Peachy/Clean

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Wherein Mistress Cherry's sub is had for dinner.
1.7k words
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I remove the unpeeled peach from between sub s.'s clenched teeth, and fully delight in his revulsion. The extraction has released a sweet torrent of mingled juice and saliva down his winter-pale chin and neck, and he is clearly straining against the impulse to whimper and squirm and propel himself toward the pristine towel I have left folded on the paddling bench across the room to taunt him. I have left sub s. unrestrained this evening, knowing that his torment would be exponentially increased if he could, of his own free will, and in a matter of strides, cleanse his skin of the sticky film. But I am in possession of sub s.'s will, and his desire to please me outweighs his agony at the moment. He will be rewarded, but not until I've wrung my fun from him.

sub s., I've come to learn in the course of several months, is a compulsively orderly slut, and quite accustomed to having his way. Throughout the span of a workday, sub s. can crush or raise the standing and status of corporations and countless underlings with a phone call or stroke of a pen. sub s. is expensively, impeccably groomed, polished, tailored and manicured - fastidious to the point of obsession. sub s. can breeze into fully-booked 5-star restaurants and be instantly fawned over and accommodated. sub s. inevitably comes to me afterward. I always have him wait at least an hour in the hallway to see me - even if I've nothing else to do.

I peer at sub s. through a curtain, and I note two things; next to him on the sofa is a discreetly elegant takeout bag emblazoned with the logo of my most favored sushi bar, and his knee-jouncing, finger-wringing anticipation of the evening's delicious humiliation lends him the air of a fidgety schoolboy. I motion to a houseboy who descends to a street-level market and returns in moments with my order. Once these items are arranged to my liking, and I have prepared the room, the houseboy is dispatched to bring sub s. to me.

sub s. stands in the doorway silently until I beckon him in. I stand just behind the sole, gritty dust pile I ordered the houseboy to leave from his sweepings, and without hesitation, sub s. kneels at my feet, soiling the knees of his previously pristine linen trousers. He does not dare look up until I lay a velvet-gloved hand atop his head, and he knows he is permitted. He is wide-eyed and trembling and for just one moment, I consider mercy. But that is not why sub s. has come here tonight. I open my mouth, and release a crystal stream of spit down onto his forehead to trickle past sub s.'s tear ducts and quiver down to the tip of his nose.

"Strip," I command, and he complies.

The first time sub s. visited Rapture, he possessed the audacity to inquire as to where he might find a hanger so as not to sully his custom-made Italian suit. I did not hesitate to procure a hanger, but the contours of his clothing are not where it left its whip-wire impression. Tonight, he swiftly balls his garments into an untidy heap in the corner and resumes his obeisance at my boots. He has performed to my liking thus far, and he is allocated a treat - I wrench his expensively coiffed head to my toes, and he is permitted a small taste of my velveteen pumps. I laugh heartily at his twin shudders of arousal and repugnance.

One of the first things I learned about sub s. was his extreme reaction to lightly-furred surfaces. As were many well-heeled youth of his time, sub s. was sent to an all-male boarding school from age six onward, and exposure to the opposite sex was minimal, compelling, and terrifying. sub s. grew into a lad possessed of extreme curiosity and was, during the Winter break of his thirteenth year, discovered under the coat pile at his older sister's Christmas party. The young ladies, certain he'd been privy to their most intimate confidences as they'd whispered and giggled atop the heap of furs and wraps, jammed his face full of velvety trim, sueded cuffs and luscious mink until oxygen-deprived, he sunk out of consciousness. When sub s. floated back to the surface, he was surrounded by a gaggle of teenaged girls, pointing at the front of his cashmere trousers and tittering hysterically. sub s. while unconscious, had wet himself, and upon reviving, swiftly swelled the most monumental erection of his young life. In that moment, sub s. did not know if the burn and blush of his cheeks was from shame or excitement, but from then on, the two were inexorably entwined. I always wear velvet when sub s. is scheduled.

"Speak."

"Mistress Cherry, I have brought you dinner. I hope you find it to your liking."

