Eternal Slave Ch. 01

I have always been a slave to women.

I've always wanted women to control me, to rule me, to capture me, to take and use my body, and have me serve them for the rest of my life. Doesn't matter how or why or when, just as long as it happened.

The funny thing was that I had been living here on this Earth for twenty-fours years, and it hadn't happened yet. No woman had so far put a spiky collar and leather leash on me, dragged me on my knees back to their apartment, handcuffed me to their bed, ridden me until they had experienced multiple orgasms, before setting me free and having me vacuum and do the dishes.

To me, that sounded like the perfect deal that they were ignorant not to take. To them, I was just the quiet guy who never made a move on them at parties, but just sat there and made snide comments whenever I was bold enough to actually find myself in a conversation with a person of the feminine persuasion.

I didn't get the chance to tell them how much I loved, adored, and worshiped them. Tell them it was they, women, who were the only lights in my world of gray monotony.

At work, at my gray, dull, boring work in some gray, dull, boring office in the middle of an industrial area that was gray, dull, and boring to the extreme, my one consolation was having coffee and chatting with my sweet, kind, intelligent, and, I have to admit, beautiful, and alluring co-workers.

After work, at coffee shop or in the park or on the way to the bus, my female friends would all agree how wrong it was that a nice, smart, handsome guy like myself was single and how they would find me the perfect girlfriend soon, just you wait. "Why not any of you?" I would think to myself. "I would love to be claimed by any of you. Please?" But I never made the crucial move.

Back home in my apartment, I would long for female company. So I would, I'm ashamed to say, seek out Internet videos depicting women who were cruel and strict with tied-up men. While fun as long as it, and I, lasted, I would always feel empty and lonely afterwards. It was not what I really wanted, or needed.

I needed a woman of flesh and blood, of smiles and cares and desires and opinions.

***

I met one such woman a day in late November.

Sort of.

First off, she got me, not the other way around. Which is how I once believed I wanted it. As it turned out, actually being captured by a woman is something completely different from just pretending. For one thing, you cannot snap your fingers and just end the scene. You cannot utter a safe-word, start cuddling, and talk about how that stuff freaked you out and that you had something a bit different and more tame in mind.

Second, I am even now unsure if she was a real woman or something more than mere flesh and blood. Something divine. Something holy.

I met her on the bus home after working late one of those days when the rain is so cold it's constantly on the verge of turning into sleet, when it whips the parts of the world that still retains some color by a lash of gray.

The bus was one of those old, rumbling, rocking types that spend about one hour pulverizing your spine before depositing you next to a stop where a car, for those that could afford one, would have taken you in ten minutes. It was full of what I could only assume were other, sad, lonely, tired people who hated being cold and wet and were intent only on getting home and not have something exciting happen to them. As far as I knew, they got that wish fulfilled.

At first the bus was packed, and the man who squeezed me up against the window on the right side was so big that he might have occupied both seats and still overflow. After fifteen minutes, the old man right in front of me left, heaving a sigh of relief. So did I, because his hat had been wet and sloped back towards me.

After twenty minutes, someone asked the old lady who now had two seats to herself if they could sit down. The old lady might have slid in and ended up in front me, but she didn't. She stepped out into the aisle and let the other person in before she sat down again.

By this simple coincidence my life was changed forever. Which led me to conclude, later, that it was no coincidence at all.

***

She came into my world like a bright rose opening in a field of wet ashes.

One moment my mind was wandering, just enduring the torture of being squeezed into a mush by the behemoth next to me, the next it was focused on one thing, and one thing only. Her.

All the other women in the steaming, damp bus were wearing raincoats, thick sweaters, and sensitive boots. They might be sexy and beautiful, but right now it wasn't showing properly.

This one was different. She might have been doing everything in her power to fulfill my fantasy of the perfect woman. In fact, if you consider all that happened to me later, I am pretty sure she did do everything in her power. Except that she was a very powerful person, and that it doesn't take a lot of work to fulfill the fantasies of a sad and pathetic guy like me.

