotten, on the tiled floor.
She stood by the bed while I undressed her. I removed her linen dress folding it
with care, or trying to. She wore nothing underneath and it was very difficult for me to
concentrate on folding the dress and draping it over the back of a chair. Not with the
perfection of her nude body, standing by the bed, awaiting my attentions.
I dropped on my knees in front of her, embracing her buttocks in my arms, my nose
against her shaved mound, inhaling the faint musk of her essence. I began to cry.
The smell of her body, of her sex, the salty tang in the air, the heat, and the
irrepressible longing in my heart; all combined to overwhelm my senses, and the tears
flowed uninhibited.
Only for a moment.
I rose, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, and kissed her lips. She lay back
on the bed and I lay, beside her. My lips found her neck, my tongue tasted her skin, my
nostrils inhaled the odor of her body, mixed with a hint of verbena from her perfume. Her
hands found my head, they caressed my hair. I kissed her neck, over and over, moving down
to the center of her chest; my hands explored her arms, her perfect shoulders, wandering
down her flanks. My nose poked at her armpits, my tongue licked at them making her giggle.
My ears perked at the sound of her laughter. My hands found her breasts.
She breathed; her chest trembled with arousal, her breasts quivered, I tried to
breathe but could not force air down the knot in my throat. I worshipped her breasts, with
my hands, with my fingers, with my own breasts, touching them, massaging them; feeling the
bliss as, at one moment, my nipples touched hers, sparks flying between our breasts.
The odor of her arousal, and mine, wafted into my nostrils. My thigh burrowed
between hers, offering my firm quad for her mound. She rubbed her mound into my thigh,
little whimpers of pleasure coming out of her mouth. I turned over, pulling her on top of
me, my hands on her buttocks, encouraging her. She turned again, bringing me over her, her
hands on my ass, prodding me on.
I rode her, my thigh against her crotch, now slick with her juices, as she began to
climb the slope to her own release. Her hands spurred me on, her fingernails stabbing my
flesh as her body went into a prolonged spasm and her pussy oozed her juice on my skin.
I enjoyed the sight of her climax, her eyes closed, her hands on my buttocks; the
long sigh of her release. Inside me, my organs pulsed, primed, my vagina filled, my pussy
lips glistened with my own secretions; I laid back on the bed, beside my Goddess, and
watched my own arousal slowly dwindle, my own fire unquenched, my needs, unimportant.
When we woke up again, the sun was setting. Irene was looking at me, a whimsical
smile on her face. Turning towards me, her body painted in a red and orange palette by the
setting sun, she separated her thighs; her sex, exposed, the velvety lips, still joined at
the center, beckoning. A tiny drop of moisture caught a ray of light from the setting sun,
glistening like a tiny amber diamond. I followed her lead burying my face between the
petals of her sex. My mind once again wiped by her powerful scent, I lapped at the source,
kissing her center and the pearl at the confluence. Her gasps of pleasure, sweet music to
my ears.
It was thus, my face pressed up to her crotch, that Maria, her maid found us, when
she came to announce that dinner was ready. I did not falter on my work when her voice
announced her presence, nor did Irene pause. She acknowledged her maid with a simple thank
you, and resumed the slow cadence that marked her pussy caressing my lips. I lapped at her
opening, drinking her juice, and licked and sucked here lips and her clitoris until a
fresh gush in my face announced her orgasm.
She got up off the bed and I helped her put her linen dress on. She washed her
hands in the attached bathroom drying them in my hair. I bent to pick up my discarded
clothes, to put them on.
“Leave them,” she said.
Naked, I followed her to the dining room.
Tonight I sat at her side, nude, and shared her meal. Lamb grilled with rosemary
and potatoes. Rather than Retsina, Maria poured a nice Chateauneuf du Pape that
complemented the meat. If she thought it unusual that her mistress’ dinner companion sat
nude as the day she was born, she said nothing. After serving the food, or pouring the
wine, Maria remained standing at the door, watching over us, ready to attend to her
mistress’ needs.
“You did not come today,” it wasn’t a question.
“No, mistress,” I answered before I had a chance to think, “May I call you
mistress?”
Her lips touched the crystal goblet, sipping a few drops of wine. I envied the red
liquid that had the fortune of slipping down her throat.
“Yes, but only while you remain here, in my island.”
She deposited the glass back on the table.
“You are not to have an orgasm, while you are here,” she pronounced.
“Yes, mistress.”
