Master himself answers the door when I arrive. I stand on the front portico in my too-short skirt and sheer top, both like wrapping paper that barely covers the gift box. I am not nervous but eager, way too eager.
He gets a call on his cell just as the door opens, waving for me to step in as he takes the call. I schlep my two suitcases into the atrium, which would turn out to be an overkill of wardrobe in light of how he keeps me later in the week. I stand quietly while he finishes his call, hands properly to my sides, feeling small in the large atrium space, realizing the mansion with all its size and weight itself dominates me.
He returns. “Have you missed me?” He says it nonchalant-like.
“You have no idea.”
He chuckles once. He walks slowly around me, as if evaluating a new car in the auto dealer showroom. He then stands off, looking me up and down. Objectification begins.
“Amanda says you are fully recovered now. You have no limits?”
In the broader context that’s a complicated question, but I know what he means: “I’m fine.”
“Good. Take off your clothes.”
He is wasting no time. I am proud of myself that I am present in this moment and don’t hesitate. I expect he is looking for that, hoping I’d pause noticeably, warranting a punishment. Not that he needs an excuse. He’s made it clear that hitting me is a matter of his prerogative not requiring purpose. Still, he sometimes likes it as training.
But I immediately cross my arms, reach for the bottom hem of my pullover top, and draw it up. It catches on my breasts, tugging them up, and finally clears, releasing them to bounce out.
I pull my top over my head, fold it, and set it on the floor beside me. My eyes find his again as he takes in my toplessness and remembers a former playground. I reach in back to unclasp my skirt. It slides over my hips and off. I am now fully naked before him, standing there in the open atrium in my strappy high heels and titanium collar.
He looks at me for the longest time in silence.
The first moments are always a kind of synchronization, maybe like the boot-up process of a computer, its various systems talking to each other once again after being asleep. Me: “I am here.” Him: “Are you willing?” Me: “Yes. I am.” Him: “Will you submit your flesh to me?” Me: “Yes, sir. Here is my body.” This is the back-and-forth of few words and much body language. And now I am back in it, synced to him.
His eyes fix upon my breasts for some time, then slide down to my vulva and bare pussy, my labia glistening. His are gazes of emotion-memory mixed with future intention, nostalgia and lust co-mingled like juices in intercourse. In his silence, watching, he is beginning to fuck me visually.
I absorb his dominant desire, letting it first coat me like lotion, then seep in, softening. It had been mere minutes since I appeared at the doorstep, and already he is inside me in a way, his gaze pulling open my lips and penetrating my womanhood.
He breaks the silence: “It’s been a while.”
I nod. “I hope you still want me, sir.” It is the obvious thing to say, demonstrating my submissive longing for him, not really a question. And yet it is.
He reads me that same way: “You thought I would lose interest?”
“During my illness, yes, I thought that. There are others. You could have others.”
“Maybe I did.”
“Yes, of course. You probably did.”
He wants me to think that, to imagine that, perhaps hoping it will torture me in some delicious way. But it doesn’t. Jealousy is a feeling of possession, a terribly unsubmissive emotion. I am fully capable of it — I am deeply jealous of Amanda’s possible alternatives to me, even though they have been imagined not real. But with Master McKenna, I feel differently. I assume he has others or could have them. I don’t need to be the only one. Just one. I simply care that he still wants me. Will have me again. Will take me back now. Of course, he will, but these are thoughts anyway.
Our words echo in the big space of the atrium, its openness winding up a staircase to other levels and soaring high like a cathedral. He remains six feet away, intentional no doubt, the distance a succulent tension, his eyes reaching across and continuing to fondle my breasts like fingers — a metaphor with real effect, as my nipples now have become engorged as if flicked softly by his eyelashes.
He asks a question that drills into the heart of my current state. I have for three months been absent from the twins of my being — the submissive and sexual needs that make me what I am. We both know this, although I doubt he really understands how desperately eager I am right now.
He asks: “Do you want me to whip you or fuck you?”
I breath in deeply. The question is either/or. “Yes,” I say.
In time, he walks behind me, wrapping one arm around in front, his hand cupping my breast. His other hand slides down my hip and thigh, then in front, where he slips his fingers down my abdomen and just above my vulva.
“You shaved yourself for me,” he said.
“Yes, I know you prefer me this way.” I also know it pleases him to think I was preparing myself for him long before showing up on his doorstep. He controls me even when I’m back home attending to my toilette in my bathroom.
I can feel his cock through his pants, pressing between my ass cheeks. I want that, like I want all of him right now. And it is now that I know I won’t last for long. I have been so pent up, I’m like a shaken-up seltzer bottle — every nerve ending of my body ready to pop.
His hand wanders from my front to my rear, his fingers pushing between my ass cheeks, one finger extending. He inserts it into my anus. I have lubed myself for him, and he slips in easily. Feeling him there, I breathe in deeply.
I wonder if he has looked at the clock and later will calculate that it has been just twenty-eight minutes since I arrived, that in less than half an hour he has managed to finger fuck me anally. Of course, I am not a real challenge, I’m so easy, especially this time. Yet does he think this in a later moment, have a laugh at how quickly he has claimed me, gotten inside me here?
In his arms, I am trembling. Yes, he has gotten into me physically, literally so, but I felt him inside my submissive heart even before I arrived. When I stepped into the atrium, I was already his, so ready to be taken by him, by the presence of his dominance. My twin needs merged now head together toward a climax possessed.
He slips out of me behind and lifts his finger to my mouth. I take it between my lips and in across my tongue, tasting my defilement.
His finger soon finds my pussy below and, wet from my tongue, aligns vertically between my labia. I close my eyes. I am now lost in him, in his sexual dominance, his handling of me, and in my hopeless vulnerability to him. He nestles there, and in that singular moment, his finger rests upon my clit.
I try not to, but I shudder. My head falls back against his chest. I come.
He gives me the moment, enjoying my standing orgasm. “I didn’t give you permission,” he says. “I will have to punish you.”
Still in the throes, my voice warbles: “I know.”
He chuckles at my swoon and desperation. And now his finger slips inside me, burrowing into my tunnel, into my submissive soul.
I come again.
Before he is done with me, there is a third, and I can hardly stand up.