Say, when it comes to footwear, I am a sucker for high heels. Like most other guys. Classic black and shiny leather shoes. The kind you see men crawling in front of while kissing and licking, eyes closed in passion, the stiletto heel of the other digging into his back. I couldn't look at a woman wearing high heels without my head swimming.

This one was wearing four inch heels, the top of her sleek, black leather boots reaching almost to her knees.

Legs. Smooth, soft, perfect legs wrapped in silk stockings going on and on, drawing men's eyes, commanding them not to let go until she let them.

A flared, black skirt that danced and whipped around as she sat down. Sat down on a butt that had to be swaying and rocking and teasing as she moved through crowds of admirers and slaves.

A full upper body dressed in a tight, pink top barely visible under a chic dark coat. A body that just had to be hiding breasts that could get the blood flowing in a corpse, have him rise from the grave and come whimpering and begging to kneel before her and look up at them.

Look up to catch a whiff of her perfume. I had no idea what those guys wearing white coats over in some laboratory in France had been up to, but at some point one of them had cooked up something that was able to evaporate a man's brain in a matter of seconds just using exotic spices and rare roses.

I couldn't see her face either, but I knew her eyes were on fire and could burn up a man's soul.

She was wearing hoop earrings, thick, golden ones. I loved hoops. They made a woman look so sensual, so erotic, so teasing. Once I had walked straight into a sign in the street because I had turned my head to look at beauty striding down the sidewalk. She'd giggled at the sight of me cursing and clutching my temple in my shame, nudging her friend, whispering. Then she left, out of my life, even though I would have begged to be allowed do it all again, just to feel that amused look rest on me again.

How long did I spend noticing all this? One second? Two?

After that, it was all about her hair.

Her hair, her beautiful, sexy, reddish blonde hair. The hair that was set up in a high ponytail with a thick satin scrunchie. The hair that fell all the way down to her butt, thick and strong and shiny.

Would have fallen to her butt. Right now, it was collected in a glowing pool on her right shoulder, next to the glass of the bus window.

I've always loved women's hair. Worshiped it. Dreaming of kissing it, patting it, brushing it, letting it slide through my hands, again and again.

Her hair wasn't soaked, wasn't messed up, was just slightly damp on the top. I couldn't have looked away even if I were stabbed in the eyes with a pair of knitting needles.

As the bus bumbled its way through city streets full of intersections, roundabouts, cobblestones, sharp turns, and potholes filled with water, we all shook and jumped. The big man next to me constantly jabbed me with his elbow. The old lady in front looked like she was about to fall out at any time.

The only thing that happened to my Goddess was that her hair moved about on her shoulder. Moved about, and might eventually start feeling the pull of gravity. It would begin to slide slowly towards me, millimeter by millimeter, start to loop a little, then loop some more, then speed up and suddenly fall down the back of her seat.

Towards me. At me. Right into my lap.

Oh, but I wanted that. I wanted that so bad. It didn't matter that I was uncomfortable in my thick, wet jeans that felt as if they were trying to squeeze my thighs into knobbly sausages. I wanted it, needed it.

The bus bucked, the hair moved, the world disappeared, and all that was left was her and me. And the big guy next to me. I didn't dare turn my head towards him, but I was convinced that he had noticed the same thing as I had. I was convinced he wanted wished he could be me, or at best that the hair would stay up.

There was no way I could attempt to pretend not to notice the hair falling without brushing it aside like any decent person would. I was not a decent person, so I sort of just gazed out the window at absolutely nothing.

After a while we approached one of the major stops along the route, a dull concrete bus station built into a mall that tried too hard to appear cheerful and friendly. Based on experience this was where about half of the other passengers would leave. This was where there was a great chance of getting the double seat to myself. Which today would be more welcome than ever. If I hitched my bag up from between my legs and put it in the left seat, then anything that happened would happen in secrecy. And I wanted things to happen.

But what if... Dear Goddess, what if it were Her who left? What if she disappeared and I didn't get the chance to see her hair slipping and unfolding?