I noticed that she did not say words like, without permission. No, she simply
forbade my having an orgasm while on the island. I observed, without surprise, that the
prohibition bothered me not at all. In fact, it gladdened me; for the whole week I was to
stay here, I was forbidden to concern myself with aught but her pleasure; I would become
her perfect tool, her instrument; her object of pleasure.
“Thank you mistress,” I added.
I remained nude, the whole week. I sat, or knelt at the table, when we had our
meals. I woke up in her bed, or on the floor, beside it; she had generously placed a
carpet by the bed, so I could sleep on it rather than on the cold tiled floor, on those
nights when she did not want me sharing her bed.
Like the night she brought Nicola, her man servant, to make love to her. He
serviced her needs the whole night; they had sex, three times that night. First, Irene
mounted him, until she came, and he did too. I had to lick his sperm and her juices from
his dripping cock. She woke him up again, around midnight, and had him again, this time on
her back, her thighs spread open for him. Kneeling at the side of the bed, I watched his
dark phallus penetrate her smooth cunt, pounding into her until he, with a scream of
triumph, spilled his seed inside her tunnel. After I cleaned him, she squatted over my
open mouth, spilling his jism into my open mouth. I cleaned her out with my tongue. Once
more, just after daybreak, she requested his service, this time on all fours, he entering
her from behind. I hated the sight of his coarse hands handling her breasts; I detested
the slapping noise his pelvis made when hitting her buttocks. I felt the pangs of
jealousy, burning on my chest. Cleaning his cock made me nauseous, my jealousy was so
fierce. Of course, to drink his come out of her divine cunt was another thing altogether.
Serving as Irene’s bidet was an honor, undeserved and unexpected.
I remained aroused, all week. I never thought that such a prolonged state of
arousal could be possible. Asleep, on her bed, or on the floor, I dreamt of her, I
literally could feel her hands caressing my pussy, or fucking me with a dildo. Night after
night I woke up, just short of a screaming orgasm, my body covered with sweat, my juices
making a puddle on the carpet or on the bed linens.
One moonless night, I went with her to the beach. She wore a navy blue bikini,
almost black in the starlight; I walked at her side, completely nude, except for a pair of
flip flops she allowed me to wear. Once we got to the beach, she shed her bikini and swam,
naked into the sea, past the foam, into the ocean. I followed her. We swam far from the
shore, until the tiny beach was but a speck on the island and her house no more than a
point of light on the coast; then we turned back.
She stayed in the water after I waded on to the beach. I sat on the rocks watching
her body floating on the waves, the starlight strangely bright on her body, flecks of sea
foam limning her form. When she finally walked out, on to the beach, the sea water
sparkled on her skin, bathing her with its own light. Aphrodite, leaving the ocean of her
birth, striding, once again, upon the sands of Kythira. I made love to the incarnation on
the sands of Kythira. I tasted the sea, her mother, and the foam, her father, on her skin.
I felt like a Greek myth turned to life. Her come mixed with the salt in my mouth; I
swallowed it like an offering from the Gods.
Twice she gave me to Nicola for punishment.
“I am going to town with Maria,” she told me on Tuesday morning. “After I leave go
see Nicola and ask him to whip you.”
I finished drying her back with a plush towel; I was disappointed she would not be
there to see it.
“Yes mistress.”
“When he is done, thank him. He may use your mouth or your ass, not your pussy. We
don’t want you coming now, do we?”
“Yes, mistress.”
They both left in the convertible and, as ordered, I went to look for Nicola. He
was in the back of the house in his workshop. Nicola’s duties included, aside from serving
Irene’s needs, minding the garden and orchard, as well as fixing and maintaining the
house.
I knocked on the open door. On the workbench he had a lawnmower, its guts open,
spilling parts on the wooden surface. He was so concentrated in his work that he did not
notice me until I knocked harder.
“Come in,” he said glancing at me.
I stood to the side, nude, as usual. If the sight of my naked body bothered him, he
did not show it. Instead he asked me to hand him tools from time to time. Eventually I
stood close to his bench, and watched over him as he took the motor apart, set it to
rights, and reassembled it. When the cough and sputter of the mower’s engine changed to a
steady, satisfying throb, he turned it off and wiped his greasy hands on a piece of rag.
“What is it?”
“The mistress said you are to whip me.”
He finished wiping his hands and lit a cigarette. He went to the sink in the corner
and washed his hands, his cigarette dangling between his lips.
“Yes, all right then; open that closet and bring the rope, the cuffs, the whip and
the gag,” his English had a faint American accent.
