A Taste of Cherie

This isn't a story. It's a girl. Her name is Cherie Lindor—Miss Lindor if you're one of her colleagues. Everyone else calls her Princess. She's a primary school teacher at Los Palagos Elementary, teaching up through third grade. I have to say, she's the perfect teacher. Sweet and sensitive. Passionate, even a little strict. It's so cute. Because she's a vixen, you see. An elf. One of the really submissive breeds, too: White Chocolate. Let me describe her for you. She has a very pretty face with high cheekbones, a pointed chin, and a button nose. Teutonic, I think, is the word. Her hair is platinum blonde with bangs, flowing midway down her back. Sometimes she has it braided. The rest of her is equally perfect: slender calves, shapely thighs, round buttocks, a tiny waist, and teardrop shaped breasts that perfectly fit my hands. She has a mole somewhere that only I know about.

She always wears a dress to work. Not some pert, corporate garbage that a businesswoman might wear to give a presentation about money to a bunch of men who already have too much of it. No. Her dresses have heart. They're flamboyant and colorful, long and regal, tastefully adorned with filigree. She owns quite a few, in pastel shades of pink, yellow, blue and white. My personal favorite is lavender and silver, with deep violet lace. She says it's too pretty to wear to school everyday, so she saves it for special occasions. Like dinner with me.

She completes her outfits with a little tiara. She is a princess, after all. The ones I buy her are very expensive, made of silver or gold and set with real gemstones. Not that she knows anything about money—she just knows they're pretty.

Her life isn't completely perfect, as it obviously can't be. She complains about her coworkers sometimes: there are men who make rude remarks, and women who get catty. It's frustrating, because she wants to be taken seriously. A few of her students are incorrigible rascals, too. She can't drive, so she carpools with Mrs. Doblini. But sometimes her ride is late, or her dress gets wet in the rain, or whatever. Alright, maybe a life can't be perfect. But a day can.

Like today. I'm off work today; I don't work Fridays, but she does. It's the one day of the week when I'm waiting for her to get home instead of the other way around. I don't have much to do, so I take it easy and sleep in. Around eleven I get up, make some breakfast, and watch some TV. It's amazing how quiet our home is without her. Every time I walk past our bedroom, I glance at her empty cage. It just hangs there quietly, with her plush cushion, journal, and colored gel pens lying where she left them.

I spend around two hours cleaning, taking care of chores, fixing stuff, and whatever else needs to be done. In general, just making the place ready for her. Some people ask whether I really do chores when I have a submissive little elven slave to do them for me. Yeah I do. She appreciates it when I take care of her. Besides, if you love someone, little stuff like that is hardly any work at all. Anyway, I finish up around two thirty, which is perfect—she'll be home in about 45 minutes, if her ride isn't late. I spend the rest of my time sitting in a chair in our front yard under our maple, with a glass of wine and a book. Time goes. Not too quickly, but it goes.

Like clockwork, at 3:15 a white car pulls down the cul-de-sac and rolls to a stop. The passenger door opens, and a blonde head pops out. She says goodbye cheerfully and shuts the door, then hikes up her dress and struts across the yard up to me. Mrs. Doblini drives off.

"Hey honey. How was your day?" I ask.

"It was very nice, thank you."

"I've got some wine."

"Oh! Perfect."

She stands in front of me expectantly, waiting for me to undo her skirt. Her dress is actually in two parts, with the skirt secured to the upper part by several buttons, which are in turn covered by a sash. The sash comes off easily enough, and I reach around to unfasten the buttons. It slides off, and I ball it up and toss it on the grass.

"Oh, that feels nice," she gushes, sighing away the day's frustrations. She stands there in her underwear and pantyhose, though she frowns as her skirt lands in a pile of leaves. "Do you really have to toss it on the ground like that?"

I pull her onto my lap and hand her a glass of wine. "Yes. Yes I do."

Her look of annoyance changes into a quiet smile as she takes a sip of wine. It's a warm day early in the fall semester, and the leaves are a mix of red and orange. Our eyes meet. She leans in gently for a kiss, offering me her soft lips. I accept. We spend the next five minutes or so just making out. It's passionate, but not like in the movies. There's no urgency. A light breeze caresses us, running through her hair and ruffling her dress. I begin to touch her intimately. She squirms. It's time for us to head inside.

