She was proud of her body.Not that it was solely hers anymore, being as she was an owned slave.
She angled her head to look at her backside, sliding one hand across the large purple bruise on her left cheek. A smile flitted across her face, as she remembered how that large bruise go there.
Saying it in her head made her smile deepen.
Saying it aloud made her heart pound, her pulse race, her pussy dampen.
He’d held her down with his left hand between her shoulder blades, and applied the heavy hair brush with steady, even blows. He had struck her in the same damn spot. At the time, she was struggling. Struggling with her submission, struggling to breathe, struggling to make sense of it all.
The implacable hand at her mid-back stopped her struggles. The brush applied so firmly to her backside stopped her struggles. The quiet way He had pushed her to her knees, pushed her head onto His cock afterwards, stopped her struggles.
She was owned. Possessed. Cared for, nurtured, used.
He had been busy the last 5 weeks. Life in the corporate world was demanding, and he was good at what he did. Money, people, time; he controlled all with an iron will, or as his slave had said recently, the iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove.
The metaphor made him smile. The little minx. She amused him, served him, sated him. Yet, she often struggled with herself. Far more than was necessary, he knew.
It drove him crazy.
He told her she was owned. He showed her she was owned. When he was with her, he consumed large pieces of her. He knew it was inherent for her to struggle, and yet, it often perplexed him, too. He knew it was hard for her to go long periods of time with no new demands, and yet, life was full of balancing, one thing sometimes outweighing another.
He knew she understood. Yet he knew she wanted more.
So did He. When he needed to unwind, he pictured her in his mind, thinking of things that would draw her closer to Him, make her feel her submission. She was the one, for Him, and He would be her only Master.
Distance relationships were difficult. They both knew and understood. When He decided upon the perfect solution, the smile crossed his face. True, she wore his collar when she could. True, she obeyed His daily rituals. But what she really needed was a lesson in trust, and a constant reminder that she was owned.
The tryst was planned for late Autumn. They met in the Big City, and he snapped her collar around her throat before she got into His car, the leash wrapped several times about his wrist. He adjusted the volume on the radio, and it pulled the leash. He made a hard left turn, and that too, pulled the leash.
He wouldn’t look at her, but he could certainly smell her. The little slut was definitely affected by the jingle of her chain, the tightening pull against her throat.
She swallowed hard against the rise of lust, low in her belly. Gods, gods. Every time the chain jingled her pussy would leak. She was quivering, shaking with needs. She had no idea where he was taking her.
Finally He pulled the car to a stop. The neighborhood was not Fifth Avenue, that was for certain. They were parked between an adult store and a tattoo parlor.
He pulled her across the seat, and out the door, his hand curled around her collar.
She followed him, her face flaming, as He led her along by the chain around her throat. Gods. There were people here. Some smiled, some looked at her speculatively. Her pussy was drenched, her panties soaked. She wondered if the squishy sounds were audible to anyone nearby.
They went up the steps to the tattoo parlor.
Not only did she not want her flesh permanently marked, she was so fucking scared of needles….
“Quiet. You submit, slave. You are mine, my property, and I will do as I choose with your flesh. After all, slut, it is mine.”
She subsided with a small whimper. It was true, she was His. The sheer hawtness of it made her clit grow erect, her nipples rise even higher, her breath to shorten.
She was so fucking turned on.
She was so fucking scared.
The bell over the door jingled as He opened it. The place was small, and , except for the light over the counter, and two lights illuminating artwork on the walls, dark. There was a funny smell in the air, not exactly distasteful, but different. She felt a quiver in her tummy.
A bald head, with a tat of an unfurling American flag partially seen peered out from between dark curtains, separating the front parlor from the work room.
“oh, right on time. Bring ‘er back.”
They passed through the curtain, and there it was, the steel table. She trembled hard enough to rattle the chain. Her owner turned to her and smiled.
He helped her up onto the table. She heard a metallic sound, felt the vibration of it through the table. The noise was repeated.
“Pull your skirt up to your waist, slut.” She swallowed hard. In front of a stranger…wait..her skirt?! When He’d spoken of tattoo’s before, it was on the back of her neck…
She opened her mouth to protest, but His quirked eyebrow forewarned her, and she slowly lifted her butt and pulled the skirt up. She gasped as her warm flesh hit the coolness of the table, even covered in plastic it was fuck-all cold!
The tat artist spoke, tapping at the bottom of her feet. She looked to Master, and at his nod, complied. The tattoo man stood between her open, raised knees, and wrapped his arms around them, pulling her to the edge of the table. He took her right leg, and fit it into a stirrup, like at her gyno’s office.
Except, he strapped a thick leather strap around her thigh, and buckled it tight. Definitely not her OBGYN’s office. She whimpered when the other thigh was similarly mounted and secured. She jolted when he moved to the side of the table and operated a small crank.
Her thighs were spread wider, then wider, then wider.
“She’s a wet one!” She heard that as if from far away, as she began breathing hard, and one hot tear squeezed from under a tight-shut lid, to trickle down the side of her face. A hand rested at the top of her pubic mound.
O. Gawd. What was He going to do to ‘His’ flesh?