0 comments/ 68765 views/ 7 favorites Maid For Dessert Ch. 01 By: g1ory It is Friday morning and Sir leaves me with a lingering kiss as he walks out the door to go to work for the day. Immediately I go into the kitchen and check the special bulletin board he maintains there just for me. My heart skips a beat as I spy the familiar yellow post it note he's left me. It reads, "Check The Box". Heart beginning to race, I run upstairs to our bedroom. As always when I am told to "Check The Box", the first thing I do is retrieve my training collar from its place in my night table. Buckling it almost reverently about my throat, I cannot help but pause for a quick glance in the dresser mirror on my way to collect the Box key from Sir's underwear drawer, where he keeps it. I am forbidden to even think of opening the Box or touching the key unless specifically instructed to by Sir. Holding my breath, I kneel by the Box, insert the key and slowly lift the lid. On the upper tray of the Box is a sealed envelope addressed simply to "slave". The only other item visible on the tray is a very large, bulging manilla envelope. I know that the tray hides all Sir's instruments and toys from my view beneath it, and tempted as I am to have a peek to see if he has added any new 'pleasure tools' to his collection, I resist the urge, for I know Sir will ask me if I looked beneath the tray when he arrives home and I will be severely punished if I have disobeyed him. Of course, I could always lie - but I would never lie to Sir. Trembling inside, I reach for the smaller envelope addressed to me. Inside is a terse, yet detailed letter: "Slave, After you have secured the Box and replaced the key where it belongs, you are to take the manilla envelope, unopened, with you into the bathroom. There you will strip and get into the shower. I wish you to wash your hair and your body thoroughly. Pay very special attention to your pussy. In fact, you are to soap yourself so well that you can easily glide your middle finger around and across your clit. I want you to play with yourself, slave. Frig yourself to the point of coming - but do not come!! I will not be pleased with you and you will be punished severely if you come! Once you are panting and moaning in the effort not to orgasm, take your finger away from yourself and rinse off. Now, shave. I want you soft as silk for me - your lower legs, your thighs, your underarms and especially your pussy lips, which should be nicely puffed from your play. Rinse again and step out of the shower. Dry yourself using a rough towel. Give particular notice to your breasts. Rub your nipples hard! I want you to rub them until they hurt. Make them stand erect for me, slave. Remain naked while you do your hair and your make-up. I wish your hair put up in a loose bun. Your make-up should be subtle but obvious. When your hair and make-up are done, then you may open the manilla envelope. You will wear what is inside it. You will find further instructions within this second envelope. Now - go take your shower, slave! Sir." Swallowing hard, I lock up the Box, return the key to its rightful place and, taking the manilla envelope, I go into the bathroom. I take my time with my shower, scrubbing my scalp leisurely and my body vigourously enough to raise a pink overall blush. Then I soap my pussy for a second time, but don't rinse right away. Instead, I use my middle finger to ensure that my clitoris is well-lubricated with suds. My finger swirls, dipping and gliding, sliding and slipping. 'Round and 'round it curls, flicking at the tender nub until I feel it protruding from my puffy flesh in a hard little kernel of sensation. It takes only moments before my hips catch my finger's rhythm and thrust in hopeless misery as my throat arches back and I moan. My knees grow weak and I can feel the flush rising in my breasts as I manipulate myself closer and closer to the edge. So close! I am so close - just a tiny bit more - just one more lingering sweep - one more flickering twiddle - and I shudder with the effort it takes to yank my hand from between my legs! Moaning pitifully, I force myself to spread my trembling thighs wide apart, so I won't be tempted to rub my throbbing clit between them. At last the throbbing fades to a dull, aching pulse as I lean against the shower wall. The water beats down while steam rises in a shroud-like fog. Drawing a shaky breath, I ignore the engorgement that pulses still in my nether lips and reach for the can of shaving cream. Lathering my underarms, I carefully shave what little hair is there. So slowly I shave my lower legs and then my thighs, in the hope that some of the pulsing in my pussy will fade by the time I glide the razor over my swollen lips. Despite the time I've taken, it is still a struggle to resist the urge to come as I slide the razor with meticulous care over my sensitised skin. I stop several times in the process, to catch my breath and to allow my pussy lips to stop twitching their strong desire. At last, with relief at having passed Sir's test, I turn the shower off and step from the tub, knowing that my skin, including my pulsing vulva, is smooth and soft as wet satin. Enfolding myself in a big, rough towel, I pat delicately at my body - a body tenderised by my prolonged time under the hot water and by the attention from scrub brush, fingers and razor. I dry my nipples last, abrading them with a rapid back and forth motion that turns them a deep rose-red and makes them burn. It isn't long before they are standing at attention as Sir demanded they do. Sighing, I keep my legs apart, so as not to inadvertently rub my aching clit with my thighs as I towel dry my hair and try not to think too much of how sensitive the rough terry has made my poor nipples. I take care with my hair and make-up and it takes me some time to finish the job to my satisfaction. I want so much to look good for Sir, to please him. Finally, I slit open the manilla envelope and dump its contents on the bathroom counter. Along with another small sealed envelope - Sir's further instructions, I've no doubt - there is a tiny scrap of white material, which I discover on examination, is a frilly apron made just big enough to cover my pubic area; a pair of sheer silk stockings, which I can see will attach to the garters cleverly worked into the apron's strings in the front and back; a tiny little flattish white cap and a long black ostrich feather. I bite at my lower lip and dress in the 'uniform' that Sir has provided me. As I suspected, the frilled apron, once on, reaches just to the V of my thighs