Slave Zoe's Folsom Weekend

I must have fallen asleep on the way back to Master's apartment. My next memory is cuddling drowsily with him in bed. My arms were around him and I even had one leg thrown over his. I was half-awake and Master seemed fully asleep. It was warm and comfortable and loving and just nice. I enjoy being controlled, beaten, humiliated, even mocked and teased and treated unfairly, but it's also nice occasionally to just snuggle in bed and be loving. Master and I love each other, even if it's not obvious to people watching us.

I lay there for a long time, drowsing lightly. After a time, I realized what was wrong, why I wasn't falling sleep, and I knew what I needed to do. I gently disentangled myself from Master, then I shook him just as gently. "Whaaaaa...?" he muttered into his pillow. I shook him a little more and he opened his eyes. "What? What do you want? I'm sleepy!" he said. He sounded more confused than angry.

I did not dare speak, so I pointed. Master's gaze followed my finger. He stared for a moment and I could tell that he understood. "OK... " he said. "But do it yourself." He dropped his head back to the pillow and closed his eyes again. I was sure it was all I'd get out of him tonight without risking serious punishment.

I got up from bed and grabbed a bundle of zip ties from the dresser and some chains from the closet. I dropped to my knees and climbed into the cage where I'd been pointing. Once inside the cage, I zip-tied the door shut. Then I chained my ankles, neck, and wrists in place. Everything was well: I was with my Master and fully under his control. I suckled from the water bottle a little bit, then lay my head down and instantly fell into a sound, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 10: Folsom Morning

I woke to the sound of the cage door swinging open. The chains were removed from my ankles, then I was rolled onto my back and I felt my legs being spread apart. A pair of hands pressed down on my shoulders and an erect penis pressed against my crotch. I opened my eyes, bleary with sleep. Master stared back down at me. "No eye contact, slut," he muttered absently. He forced his dick inside me. It was a bit painful and I realized that I wasn't as lubricated as usual because I'd just woken up.

Master thrust into me again and again, both of us inside the cage. His legs stuck outside with his feet braced against the floor for leverage, and his back was close to the wire mesh top. With my hands and neck chained to the cage, I was unable to lift my head to kiss him or to wrap my hands around him. As he thrust, I could feel a need boiling up inside my crotch. "Master, may this... may this... may this slut cum?" I gasped out.

"Remember your mantra!" Master said.

" 'This slut is a fucktoy, and fucktoys don't cum,' Master. " I recited.

"That's right, slut. No!" he said. The last word was shouted, as he convulsed. I felt his dick pulse inside me as he came. He thrust a few more times and pulled his dick out of me. Then, a couple of times, he ran his hand over his dick to get the cum and cunt juice off it, then wiped his hand on my belly. After that, he crawled backward out of the cage and swung the door shut and closed both latches. He didn't bother to lock the door again. I was stuck anyway, due to the chains.

I fell back to sleep soon after that, with cum filling my cunt and drying on my belly, abandoned in the cage by my Master like a toy he no longer had any use for. A fantasy I didn't know I had was suddenly fulfilled.

When I woke again later, light poked into the bedroom around the margin of the blackout curtains. Master detached the chains from the cage this time, then he used the collar chain to guide me out of the cage. "Stand," he said, pulling up, and I did as I was told. He removed the chains from my wrists, then clipped my wrists together behind my back. He pushed me back down to the floor and used my collar chain as a leash to lead me into the kitchen and put me in a chair, arms behind my back.

"It's going to be a long, hot day at Folsom Street Fair today," he said, "and I need to keep you hydrated, so drink up." He brought me a large glass of water and tipped it up to my mouth, allowing me to drink. "We should get some food into you, too." He brought me a bagel and fed it to me slowly, tearing off a small piece at a time.

Food and drink was welcome, but I needed to use the bathroom more. I crossed my legs and gestured at my crotch to indicate that. "Haha, yes, I get it," said Master. "I know you like the feeling of my cum dripping slowly out of you." He can be so clueless sometimes. I sighed to myself a little bit, not letting it show. It would make for a long day if I let little things like that get to me.

After breakfast, Master brought me a top and a thong and pants and sandals and had me put them on, then we left the building on foot and walked a few blocks, where he ushered me through a door. The sign above the door said "Expensive Nails".

