The Longest Night of the Year

She looked out the tinted window at the East River as the limo sped into Manhattan. It was early, but already dark on this Solstice night. The falling snow was beautiful in the lights from the bridge, and while the roads were only wet now, she suspected it would start to accumulate soon, because the night was very cold. Absentmindedly, she toyed with the ring on the leather collar around her neck.

"Hands, slave," her Master said. She put her hands in her lap. "I'm sorry, Master, I know better than to touch your collar with my hands." He stroked her hair. "I know events like this make you nervous, but the holiday party is important, and most people are bringing their spouses." Or their slaves, she thought.

"Yes, Master," she said, her eyes down. "Are we going to be there long?"

"I don't think so," he said. "I need to make an appearance, but I've already told Leonard that we have a dinner reservation."

"Thank you, Master," she said. "At least we'll be gone before the serious drinking starts."

He heard the edge of trepidation in her voice. "Don't worry, pet. I'll keep you by my side as much as possible, and Amelia will be there. She can handle anything."

She raised her eyes to look at him. "Does she know?"

"No, love, of course not. All she knows is that I treasure you and want you treated very well." No one anywhere knew about her slavery, had ever seen the marks or restraints or other adornments frequently concealed under her clothing, had ever suspected how often her knees were sore, her ass burning, her jaw aching, her cunt leaking come. But a few close friends knew something was different about them: that they had a strong sexual energy, that she was much more relaxed and quiet around him, that she seemed to let him take the lead in ways she would not tolerate from others. They thought his treatment of her, and her response, was a sexy modern version of old-fashioned chivalry, when in fact it was an owner taking good care of his property. People noticed that she was sometimes quiet and thoughtful, not realizing that she was actually waiting for his permission to raise her eyes or speak.

Amelia, the COO of this startup, or the grownup in the room, didn't know them socially, but had heard him on the phone, giving her instructions about dinner or clothing. She had helped him arrange cars or pickups, relaying his instructions to drivers that they were not to let her off at the curb, but to drive down into their building's garage and leave her at the entrance to their private elevator, and wait until the doors closed. She'd seen the occasional shopping bag from boutique lingerie stores. So she hadn't been surprised by his request to keep an eye on his wife and guide her around. It surprised Amelia that such a powerful woman would need that, but perhaps she held herself back at these functions because it was not her company, not her business relationships. Perhaps this was how two powerful people navigated their separate spheres of control.

In actuality, the slave had no sphere of control at all. Whatever she was doing or wherever she was, first and foremost she was his property. She was not holding herself back in these situations, but rather, was granted permission to behave aggressively in other contexts. Her owner appreciated that side of her, encouraged and supported her success, enjoyed knowing that the woman on stage in front of a conference would later be on her knees in front of him. Tonight, and every night, she would be following orders and obeying her owner's rules.

"May I drink, Master?" she asked. He stroked her hair and ran his fingers over her lips; her mouth opened. "Not on your own. I'll get you a cocktail when we arrive, but if you get a drink on your own, it's sparkling water only. If you want anything else, you come and ask me."

"Yes, Master," she said, around the fingers that were now pushing into her mouth. Her owner's fingers plunged deeper and pulled her mouth wide open. He held her like that for a moment, then used his handkerchief to catch her saliva before it dripped onto her blouse, and released her.

"Remember your hydration rules," he said, drying his fingers on his handkerchief instead of her face or hair. "This will be a long night. If you're with Amelia, you don't need to ask permission to use the bathroom, but you can't go alone."

The car left the highway and stopped at a light. He released her seat belt and positioned a cushion on the floor of the car. She knelt onto it, moving carefully, lifting her skirt so it did not drag on the floor. His hand on her shoulder instructed her to turn around. She knew what this meant, and leaned forward to rest her head on the seat facing them, lifting her skirt above her waist and clasping her hands behind her head. His foot on the inside of her knees told her to spread her legs wider.

The driver kept at or below the speed limit, avoiding bumps as if he were carrying fine china, as he'd been instructed. He owner didn't touch her, just admired the sight of her exposed ass and cunt, her long legs, the boots locked onto her feet. The plug in her ass glinted in the streetlights, the chain hanging from it caressed her wet lips, and hanging from it, a small Christmas ornament between her legs swayed gently with the moving of the car.

