A Slut's Education Ch. 01

I stifle a sob, "Yes, Master."

My mind is multi-tasking at a high rate. This very moment reminds me of events seven years earlier. Master is older than me, perhaps mid to late thirties, white, apparently with a job of some significance, and with some freedom to come and go to match my school hours...

...My reverie is broken by his voice. "Do you have my picture?"

Oh no, no... Master knows the story, because I told him, about the drunken night so early in the semester, when I woke up in my roommate Deanna's bed. I had told him a friend of Deanna's had a cellphone pic of how that night began, Dee and I making out on a couch in a back room of the party she had dragged me to -- both our shirts open, mine exposing a red satin Victoria's Secret bra, hers exposing a chest with the bra pulled up, firm young breasts hanging out, hard nipples and all -- she's got fantastic, full titties of the sort most Asian girls envy -- our tongues wrestling between our faces -- but although I'd seen it, I didn't have the pic. Master wanted it. I was supposed to ask Dee to Share it with me, because Master wanted it as a threat to post on my Facebook wall.

I hesitated to ask her for it, because after that night we had spent, Deanna and me, the next weekend we went to the frat party where I met my Master, and the next time I saw her, I told Dee I now had a "boyfriend," and things could go no farther between us. I saw in her face how hurt and disappointed she was. There was sexual tension between us in the apartment since then, but we have learned to get along, be friends, maybe flirt a little, but with an understanding that our bisexual adventure was over.

So, to ask her for the pic now, I feel that would reignite passions that are best left buried under the surface of our happy cohabitation. So, vacillating, I have yet to act on Master's order.

I say, "No, Master, your slut has not had a chance."

"Not had a chance!" he bellowed. "I gave you this order over twenty-four hours ago. When I give you an order, I expect it to be obeyed. Worthless fucktoy!" He grunts in frustration, turns around and barks at me: "Hold Posture! Do not move a muscle!"

I am quivering in fear, not knowing what he might do.

"At-Attention!"

I quickly respond, not wanting to anger Master further. Untrained, I might rise to my feet, but I know his expectations. I kneel up, legs spread as wide as possible. I grasp my hands behind my neck, thrusting out my breasts and pussy. I open my mouth, my tongue wagging out, exposed.

"Lift your hair away from your neck." I immediately do so. Master leans down close to my bowed head. He speaks deliberately, "This is about obedience. It doesn't matter what the subject is, a slave is no good if it doesn't obey. So, when you are away from me, kajira-Kelli-slave, THIS will be a reminder of who my slut obeys!"

I feel the metal surround my neck, tight, but not too tight.... Hmmm, what is too tight?

*CLICK* The sound of a locking device. I shudder.

"Gather your things and leave," Master barks at me. "You have greatly disappointed me. I do not want to see you for three days, and when I do, make sure you have the picture. GO!!"

He shoves me forward. I have to reach out and grab the armrest of the couch to keep from falling.

Master leaves the room as I quickly dress. And, grabbing my bag, I flee Master's home...

... Tears streaming down my face.

Seeing you in front of me at the restaurant table, by the front window, I can't quite remember why I was so angry with you the last time we were together... Something about the blonde SoCal roommate I could give two shits about. No, this evening, I am focused solely on you, Kelli.

"You know," you say, "I didn't like how we left things on Sunday night. What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing, you were, and are, absolutely perfect," I reply.

The waiter comes back with our glasses of pinot grigio -- I ordered for you, of course -- and we both lean back from our hunched-together huddle over the tabletop to let him serve.

After the waiter leaves, you lean in and say, "Bullshit."

"Ahhh-ahh -- language, young lady. If there's one thing I insist you take away from our relationship -- once it's over -- it's your appreciation that I've helped refine you." I sip my wine. "Consider me your Finishing School."

"Sure, like the Postures," you reply, smiling mischievously, "the slave-walk. Voice-discipline? Those will all come in handy at a job interview."

"You might be surprised." I lean closer to you. "Obviously, my cheeky little slant-eyed chink-slave has issues with our last meeting," I say. "I don't even recall what the exact topic was, but I do remember, I had given an order, and it was not obeyed. So, we're not here to talk about the topic, we're here to talk about obedience.... Obedience."

... I am being coy, but in fact, I do remember: You failed to bring me a cellphone pic of you and your hot, blonde, SoCal roommate making out with you, which I demanded as a means of further control over you. You failed to come through. I asked for it for further blackmail-fodder, and enjoyed the thought of you turning it over to me with your grudging cooperation, but against your will.

But the fact is, I have enough blackmail, Kelli, to use on your skinny young ass, any way I want. I don't need any more. The pic I demanded was just a case-in-point, the point being...

..."Obedience," I say. "Pure and simple. Obedience for its own sake, obedience for your own good..."

