Master-Slave Connection

As soon as Helen got out of the shower, she wrapped a towel around herself, opened the bathroom door and peeked out into the living room. Nothing moved. The light from the computer cast an eerie glow into the room. She worried about leaving it unattended, as if something might crawl out through the screen, or that it might shut down or that he might get there early and, finding her not there, lose patience and just leave, but everything seemed normal. She told herself she was just being foolish—nervous. She closed the door and began to quickly towel off.

She slipped into her robe and took a fresh towel for her hair. She was lucky. Her long black hair was naturally curly and recovered quickly from washing, and in a few minutes she was presentable enough that she felt she could open the bathroom door and leave it that way. On these nights when she was going to see him she always kept it closed until her hair was at least decent, because she felt as though he was actually in the apartment, or could be at any minute, his spirit at least, and she wouldn't let him see her in disarray. It was a superstition, a game she played with herself, but she was acutely aware of the computer being on in the living room, quietly spreading its glow over the carpet and walls, beckoning like a window to another world, and she was similarly aware that he was on the other side of that window—Alex, her master. The door that connected her to him was open and his spirit and his power could come through, and would. What he took from her would be real.

Thursday nights were the best. Alex's wife visited her mother and he was alone. Roy had softball and then went drinking with the team and stayed at Phil's house to be close to work, leaving her alone as well. She didn't have to worry about being disturbed. Alex would come to her on her computer and make her do things: terrible, wonderful things she would never do on her own. She couldn't describe what it was like but it was like nothing else she knew. He took her over somehow, possessed her and set her free. He made her filthy and pure.

She picked up the blow-dryer and a brush and finished her hair, then took a fresh towel and walked into the living room to check the computer again. Nothing. The screen wallpaper showed a windy hill covered with wildflowers, and superimposed on that, her chat window was open. The cooling fan hummed, the cursor blinked patiently. She folded the towel and laid it on the desk, then took the mouse and made sure the sound notification for incoming messages was loud enough. She turned off some lights in the room to create a mood, then went to the corner and up the three stairs to the turret window.

The building had been a grand Victorian gingerbread mansion, now cut up into apartments for young couples with, incongruously, an off-campus coffee shop downstairs. Her place was on the second floor in the back with an old turret window in the living room, looking down upon the garden and a street that ran behind the place—an alley really—lined with old trees and lilac bushes that were dripping now in a foggy mist. There was a window seat at knee level, and standing there exposed on three sides, naked beneath her robe, Helen felt displayed and vulnerable, ashamed and aroused. There was no one around because of the drizzle, but the turret window exposed her like a princess in a castle tower, back-lit from the dim lights of her living room. She turned and stepped down, feeling excitement uncoil like rope from her stomach, and walked back into the bedroom.

He hadn't told her what to wear, but after two months together she knew his tastes. She'd even purchased clothes she thought he'd like and had been proven right, so she was pretty confidant. Roy never noticed and never asked her about them, but then, that's why she'd found Alex in the first place, because Roy just never noticed and never asked. He'd never asked her what she wanted in bed, never noticed what she liked, never paid any attention to her as her interests drifted towards the subject of women tied and captured and forced to perform lewd sexual acts Roy would never engage in. When she'd even hinted at them, he'd laughed and dismissed her as acting "sick".

Alex hadn't. From the first time she'd connected with him he'd seemed to know. He'd seemed to be able to reach inside of her and grab on to something and pull it out of her, and her whole soul followed. Though part of her fought him and resisted, the greater part loved being out of her own control and under his. She loved the fear of not knowing, of not being responsible.

She sat down at her table and did her face, then brushed out her hair again. From her bottom drawer she took out a new package of white stay-up stockings and slit it with her thumb nail, pulled them from the box and dangled them in front of her. She rolled one up and slipped it on her leg, then straightened it out and smoothed it in place, then did the same with the other. They looked wonderful—the pure, virginal white over the undulating curves of her legs. He'd be pleased.

She stood up and got out her new dress—a simple thing really, a silky, white, short-sleeved sun dress that buttoned straight down the front that she'd bought as a cut-out for five dollars. But that was the joy of cyber—she got to shop for things she'd never normally buy.