II

With her head down and her skirt raised, she felt his eyes on her. She was used to being exposed like this, but had never before had a holiday decoration hanging between her legs. Its presence, its significance, and its motion all aroused her, and she felt her wetness starting to run down the inside of her thighs.

Earlier that evening, before she'd gotten dressed, he'd bent her over the bed and fucked her ass thoroughly. After he came, he withdrew his cock and swiftly replaced it with a steel plug, the one that had a little ring in it. Then he told her to lie back on the bed facing him. He raised and spread her legs. "Hold your ankles. Pull them as far open, and as far back, as you can." She did so. "Lift your hips more," he said, and she did so, fully exposing the plug.

She felt him remove the pendant — his monogram — that usually hung from her pierced clit hood. She heard him reach into the bedside drawer, then felt him attach something else to the ring in her piercing. A slender chain draw snug against her cunt lips as he attached the other end to the ring in the plug. He put his finger underneath it, pulled gently, and seemed satisfied.

"Stay there," he said. He went to the dresser, then returned and leaned over her, holding a small box, from which he removed what looked like a miniature old-fashioned Christmas ornament, like the ones that fell off the tree that the Grinch stole. It was a silver ball with a ring in the top. He dangled it above her face. "Feel it, gently," he said. She released one ankle, keeping the leg up as much as she could, and placed her fingers around it. It wasn't metal or glass, but seemed like it might be soft. It hardly weighed anything. Attached to the top, where an ornament would have the wire hook to hang from the tree, was a short chain to which was attached a largish jewelry clasp.

He moved back between her legs and she grabbed her ankle again, spreading wide. He lifted the chain from her cunt lips, squeezed the clasp ring open, and closed it around the chain. She felt every small tug on her clit ring as he worked.

He stood back, and the ball fell against her cunt. "It's made of a fairly thin plastic that will crumple and crease if it's squeezed," he said. "You must ensure that it is as smooth and undamaged at the end of the evening as it is now." He lifted it gently with his fingers. "Let your legs go, and sit up slowly." She did so, keeping them spread, while he held the ball. He released it to rest on the bed between her thighs. "I was making sure that it didn't get caught under your legs as you moved, but that will be your job, and you may not touch it with your hands except when using the bathroom."

"Yes, Master," she said. The ball was small, but as high as it was between her thighs, it would be an effort to keep her legs open enough not to squeeze it. He gave her his hand. "Stand up, and look at yourself."

She saw herself in the full-length mirror, naked except for her collar, and this new adornment. It hung between her thighs, swinging gently. She was decorated. Her owner had decorated his property for the holiday.

The clasp had enough play to move forward and back on the chain, so it hung from its lowest point, near the opening of her cunt, touching her open thighs on each side. If she leaned forward, she could close her legs tightly and keep it in front of them, rather than between them, but she knew better than to close her legs like that in front of her Master.

"May I touch it, please?" she asked softly.

"Yes, pet," he said. "Gently." It was very light, and she already felt her juices on it where it had rested against her shaven cunt lips when she'd been on her back. She lifted it, and the clasp brushed her lips as it moved, then again when she let go. The motion of the chain, the gentle tugs on her piercing, and the feel of the motion communicated through the plug in her ass, all served to arouse her intensely, as did this new experience of being used — being ornamented, like a tree or a mailbox.

"Get dressed, pet. The rest of your clothes are on the bed." A soft dark green blouse, thin and delicate like silk, but synthetic. Underneath it, a black lace bra, presumably for modesty in front of his colleagues at the party. A green slip, similar in color and material to the blouse, that would fall above her knee, and a longer skirt, black, with a lining, full enough to swing around her legs. The slip and the lining meant there would be no underwear; underneath were just a pair of wine-red stockings and a black garter belt.

Alongside them was a silver bracelet in a simple pattern, thicker and heavier than most. She placed it around her wrist, and held her hand out for her Master to tighten the Torx screw that closed it. With the matching watch band on her left wrist, they were cuffs that could be worn in public, both strong enough to serve as restraints, each loose enough to attach a ring or a clip. He took a blazer from the closet, similar in color to her stockings, and placed it on the bed.