We approached the bus station. Went through one roundabout, two, three. The hair shifted. The loops started to appear. One lock fell down to hang tantalizingly about five inches above my lap. One more turn, and the bus came to a halt.

As it slowed down people got up. The old lady got up. The big man next to me got up. The Goddess?

The Goddess followed the motion of the bus, nodding her head forward when braking, then leaning it back again as it stopped.

The hair fell.

It formed into one single, golden, sleek, glossy ponytail and swung straight down into my crotch, whipping at it, gently, like a playful woman slapping her partner's cheek as a come-on.

It was all I could do not to moan and whimper. I managed to roll my eyes about me, though, and saw the look the big guy gave me as he walked away down the aisle. He hated me. He hated my luck. He wished he was me, wanted it so bad.

But he wasn't me.

I was alone in my seat, I had my bag as protection, I had a pool of gold covering my jeans, and I wondered what the hell I was going to do.

I knew what I wanted to do. I knew perfectly well what I ached to do. The thing in my pants that had woken up and now rose like a little mound among the coils of hair yelled at me to do it.

But I just go through with it. Not only was I afraid that some other passenger on the bus would suddenly stand up and catch what was going on, but it was also not a very nice thing to do. You didn't do things like that to strange women, or their hair. No matter how much you wanted to.

I couldn't keep my hands off her locks, though. It was impossible.

As the bus began moving again, heading into its first turn, a sharp right, I sort of reached up and grabbed the handle at the top of her seat. There was nothing wrong in that. That handle was there for me to hold onto. It was the reason it had been put there in the first place. By the guys who had assembled the bus, no less.

That put my hand two inches away from her hair. Two inches from paradise. I had no idea why I wanted to close that distance so bad as I did. After all, it was just a bunch of keratin tubes held together by a foot of cotton fabric.

My Goddess did not move. My Goddess did not look this way or that. She just stared straight ahead, refusing me even to see anything of her face but her smooth cheeks.

The bus was back on the street again, and I tried to make my hand close the distance as furtively as I could. The golden hoops swung back and forth in tune to the rocking, and the ponytail followed their rhythm. As it did, it brushed over my jeans, back and forth. I could feel it, feel how the thick hair caressed the denim and the sensitive head beneath. Could feel myself growing more excited, more needy, more oblivious to everything but the delicate torture she was subjecting me to. Or was I doing it to myself?

The bus stopped. People got off. It stopped again. More people got off. Soon it would be my stop, and I would have to get up and leave her.

I couldn't do that. That was impossible. I needed her. I needed her right now.

So horny, I was so damn horny. That horrible feeling that had chased me ever since puberty, that mocked and teased me day in and day out. That feeling that made me worship and obsess over women no matter if I wanted to, or if it was appropriate or not.

As long as I was so desperate as I was right now, I would never be able to leave the bus before she did. Just like any old stalking creep.

But what if I... Was it possible to have an orgasm right here and now? Like with all other men everywhere, an orgasm would break the magic spell. It would make me feel as foolish and embarrassed as all other men everywhere, but I would still be able to escape this situation. I would escape it with soiled, sticky pants, but I would still be able to get away.

My left hand slid along my thigh as I made sure no-one left in the bus was looking my way. Soon it reached the mighty tent that was constantly battered by the sunbeam that was her reddish golden ponytail. As gingerly as any hunter sneaking up on its prey, I placed two fingers around my denim-covered cock, down at the base. With another look around, with my nerves going crazy in case the Goddess should happen to turn around, I started to stroke up and down.

This was not the optimal environment for this kind of delicate precision work. I was wet, the pants were too tight where they shouldn't be tight, I could certainly not move my shoulder in that tell-tale 'yup, that's what he's doing' rhythm, and I was wrecked with self-loathing.

That didn't mean a thing. She was here, in front of me, so close as I had ever been to a woman while in this state. I could see the edges of the black skirt draped across her seat. I could see how her body rose and fell as she breathed. The perfume called Le Capture Du Hommes pervaded my brain cavity. Her cheeks were smooth and soft. The golden hoops glittered and accentuated her neck, her very kissable neck. And the ponytail, emerging from its thick, satin band, was brushing and brushing at my high-strung nerves as much as at my sensitive head.