Inside, the salon was bustling. The room held a line of spa chairs, most of which were filled with women being attended to by nail technicians. Master walked over to a desk and spoke to the receptionist. "She's here for the 'special' treatment," he said. I could hear the scare quotes dripping from his voice.

The receptionist nodded and led us past the row of chairs to a door set in the back wall. We passed through it, down a short hallway, and through a side door into a much smaller room that contained one spa chair. Master had me remove all of my clothes and sit in the chair. We waited for a minute, then a nail technician entered the room. She did not look at me but instead turned to Master. "You want the full treatment?" she asked him.

"Yes, the full treatment," he answered. He sat down at a chair off to the side and watched me with an air of observing some exotic ritual. Master hasn't spent much time in spaces that are traditionally thought of as gendered for women and he seems to regard a lot of what he puts me through as a kind of research. I wondered whether he thought that this was actually a typical salon experience.

She did not ask any more questions but turned to a control panel and pushed a button. Before I knew what was happening, metal shackles encircled my wrists and ankles and my throat and then tightened, holding me in place. I realized that the chair was a real-life version of the fantasy restraint chairs that movie supervillains have for trapping the hero in place. The mechanism piqued my curiosity but I was unable to look closely at it with my neck fixed in place.

The technician still hadn't looked my way. Instead, she pushed another button. A mechanical whirr sounded and the legs of the chair slowly lifted while the arms folded outward and its back tilted backward. A few seconds later, I was laying almost flat on my back with my arms out. I must have looked a lot like the pictures you see of how prisoners are strapped down for a lethal injection. My body was slightly tilted so that my legs were somewhat above my head, which gave me a funny feeling like I was going to roll downhill.

The technician finally turned to me. She picked up a piece of cloth and, stepping over to me, bound it tightly around my nose and mouth. It didn't cover my eyes, so I could still see the next thing that she did, which was to pick up a water pitcher and pour its contents over my face. I closed my eyes and my mouth to avoid getting water splashed in them. Water filled my nose. I couldn't breathe. I was suddenly coughing and choking. I felt like I was drowning. I tried to use my hands to clear my nose but I was held down too well. The water kept coming. I was going to die! My stomach was unsettled and I could feel my gorge rise.

The cloth was removed. I sucked in air convulsively. I opened my eyes and blinked out water droplets. I panted for breath. It couldn't have lasted more than 30 seconds-the water pitcher was only so large-but I had felt like I was dying almost instantly.

"...and that's all it takes? Simpler than I'd imagined. You didn't blindfold her, I noticed." I was half drowned here and Master was getting tips on how to do it. It made me mad. I tensed up.

"Well," said the technician, "Usually we don't. It's just as effective either way. It's not really possible to resist. Waterboarding is a war crime for good reason. But you can blindfold her if you want. Here, it's your turn anyway," she said as she handed Master the cloth. He took it and tied it around my face again, this time covering my eyes as well as my nose and mouth. Off to the side, I heard the water pitcher being refilled in a sink. It sloshed a bit as the technician brought it back over.

"OK, so is there any technique to it?" asked Master.

"Not really. You just pour," said the technician.

"OK. Well, I'll wait a minute or so. She could use the suspense."

The technician was totally wrong about the blindfold. It was like the old joke about the "two gotchas" golf handicap. I was so scared. I held my breath at first, then I realized that this would make me drown even faster since I wouldn't start with my lungs full, so I took a gulp of air. I instinctively held my breath again even though I knew it wouldn't help. I was confused and light-headed and not thinking clearly. And then I let out everything in a long sigh.

That was when Master started pouring the water over my face. I think the asshole realized that I'd let out all my air. Immediately, I panicked, inhaled water, snorted and blew water out my nose. He poured slowly. I waved all my limbs as much as I could, which wasn't much. I lifted my neck against the strap, choking myself further. The water continued to come. I was dying.

The cloth was pulled away. I blew water out of my nose and hyperventilated through my mouth. I was seeing spots.

"I think that's enough of that for now," said Master. I could have kissed him.

"Are you sure?" said the technician. "Usually the full treatment includes at least three rounds."