I trail off, my attention focused on your collar, as it has been most of the time since you sat down. It's a slender, silver steel ring that rests around your neck with about a quarter-inch of give in front of your throat. Where your collar-bones meet, there's a small (but deceptively sturdy) ring ornamented with a pale blue opal, pure and smooth as the lovely skin it rests on. The opal diverts attention from the ring it adorns, which is the thing I will use to clip on your pet-leash. As a piece of jewelry, it's quite passable in the Vanilla World. You would have to have a dirty mind to look at it and think, "slave-collar"; in which case, cool, welcome to my world, fellow kinkster! Or you would have to be one of my slut's friends close enough to notice she never takes it off or exchanges it for another necklace; in which case, if you're that close, why don't you ask about it and see what she has to say? My slut wears her straight black hair loose around her shoulders, disguising the fact that at the back of the collar, the latch is fitted with a tiny combination lock, so tiny it requires a jeweler's screwdriver to operate.

Guess who is the only one who knows the combination?

"Do you like your collar, slut?"

You blush. (And goddammit, Kelli, that's your signature move, do you do it on purpose?) I feel my cock pulse. Do you know the power you have over me? Maybe you do, but I will never be the one to tell you.

You smile sweetly and bow your head, your hair sweeping in front your face. "I love it."

"Do you even feel it anymore?"

You pause, lift your face to smile at me, and when you speak, I love your reply: "I would feel it if it were gone."

"I'm sorry, repeat that? With vocal decorum."

You understand, and again, you blush. "This slut would feel it if it were gone."

I say, "Well, I have wrist and ankle bracelets to match it."

"Master?" Your breath catches a little bit in your throat.

"But here's my dilemma -- and this is the thing we're really here to discuss. Even though I own you, and I will always be searching for ways to push your limits and educate you as my sex and bondage slave, I do defer to the fact that you have a life in the Vanilla World --"

I am interrupted by the return of our waiter. "Are you ready to order."

"Yes, thank you," I tell him, smiling, making it quick so I can go on with the point I am making to you. "We'll split a Caesar salad, light on the dressing. The lady will have the coq au vin. I'll have the salmon. And don't hesitate to bring more wine if you see we need replenishment. Thank you."

I hand him my menu and yours. When he leaves, I return my eyes to yours. I see I have your rapt attention.

"As I was saying, slut, you may or may not feel the collar, because it has become part of you, and you can't see it. But I want to give you something you do see every moment you look down. Wrist-cuffs."

"Wrist-cuffs?" You are turned on by the idea, I can see that in your expression.

"Yes, wrists and ankles," I say. "But I'm not sure this will work."

"Master?"

"I do have in mind how we can handle the wrist-cuffs: We'll put one on your right wrist, along with a crowd of bangles and beads, so the steel thing in the middle would be lost. We'll put one on your left, all by itself, but it wouldn't be noticed as part of the pair, because of the distracting set of bracelets on your right hand --"

"Will these cuffs have little rings within the rings, like my collar?"

"They would. That's what I'll use to lock my slut's hands behind her when I want her helpless. Or else, in front of you, chained to your collar, sirik-style."

"Sirik?"

"Sirik. S-I-R-I-K. Google it," I say. "And once you do, you'll see there's also an aspect of ankle-cuffing involved. There's my quandary..."

"Sirik," you murmur...

... I sip my wine, you sip yours. Your attention on my words is, again, rapt. Your eyes sparkle as they meet mine. You are so pretty and adorable, Kelli, I do so love owning you. I would fuck you right now...

*Ahem.* I resume:

"The wrist-cuffs are easy enough to disguise... I think, anyway. The ankles are another story. I know, cute young girls can walk about with a fetching little chain on one ankle -- one, not both, that would stand out -- but here, we're talking about two matched silver rings around those dainty little ankles of yours. Now, I suppose you could wear pants all the time, to conceal them, but no one wants to see that..."

Here, I allude to the fact that when you come to see me, I have ordered that at all times you wear a skirt (and no panties, incidentally).

You brighten up, sip your wine and grin mischievously. "What if I - I mean, what if this slut just wore her ankle-cuffs proudly?"

I pause. I admit it, I am startled.

I sip my wine, then lean forward. You lean forward as well. Our faces are just inches apart, and I ask you: "Is that what you propose?"

The words from my mouth echo in my ears: What if this slut just wore my ankle-cuffs proudly?

Did I really just say that?

The waiter returns and brings the Caesar salad for us to share.