and barely conceals my pussy; the stockings fit perfectly and come to just above my mid-thigh, so that the white garters provide a nice frame for my creamier-coloured skin. The little cap I perch at a jaunty angle just in front of my loose bun. Only then do I open Sir's second set of instructions, which read: "Gooooooood slave! I trust you have thus far followed my instructions to the letter and are now freshly showered, shaved, made up and dressed in your skimpy little maid's uniform. If you've tied the apron strings in a bow behind your back, release the bow and tie them in a knot, so that the strings hang down and tickle the crack of your sweet ass. Yes, that's much better, isn't it? I wish you to complete your outfit for me with a pair of sexy, high-heeled black shoes. You've much to do today, slave. I expect the following to have been done when I arrive home from work: * The bedroom will have been dusted and the furniture polished until it gleams. * The livingroom will have been dusted and the furniture polished until it gleams. * The diningroom will have been dusted and the furniture polished until it gleams. * The diningroom table will have been set with a tablecloth, cutlery for one, one dinner plate, one wine-glass and one napkin. * You will have cooked a delicious meal (see the recipe included with these instructions) and it will be ready to be served upon my arrival home. * You will be waiting at the front door, on your knees, thighs spread to display a peek of slave-pussy beneath your apron to me as I walk in the front door. Your right hand will be resting on your right thigh and will be holding a small glass of brandy ready to offer me. Your left hand will be resting on your left thigh and will be holding your feather duster. * You will, of course, be spotlessly clean from your labours when I arrive home. I will phone to check on your progress at one or more points throughout the day. I expect you will not disappoint me, slave. Sir." My breath catches in my throat as I finish reading his instructions and pick up the feather duster in a trembling hand. So much to do - and so little time! I run to the bedroom, ignoring my shimmying breasts as much as possible, and find the sexiest, highest pair of black high heels that I own. Slipping them onto my feet, I know that they lift my ass into prominence between the framing apron strings and garters and that my cheeks curve enticingly plump as a result. I feel myself redden as I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror in the corner. I look the part of a very improper french maid! I spend my time in the bedroom making our bed with fresh sheets, tidying up any stray clothing that had been left to lie around and dusting the furniture. I find the can of spray wax in the linen closet and two soft rags and begin to work on raising a shine on the wood. I can't help but notice, unbound as they are, how my breasts jiggle and bounce with every movement I make. The harder I rub at the wood, the harder my breasts jostle. The rounded globes begin to ache with a sweet, dull throb that make them feel oh-so-full. They ache with my passion to have them patted and fondled. Of course, I don't dare fondle them! Such a thing is forbidden to me unless Sir expressly orders me to caress myself. But, oh! How I want to knead that soft-firm flesh! My nipples jut blatantly at the thought of how good it would feel to pinch and tweak them!. It takes perhaps a half hour to complete the bedroom, but I leave it with the satisfaction of knowing Sir will find no fault with my effort in this room at least. Taking my can of wax and my feather and rags, I go down to the livingroom. I tidy for a small time and then begin the dusting. I manage to finish only one table when suddenly the phone rings. "Hello?" "Hello my little cum-slave." I feel myself blush and my voice trembles when I answer. "Hello, Sir." "Where are you, my sweet?" "I'm in the livingroom, Sir." "You have your feather duster with you?" "Yes, Sir" "Good girl. Please sit yourself on my red leather chair. I want your ass right at the chair's edge. Slip your shoes off and place your feet on the chair's edge so that your knees are drawn up. Are you positioned yet, love?" I swallow and manage to squeak, "Yes, Sir, I am positioned as you ordered." "Very good, slave. Now, spread your knees - wide! Are they spread?" "Y-yes, Sir." "Lovely. I can just picture you in position. Now - take your feather duster and dust yourself, slave! That's it. Nice and slow. Oh so soft. Tickle your clit for me. Are you feathering yourself, girl?" Barely able to draw breath, I gasp, "Yes, Sir." "Goooooood girl! Very, very good. You please me with your prompt obedience, slave. You please me so much that you've made my cock twitch." "Th-thank-you, Sir. I love pleasing you." "I know you do, angel. Now - you will sit there on that chair, with your legs lewdly spread for me, feathering your pussy until such time as you make the leather of my chair damp with your cream! You will not come!!! But you will make yourself very, very wet! So wet, that some of your juice trickles down to dampen the leather! Do you understand me, little slave?" "Y-yes, Sir. I - I will make myself so wet - that - that I dampen your leather chair with my juices. I - I am not to come, Sir." "Mmmm. Very, very good, slave. When you have my chair slightly damp - not wet, mind you! I don't want my leather stained!! You will be punished if you stain it!! - but when it is damp, you will stop feathering yourself. You will put your shoes back on, you will get a clean cloth and you will wipe down my chair so there is no sign remaining to show how dirty you've made it. Do you understand?" "Y-yes, Sir. I am not to stain your chair or I shall be punished. I must clean it well when I have made it damp." "Very good. I may call again, slave. Now feather yourself and make my chair damp like a good little sex-slave." The connection dies and I moan into the echoing silence. Oh god! I'm petrified of staining his chair! I've always been afraid of damaging it in some way! So many times he's warned me to be careful of marring the leather when I clean it! How damp is too damp, I wonder! What if I misjudge how much moisture I dribble? I swallow, knowing I have no choice. He's ordered me to feather myself until his chair is damp and, wanting so desperately to please him, I do as he's commanded. Nervous as I am, it takes perhaps thirty minutes for me to make his chair sufficiently damp and I almost orgasm on several occasions in that time. I'm forced to stop often to catch my breath, to