I've lifted up his chin so I can see his quivering lips forming the words. "Fetch," I order, and he crawls over to retrieve the restaurant bag from the spanking bench, and then back to me. I remove the handle from his teeth and give him a "good dog" pat on the back of the neck with my velveted palm. He shivers, and I slap him between the shoulder blades. I inspect the contents of the bag. He has chosen exquisitely - sumptuous cuts of fatty toro, delicate, ocean-tickled uni and generous, opulent abalone. "Set the table," I say, and sub s. stands stock still while I fix his wrists into leather restraints above his head. I tap and tease sub s.'s cruelly exposed back for a few minutes to ready him for the sudden, sharp whhhsstt! of my rattan cane as it warns the tender air before it hits his flesh. sub s. cries out, and I stop for a moment - not for his respite, but because he has been warned before to weather this in silence. I despise being put off my dinner by the whining of a submissive, and I reach into the paper bag the houseboy had procured. sub s. whimpers as I brush the peach against his cheek, yet I also notice that he's instantly and astoundingly erect. "Bite," I order, and he sinks his teeth into the sweet, firm flesh. I know that he is in exquisite agony as his tongue inevitably bumps against the fuzz lodged solidly in his mouth, but if he bites and it falls to the floor, there will be hell to pay. He closes his eyes, and I cane his back until cherry-red welts and a few shy pinpoints of blood appear. I release his wrists. "Dinnertime."

sub s. falls to all fours on the concrete floor, and I lay out my meal on his upper back - taking care to slather any open skin with dabs of stinging wasabi and delicate slices of lemon. I hitch up my floor-length velvet dress, straddle his waist, and sit astride him while I eat my fill. To sub s.'s credit, he flinches only when I spill chilled sake on the back of his neck, but then again, I have trained him well. By the time I rise, his meticulously exfoliated, gym-toned, skin is a soggy mess of soy sauce, eel glaze, wasabi and...oh no...I nearly forgot. I've still one thin sliver of pickled ginger left over, and order sub s. to stand. He blushes fiercely as my lushly textured skirt brushes against his still-fierce arousal, and sub s. nearly drops his peach when I gently lay the ginger slice over the glistening tip to work its chilly burn. His nostrils flare and flex like those of Derby-run stallion, and I giggle and dig in the paper bag once more. "Down boy! Horsie needs a tail." sub s. again falls to all fours, and arches his back, spreading his hindquarters for me. I slide in the peeled, tapered ginger root, and sub s. cannot help himself - he bucks wildly from the ecstatic and inescapable sting, aching to release, but he knows he dare not...he dare not...not until I say so...

But while I am a cruel Mistress, I am not without my appreciation of obedience. "Up, boy!" I march sub s. over to a full-length mirror, so he can fully witness his own humiliation - slathered in the leavings of my meal, ginger root protruding from his ass like an oddly priapic tail, cock hatted with a pickled ginger slice, and the peach still fuzzily cuddled between his lips. I pry it from them, and a Niagara of juice and spit cascades down his face. I can see how desperately he aches for release and order and clean skin again, but I must hear him beg for it. "Say it."

"Mistress may I?"

"Mistress may I what?" He is nearly beyond speech at this point, but I insist.

"Mistress may I please come? Please come? Pleasecomepleasecomepleasepleaseplease..."

I place the peach in his left hand, and position it so the skin is nestled against his cruelly taut balls, and in the right, I lay a long scrap of black velvet left over from the making of my dress. I step back and nod at him and sub s. works to furious, swift, and explosive release as he stares straight ahead at his sloppy and sensuous degradation.

sub s., relieved at last, slumps forward, and upon viewing his spent, sullied body in the mirror, dares a hangdog look at me and then the clean towel, and again back at me. I shake my head. I am not yet finished with him. He unfurls the come-drenched velvet from his right hand, sinks to his knees to dab the soy, peach juice and semen dribbles from the dungeon floor, smears the whole mess into his face and chest, and walks over to stand military-style for my inspection of his work. Several moments pass, and I see his cock quivering to life again under my scrutiny, but I am finished with sub s. for the evening. I nod. sub s. kneels to kiss my boots, and makes a beeline for the clean towel and the shower.

I hear the water running, and I collapse into giggles, wondering what will be on the menu for next time.

© 2005 Mistress Cherry Esplanade

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MastersallMastersallalmost 19 years ago
Great beginning

Liked the beginning of the tale but seemed to fall apart

at the end... her laughter was silly

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