We stand up together. She immediately struts off to collect the lower half of her dress, then dashes back to me. A certain touch on her shoulder instructs her to go down on her hands and knees, and she obeys instantly. She crawls ahead of me into the house, casting a backward glance just as she crosses the threshold. Dinner is cooking. It doesn't smell nearly as nice as when she cooks, but it's still a welcoming scent.

"What are we having?" she asks, her voice floating gently through the autumn air.

"Lasagna and asparagus. There's a little cake left too, if you want it."

"Oh, you can have it. I'll just have the lasagna."

"Babe, the cake is for you."

"Really? It's sooo good. Are you sure?"

I ruffle her hair. "Yes, I'm sure. If I have any, I'll just have a bite."

She smiles and nuzzles her cheek against my calf affectionately. "May I stand, master? And get washed up?"

"Yes. Wait a minute."

She knows what's coming; she bends so that I can smack her ass, and then scampers off. I hear the sound of running water, and I focus on getting the table ready: glasses, plates, silverware, and napkins. She's very particular about the napkins being folded and tucked inside the tines of the forks. I do it all the way she likes, just to make her happy. By the time she returns, it's all set out. She steps out from the hallway corner and presents herself to me, standing with her arms clasped behind her back. She's wearing lacy purple lingerie with a plunging neckline paired with satin slippers of the same color. I don't wait for her to ask the question; I already know what she's wondering.

"Honey, you're very beautiful."

"Thank you, master", she replies, her half-whispered answer blooming into a smile of irrepressible self-satisfaction. She takes her seat next to me.

Our dining room isn't anything special, but two of the chairs have been moved to the same end of the table. That's because she's always scooting her chair closer to mine, until we're pretty much knocking elbows. We've discussed buying a larger chair so we can eat side by side, but most of those types of chairs don't fit against the table. The perfect chair eludes us currently, but Cherie has the utmost confidence that it will eventually be found.

We chat a little during the meal, mostly about her day plus a smattering of world politics. She's not allowed to watch the news, since a lot of the things that humans choose to do to each other are inordinately violent and cruel. This isn't something I impose on her; we've sat and discussed this and agree that it's a man's job to protect his woman from the world emotionally as well as physically. Nevertheless, she has a genuine interest in geopolitics, and she often discusses current events with her students.

I find myself putting my arm around her shoulder. Her body shimmers in response, and she leans towards me. Her entire body is warm, overflowing with her feminine joy.

"I'll get the cake!" she volunteers cheerfully mere seconds after finishing her plate. She shoots up from her seat before I can get a word in edgewise and flits into the kitchen, flinging the fridge door open. An impish smile flashes across her face as she glances back at me—she knows she's not supposed to leave the table without permission. The rule sounds excessive, but you have to give your vixen some rules to break if you want to have any fun.

I watch as she gets two forks, two dessert plates, and cuts the last slice exactly in half. Then she struts back over to the table.

"Alright Cherie, you win. I'll have some cake."

She smiles victoriously as she hands me my plate, taking her seat beside me. My arm goes back around her shoulder, and she lets out a soft mew of happiness. It's strangely entertaining to watch her eat; she's very precise. Perhaps that's not the right word. But there's something about her little mannerisms that are subtly, deliciously feminine. And I notice them.

After dinner she quietly excuses herself, which is unusual. Normally she helps me clean up and then we watch a movie, or else she reads quietly or watches from her cage while I play video games. But that's not what happens today. I start cleaning up, wondering what she's up to. The noises coming from the other end of the house give a clue: running water, drawers being opened and shut, and the quiet clinking of metal. Then silence. I stop cleaning and lean against the door frame, crossing my arms expectantly. My eyes are fixed on the corner from the hallway where she will appear.

She crawls into the living room on her hands and knees, stopping as soon as her entire body is exposed. She's still in her lingerie, but now there's now a leash attached to her slave collar, with the other end held in her mouth. She looks at me, then looks away bashfully just as a smile begins to appear. The leash slips from her mouth and lands on the floor with a soft thud.

"Someone's horny," I observe wryly.

"Mmmmhmmm."

I swagger over to her. She doesn't glance up, but she's already trembling with anticipation. I kneel and close my fist around her leash.

"So, how have we been naughty today?"

"I don't know," she answers in a whisper tinged with excitement.

"I have to admit, my princess has been exceptionally well behaved."