When she was dressed, she walked carefully to the entry hall, stepping oddly, almost as if she were walking on railroad tracks, keeping her legs open for the ball. She tried walking faster, and found that if she kept a rhythm, the ornament would bounce out of the way of her legs with each step, but it wasn't easy, so she slowed down again.

At the bench where they kept the shoes, she knelt. Ordinarily she just sank to her knees, but she realized that if she did that, she would have to close her legs. Instead, she squatted, spreading her legs, then rocked carefully forward onto her knees, holding her skirt out of the way. The ball bounced around as she moved, and the chain pulled tighter as she sank down, evoking a whimper.

On her knees, hands clasped behind her back and eyes down, she waited until her owner joined her. He held a pair of calf-high leather boots with leather straps on the boots that also served as attachment points for ankle restraints, or for the spreader bar that she saw leaning in the corner next to the umbrella.

He stood in front of her. "Master, may I suggest the new black shoes?" she asked. "Yes," he said. She fetched them and put them onto his feet with the shoehorn. A tug on her collar told her to get up, so she stood up carefully, extending one leg, then the other, keeping them spread, then turned and sat on the bench. She pulled on the snug-fitting boots and zipped them up, then extended each one for her Master to tighten the straps above her ankle and secure them with more Torx screws.

Another tug on her collar and she stood up. Her Master wrapped a scarf around her neck, put on her coat, and draped a cashmere shawl over her shoulders. She looked elegantly dressed, but while the styles were different, she was locked into the exact same set of restraints she usually wore at home — collar, wrist cuffs, ankle restraints.

He held her arm. "Don't rush," he said. "If you need to stop, let me know." She stepped carefully into the elevator, grateful for his support. He picked up the umbrella and the spreader bar, holding them together so the bar was concealed amongst the umbrella's folds, and they descended.

The elevator stopped at the lobby, so the car must be outside on the street. He meant to parade her through the lobby like this. Slowly, she walked with him, her eyes down, concentrating on the ball between her legs. Her owner led his slave through the lobby, nodded to the doorman, and held the door for her.

The car wasn't there yet. It was bitterly cold, and the wind had picked up. It was starting to snow, so she pulled her shawl up over her head and held it closed. The wind flapped her skirt, and chilled her exposed cunt. She felt the ball sway slightly in the draft and crystals of snow blowing against her legs.

Her owner helped her down the curb when the car arrived. The driver did not get out, so he opened the door, and she paused, realizing that getting into the car as she usually did would crush the ball. It was a wide suicide door, though, so she turned around and sat down backwards on the car seat, her legs still open, facing her owner. She lifted her right leg high enough to clear the doorsill, and swung it into the car, spreading her legs so wide her skirt rode up. Were her owner not standing there, she would be exposing her naked cunt to passersby on the sidewalk. Once that leg was in, she turned herself and brought her other leg in. He closed her door and she sat back, realizing how much work this was going to be.

She lifted her coat and her skirt out from under herself, seating her bare ass directly on the cloth already placed for her on the seat. She removed and folded her shawl, and laid her hands open at her sides. Her owner got in on the other side, and closed his door. She leaned forward for him to remove her coat, then sat back as he buckled and tightened her seat belt. He folded her coat and placed it on the facing seat, then raised the hem of her skirt and reached between her legs to examine the ball. "Good girl," he said.

He left her exposed, buckled his own belt, and clicked the intercom button to tell the driver to get going. The warm air from the heater wafted faintly against her naked cunt and the ornament between her legs bounced with the motion of the car. She shivered, perhaps with the chill, perhaps with arousal, perhaps with anticipation.

III

When the car stopped in front of the club, she remained still, face down. With the towel that had been on the seat he wiped her juices where they had run down the insides of her thighs, then lifted the ornament and pressed the cloth against her cunt, blotting her wetness but affording her no stimulation. He pulled down and smoothed her skirt and slip and lifted her head by the ring on her collar, turning her around.