"Nah," replied Master. "I understand the technique now. We can do it at home as much I want." This was a scary statement, but my sex tingled nonetheless. I hated my cunt at the moment. It wasn't listening to reason.

"OK," agreed the technician. She used the control panel to raise me back to a sitting position. Water ran down my face as I changed position, and I realized that my upper body was soaked as well from splashing. That was a change, usually it was just my cunt that was wet.

I didn't manage to pay attention very well over the next few minutes. I was still recovering from my ordeal. It was actually quite pleasant as the technician performed a manicure and a pedicure that included a massage. Master looked on and picked out a nail color for me (red, matching my collar). He asked his own questions from time to time about the techniques. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, in fact it was quite pedestrian, but Master didn't know. To him, maybe this was as exotic as waterboarding. I got the impression that he was going to write down a lot of notes afterward.

When the nail polish on my fingers was dry, the nail technician came back over to me and took my hand in her fingers. She drew a brush out of a small bottle and ran it across my fingertips, leaving a line of cool, clear liquid like nail polish, and then pressed my fingers to my palm. She held them there with moderate pressure for a few seconds, then took my thumb, dabbed a spot of the same liquid on its pad and pressed it to my forefinger for a few seconds.

As she repeated the process with my other hand, I absently moved the fingers of my first hand. Or I tried to, at least, but they would not budge. I realized that my fingers and thumb had been superglued in place. Until they were freed, I wouldn't be doing much on my own. Even turning doorknobs was going to be a challenge. This was new. Did Master think of it himself-I wouldn't put it past him-or was this a "standard" part of the "special service"? I tried to remember how one dissolves superglue. I hoped it was easy; I was flying home tonight and I couldn't go back to school without usable hands.

A few moments later, I was released from the chair. Master stood me up, toweled me off and brushed my hair, and then dressed me. I was unable to help. I certainly could not fasten the buttons on my top. Maybe I could have brushed my own hair if Master had stuck the handle into the tube formed by my fingers and my palm, but I wasn't sure there was room.

When I was dressed, Master took a carabiner and clipped it around both of my thumbs. It couldn't slip off since the tip of my thumb was glued to my index finger. Thrusting his arm through my hands to the elbow, he led me home.

Chapter 11: Lunch

At home, Master dressed me in a cute sailor top and a thong under bike shorts, and he had me put on my knee-high black leather books. He rubbed sunblock all over my boobs, which are the place I tend to get most sunburnt, and I rubbed sunblock on his face and shoulders and neck and the bald spot on the top of his head. Master put my play collar on me and locked it. Finally, he put on a backpack and we walked to the BART station.

I was nervous about wearing my play collar proudly proclaiming SLAVE ZOE in public. I needn't have worried. It's difficult to be the weirdest person on BART. We were clearly not the only ones heading to Folsom. Just on our car, there was a woman wearing a pair of very short shorts above legs that were black and blue all the way up with bruises, a man in a spiked shoulder harness, and a couple of people with roller bags who did not look like they were going to the airport. Not to mention the guy masturbating behind a newspaper in a corner (I didn't think he was going to Folsom, just part of the background noise of nastiness on BART). My collar didn't stand out.

We got off at the Civic Center station and joined the stream of perverts up the stairs at 8th and Market. Master took me by the wrist as we walked along 8th Street for a few minutes. We passed by Wicked Grounds and crossed the street to the Folsom Street Fair entrance. It was still before noon, so the line was short. Master paid $10 for a sticker for each of us, he got his bag checked ("Have fun with all the rope, sir."), and we walked on in.

San Francisco is usually cool verging on cold, but today it was already growing warm. Master had said that it was going to be a hot day. "Here, drink some water," he said, and tipped his water bottle to my mouth. He likes to feed me food and water anyway and I wouldn't be able to grip a bottle currently anyhow, except maybe between my two hands. I still hadn't had a chance to pee all day, and it hurt a little, but I knew that complaining would only draw punishment, so I drank. I wondered when he'd allow me to use a bathroom.