She doesn't look up, but I know she's smiling. She loves to be called obedient. "That's only because you've trained me so well, master", she replies, confidence welling in her voice as her arousal builds.

There's a lengthy pause. I have to come up with a pretext for punishing her before we can start. Setup is extremely important for her. But she's been very well behaved, and I want to punish her for something more substantial than leaving her seat without permission after dinner. So I stall for time. "Let's see, what do have in the armory? Whips, chains, canes, cuffs, clamps..."

"I've done something terrible, I just know it!" she laughs, giving her bottom a little wiggle.

"Alright, that's enough. I'm getting the paddle."

"Wait, noooo! Not until we know what I did wrong!"

"Maybe you've been kidnapped, and I'm interrogating you?"

"That would make you the bad guy!" she protests.

"Hmm. What about that girl in the movie last night? You were so mad she never got her comeuppance."

"Roxanne? Gosh, she was so mean to everyone. And she got away with it, too. It ruined the whole movie!"

"Yeah, but she ended up with that knight. Why don't we find out how he trained her?"

"Oh, my. I bet he really—mmmh!" The sentence goes unfinished, her words washed away by a wave of arousal. There's a moment of silence as the sexual tension envelops her body. "She was a princess, too," she observes thoughtfully.

"Not half as pretty as you, though."

"Thanks!" she whispers. She doesn't know how to take complements because she's much too modest to properly respond. I gently pat her head.

Our home is a one-story rambler, so we don't have a proper dungeon. However, we do have a room we call the armory. If dildos were weapons, the name would be technically accurate. It's a spare bedroom stuffed with all the sex toys our budget can imagine. Cherie doesn't even want a dungeon, though. She thinks they're depressing and unsexy as hell. And the longer I live with her, the more I agree.

So I take her leash and march her into the armory. She starts looking around, while I start looking at her. A certain wet spot tells me it's time for her to lose the lingerie, so I pull it down over her shoulders. She gives her hips a little shake and crawls out onto the carpet, her aquamarine gem plug glittering subtly in the diffuse lighting. Her nude body absolutely takes my breath away, even though I've seen her a thousand times. Yes, I'm going to smack her ass, but first I'm just going to admire it.

Alright, admiration over. I give her ass a nice juicy smack, and then reel her in by her leash. She resists playfully, but eventually her naked body ends up in my arms where it belongs. I plant a kiss on her neck.

"Well, what have we here? Looks like a nude vixen."

"At your service, master," she coos softly.

"That's what I like to hear," I say in a low voice. She leans backward, allowing her weight to fall on my chest. My hands rove over her body, creeping dangerously close to her flower. She's watching my hand, wondering... wondering—

I pull it away at the last moment. "I think Roxanne could use a paddling."

She looks slightly disappointed. "Oh gosh, I forgot all about her for a second. Yes, I think she could!"

I kiss her neck again, while caressing her stomach and the inside of her thigh. She's pretty much melting at this point. I start to reposition her, and she doesn't resist. She ends up face down on the carpet with my knee on her back.

"Do you think Roxanne needs some anal training?

"Oh, definitely!" she answers emphatically. "I really like the anal hook."

I watch as a massive blush spreads across her face. I don't say anything.

"I mean she—" she sputters. "It would be really good for training her, I mean. Because I hate it so much. And, um. Roxanne probably would too!"

"Uh huh. What other toys do you hate?" I drive my knee into her back slightly harder.

"I hate... I mean Roxanne would— would— um..." She abandons her line of thought mid-sentence, finishing with an uncomfortable giggle.

"I'm just gonna start smacking your ass until you remember how to speak, okay?" I growl as I caress her hair lovingly.

She gives a little whine and buries her face in the carpet, while keeping her ass raised prominently. The spanking goes on until all four of her cheeks are rosy red, and she still hasn't so much as squeaked.

"I can keep this up all day," I warn.

She makes a sound like she's going to speak, but nothing comes out. I spank her for another thirty seconds before she finally musters the courage to form actual words. When she does, her voice is a faint whisper: "Sir? Roxanne would like it if you spanked her pussy tonight."

"She'd like that? I thought we were punishing her."

"I—I meant..."

I squeeze her butt. "You're so horny you can hardly talk. I'll get you gagged, and I'll handle the rest. Okay, princess?"

"Thank you," she whispers, smiling with relief.