force the throbbing in my pussy back to a manageable level, to reach anxiously beneath my ass to see if my pussy has dripped its moisture onto the leather yet. But at last the hide feels sufficiently damp - yet not too wet - for me to feel safe in rising and running for a cloth to wash away my sticky scent. Sir calls me five more times throughout the day. Each time he orders me to seat myself on his leather chair and to 'dust' myself to the point of making the leather damp with my juices. Each time I drive myself to the brink of orgasm three or more times before finally his chair feels dewy beneath me. Each time I am terrified that I've stained the soft leather. Each time I haven't stained it, but after his third phone call I'm left with a pussy that throbs lingeringly through the remainder of the day and nipples that seem to have forgotten how to lie flat. I pay special attention to dusting and polishing the diningroom, knowing that Sir obviously intends to have his dinner there. I set the table very prettily for him and when I am well-pleased with all my efforts, I take myself into the kitchen to begin preparing his dinner. It is a complicated recipe and it takes me most of the afternoon to cook it, but by the time I am done, I have an exquisite meal that looks fit for a king and the house smells divine. Glancing at the clock, my heart almost stops! Sir will be walking through the front door in only a few short minutes! In a panic I run upstairs, moaning at the way my breasts joggle. Quickly repairing my make-up and my hair, I spritz on the perfume that I know drives Sir wild. Glancing critically in the mirror, I gasp - to my horror I have a small spot of dirt right in the middle of my apron! I swallow hard. There's no time to attempt to clean it! Sir will be home any second! Praying that he somehow overlooks my tiny error in the face of everything else being so perfect, I return downstairs to prepare his glass of brandy. A quick moment of terror when I can't find my feather - ah! there, on the kitchen chair - and I am kneeling in the front hallway with my knees widely spread, brandy glass in one hand, duster in the other, eyes demurely lowered as I know he likes, outwardly calm though my heart is thudding, as the front door opens and his shoes enter my line of sight. I shiver. "Good evening, pet." "Good evening, Sir." He reaches down and tilts my face up so that he can see my eyes. "How was your day, slave?" My voice trembles. "It was wonderful, thank you, Sir." He nods his satisfaction and motions me to hand him my feather duster. I give it to him then blush as I watch him lift it to his nose and inhale deeply. "This smells like slave cream. Can you explain to me why that is, sweet?" "I - I used the duster as you instructed me to, Sir. I dusted my pussy until I made your chair damp." He nodded again, this time almost grimly. "I can smell that you obeyed me in this. You didn't climax, did you?" "N-no, Sir." "Are you certain, slave?" "Yes, Sir." "Did you want to come?" I suddenly feel so weak - deliciously weak. "Yes, Sir." "Did you almost come?" I bite at my lower lip and nod. "Y-yes, Sir. I almost came several times. I had to stop often to make sure that I didn't disobey you." Casually he comments, "It pleases me to know you had to struggle in this way, slave." I almost squirm in pleasure at this praise. "I'm so happy to have pleased you, Sir." "Did you stain my chair?" I swallow, nervous, though I know I've no reason to be. "No, Sir. I was very careful not to stain it." Threateningly he inquires, "You did make it damp though, didn't you?" My breath catches. "Y-yes, Sir, I made the leather quite damp." He smiles. "And you made certain to clean all signs of your lewd, dirty behaviour from my leather?" I feel my cheeks flame. "Yes, Sir." He nods again, then steps around me and into the livingroom. From the corner of my eye I can see him carefully inspecting his chair. He even bends to smell it! Returning to me, he takes another deep inhalation of the feather duster before handing it back to me. "Good girl," he praises quietly. I breathe a sigh of relieved, intense pleasure. "I trust the rest of my instructions have been followed to the letter, slave?" "Yes, Sir," I nod eagerly. "You didn't peek beneath the tray in the Box?" "No, Sir." "And you re-locked it and returned the key to its proper place?" "Yes, Sir." Nodding, he reaches for the drink I hold ready for him and sips appreciatively. "I'm going to change. When I return, I expect my dinner to be on the table, a glass of red wine poured, and you to be kneeling in display position for me on your cushion on the floor by my left side. Do you understand?" Breathless, I nod. As soon as his tread fades up the stairs, I hurry into the diningroom and bring his plate into the kitchen, where I arrange his dinner on it as pleasingly as I can. I take the cork from the wine bottle and bring the bottle, along with his plate, back to the table. Carefully I pour his glass and ease his chair invitingly out from the table for him, before retrieving my kneeling cushion from the corner of the room and sinking to my knees upon it. I spread my thighs wide and adjust the little scrap of an apron so that it reveals more than it hides. Straightening my back, I cup a breast in each hand and rub a thumb over each nipple to ensure that both are standing proud for his pleasure. Breathing shakily, I wait for his return. Some five minutes later, Sir returns down the stairs. He's changed into tight back jeans and a loose-fitting black silk shirt. In his hand he carries a medium sized black duffel bag, which I know contains various instruments he's taken from the Box. I swallow when he drops the bag on the floor directly beside me as he sits in his chair. I know he is all too aware that I will not be able to tear my mind away from the bag's contents during dinner. Over the course of the next half hour or so, we have a very pleasant dinner filled with menial, meaningless, light-hearted conversation. Throughout the entire time, I maintain my position with knees wide-spread, hands cupping my breasts - on display for him - while Sir patiently feeds me tidbits and morsels from his own fork and tilts the wine glass to my lips for an occasional sip. We both laugh when a spatter of gravy is captured by my apron and I gasp when a dribbling of wine catches itself on the tip of my nipple where the droplet hangs like a wet red jewel until Sir swabs it away with his finger. Our meal complete, Sir instructs me to clear the table and to return back to my display position once done. My heart