Slave

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, amazed that she could speak at all when there was no breath in her lungs. She hated her own weakness as tears slid down both cheeks, one slithering into the corner of her mouth, giving her a taste of her own fear.

He put the thing back on the desk, out of her reach but well within his own.

"Remember," he said.

Lauren nodded quickly. Remember....he was in charge; she was to obey. So simple, and so impossible, all at once.

"Yes," she murmured, glancing at the object on the desk. "I'm sorry."

His hands slid down to hold her face in his palms and he turned her face up to his. "Don't fear," he told her firmly; positively. "Learn."

Her hand tightened on the base of his stiff shaft; he moaned, closing his eyes for a moment before looking down at her again, hands moving back to her hair.

Learn.

Learn to submit...to be owned...to obey. TOUCH. Yes, Lauren thought as she slid her encircling hand up. She would learn. Learn the feel of silk-over-steel of his cock against her palm. The spiced, masculine scent of his body, the heat of him. The pleasure of them. Lauren stroked one hand up his cock. Then down. Up. Down. Slowly, patiently, learning that he moaned every time she squeezed the base; each time her hand passed silkily over the head. She learned that he preferred gentle pressure in some places, firmer in others, marveling at the fact that one hand could give so much pleasure, and so much instruction. She learned, too, that every little moan he made, every murmur of approval, every change in his breathing, made her cunt begin to moisten and swell, making her squirm a little as she knelt on the floor at his feet.

She knew his cock; the hard planes of his thighs, the full, sensitive sacs that fit so perfectly in her palms. She knew the skin of his belly, the rough rasp of his fingers on her scalp; the pleasure of giving him pleasure. And she knew, when he whispered, "Your mouth..." on a gasping sigh, that she would give more. Bending her head, she rubbed her temple against the inside of his right thigh, feeling like the kitten again (which was ridiculous for someone like her, she thought....or it would be, in the real world). The feel of his hot skin being caressed by her soft hair made them both moan. She kissed the insides of his thighs, following kisses with tiny licks with the flattened tip of her tongue and following that with tiny, tiny nibbles, dragging her teeth along the surface of his skin, letting him feel her breath.

Lauren ceased to know herself. The demand he made, that she serve, had changed her into something she had never been...and something she had always been, without knowing.

She found the creases of his thighs with the tip of her tongue, sliding up and back along one then the other, all the while, continually stroking his cock with her hand. She found the slight give of soft skin between his balls, pressed her tongue there and drew it upward until she felt the root of his cock pressing the skin, then released him on a moan, only to slide her tongue, flat, hot, kitten-rough and wet, over his balls--one, then the other, then back again. She slipped one into her mouth, cupping her tongue beneath it, cradling it in heat and moisture, sucking delicately, then honored the other with the same.

"No.....no more," he rasped finally, as she allowed one heavy sac to slide from her tongue. His hand came down to covers her as she stroked him.

Lauren watched their hands together, stroking, before he told her to release him and move to the sofa. Frowning, she rose to her feet, seeing the way he raised his brows at her, waiting for her obedience. She slid down to lie lengthwise on the sofa as he ordered, one leg thrown up against the back, the opposite foot on the floor.

"Now," he demanded. "Touch yourself."

She rolled her head on the sofa cushion to stare at him, horrified. To do this seemed...almost extreme compared to touching him; certainly it meant exposing herself even more to him; letting him watch her masturbate. It was opening far more of herself to him than just her cunt.

"Cum for me," he whispered, leaning back, his ass against the edge of her desk. He continued stroking his cock and the sight was nearly enough to make her cum without stimulation. It was something she had asked her husband for...something he was uncomfortable with. Something done for HER pleasure...

She kept her face turned toward him, watching. Her left hand slid up to her breast, plucking delicately at the nipple; her right glided down against her inner thigh. Even the fact that she knew, in the back of her mind, that she must look horrid did not lessen her desire to give him anything he wanted. Or the excitement of watching him pleasure himself while watching her.

Her fingers slipped in her cunt. The melted-pearl liquid heat of her most feminine place shocked her at first, then made her moan as she circled her clit with one finger.

"Yes," he murmured to her. "That's right. Take pleasure. And while you do, you know that you are giving it as well."

The words made her hotter; wetter, if that were possible.

"Forget everything else. Think of this. Of your body, of what you need. What you want. Take it, Sweet. Take and drink until you're sated."

She moaned. The timbre of his voice made her shiver with erotic heat; his words made her feel as if she were blossoming, a bud waiting to explode into flower.

"Do you know what it does to me, to have you like this?" he whispered. "To have you under my control...to have you giving to me alone?"

The harsh, masculine moan he made when she whimpered, writhing in pleasure, on the couch, was proof enough. She felt every nerve in her body snap and sizzle with electricity.

