monday, more practice

I don’t intend to report each and every day of my life, but there are two continuing stories — Mistress Amanda and Master K — that some readers have asked about, so I’ll update you on these, which is my story Monday.

Mistress Amanda ran a higher fever on Sunday evening, and the flu took her fully during the night. I set my alarms very couple of hours to attend to her, and during her sweats applied cool wet towels to her face and neck, or else during chills held her within a blanket when she shivered furiously. I looked in on her again very early Monday morning, and she was sleeping soundly. Just with the back of my hand at her forehead, I could tell her fever had broken, and she would be taking the day sleeping and replenishing her strength. I expected she’d be needing some soup near lunchtime, and I checked to make sure we had some.

Meanwhile, Master K had, on Sunday night, informed me I would be needed for another practice session Monday morning. Again, coffee at 5:30 and me ready and waiting at 6:00, same businessy attire. I would be tired from my night with Mistress, but then again, I would be up at 4:30 for Amanda anyway, so this was no special hardship, although I would not be at my sexual best with Master K. Again I showered and primped and forced my hair into some kind of shape. Like most gingers, my hair can look luxuriously great or sadly horrible, and there’s not much in-between. So I attempt hair therapy on the fly, and it winds up looking, at 6:00 a.m., as if it once was luxuriously great some eight hours before. Not so much now.

We like to think that there’s something about ourselves, even in slavery, that our masters find special and lovely and appealing about us even on bad hair mornings. Probably not so much. We are instead a set of sex holes, and if there were other slave girls present in the house, we’d all be somewhat interchangeable. At these times, it really isn’t about hair, but about the orifice of my mouth wrapping around Master’s organ, and giving him the pleasure of lips, cheeks, and a wet tongue. Still, I hope for a measure of special attention, a flicker of enjoyment about me, maybe for my mind and creativity. But my clever wit and way with words are not so captivating when I am ballgagged or am squatting with a cock in my mouth. So it is.

So I practiced with him. I had done my homework, so my squatting with my skirt up was solid, my technique of keeping his pants dry was flawless, and I stuck my dismount — getting him tucked away, zipped up, with me standing a couple yards away facing him and feigning business. Again, he timed it such that he didn’t ejaculate.

He nodded, pleased.

He then moved to the desk chair. He sat, then said, “Maura,” and I came around the desk and knelt between his legs. This time I was on my knees, as there didn’t seem any place for my legs if I tried squatting. Apparently that was right, as his sitting position required me to lean over his lap and mouth him from above his crotch. There were some starts and stops in this routine as well, but I figured it out, and managed to do well enough. It was more of a challenge getting him all put away, given that he was sitting, but I developed a technique for that, which was to make pants space at the beginning when I was pulling him out. My “dismount” here involved standing, smoothing my skirt, and attending to something behind him, and his chair and desk — in this case adjusting window blinds in the bay window. It will be different in other places, of course, but I will have to be ready when called on to figure out what that business can be.

That was it. No ejaculation, no savoring of his cum in my mouth. I must have been showing my disappointment, because he said, “When I give that to you, it will be another level of things for you. It can be a mess. You have to get this other technique down first.”

So I have completed the written exam successfully. Now I have to excel in the orals.

There is in all of this a feeling of excitement, anticipation, and desire. And also humiliation. He is the Cowboy perhaps, but I’m not his first slave rodeo. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. He’s roping me with his own cowboy techniques. And meanwhile, I‘m aware my life has been reduced to practicing for a sequence of quickie fellatios.

“Thank you, Sir,” I said. And he was then off to work at his regular time.

I returned to Mistress Amanda, and she was sleeping soundly, thank God. I climbed into bed with her.

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