I tried not to look the implements of my torture and followed him to the garden,
the blades of grass tickling my bare feet.
“Where did you learn English?” I asked him.
“I was born in America,” he answered, throwing the rope over a stout branch. “My
father emigrated there but I did not like it too much.”
He fastened the rope to the massive oak’s trunk.
“When my grandfather died he left me his old house, here, in Kythira. I left the
US and moved here.”
I stretched out my wrists for him to cuff.
He tied the dangling rope to my cuffs and raised my arms until I stood on tip toe.
He gagged me with the leather gag.
The whip was a long leather handle that tapered to a fine braided tail, almost like
a bullwhip, only shorter and, about two feet from its tip, the tail split into three long
strands of leather. Consider it a hybrid between a bullwhip and a cat.
I heard its swish, cutting through the air and the splat of the tails striking my
back, a second before the pain hit me. I managed to hold back my scream and only grunt
into the gag. I jumped from foot to foot, trying to release the fire that flared on my
back. He hit me again, and again. After the third lash I no longer tried to contain my
screams, letting the gag smother them as much as it could.
When he finished I hung from my wrists, a limp doll, covered with sweat, dangling
from the branch. He released my wrists and I fell on to his arms, unable to stand. He
caught me and carried me into the cool house. He took me into the servant’s bathroom and
deposited me in the tub, turned on the shower and washed the sweat from my body with warm
water. By the time he was done I was able to stand on my own. He patted my back dry with a
towel, the wheals from the lash making me squeal in pain when he touched them with the
terry cloth.
“Thank you,” I said, kneeling before him.
I unfastened his belt and opened his pants. His cock straining under the slip. He
stepped out of his pants and removed his T shirt. I admired his muscles, gliding under his
skin as he removed the flimsy cotton. He picked me up and carried me to his room. He
carried me in his arms, as if I had no weight, the marks of the lash on my back still
burning and hurting, where they touched his skin. He tossed me on his bed, my body
bouncing on it. I knelt on the bed looking at him, my mouth drooling at the sight of his
strong body, and at the thought of being his, if only for a little while. Other things
drooled too.
“You may not use my pussy,” I said, dejected. “Mistress’ orders.”
He just nodded.
He dropped his naked body on the bed, his cock standing up like a tower and I set
to work on it. My lips engulfed his hardness, tasting his sweat, his musk, and something
else. I slobbered all over his rod looking up at him, to see the effect my attentions had
on him.
At first Nicola simply laid back and enjoyed the experience but, soon he began to
squirm under the heat of my kisses on his cock, and the suction of my lips on his glans.
His cock expanded in my mouth, filling me up completely. My pussy, ignored, abandoned,
oozed juice. His balls retracted and he exploded filling my mouth with come. He tasted
salty, like olives.
After he came, I laid beside him, resting my head on his chest, my hand wrapped
around his shrinking, but still large cock. Used to Pierre who seldom was able to repeat a
performance, I was surprised to see how soon his member began to show signs of life again.
Before I went down on him a second time I whispered in his ear, my voice throaty with
desire:
“Use my ass this time.”
The last time she had me whipped was Thursday evening; two days before I had to
return to France. Nicola whipped me in the living room, while Irene watched. He whipped my
back and my front, the strands of the lash curling snakes of fire around my breasts. He
stood closer to me than in the garden so that, when the lash struck my back, the tails
swung around my body striking my breasts and, when he struck my belly, they curled around
lashing my ass.
After he was done I thanked him again, sucked his cock and, there, in the living
room, took him in my ass with Irene watching. Unbidden, I cleaned his cock after he was
done.
On Saturday Irene drove me to the airport. The top was up so there was not that
much noise.
“I guess I can’t call you mistress anymore,” I said.
She did not take her eyes off the road, “No, it wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“I wonder why Pierre doesn’t let me call him Master.”
She looked at me, “Pierre loves and cares for you Andromeda; much more than you
know.”
Her eyes back on the road, she continued, “Much more than he knows.”
“Will he ever?”
She rested her hand on my knee, “Maybe, maybe he will.”
I wanted to ask, needed to ask.
“If he doesn’t, if he tells me to leave…” I could not finish asking the question, I
feared the answer so much.
We had arrived at the airport by then. Irene stopped the car at the curb, turned
towards me and kissed my lips.
“Yes, Andromeda; if he casts you out, I’ll take you for myself.”
Carrying my bag, I stepped out of the car. I heard her last words:
“He won’t, you know.”
And she drove off.
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