"You're so beautiful," he rasped.

She exploded. Back arching hard off the sofa, the words pushed her into the bright abyss where blood imploded and her ears rang and body pulsed, writhing uncontrollably in orgasm. She lay there, spasming, gasping for breaths, as her pleasure rose, broke and ebbed away, and her fingers slowed and her cunt wept; she felt the hot slide of a thick drop of fluid down the channel between her ass cheeks.

He did not speak again. Instead, he walked toward her, putting one knee on the sofa between her thighs, his hands taking her own and holding them above her head. When he left them there, Lauren did not draw them back again. Instead, she looked into his face, her chest still heaving for breath.

She watched his eyes as they raked down her body, felt his hands as they followed suit, touching her hair, her face, her throat and shoulders. When he cupped her breasts, Lauren's back arched as if she'd cum once again, and she bit her lower lip, whimpering. He held her breasts, his thumbs between them, then slide his right down her belly. Lauren closed her eyes, horrified and ashamed of her body. He murmured some soft sound that soothed her soul, and slid one finger down along her wet, swollen cunt lips.

"Mine," he whispered, so softly she almost didn't hear him. Then he bent down, sliding his hands from her breasts to her back, pressing her shoulder blades up toward him; taking one contracted nipple into his mouth.

Lauren bit back a scream.

He laved her nipples in the hot wet adoration of his mouth; she felt beautiful simply from the focus of his passion. He pressed down on her, his cock sliding hot and hard through her soft, wet folds; he moved his hips to bring the head to her opening, pressing against her gently, not demanding entrance, but instead teasing at the idea of it, making her squirm beneath him. His mouth continued at her breasts, gently nibbling, licking, sucking, making her feel as if she were the universe and he her child, taking of her body to live.

She felt alive.

She felt like a woman. Again, after so long.

He pressed the head of his cock into her, holding himself in check with just that swollen, thick part of him inside her, and she bucked, wanting more. He denied her, putting his mouth to her ear.

"Mine," he whispered, and then he was inside her, fully, slamming himself into her in one fast, fluid motion, her passage so wet that she gave no resistance, except to stretch to accommodate his size.

"Mine," he rasped again, withdrawing and plunging again, making her cry out at the pleasure. He took her, beautifully, deeply. Quickly. "Say it," he whispered. "Tell me."

"Yours," she breathed, neck arching, wrapping her arms around him. "I'm yours."

He buried his face in her throat, pressing hard into her yielding body, and came, pouring himself into her in hot, possessive streams. He trembled atop her, groaned into her skin, and gave of himself, to her.

They lay sated on the sofa, his body atop hers, for long, long silent minutes while dusty snow began powdering the windows beyond their shuttered eyes. Silent while breathing slowed and bodies cooled and passion ebbed into peace.

And then he rose above her, his face just above hers, and he kissed her mouth.

"Come," he said, taking her hand and bringing her up and toward the desk. Once there, he turned and smiled at her. Kissed her again, and gave his last order of the evening.

"Kneel."

She slid down, taking the place he'd created for her. He reached for the silver object on the desk; held it in front of her face with both hands.

The necklace was silver, one thin, bladelike piece curving in a graceful arc suspended between delicate chains on either side.

"I take you," he murmured, his voice serious and full of pride. "I take you as slave, servant, submissive...as all that you offer. And I give myself to you. As Master, protector, lover. And if you accept it, I give you my collar, claiming you."

He held the beloved piece at her throat, waiting. Her eyes filled with tears.

"I take you," she whispered back. "I take you as Master, protector, lover...all that you have to offer. And I give myself to you, as slave, submissive, servant...anything that you require. I accept your collar with pride. I will wear it in devotion."

He smiled down at her; she sighed up at him, face filled with pleasure.

He placed the silver on her neck; she lifted her hair away to allow him to fasten it at her nape. It lay against her skin, cold at first; warming to her body. He took her face into her hands and bent down to her, kissing her passionately.

"Now come," he insisted, taking her hands to pull her up to stand. He took the old quilt from the back of the sofa, wrapping it about her shoulders, cocooning her in warmth. Stepping to the chair, he slipped on his trousers, then took her hand again. He drew her to sit with him on the sofa, tucking her against his side, kissing the top of her head.

"You did well," he murmured, pride obvious in his voice.

"I was so afraid you wouldn't offer it," Lauren replied, touching the collar where it now lay, warm, on her throat. She sighed deeply.

"I was afraid you wouldn't accept it," he countered.

Surprised, she turned to look into his face.

"Truly, Master?" she whispered, awed that he had sought her out, wanted her, claimed her.

He smiled. "Truly, my Sweet," he whispered back, and kissed her.

And somehow, suddenly, she knew.

She really was beautiful.