She knelt facing him, and bowed her head into his crotch as he unbuckled the leather collar. From his pocket he took her necklace, which was actually a subtle collar — a heavy chain that held a letter R in the hollow of her throat. Most people thought it was her initial, but it was a capital letter — his initial, not hers. Their first names both began with an R, so she could openly wear this statement of his ownership.He fastened it and tightened the screw that held it closed. Lots of people in the tech field had pocketknives with Torx screwdrivers, she thought, but probably for use on their devices rather than their slaves.

He held her coat open beside him, and she put her arms back, lifting herself into the coat and seating herself as she backed into it. At the last moment she realized she was about to sit on the ornament, and tilted over onto his lap. He grabbed her to prevent her from falling over as she lifted her left leg so as not to crush it. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's OK." He reached between her legs to check it, then helped her sit back up. "Good girl."

She remained seated, eyes down and hands at her sides, as he exited his side of the car. When he opened her door, she again spread her legs wide, careful not to squeeze the decoration between her legs. The wind blew directly up her skirt onto her damp cunt until she got to her feet and he closed her coat around her.

He took her arm and led her to the door. She kept her eyes down and hands clasped as he gave his name to the host, then led her into the club. "Amelia!" he said, and a tall woman turned from a conversation with one of the staff. "You remember r——," he said.

The mention of her name was a signal to his slave that she was allowed to raise her eyes and speak. She did so, smiling and extending her hand. Amelia took it and kissed her cheek. "Lovely to see you both," she said. "The coat room is just behind you. There's a buffet in the back of the room and Leonard's floating around here somewhere."

"Thanks," he smiled, and took his slave by the hand. He briefly grasped her wrist, encircling it with his fingers, a signal to lower her eyes again and remain silent. He led her to the coat check, removed her coat and shawl and handed them to the clerk, followed by his own topcoat. Both tickets went into his pocket. She stood quietly behind him. "Would you like a drink?" he asked. "Yes, sir, please," she answered quietly, without raising her eyes. With an arm around her waist he guided her to the bar.

She stood quietly as he got the bartender's attention. A youngish man leaving the bar with his drink almost ran into her. "Excuse me, I'm so sorry," he exclaimed. She smiled, but did not raise her eyes or speak. "I'm Alan," he said. "Can I buy you a drink, instead of trying to throw one on you?"

It was actually a pretty good line, considering, but she was not allowed to engage in that or any other conversation. She didn't look at him, just kept her eyes down and did not respond. "Okaaaay," he said. "Whatever." He walked away, muttering "Bitch" under his breath, audibly.

She did raise her eyes then, to make sure the boor left, and to look for her owner, who was returning with the drinks. He held hers out to her, a signal that she could raise her eyes to him, use her hands, and eat or drink. She took it. "Thank you," she said quietly, omitting the honorific because of the people nearby, but he knew it was implied.

"Do you know someone here named 'Alan'?" she asked

"I don't think so," he said. "Why?"

"He was pretty rude to me just now," she said. "He tried to pick me up and then got annoyed when I didn't respond."

"Can you point him out?" her owner asked.

She looked around, but he was gone. "I don't see him." He rubbed her back proprietarily. "Let me know if he comes back."

Amelia approached again. "Leonard's over there with that new investor — can you join him?" Turning to the slave, she asked, "How are you doing? Will you come get something from the buffet with me?" Her owner gave a small nod, so she said, "I'd love to!"

They walked towards the back of the room, Amelia slowing down to match her careful steps. "New boots?" she asked. The slave laughed. "Very new." The decoration between her legs was new indeed, and she focused on it as they crossed the room.

They chatted for a little while, Amelia asking about the slave's design firm, what business was like, the challenges of a woman at executive levels in this world. Amelia never ceased to be surprised at the contrasts: On the one hand, r—- spoke confidently about managing primadonna staff, while on the other, she wouldn't go to the bathroom alone.

Another one of the staff rushed up to Amelia. The slave had met him several times but didn't remember his name; she was relieved when he ignored her and asked Amelia urgently to join the group with the potential new investor. "I'm sorry, I have to do this," she said to the slave. "Will you be all right on your own?"