She looked at herself and felt her pulse increase. The weight of the dress against her naked skin was strange and arousing, and the sensation of wearing stockings with no panties made her feel salacious and lewd. Already her nipples were semi-erect and pressing against the dress. She could see them through the thin, clingy fabric. She was almost done wrapping his gift now, she thought. There were just the bracelets—two heavy silver chain costume jewelry bracelets he'd had her purchase—and finally, the collar.

Not really a collar but a necklace, a choker, a black satin ribbon that held a large, rough-cut slab of green jade to match her eyes. The collar meant something. When she put it on, she was his. She belonged to Alex.

She looked in the mirror now—the black curls from which the velvet ribbon emerged, the cheeks touched with color, the blush-red lips, the green eyes that echoed the color of the stone around her neck. Her skin was coffee-and-cream, contrasting with the pure white of the dress that clung in such a dramatic fall from the gentle spheres of her breasts. She was ready.

She slipped into a pair of heels from the very back of her closet, then gathered up her supplies, the things he'd want her to have—the two belts and a leather strap from a purse, the hair clips, the wooden ruler, the vibrator and the lube—and walked into the dim white glow of the living room. She placed these objects on the towel and looked at the clock: eight-fifty-five.

Perhaps some solitaire on the computer, or a look at her e-mail.

She sat down on the chair and rolled it in to the desk, called up her e-mail and his name jumped out at her: SmokingMirror111. She felt an immediate thrill in her stomach.

Why would he be sending her an e-mail now when he was going to see her in five minutes? Did he have to cancel? He would have sent an IM. She moved the mouse and clicked on his message.

Slave—

I've been thinking of you all day. Your body in my hands, your mouth on my cock, your ass beneath my whip. This is what I want from you tonight—your body and your pleasure. Tonight will be special. I'll make a special demand on you. Don't fail me.

"Slave." He knew how she felt about being called that. And why would he send her a message like this? He always said every night was going to be special and she never failed him. It didn't mean anything...

She turned her web cam on and positioned it to check herself. She looked good. She looked more than good. She looked like an offering, ripe and enticing, something virginal and yet sexual and knowing as well. Her nipples were hard now, her lips slightly swollen with arousal, her heart beating quickly. She didn't usually dress like this for him and she was excited, anticipating his reaction.

She was tempted to touch herself, just to see how sensitive she was, when she heard the signal for a message and there he was, early, his simple, innocent, "Hello?" sitting on the screen.

"Hello," she typed back.

"Good to see you," he responded. "Alone?"

"Yes. You?"

He gave her a smiley face.

It was impossible to know his moods when he first signed on. He might be gentle and want to chat and perhaps discuss his day or hers, or he might want her right away and take her without a word, like a dog takes his bitch in an alley, having her get down on all fours, grabbing her hair and humping away. Not knowing—that was part of the excitement.

Helen wasn't a perfect slave either, which was why she resented the word. She wasn't a doormat. She resisted. She didn't mean to, or at least she didn't think she meant to, at least, not as much as she did, but she did nonetheless. It was complicated; she didn't understand it herself.

He was usually stingy in his use of her web cam, finding it too distracting to leave on all the time and saving it for the climax of their play, but now he told her to turn it on immediately.

As it made connection he said, "I missed you."

She was surprised. "I missed you too, Master."

"Ah, there you are." He took a moment to look at her image. "Nice dress, bitch. Are those buttons all down the front?"

"Yes, Master."

"Very good. I didn't tell you what to wear tonight, did I?"

"No, sir."

"Then why'd you wear that?"

"I thought you'd like it."

He paused and Helen sat nervously at her keyboard, aware that she was being inspected. The LED on the camera glowed red.

"You thought I'd like it," he wrote. "Did it ever occur to youwhy I didn't tell you what to wear tonight?"

She felt a spot of fear grow in her stomach.

"Because you forgot?"

"Because I forgot?" he echoed.

Silence. Was he waiting for a response?

"I don't know, sir." Helen lowered her eyes away from the web cam.

"It never occurred to you that maybe I wanted you naked? A blank canvas? With no clothes at all?"