Is it the wine? I am feeling a bit light-headed. I know I am a tease with friends, but in fact I blushed once the words were out of my mouth. It has been one week since the party that led to my enslavement. Three days of hell, three days of purgatory, and one day of bliss. The three days of hell were times of humiliating directives, of learning shocking and revealing positions, uncertainty that Master would send the pictures from the party to my parents. He raped my pussy and mouth often. He collared me for disobedience that he has since forgotten. His forgetting surprised me, since his original request had been so clear and uncompromising.

The three days of purgatory, or Adjustment, were less intense, as we settled into a routine. I had learned how to obey, and in obedience, I had found pleasure. He used my pussy and mouth often, to his pleasure and often to mine. The collar was still a nuisance, having to hide it or disguise it. My roomie Deanna admired it and asked me to remove it and let her try it on. I declined as kindly as possible.

Most days, following my last class, I reported to Master. Somehow he was able to make the time to pick me up and to continue my training.

... Yes, I now love the thought of being owned and trained. That was not always the case. I have already offered him all of my holes. Actually, after an intense training session, I begged him to take them. And he declined, wisely I thought, telling me I need to learn patience and self-control. These were to be the centerpiece of my early slave-training.

And now he offers me wrist and ankle cuffs of steel.

He does not know if I am teasing, but in fact I am not. He has lit the flames of submission within me and he has done so without force. Not once has he beaten me, and I am beginning to think his threats of sending pictures to my parents are mere bluffing.

Or else, I am learning to fear the prospect less as time passes.

It is Friday night. I should be with my new college friends. In fact, they were surprised when I turned them down. Master gave me a choice, to be with him or with my peers. I was pleased they enjoyed my company, but it was a no-brainer. I hope I surprised and delighted him when I said, "Master, I wish to be with you."

Is that what you propose? he asks.

I know the consequences and the implications, but I do not hesitate. "Yes, Master. I would like to feel your steel. And to know that only you can remove it. And that it expresses your ownership over your slut."

He takes a breath, and says, "Why do you think that is, slut?"

My mouth works for a few seconds, before I say, "I am not totally sure, Master. Every sentence you speak, every moment you orchestrate, is new to me. Yet it just seems right. My body now responds, or reacts -- I'm not sure what's the right word --"

Master does not mince words, and I like that. "Are you juicing now, slut."

"Yes, Master," I reply, not in the least bit embarrassed. Clearly, he delights in my honesty. His face reflects this.

He asks, "Would you do anything I ask of you right now?"

I pause, naturally, stretching out, thinking, and I ask, "Anything... umm, covers a lot of territory. I would not strip naked and dance on the table, right here, right now. I would not crawl to your crotch and suck your cock in the middle of this restaurant. I cannot promise to do anything."

Master pulls my cellphone from his jacket pocket. He flips to a picture, and shows me a pic of me: me naked on my hands and knees, my head turned... and a huge smile on my face. Another pic: smiling as I show off my tits.

"If I order you to suck my cock, as you say, under the threat of sending this picture to your parents, will you obey?"

I look at the image. It is not my best side, I think humorously. It must be the wine. Master notices my smirk. "Tell me, slave."

I cannot resist. "It is not my best side, Master."

His reaction is priceless. First a stare, then an explosion of laughter as he puts my phone away, and stabs a fork into the Caesar, his head shaking left and right.

Then, the conversation is primarily about my classes, my high school years, my new friends, with an occasional sexual innuendo that makes us both smile.

"What have you liked the best of our week together," he asks.

I respond honestly and immediately. "Being in a constant state of arousal. And ownership. And control that is not in my hands." I pause. "And what about you, Master?"

I can imagine a thousand responses. I am actually tense, wondering what he will say. Will it be complimentary? Will it cause my pussy to run like a river?"

"I always wondered if an Asian cunt ran north and south, or east and west, and now I know."

It is after ten when we finish dinner and a delicious dessert. My heart is beginning to flutter, not knowing if he will fulfill my hopes or simply take me back to my apartment.

Without a word, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring of steel. The restaurant is nearly deserted now. Master hands the steel to me.

I look into his eyes for a moment and then focus on the steel. It is hinged, and I open it and nearly close it and open it again. I look up at him and without breaking the gaze put my wrist between the open half-circles. I pause for just a moment and then, *SNAP*, I close the cuff on my right wrist.

He hands me a second ring of steel. Again I hold his gaze, my heart beating rapidly, my love juices pouring from my throbbing pussy, and I close the steel around my left wrist.

He reaches for a third ring. It is not lady-like, but I am clearly not a lady. I face away from the front of the table and the other diners, and lift my high-heeled foot onto the cushion. I am focusing on the moment and location of this cuff and with a deep exhaling: *SNAP*

And now Master produces the fourth ring. This time I must face the front of the table, my cunt sans panties openly displayed to anyone who might be looking.

I admit I go a little faster, and, * SNAP *

And when I turn and look up to Master, my eyes are wet with tears.

Continued...