She was so sexy! I needed her, wanted her, wanted to kiss and fondle and hold her. Wanted her to turn around and scold me for being such a nasty, dirty boy. Wanted her to slap my face in retaliation, wanted her to demand I get down on my knees and confess my sins, to put a collar on me and bring me along with her to her home where she would keep me locked up and force me to serve her in every way she wanted until I was punished enough.

And I would follow, follow the dangling hair, follow it everywhere because she was so beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!

Just as I reached the point of no return she moved her head slightly to the left so that the ponytail slid into my right hand.

It was smooth and silky , yielding and tender, as my fingers closed around it as gently as if handling a kitten.

I reached the point of no return, but found I was unable to come.

All men know and love that high, that special feeling you get when you reach the top of the hill, when all the agony and desire that has been growing and growing suddenly erupt and disappear as you plunge into ecstasy for those few, sacred seconds before it is all over and you go have a slice of pizza or something.

That didn't happen to me now. The agony remained, the desire was just as intense, the heat and the erection still turned up to eleven. I remained in my seat, tense and desperate, with one hand rubbing and rubbing against a cock that just refused to listen and ejaculate and the other caressing the golden ponytail.

The next stop, as far as I was able to tell, was mine.

I got frantic. There was no way I could let go of either my cock or her hair. There was no possibility of sitting back, taking a deep breath, pretending to be bored and tired, getting my stuff together, and prepare to leave.

The bus turned a corner and bumped along the parking lot where I usually rang the bell to get off and so spend another dull evening in my small apartment in the boring, old high-rise building. I couldn't bring myself to push the button. Both my hands were occupied. One was stroking and stroking like crazy, the other was cradling the black, silky satin fabric between the fingers before it slowly descended to touch her hair, making a tunnel of my hand. A tunnel so wide that I did not pull at the strands, yet so tight that I could feel them brush against my skin.

She had to notice by now. Surely, she had.

The bus passed my stop without slowing down. I had never been this far along the route before. As far as I knew, there was nothing but industrial estates and small, isolated pockets of suburbia in this part of town.

For about fifteen more minutes I sat there and creeped out both myself and any of the other passengers who might be watching me. Not that I was aware whether I had an audience or not, I wasn't watching anything but the back of her head and the dangling hoops.

My right hand reached the end of her hair and let it slip out between my fingers and fall against my bulge. It made me moan no matter how tight I clamped my jaws.

The bus stopped. And stopped again. I had no idea where I was, didn't even manage to look out the window by now.

After a few moments of indecision I reached up to the top of her head to cradle her hair in my fingers again. I couldn't stop myself. Why wasn't she noticing, reacting?

Once more I felt the touch of smooth, cool satin against my skin. Once more I let my fingers trail down until I reached the golden hair.

Then bus stopped. My Goddess rose.

To say I was surprised was to say that the guy caught surfing porn at work by his elderly, puritan female boss who was also his mother-in-law was inconvenienced. She had to turn around, she had to notice, she had to look at my feverish, embarrassed face and the tent in my pants that was probably more visible than the Eiffel Tower.

She did nothing of the sort.

She left. And I, I did something I had never thought I could ever do.

I got up and followed her. Not only that, but I was unable to let go of her hair.

This was the point at which I should really be wondering what the hell was going on.

I might have reacted to seeing a far too beautiful woman sit down in front of me on the bus on this far too miserable day, but hadn't. That might just be good luck. I might have wondered why I didn't orgasm, but I sometimes had problems with that when I was stressed. Just bad luck. But struggling to get to my feet and almost falling forward to make sure I did not lose my grip on her hair was just crazy. No-one did that. No-one who didn't have a criminal record for being above average nasty and lecherous did that.

Perhaps the reason I didn't react was that the wish to hang on to the ponytail came from inside me. That the hair simply was too beautiful to let go of. And the fact that she didn't seem to notice was just even more good luck. And so was the fact that the bus was all empty now.