begins pounding as I carry the dishes into the kitchen. I can feel Sir watching my every movement and I sense that he has decidedly devious plans for me for the evening. Once I remove the table-cloth, I return to my kneeling position on the floor at Sir's side. I feel myself blushing as his eyes smoulder on me. Maid For Dessert Ch. 01 "Hand me up my bag, slave." Shivering, I do so. I can tell by its weight, that he has several tools inside it. Casually, he takes a pair of leather wrist cuffs from the bag. "Present your wrists." Swallowing, I lift my hands, palm up, toward him. He clasps a cuff around each fragile wrist, then clips the two together so that I am bound. Smiling coldly, he growls, "Stand, slave." Nervously, I climb to my feet. "Feet apart! Hands behind your neck!" he instructs. Hastily, I comply. Quietly, he demands, "Did I not expressly instruct you to remain spotlessly clean through your labours today?" My heart almost stops. "Y-yes, Sir," I stammer. "And did you remain spotlessly clean, slave?" I worry my lower lip in my teeth and look down at my tiny little excuse for an apron - spotted now with gravy, red wine and some other indeterminate soil. Shifting uneasily, I reply, "No, Sir, I did not - but - but please, Sir, I tried so hard to stay clean for you. I truly did." He nods and his voice is very gentle. "I know you did, girl. I know how hard you try to please me, to follow all my instructions to the letter. I see how hard you worked to please me today, how perfectly dusted and polished everything is, so, I will forgive you that tiny little spot on your apron - this time. But, the fact remains - you are really quite dirty, aren't you, slave? A dirty girl is what you are, aren't you?" I blush deeply, then nod self-consciously, "Yes, Sir. I am a dirty girl." Sir mimics my nod, then reaches again into his tool bag. I shudder as his hand emerges holding a crop. He slaps it forcefully against the table and I flinch. "I forgive you for being dirty, pet - but nevertheless, I am feeling a very strong urge to use this on my dirty girl." Again the crop smacks hard against the table's top and I wince nervously. "Yes, Sir," I whisper. Scraping his chair back from the table, he smiles and stands. "Get the pad from the dish cabinet and lay it out on the table." Taking a deep breath, I move to the cabinet. Awkwardly, I open the drawer and withdraw a very thick, quilted blanket. Hampered somewhat by my bound wrists, I carefully spread it over the table, ensuring that all edges are well-padded. Nervously, I look over my shoulder at Sir. Offering me his hand, he indicates the chair and orders softly, "Onto the table with you, pet. I want you facing away from me, on your knees and elbows, with your breasts pressed to the table top. You are to keep your eyes forward." I almost moan. Clumsily, I position myself on my knees and, leaning forward, scootch my elbows forward until my breasts are squashed flat against the quilted table. My back arches deeply as I feel the crop's gentle tap against my upper thighs. "Spread yourself wide for me, slave!" Sir growls. Trembling, I do as he commands and close my eyes. I hear him rummaging through the bag and a slight clinking sound announces the retrieval of something metal. "Spread your feet wider slave." Breathless, I comply. A bar, almost three feet long is laid on the table, horizontally between my feet. Firmly, Sir wraps first one ankle and then the other in cuffs that are near twins to the ones I wear on my wrists. The cuffs are clipped to the eyebolts provided at each end of the bar, and I am held spread invitingly open for him. I feel his gaze dissecting me as the crop's tip drags ever so lightly across my vulva. I moan deeply as it slithers away. "Tell me, slave, what do you think I should do with you now?" Maid For Dessert Ch. 02 "Tell me, slave, what do you think I should do with you now?" I cannot help myself. The day's chores, the long, drawn-out sexual anticipation has made my pussy so full, so tender - so very ready. I plead. "Please, Sir. Please? Take me. Use me. Oh please, fuck me, Sir, I beg you. I need to come, so badly." I hear him chuckle low in his throat. "Do you really now? Rather anxious, aren't you girl?" My face colours up and I whimper, "Yes, Sir. It has been a - a trying day. Please?" "A trying day? Yes, I can see that these are very, very swollen, slave." The crop taps my outer labia, so gently. "Are these why your day has been so trying?" Tap. Tap. Tap. I find it hard to catch my breath. "Y-yes, Sir," I gasp. "Yes, I imagine that such a swelling must be quite an uncomfortable distraction, sweet." Tap. Tap. Tap. "It must be difficult for you to concentrate on anything..." Tap. Tap. Tap. "...but obtaining relief of your rousing affliction." Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Yes, Sir. I - I am very aroused." I whisper uncomfortably. "Yes, you are in a delicate condition, aren't you, pet? I can see your slave cream glistening on these." Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. I moan, long and low and deep in my throat. "You believe being permitted to climax will ease your suffering, don't you, slave?" Miserably, I nod, rubbing my cheek against the soft quilt. "Yes, oh yes! Please? Please, Sir, may I?" The crop's tip licks a casual, easy stroke up one side of my vulva and down the other. "We'll see, dirty girl. I may permit you to orgasm - later. But first I wish to experience the fullness of your distress. I'm of a mind to feel your suffering." His voice drops to a menacing whisper. "You shall bear my will, slave, won't you? You will accept what I give you, when I give - if I give! - and will be thankful, won't you, slave?" I nearly sob in fearful, delicious anticipation. "Y-yes, Sir. Yes! I accept your will and am grateful for whatever you choose to give me." "Very good, girl - because tonight, it is necessary that you suffer for my pleasure. I want nothing less than your utter submission. I will have your abject surrender. You know this, don't you?" The leather works itself against my inner folds, parting me, spreading my swollen flesh into a full-lipped pout, and I gasp with the intense pleasure of it. "Yes, Sir - yes, I know. My suffering, my surrender is necessary. For your pleasure." "Gooood slave," he croons, flipping the crop's tip so that it dabs and pats delicately and entirely too sporadically at my clitoris. "You will brace yourself for my pleasure, pet. You will demonstrate your level of arousal with your body's language." Pat. Dab. Dab. Pat. "You will wriggle for me and you will writhe, but