The gag in question is a purple ball gag. It looks adorable on her, but so does an anal hook. One kink at a time, though. She lays face down on the floor, following me with her eyes while I find the hook. She doesn't move a muscle until I stand over her. As I gently caress her bare bottom, she pushes her ass up against my hand, slowly and majestically. She peers backward, smiling behind her gag. As soon as our eyes meet, she looks away timidly, hiding a look that I will remember for the rest of my life.

Her buttocks tense as I grip her buttplug—the one she's been wearing all day. It's all full of her struggles and frustrations and is no longer sexy. A soft sigh escapes her lips as it is removed from her body. Then she gives a slight gasp as the drizzle of lube meets her bare skin. The cold gel slides between her buttocks, preparing her for the cold metal hook. The hook has a fairly large metal sphere attached to the business end, and doesn't slip in easily. She's gotta work for it. At first it seems like it won't go in, even though she's grunting and straining. Then all the sudden it crowns and sinks in. She's hooked.

Now I'm staring at the bare bottom of the prettiest girl in the world. She mumbles something through her gag, but her fate has been out of her hands for some time now. I tie a rope to the ring at the end of her hook and remove her leash.

"I think I'll take my princess for a walk."

She makes no attempt to conceal her eagerness. As soon as I pull the rope taut, she heads out of the armory and into the hall, crawling obediently at my side. We head into the living room and around the coffee table, and then back to the armory. Excitement hangs in her breath, and she trembles with desire as two nipple clamps are added to her body. I take her for another walk through the house, going slowly to make sure she's properly enjoying herself. A sharp tug every now and then makes sure she doesn't forget who is master and who is slave. I've never seen anyone so eager to obey. She's like a puppy, in a way.

I watch her from behind as she crawls. I notice the way the muscles and tendons on the insides of her thighs flex with every step, how her hair falls flows across her back, and how she curls her toes excitedly when she thinks I'm not looking. We finally end up back in the armory, where she waits obediently while I loop her rope over the metal frame that's bolted to the ceiling. Yes, it can support her entire weight. She helped me install it something like two years ago when we were really into suspension bondage.

I pull the rope tighter and tighter, hoisting her pelvis off the ground painfully. Then her arms are taken away and handcuffed behind her back. Half her weight is now on her face. Fortunately for her though, she weighs almost nothing. She gurgles happily.

Her body never stops moving. Her shoulders are caught in an unending struggle to redistribute her weight, and her hips sway constantly. She occasionally gives them a seductive wiggle, just because. The slightest glimpse of the switch and paddle elicits an excited gasp from her lips.

I don't start with pain, but with a caress. Every part of her body must be touched: her neck, her pointy elven ears, her shoulders and hair. My fingers trace the curve of her back down to her buttocks, and then down her legs. My touch on the inside of her thighs is somewhere between a grope and a caress; she quivers as her king explores his kingdom. Her hairs stand on end as I touch her calves and her ankles. Even her feet are soft and tender. All across her body, a symphony of muscle keeps her in balance, as she strains to keep her pelvis at the height demanded by the hook.

The paddle comes next. It's a humiliating punishment, delivered to her buttocks as if to a wayward student. It's a heavier pain than the switch, and makes a more satisfying sound. I don't alternate cheeks; that would be too easy. Ten on the right, ten on the left. I pause, and she gives her derriere a helpful wiggle, reminding me exactly where to strike. Ten on the left, ten on the right. She whines softly. Then one more round. It's the price she pays for being so insanely hot.

Now she's ready to be switched—I can tell by the pussy juice running down the inside of her thigh. She's also shaking slightly, and her buttocks are cherry red. The switch I'm using tonight is made of bamboo, lightweight, slender, and pinches her skin if it hits just right. Obviously, she hates and loves it for all the same reasons. It comes to a fairly sharp point, too. I prod each of her buttocks, poking the stick in sharply and then watching them jiggle softly as I pull it away. Then I slowly run its length between her labia. It's wet now.

"I don't remember Roxanne looking this cute," I tease, striking the back of her calves with the switch. She giggles through her gag, while the blows start to move higher, over her thighs. I give a quick strike on each buttock, and then start from the bottom again. I run my fingers over the curves of her left leg, while striking her right leg sharply. She sighs under my worshipful touch, and then gasps slightly as the blows strike the insides of her thighs. I do this once more, on opposite legs. I make sure it hurts, too.