We walked around the street fair. The people watching was amazing. There were all kinds of costumes, from underwear (Andrew Christian seemed to be the unofficial sponsor of the fair) to leather pants and vests, from animal masks and muzzles to full human pony suits. Many people were walking around completely naked. Most of the naked people were men, many of them sporting cockrings, occasionally a chastity device, but there was also the occasional naked woman. I couldn't keep my eyes from following the latter through the crowd. I'm pansexual, and although I've never really been with a cis woman, I have so many fantasies.

We looked over the booths. We walked through several of them selling impact toys. Master eyed the high-end floggers at one booth. He eventually bought a quirt from The Frugal Domme, a steal at just $25. "We import them from Mexico," explained the cashier. "They're actually used by horsemen." Master tested it on my ass and I jumped and giggled. It was so sharp and stingy that it felt like it had drawn blood. When I looked, I could see marks clearly forming in the shapes of the double tails.

The sun was high in the sky. "Time for lunch," Master announced, and we walked through the growing crowd to a collection of food booths. We stood in line briefly and came away with a plate of linguine with meatballs and marinara sauce. We found a single unoccupied chair at a nearby table. Master sat in it and I knelt on the pavement next to him. He fed me the meatballs, bite by bite, none too neatly. Then he evidently grew bored because he held out the fork to me and said, "Go ahead, eat the rest."

I stared at the plastic fork. I couldn't hold it in the usual way with thumb and first two fingers. Uncertainly, I maneuvered my hand so the fork loosely stuck into the hollow cylinder formed by my fingers and palm.

Master tipped the plate toward me a little and held it in place. I stabbed at the linguine with the fork. As I raised my hand, the fork slipped out. I slipped my hand back over it and tried again, squeezing this time for a tighter grip. I brought the long strands of pasta up high over my head and back down to my mouth. I bit off and swallowed the ends and worked my way back up. Marinara sauce dripped onto my face. A stray piece of linguine fell in my hair. Master laughed and dropped it into my mouth with a kiss.

I went back for seconds. This time, I had it figured out. I squeezed as best I could as I lifted a large forkful from the plate above my head then back down to my mouth. It was almost to my lips when I lost my grip on the fork and it tumbled out of my grasp along with the sauce covered pasta. I fixed my gaze on as it fell, as if in slow motion. Some of it landed on top of my shirt, but most of it fell into my cleavage and slithered gloppily down inside my shirt. I felt guilty, like a dog caught eating off the counter.

Master stood. His eyes glinted. "OK, let's get that shirt off you," he said. I lifted my arms obediently and he pulled it over my head. The linguine had fallen to my waist leaving a trail of red sauce. Master pushed me backward, gently, and I lay back on the pavement. Then he took the plate containing the rest of the pasta and dumped it on my chest. Picking up an extra fork, he fed it to me, bite by bite, occasionally taking a bite for himself or just dragging bits of pasta sloppily over my body and face. I was a mess.

He stood again. "You know, 'linguine' comes from the Italian for 'tongue'. I think that's how we should clean you up." Turning to the small crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle, he raised his voice. "Who'd like to lick sauce off my slut? No, don't bother to raise your hands, just come over here and do it."

A bare-chested man in a leather shoulder harness stepped forward and grinned. He knelt down over me, his smile broad enough to split his face. He tentatively stuck out his tongue and licked the sauce around my belly button. It tickled. On my other side, a completely naked woman bent down, then got to one knee. She stuck out a finger and dipped it into a large spot of sauce below my breasts, brought the finger up to her mouth and sucked on it suggestively. She stared into my eyes as she did it, seeming to ask a question. I flicked my eyes at Master, who nodded to her.

The woman put a hand down on either side of me and leaned over me, still staring into my eyes. I looked down, remembering that I was not allowed eye contact. I watched her as she stuck out her tongue and licked the underside of my breast, then spiraled her tongue around the perimeter, moving toward my nipple. When she reached it, she sucked it into her mouth, and licked it in short flicking strokes while it was trapped in her mouth. It felt fantastic. A moment later, she bit down, hard. I writhed and giggled. And then she moved on to the other breast.

When she finished with my breasts, she shifted position so that her bent knees were astride my face. She crouched over my belly and, lick by lick, cleaned up everything left by the man who had been there before. I watched her do it, looking between her legs, my view masked slightly by the short tufts of pubic hair that poked from her mons.