you will not move your knees or elbows even an inch out of position. Is this clear, slave?" I quiver, then swallow with the effort it takes to keep my knees firmly anchored in place. My ass rotates in vain effort to maintain contact with the elusive, irregular dab-pat touches. "Yes, Sir." I breathe, brokenly. "You will submit yourself to my control, slave. You shall bear my will on your body. You will surrender your most tender, sensitive, feminine parts to me to do with as I wish, won't you?" Pat. Dab. Pit-a-pit-a-pat. Dab. I feel myself sinking, down into that dark place deep where my soul hides. "Yes, Sir," I whisper, "My heart, my body is yours. Please, Sir, I beg you, use me for your pleasure." The crop lifts languidly away and I shiver, so very aware of my own heavy need, of my profound vulnerability in my submission to him. "Tell me, slave. Tell me what a dirty little slave-girl you are." I confess softly, "I - I am your dirty little slave-girl, Sir." Of a sudden, the crop flashes against the underside of my ass, at the tender juncture where cheek meets thigh. I moan and shift in place, lifting my bottom into higher prominence. "Not just dirty, slave - lewdly dirty!" "Yes, Sir," I whisper. Down the crop slices against the underside of my other cheek. Harder this time. Much harder! I sigh breathily and squirm. "Tell me!" he hisses. "I - I am a dirty girl, Sir. A lewdly dirty girl, Sir," I whimper. "Yes, you are, slave." The crop licks again. And again. And again. Over and over. Rhythmically, its bite punctuates each deliberate word he voices. "You - are - a - dirty - lewd - greedy - lustful - juicy - salacious - naughty - hot - wicked - little - slave - girl - aren't - you - my - pet? Oh! Oh! Oh! Helplessly, I gyrate my hips, rotating and tilting them so as to offer him my scent. "Yes! Yes, Sir! I - I am wicked!" I gasp. He whips me harder still. "Annnnd?" Snap! Snap! Snap! "I am lewd!" I vow, raggedly. "And - I - I am n-naughty!" He whips me tirelessly, unceasingly, rhythmically, one cheek, then the other, back and forth. "What - else - are - you - slave?" My hips twist, first one way, back again, dipping and rising, dancing to the stinging tune he plays upon me. A burn wells up from deep within. My inner thighs feel slick. "I am salacious! I am g-greedy, Sir!" I bleat. "You - are - that - indeed - girl - and - what - else - besides?" Oh! The heat! Flaming across my ass! Kindling in my pussy! I buck, and begin to pump thin air, in time with his strokes, yielding what he so exactingly demands of me. "I am - I am - lusty!" I cry, piteously. "What - else - slave?" Slap! Lick! Snap! goes the crop. "I - I - am - am - juicieeee!" I sob, undulating as my need crowns in desperate, pathetic tears. The strikes ease, softening their bite to milder taps that burn no less for all their gentleness. "Yes, slave, you are very, very juicy! In fact, you're in full flood, aren't you, my sweet?" I shudder. "Yes, Sir," I sniffle, "I - I am, Sir. I - I burn...." Oh! How I burn! "I know, baby. I know you do. You're such a ripe little thing! You please me, greatly, slave." As if to substantiate his approval, he cups my sex in the warmth of his palm. A trembling moan wrenches from my throat. My labia flutter like dainty wings, encased in his heat. I need so badly to come that I fear I will fail to hold myself in check should he graze my twitching button with a careless finger. His shirt brushes against my side; his whisper feathers my ear. "You need to spend, don't you darling?" I know from his tone, from experience, from the fact that the night is still young, that he has no intention of providing me relief any time soon. Miserably, I nod. "Yes, Sir," I whisper. "Please? Please, may I come, Sir?" Leaning over me, he rubs his face against mine and the shadow of his beard scrapes my softer skin. "Poor, sweet, dirty little girl. You're having a hard time of it tonight, aren't you?" Whimpering, I bite into my lower lip and nod mutely. His hand cups me still. I wait, tense with the agony of yearning, pulsing, expectant sensation. "I know, slave. But I am not through with you, not yet. You have so much more to relinquish, don't you?" His eyes bore into mine, snaring me. Sensually, yet firmly he prods my mouth with the crop's leather tip. "Taste it," he whispers. Shaking, I part my lips and he insinuates the leather inside my mouth, where he allows it to rest on the bed of my tongue. It tastes sweet. Tangy. It tastes of me. "Suckle it, slave. Suck your sweet puss-cream from my crop. Savour it, dirty girl. Your sex-syrup." Diligently I nurse upon the leather, as much to please Sir as to distract myself from the throbbing blaze that burns yet within his cupped palm. My lashes drift down and I lose myself in the taste, the scent, the buttery slipperiness of the soft hide. "That's it, girl. Suck it good. Clean it well for me, and you will be rewarded." My pussy spasms weakly, as much at the tone of his voice as at the content of his promise. I renew my effort on the crop's tip, laving it well with my tongue, sucking it deep into the well of my hot mouth, careful not to mark Sir's property with my teeth, sighing with the pleasure of knowing that soon perhaps, if Sir deems me worthy, I shall have my reward. "Yes, that's very good, slave." Slowly, lingeringly, the crop is withdrawn. Hopefully, pleadingly, I gaze into Sir's eyes. "Beautiful slave, you please me very well." I blush with the ecstasy his praise always invokes. Removing his hand from between my legs, he gathers me to him and lifts me smoothly from the table. Up I rise, high over his shoulder. I feel the heat seep into my face as he maneuvers me so that I hang helplessly, head and bound hands resting near the back of his waist, welted rump raised high in the air by his head, my feet dangling near his hipbones, legs kept in lewd splay by the spreader bar still anchored to my ankle cuffs. His hand caresses my ass at leisure. Gently he traces the raised welts left by his attention and he kneads the rosy flesh in such a way that, though his fingers don't approach my pussy, still, my pouty lips are manipulated in altogether maddening, luscious little tugs that leave me gasping. "Yes, love, soon now, you will be relieved of your suffering. But first, your reward, for being such a good, pleasing dirty little slave-girl." Carefully he lowers me to my kneeling cushion, keeping his hands on my shoulders to steady me until the dizziness passes and I am able to kneel up before him without swaying. "Hands behind your neck, slave." Shakily, I raise my bound wrists and place them