"No, sir."

Silence while she sat there with her eyes down.

"So you just presume to put on some rag and show up here like a fucking streetwalker? Some tawdry piece of street trash? Is that the idea, bitch?"

"No, Master. Master, please don't."

"Who else have you worn that for? Who else has had their hands on you in that dress? I can just about see your nipples through that fabric even from here, you cunt!"

"No one! This is the first time I've ever worn it! I bought it just for you! Please! I'm sorry!"

She dreaded his anger even as it thrilled her. The violence in it excited her. His displeasure and the threat of abandonment made her want to weep.

There was a silence while he made her wait. The silence was good, she knew. It meant he'd been playing with her, teasing her. She put her shoulders back slightly, making her tits stand out, offering them.

"It's nice," he typed. "I like it. Open it up and let me see your tits."

Helen looked at the camera with relief. Her fingers went to the buttons on her dress and she started to undo them, and right away she felt that thrill, that quivering thrill of submission, of being controlled by the man who sat on the other end of that camera. She had his picture right next to her monitor, but it wasn't even his face she thought of but his presence, a commanding, enveloping presence that took over for her and stood between her and the world. He was like a tent, a shield. She dissolved in him, let go, gave in.

She unbuttoned the dress down to her navel and then opened it, shame and pride making her blush. Where her skin was bare she could feel his eyes on her like a searchlight, warming her skin and she gave her nakedness to him. There was no reaction, which she took as a good sign, a sign that he was admiring her, maybe even touching himself.

After some seconds, he typed, "Take them out. Play with them."

Helen closed her eyes. When she'd started this with him, she couldn't bare to touch herself. It was beyond humiliating, degrading beyond belief. But now she knew how it excited him and she wasn't above taking pleasure from her own touch either. She'd become a whore for sensation, and her own gluttony thrilled her, confirmed the idea of her own perversity. She parted the dress and took her breasts out, squeezed them together for him, then rolled her nipples between thumb and forefinger, her eyes closed in bliss.

"You're such a bitch," he typed. "I really don't know what to do with you, Helen."

"I'm sorry," she typed back.

"You like that, don't you? Having your tits played with."

"Yes Master. I do."

"Mmmm. What sorry excuses for tits too. Like mosquito bites."

"Yes Master."

She knew it wasn't true. It was part of his game to insult her like this, part of what he did.

"Harder, slut. Squeeze them harder. Sink your nails into them."

"Yes, sir."

She made claws of her hands and dug her nails into the sensitive flesh, groaning as she did so. She was hurting herself and somehow she didn't mind. Or rather, she did but she couldn't help it. It was impossible to explain. It was like he controlled her, like he actually controlled her hands and body and she was unable to do anything but feel. The pain was horrible and delicious.

"Your nipples," he wrote. "Pinch them. Twist them!"

Helen took her nipples between her thumbs and the sides of her forefingers and squeezed. She knew he could see her face. He could see her pain and she wanted to give it to him, as much as possible. Slowly she increased the pressure as the ache began a sharp, shooting pain...

"Wait," he typed. She saw her image on the web cam freeze. "You're breaking up."

"Master?" Her nipples throbbed painfully when she let them go. She looked again at her image on the screen. It looked fine to her now. But suddenly his IM window blinked and went on again.

"Master, are you there?"

"Yes. Don't worry about it. I see you fine now. Get the ruler."

"Oh, Master! No!"

"Get it!"

It was a common grade-school ruler, wood, a foot long. English on one side, metric on the other. He'd made her buy it at the beginning of their relationship, and it had come to symbolize everything about it—the straight, unyielding edge; the duplicitous nature of this simple school aid and the secret, salacious use they put it to; the idea of discipline itself. She'd told Roy it came in handy for ripping coupons out of the newspaper, and of course, he hadn't been the least bit curious as to why she couldn't have bought a scissors.

"Lower the camera a bit and move back," he typed. "I want to see your tits and your face."

Helen did as he said. "Here?"

"Yes. Good. Five each. Two of the five on the nipples. Snaps."

"No. Please!"

"Do it! And look me in the eye for the snaps."

