I cannot possibly write everything that has happened this week. And there are days with him yet to come. But I will write what I can.
Back to the Sunday night of my arrival: this is about one conversation, several floggings, and a very sweet subspace.
After my three comes, so hair-triggered and urgent, Master M leashes me and walks me through the mansion into the Great Room. I’ve written about the Great Room before — a massive space that would dominate me even if the man wasn’t here. I am a small body of female flesh, soft orbs of breasts and cheeks, dwarfed by the immense expanse of hard old wood, heavy leather chairs, and, again, a ceiling that reaches to God.
But, of course, he is here. He has me stand high-heeled in the open middle, my hands behind my head, commanding me not to take any step forward. He then pulls a flogger from out of nowhere and snaps its flat leather tails against a leather chair, yielding a sharp-sounding crack.
He takes the flogger to my ass, lightly at first. He paused and walked in front of me: “Do you know why I’m flogging you?”
“Because I came without your permission. I’m embarrassed that I did.”
“And why did that happen? I barely touched you.”
“You had to know I would. I haven’t had… anything… for three months.”
“Oh… you poor baby,” he says mockingly.
I say nothing, my hands behind my head, my legs together and perched on tall heels, and my eyes locked into his.
“Do you know there are many people who don’t have orgasms for years? And you complain about a few months.” His tone is gently derisive, yet warm, almost jokey, and I play into the feel of it.
“They aren’t like me, though.” I remind myself and add belatedly: “Sir.”
“You mean they’re not an insatiable cunt and closet whore like you?”
I can’t help but form a wry grin: “I was reaching for a nicer way to say it.”
Master M chuckles. He’s loving the repartee: “And what would that be?”
“Maybe simply that I am more sexual than most… kept this way to be hyper-sexual… and when I am not permitted to for so long under circumstances, it’s more difficult.”
“Or maybe you’re just an insatiable cunt.”
“Yes, that’s shorter to say, sir.”
He chuckles again and circles me, his flogger in hand. It being Sunday night, it’s the end of a weekend for him. He works some on Saturdays, but Sunday is usually his down time, play time. And now his toy has come for a visit.
“I want to think that, if you were visiting me after being deprived even for a full year, you would still not climax until I gave you permission. Maybe something to train you on… I could work it out with Amanda — maybe a New Year’s resolution — no orgasms for you in 2022. Not even when she gives you to everyone.”
“I’d like to request we not try that, sir,” I say.
He smiles. “Why not?” The answer is obvious, but he wants to hear what I come up with.
“It would also deprive you and Mistress from watching me in orgasm. I know you love that so much.”
Master M erupts in laughter and has to walk over to the leather chair to sit down. He looks back at me with smiles and a faint shake of the head. “What am I going to do with you?” he says with feigned exasperation.
“Oh, I think you already have that figured out… sir.”
There are then three rounds of his flogging me — one for each of my comes, he says. He makes it clear he is not punishing me for having orgasms but for having them without permission: “You know what you should have done.”
“Yes, sir. I should have asked you for permission.”
The first round is gentle, blushing my ass cheeks. The second is harder, making them redden, though short of welting me. I welcome the dull sting and absorb his pleasure into my pain, but the challenge is to stay standing and not to step forward from the weight of his blows. I manage to keep my stance.
The third flog is across my breasts. He has me tilt my head back and to the side, away from his direction, and he takes the flogger to my tits, gently but endlessly, as if experimenting with how he can make them jiggle with the flick of the tails.
Three rounds, three flogs. Three times a lady.
Afterward, he pours himself a bourbon, lights a cigar, and has me sit on the floor beside him in the leather chair. When his cigar is in his mouth, his hand plays with my hair. I lean my head against his pant leg.
I am in a sub-space now, long awaited and now realized — not only a coming-down from my comes but also a deep submissive satisfaction from being male-dominated after so long without. It is a moment of being utterly abandoned into his control of me, without fear and yet with respect of his physical mastery, trained as he wants me, sexually open with him in every way at any time, and feeling profoundly submitted to his uses and humiliations.
He tells me to sit facing him. I scoot over, curling my legs under me as I fit myself between his legs. He puffs his cigar and tells me a few things about the week ahead. There is silence then, not awkward but a solemn communion. I am trembling, not from sexual need nor fear, but from sheer delight in being submissively there with him. Before him. Inside him.
“I want you to suck me.”
Without words, I unzip him, pull him out already half-erect, and take his cock into my mouth. I find a slow rhythm in the quiet, him in the chair and me between his legs, alone in the massive expanse of the Great Room.
Master M sips his bourbon, tilts his head back, and puffs his cigar into the air above.