behind my neck. "Good girl. Now, I know you're in distress. I know you feel you cannot bear the fullness of your sex even a moment more without it bursting like an over-ripe fruit. I recognise that you've borne your suffering with no complaint and only the prettiest of pleas, and I should be satisfied with your surrender in this. But you see, sweet, I am not satisfied. Not yet. I would have you suffer more for me." I tremble with the depth of my vulnerability to him, to his will - even while I feel weak with gratitude for it. "Yes, Sir," I manage to whisper, "Please, use me for your pleasure." "Ahh, such a compliant, compellingly submissive sweetmeat you are," he comments, as he casually pulls a deceptively innocent-appearing golden chain from his pocket. I swallow hard as he swings the chain like a pendulum slowly before my eyes. "You remember this, don't you, slave?" "Y-yes, Sir." I cannot keep the shake from my voice. Smiling he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out two wickedly-toothed clamps. "Yes, I thought you might, slave," he remarks, as he affixes the clamps to either end of the chain. I am unable to find my voice, so only whimper in response. Bending toward me, he flicks at my right nipple with his forefinger. The traitorous nub rises proud and stiff as the best-trained soldier. "I wish you to wear these for me, girl. I know they pinch at you terribly, but it pleases me to hear the way they make you moan and gasp and pant. You understand this, don't you, love?" "Y-yes, Sir." I understand that he loves to hear my soft cries, that my meek acquiescence in the face of my deep reluctance to endure this pain inevitably turns him hard as granite. I feel a trickle of desire against my thighs and I shudder weakly. "Gooooood girl, " he soothes, as he flicks at my other nipple, coaxing it into conspicuous display as well. Satisfied by their prominence, he instructs me quietly, "Deep breath, now, slave." Eyes wide, I draw in as much air as I can. The clamp bites gently at my right nipple. Sir smiles into my eyes as he tightens the screw and the jaws grip my sensitive cone harder. Tighter. Ohhh! I gasp. I flinch. I whimper. "Steady," he intones, "Just a little more now, sweet. Take it for me." Tears gather in my eyes and my lower lip quivers. I cannot! But I will. I do. I pant against the stinging pain. My nipple throbs. It burns! I moan, deep in my throat. "Yesssssss...." he approves, as he finishes with the first clamp and reaches to set the second. "Deep breath." I gulp in air, but it doesn't seem to help and I wince as he clamps me much faster, with far less care, this time. My eyes close as the tears spill down my cheeks and I keen softly. My nipples, caught in a vise of fire, feel seared. My breasts ache dully. My pussy pangs and floods. I tremble and moan as Sir tugs lightly at the chain to send sparks of flame shooting through my nipples and down, down into my belly and slick, pulsing sex. One-handed, Sir unzips his jeans and takes his cock in hand, holding it only inches from my face. He strokes it, long, firm, gliding strokes. "See what you do to me, slave. Your suffering has brought me to this. Your pain is my pleasure. My cock down your throat is your reward." Eagerly, my tongue slips out, wetting my lips with anticipation. Desire swells. His cock, so beautiful, fully erect, purple-headed and bulging with veins, twitches in testament to his physical state. Guiding himself with his hand, he presses his flesh, hot and throbbing, just between my parted lips and sighs his pleasure. I can hardly think with the sensations assaulting me. His cock, at rest, lying in patient wait between my pursed lips; my breasts, full near to bursting; my nipples, seared with sharp needling pain; my vulva, beating with its own moist, throbbing pulse. "Take my cock, slave, and give me suck," he growls, twitching the chain running to my nipples. Breathing raggedly, I afford him entry, pouted lips parting silkily to his prodded insistence. Opening my mouth invitingly wide, I bid him warm welcome with wet tongue and satin lips. Tasting deeply of him, I dab solicitously at the crystalline tears that begin to weep from his slitted eye. I feel him twitch again and my throat vibrates with my shaken moan. His fingers flex in my hair and his breath hisses as my moan dies. Fluidly I sculpt his sensitive glans with my tongue. Holding him wrapped in my bathing warmth, I begin to suckle upon his hard shaft. With one hand in my hair he tilts my head back, elongating my throat to accommodate him, while his other hand clenches on the chain he holds. Fire darts like quicksilver from my nipples to reverberate deep inside my womb. I feel my drenched sex quiver. I tremble. "Move faster on me, girl," he bites out, at the very instant he slides himself out to the very tip. "Suck me hard!" he rasps, working himself back in. His hand clenches into my hair, and sliding my head up, then down, he pulls himself almost free before driving forward in a fluid thrust that just nudges my throat. Back and forth, over and over, he penetrates me. It is almost primeval, the way he pumps me, with resolute, cruel, forceful strokes - self-gratifying thrusts meant solely for his own self-satisfaction. My lips swell painfully against his savage ravishment. Yet I suck upon him willingly - even greedily - driven by my own primordial beast to fulfill my purpose and thereby find my own sweet pleasure, the pleasure I find in serving him. Matching his strokes, my own hips pump in futility, as my breathless moans hum along his pistoning cock. His barked order jerks me back from the brink. "You will not climax, slave! Do not come!" His hand wraps itself painfully into my hair and his fingers twitch cruelly on the chain. My nipples would scream if they could, but instead only silent tears spill down my cheeks. They dribble from my chin onto his tensed balls. "That's better," he breathes harshly. "Now, you will swallow all of me, slave." Lifting my chin farther up and back, he lengthens me to the limit for the full impaling he intends. My eyes widen as his cock glides past the back of my throat. Smiling ruthlessly, he casually feeds me more until I am finally, deliberately transfixed on his thick heat. Breath held in check, my lashes flicker, then flutter softly closed. My tight swallow ripples around the hardness filling my throat and my dripping sex throbs plaintively. He holds me arrested there, hand firm in my hair to keep me still, eyes boring intensely into mine. The seconds pass. I can do nothing but yield the harbour he insists on, deep