There was no sense arguing but she had to protest. Otherwise he'd know how much she wanted it, or he'd know even more. It wasn't him, it wasn't his touch, his insistent cruelty, but it was as close as she could get right now, and it would have to do.

Five each, two on the nipples: snaps.

Helen held her left breast in her left hand and held the end of the ruler in her right, and looking down at her tit as though it were a beloved pet she had to punish, she gave herself a smart spank on the top, wincing at the pain. She moved the ruler and gave herself another, then lifted her breast and spanked the underside which caused her to writhe in the chair, pressing her legs together. The pain was sharp and immediate, and before it could sink into her too deeply she switched hands with the ruler and did the same to her right breast, the strokes not as precise with her left hand but just as sharp and shocking. These were her breasts, her femininity. to be whipped here was to punish everything that was gentle and giving about her, but he didn't care, and she found the pain deeply satisfying.

The red LED glowed mutely, dumbly. It had counted three strokes for each breast and she still owed it two more on her nipples. These had to be snaps—the ruler held flexed over the nipple while the tip was pulled back by the other hand, then released to let the tip snap against her with a sudden burst of energy, thus assuring a full measure of force to her sensitive nipples: pain, sharp and mechanical.

She was in agony for this—in agony as she flexed the ruler before releasing it, positioning it just so, four inches in front of her defenseless areolas—and in agony as she let it go and it thwacked down against her sensitive flesh, pain surging through her breasts as her nipples peaked with turgid, masochistic excitement. They didn't know any better. They'd expected some gentler stimulation and yet they rose to this cruelty as if they'd been trained to obey.

And during the snaps she raised her eyes to the camera and imagined Alex doing this to her himself, his eyes boring into her merciless and hot, taking her pain as his due, her price for loving him.

The whipping left her lying limp in the chair, her breasts naked and lewdly exposed, marked with lines and welts, nipples puffy and already bruised. Her dress was open and she was pressing her thighs together to stem the growing wetness that was gathering there. And yet she longed for some further depredation, some additional outrage.

"Very nice," he typed. "Very nice. Are you ready to get fucked now?"

"Master, wait, please."

"Wait???"

She shouldn't have questioned him but his impatience surprised her. He never went this fast with her. Usually he savored her, played a game with her, called her over to the camera to inspect the damage, teased her and enjoyed his work, but tonight he seemed in a hurry.

"Open your dress. Put on the belts," he typed. His impatience was palpable.

Helen began to unbutton the dress when he went silent in a new way, cut off.

"Master?" she typed.

No answer.

"Hello?" she typed again.

Again, no response.

This sometimes happened. Sometimes Instant Messenger failed and they lost contact for a minute or two, and she didn't panic. She went ahead carrying out his orders, knowing he'd be back as soon as he could.

She finished unbuttoning her dress, then adjusted her camera so that it showed her entire body as she leaned back in the chair. She took the two broadest belts and waited. She didn't know how he wanted her to put them on yet, so she idly traced the end of one over her breasts, waiting for him to come back online.

"Fucking hell!" he typed suddenly. "Kicked me out!"

"I'm here, Master."

"I see you. Good. Put the belts around your thighs. You know how. Strange reception tonight."

Helen quickly put the ends of the belts through the buckles to make sliding loops of them, then slipped one over each foot and drew them up her legs until they were cinched high on her thighs, over the tops of her stockings. She drew them tight till she felt the belts compressing her flesh, then slid her ass lower in the chair so that she was half-reclining, her bottom hanging over the edge.

"Yes," he wrote. "Like that. Now spread yourself. Tie them off to the arms of the chair."

She spread her legs and wrapped the ends of the belts around the arm rests so that they kept her thighs spread lewdly, her pussy nakedly displayed and aimed at the camera.

"Let me see you, you slut!"

Helen leaned back, her white dress making a natural backdrop for her body and this salacious display. The belts held her thighs apart so that her feet dangled off the floor and the chair was big enough that only her shoulder blades touched the back . She couldn't bring herself to look at the camera. She looked down at herself instead, at her shaved mound, how innocent it looked, how girlish. Her splayed legs framed the monitor.