Mastering Submission Ch. 06

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The AIDS tests we had taken made oral sex more fun, but we still used condoms for actual fucking. Master explained that condoms were more than a means of birth control, although he felt they were preferable to birth control pills, since he hated the idea of messing with the hormones of a fine woman.

Master explained that, because he is the master, condoms are fun. The fact that Master's explanation instantly made sense to me was yet another indication of the psychological and emotional commitment I already had made to my submissive service. The way Master explained it to me was this: A straight guy puts a condom on his own cock quickly and sneakily, trying not to destroy the romantic atmosphere or lose his erection. A master waits imperiously while his slave opens the packet, kisses his cock, rolls the condom over it and kisses it again, reserving the right to beat her if she's slow or clumsy. After the fucking is over, the straight man ties a knot in a used condom and flushes it down the toilet, or puts it in the rubbish, or throws it under a bush. A master relaxes while his slave takes the condom off his cock and hands it to him, and then she tilts her face back and waits while the Master empties the condom's contents onto her cheeks and nose or into her mouth. He then presents the empty condom to his slave to dispose of or to treasure forever. And she, of course, thanks him and kisses his feet.

Another service I performed for Master occurred when he watched football, something that happened pretty often. Master had not played football in years, but quite liked to watch a good game on TV. When Arsenal played badly, as they did that year, Master found it soothing to watch with his feet on the naked back of a beautiful woman. I did not like groveling at first, but after only a few sessions I understood that the safest place in the world is beneath the feet of a caring master, totally relaxed, totally fulfilled, all decisions taken away. Once I had that realization, when Master ordered me onto the floor, I flung myself at Master's feet eagerly, as if I were trying to become one with the carpet.

When Master lost interest in football, he would instruct me to lie flat on the floor on my back, my breasts warm and comforting beneath Master's feet, moving his toes up to stroke my face as I gently licked the soles of his feet, my only wish to become the perfect footstool. The ritual was calming for each of us, interrupted from time to time as Master finished a beer and sent me crawling to the kitchen for another one.

Licking the soles of a master's feet isn't easy. Slaves must lick masters' feet gently and deliberately, with flattened tongues, cleaning and worshiping, but never, ever ticking. Masters tickle slaves, especially when they are in tight bondage, but never allow things the other way round. And although Master pretended to ignore me as I figured all this out, he was attentive as I -- watching my reactions, feeding me first one toe then another, praising me, calling me a whore.

It was something I learned to love. They might have been nothing more than a pair of ordinary male feet, size nine-and-a-half, but at moments like these, they were everything I wanted out of life.

Humbly, passionately, I kissed each toe and licked between them. Master ground a heel against my face, squashing my nose, crushing my lips against my teeth, bruising them. Master used his left foot to push me towards the right one, which I then duly kissed and licked. Then Master used his right foot push me back to the left one. Master slapped my cheek lightly with the balls of each foot, and I smiled contentedly. Master shoved as much of one foot as he could into my mouth and used the other to block my nostrils. I giggled at first, then spluttered, then gagged and coughed. Master took his foot out of my mouth and wiped it on my hair.

Master taught me that, unless he was using foot licking as a way to wind down after some good solid fucking, it is always a prelude to sex. And all this humiliation was beginning to arouse me; I ground my hips slowly from side to side; my hands crept up my chest and my fingers toyed with my nipples. Master could have ordered me to stop, or made me stick my fingers up my cunt, or slipped the foot I was not licking between my legs, or told me to kiss my way up Master's legs to his cock. Master glanced up at the game: one goal down and twenty minutes to go.

Master muted the TV and concentrated on enjoying the moment, drinking in the changing expressions on my face as I kissed and licked, watching the shadows of his feet as they moved across the planes of my face.

"Get that cunt of yours round here where I can reach it," Master ordered, lifting his feet off my face. "I want to finger-fuck you."

I shuffled round obediently and spread my knees. Master slapped my rump, and said, "Slow," as he slipped his fingers into my cunt.

"Sorry, Master," I replied.

With his fingers in my cunt, Master began to expound. "Finger-fucking a slave is entirely different from caressing a straight woman. Slaves get no warm-up: no soft stroking of the inner thighs, no running the palm slowly across the belly, gently disturbing the pubic hair. You can give your slave a few hard slaps if it amuses you, but I prefer to dive straight in."

Suiting the action to his words, Master stuck his thumb on the tip of my clit and plunged two fingers deep into my vagina, pulled them out, shoved them in again and then started to open them up like a pair of scissors.

I was starting to respond, my fingers clawing at Master's expensive carpet. When I moaned aloud, Master ordered, "Quiet." Master broke the rhythm by shoving a third finger deep into my cunt.

Master's lecture continued, "Finger-fucking a slave isn't about giving her pleasure: it's about pushing the borders, giving her another challenge, reinforcing her position at the bottom of the heap, preparing her for abuse to come." Master did not have a whip handy, so he grabbed a hank of my hair and gave it a painful tug. It made me shift my hips, and Master took that opportunity to introduce a fourth finger, and I let out a squeal of protest: "Master, that hurts."

"Put up with it," Master growled. "By Christmas, I want to get my whole fist in there."

The idea was so exciting I came at once, my spasms squeezing Master's fingers together, massaging his hand. Seconds after my climax subsided, Master held up his dripping hand, and I quickly turned around, kneeling before him to clean my sexual juices off his fingers with my tongue and mouth. And, of course, once that cleaning was done, I used my mouth to thank Master for honouring me with his attention. Master's response was to order me to crawl off to get him another beer, but he issued the order with a smile.

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