in my throat. Fighting my mounting distress, I surrender myself to his will, for his pleasure. At last, he smiles his satisfaction, loosens his merciless hold on my head and draws languidly, almost liquidly in retreat. I am permitted no more than a deeply gasped breath, a desolate whimper, before he sinks himself smoothly, deeply, fully once more. With a skill drawn from long experience, he keeps me teetering precariously on the fine wire that he has strung between utter surrender and wild panic. His absolute control over his own aggressiveness forces my world to tilt so that I am left whirling madly in the shockwave, goaded into near senselessness by the hard tool so mercilessly threatening me. Held immobile by his hands, with his straining cock buried deep in my throat, I am made completely feminine. Possessed by him, under his control, I am made utterly, irrevocably submissive. I am made undeniably his and that knowing nearly sears my soul to ash. Strangling back a deep groan, he withdraws from me a final time. Ruefully he unwraps my hair from his fist and breathes in somewhat raggedly. "You know you test the very boundary of my control, with your glazed, teary eyes and those lost, desperate sounds you make, don't you slave?" Adrift on a sea of raw, emotional, smothering need, I realize I've broken position only when I find myself sprawled forward with my bound hands desperately clutching Sir's pant legs. "Pleaseohpleaseplease," I hear myself whimpering almost incoherently. I sense him bending over me before I feel his hand gently caressing my hair, brushing it back from my eyes. "Yes, that's right, you test me as much as I test you at times - but, it is my will that will prevail, slave." Resolutely he pries my fingers loose, sets me back on my knees and, lifting my arms over my head, places my bound wrists back behind my neck. "My will, slave! Not yours!" he hisses. I haven't the wits to do anything more than gaze up at him imploringly and tremble violently. "Do you understand me?" he demands in a quiet, strained voice. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on repressing the tremors that shudder through me. He strokes my cheek and my trembling eases, but does not still. It is enough to enable me to draw the breath to chatter, "Y-Yes, S-sir. F-forgive me. P-please?" "You are forgiven, slave. Your disobedience, while unacceptable, is not completely displeasing to me. I know you must be half-crazed with need for you to have forgotten your training and broken position like that, pet. Knowing you suffer to that extent pleases me greatly." I could be, perhaps even should be, angered by his rationale, but instead I feel inordinately pleased by his roundabout praise. A deep flush of pleasure washes across my cheeks. "Thank you, Sir," I murmur adoringly. He nods and casually tucks his tumescent cock back inside his pants. With a finality that wrings a quivery sigh from me, he zips himself away from view. With that one silent move, I am made to understand that his pleasure and my suffering have not nearly ended. He smiles. "You obviously cannot be trusted tonight not to break position again. Therefore, I will prevent you from doing so." So saying, he takes a length of chain, with a clip at either end, from his bag. My heart pounds painfully as I feel him fasten one end of the chain to my joined wrist cuffs and the other to the eyebolt in the middle of the spreader bar between my ankles. I am effectively restrained, unable to remove my wrists from the back of my neck without risking tottering off-balance and toppling flat on my face. "Now slave, I have a few things to do. You may use this time to repent of your disobedience and to renew your commitment to my will and my pleasure. I'm certain this little interval will also help ease some of your suffering - at least to the extent that you will be capable of bearing further torment without breaking until I am ready for you to break." He flashes a ruthless smiles as he stoops to retrieve his empty bag. "I will return in ten minutes, slave." Maid For Dessert Ch. 02 Time passes in an agony of conflicting sensation and emotion for me. It takes some minutes for the pressured throbbing in my swollen pussy to abate to the point that I am able to think of anything beyond extinguishing the fire that rages so hot in my loins. I am left still softly pouting, still sodden in my own juices, but bearably so now and the aching surfeit that lingers yet in my breasts seems lessened somewhat by the fact that my nipples no longer strain so terribly for the want of a warm, wet, gentle suckling. As my want tapers, I tumble into the deep chasm of submissive need carved by the wake of lust's savage visit. It is there that I wallow, swept away by my need to serve him again; engulfed by my need to pleasure him, to bear his will. Overcome by my need to suffer for him. On his return, I am in tears. Great, racking sobs rend me and I hiccup between them as best I can that I want only to serve him, only to obey him. I vow that I will do anything to please him, that I will bear his will no matter how hard. "Please," I cry piteously, "please, Sir, may I suffer more for you?" "Shhh," he croons, folding me close against him as he kneels before me and reaches around to release the chain that keeps me stiffly upright. I cannot stop shaking but my sobs die to sniffles as he runs the callused tip of his thumb along my cheek to brush my tears away. "Shhh, my love," he purrs, "Of course, you may suffer more for me. Did you fear I might not allow it, slave?" Near vanquished by the vulnerability threatening to consume me, I nod, then shake my head, only to nod again. Feeling as though I couldn't make a choice to save my life, I whisper in confusion, "I don't know, Sir." "Poor, sweet, slave. You're still quite overwrought, aren't you?" he says, smiling indulgently into my eyes. "No matter, my pet. I will help you bear it." "Thank you, Sir," I moan, shaking with the gratitude welling up inside me. Silently he wraps his arms around my waist and pressing me close against him, he rises. He waits, the picture of perfect patience with his hands on my shoulders as I struggle to gain my balance. No sooner do I steady, than he guides me the few shuffling steps to the side of the table, where he leans to whisper into my ear, "Bend, slave. I want your torso lying flat on the table, arms extended over your head." Meekly I comply, bending at the waist, so that my thighs abut the table's edge and my hips, tummy, and breasts lie against its quilted surface. I shudder, lost in the flowering excitement of what I expect is to come. Something nudges my heels. Uncertainly, I glance over my shoulder. "Step up and back, girl. I would have you at such a height that your ass is tilted up and your pussy readily accessible." With Sir's assisting hands at each of my ankles, I carefully raise one foot and then the other, placing them on the low step he's placed behind me. I rest my full weight on the table as I feel Sir lift the step and move it slightly forward. The step has the effect of lifting my pelvis off the table, lending a deep arch to my back and presenting my pussy in what I know must be a delightful view. Wide, fleece-soft leather strapping is laid across the back of my waist, the ends extending to each side of the table, where they are fastened to the eyebolts I know are screwed into the underside of the wood. Pinned thus, I am spread totally open and completely vulnerable to him, unable to escape even should I want to. I can't even begin to imagine wanting to. I moan deeply. "Tell me, slave, what do you think I should do with you now?" I cannot help myself. I beg. "Please, Sir. Please? Take me. Use me. Oh please, fuck me, Sir, I beg you. I need to come, so badly." I hear his chuckle from behind me, followed quickly by the snick of his belt buckle being released. "I thought you wished to suffer more for me, sweet? To please me. Do you not wish to please me, slave?" I feel the belt's raspy whisper along my spine, from nape to tailbone. I swallow hard. "Yes, Sir, I do. Please, allow me to suffer, Sir. Permit me to please you by bearing your will?" The leather flicks its flat tongue against the fleshiest part of my ass. I gasp at its sting. Heat rises in its wake - a heat that leaches its way slyly forward to lodge itself inside my pouting sex. "Ohhh…." I moan. "Good girl. You know how I love to hear your need, don't you? How I relish the sound of your suffering!" I turn my head, just so that I am able to see him from my eye's corner. He stands over my raised ass, belt lifted high over his head in preparation for a harder blow. "Yes," I whisper, "Please, Sir, please make me cry for you." The belt slashes suddenly down and I shriek, burning from the welt of fire that flashes against my pale buttocks. A second blow strikes rapidly at the back of my upper thighs, stinging even more furiously than the one before. Two more strikes follow in sharp succession, both landing a mere whisper away from my exposed labia. The pain is intense. The heat flaming across my skin is indescribable. Again and again and again Sir brings his will to bear on my tender flesh, until at last shattered moans sob breathlessly from me to serenade poignantly in concert with his heavy breaths in the deepening night. "Your suffering makes you such an irresistible little thing. I love what it does to you, how it makes your pretty mouth tremble, how your eyes sparkle with their glaze of tears behind your wet-spiked lashes. And your beautiful ass! How blazing hot it is! How vivid is the tale of my possession upon it!", he whispers raggedly, kneading my welted cheeks in gentle massage. I sob, soft and deep in my throat. His large hands splay themselves across my throbbing flesh, absorbing my heat into his cooler palms. The pain, my utter powerlessness against it - against him - awakens a pleasure inside me that is so perverse I feel crushed beneath its impact. Wantonly, I lift my bottom higher, pressing my quivering flesh deeper into his hands, submitting myself fully to the burning pain and kindling pleasure that war on the battlefield of my yielded body. My sniffled whimperings provide the only testament to his power that I am capable of offering. "Yes! That's it, sweet. Lose yourself in the pain. Find the pleasure in it. The pleasure you know always comes with your acceptance of my will." Slowly as he massages me - so slowly - pleasure once again ignites deep within my core, bursting into full flame when Sir furrows my cleft with one single, fluttery finger. The pleasure mouths at the lingering pain, not swallowing it, but savouring it, tasting it as though it were a fine brandy. Near incapacitated, my hips writhe to the sense of vulnerability washing over me in pummeling waves. "Good, slave. Soon. Very soon now you shall have your final reward - and I shall have my dessert." Mindlessly, I moan my gratitude as I feel his finger replaced by his stiffened cock and his hands grip hard on my hips. "Beg me, slave. Beg me for what you want - for what you need, so badly." Feeling as if I've died and am standing at the very gates to Paradise, I succumb, pleading entry in shattered breaths, "Please, oh God, please, Sir. Please, fuck me! Take me! Use me! I need it so bad - I need you so bad. Please, feed me your cock, Sir. Please, I beg you!" "Ahh, you beg so prettily, little slave. How can I deny such heart-wrenching pleas? You shall have what you desire, my love. You have pleased me well this night." I tremble, barely coherent as he fulfills his promise, easing his way inside me, filling me inch by inch to bursting, to near completion. Tenderly he moves on me, thrusting himself upon me so languidly, so fluidly that I would melt but for the rigidity he impales me with. "Oh, oh, oh", drips from my lips and my lashes flutter closed, shutting away everything but the sensation of his cock, working itself faster within my tight walls. His hand creeps up my back to curl around my throat, where it fastens itself in a firm, though uncruel hold. Deeper he plunges, as though he would carve his mastery into my very soul with the tip of his strong lance. His feral groan nearly sends me over the edge and I match its ferociousness with a groan of equal intensity. "Come for me now, slave. Drench me with your sweet self!" His long-awaited sanction releases inside me like a dam exploding. My climax jolts through me, erupting up from somewhere deep inside to crash over me in an excruciating ascension of pleasure centred heavily in my sex. Clutched thus in the unrelenting vise of my violent contractions, my pussy weeps until it is drained and I feel as though my soul has been bled dry with its flood. Twitching from the tingling aftershocks, I melt into a boneless puddle beneath him as he impales me to the core, all the while snarling his own savage victory over me. Some time later, once gasps have died to calmer breaths and hearts have stilled their frantic poundings, I am released from my bondage and gathered gently into Sir's protecting embrace. Carrying me cradled close to his heart, he mounts the stairs and silence descends on the darkened house. Finis