Another Appointment

“That’s a wonderful piece of writing, Mary-Anne. One of your best, I think… I always liked that premise, but the new touches you’ve added really lift it,” her master said, his beautiful eyes flashing as he lounged against the pillows, black hair all a-tousle against the crisp white linen. He’d been reading one of her stories again, a piece that she’d recently revised and rewritten. Her heart had been in her mouth while he’d silently scrutinized his iPad, his handsome face intent and his reading glasses on the end of his nose. His good opinion of her writing meant the world to her. Perhaps as much as his feelings for her and the delicious games they played.

Sharing elaborate erotic stories was both their pleasure and their craft, the very thing that had brought them together in the first place. But making them real was their secret thrill; equally as creative, if not more.

Mary-Anne’s heart thudded. Ooh, the way he was looking at her… Had he taken the bait? Was he game for the challenge? If so… was she?

“Shall we play it?” he asked softly.

She didn’t hesitate. “Oh, hell, yes.” She was so excited she could barely get the words out.

“Very well, then, I’ll have to devise a plan for it, won’t I?”

“Please do… and the sooner the better.”

Benedict, her master, laughed, his low baritone voice more husky than usual. Revealingly so… “Are you trying to order me around again, my sweet slave?” His pale blue eyes turned steely behind his spectacles, yet they were still full of warmth. “You know what will happen if you do that, don’t you?”

I do… Oh, how I do…

She lowered her eyes submissively. It was the one sure way to hide the gleam of triumph in them.

There was more than one way of taking charge.

On the morning of the designated day, the day of the appointment, she began her journey. She was dressed exactly as her master had specified: a black satin corset, lace-top stockings, spindle heels. To maintain her modesty, she wore a voluminous trench coat over her lingerie, but following his orders, she hadn’t fastened the buttons, merely crossed it over her body and belted it loosely at the waist.

I’m just “the slave” now.
She tugged the belt slightly tighter, still a little bit of defiant Mary-Anne in her.
Just his. His by choice, but subject to his will, nonetheless.

As she ascended onto the train, her sex quivered even though the journey had barely begun. Apprehension always made her twice as randy as she normally was, and her body quickened at the thought of what was coming.

Settling into her seat, the slave filled her mind with her master, thinking of his deep, thrilling voice, his narrow, handsome face, and his strong, unremitting arm. She knew his power, which he employed both to punish her rigorously and to embrace her with exquisite tenderness, but she had a feeling that she hadn’t yet experienced his full dominion over her. Perhaps that was the thing that lay ahead of her today—the test, the appointment, the game they’d discussed whilst lying in bed after glorious sex when they were both feeling crazy and even more imaginative than usual. She really believed that he could bring it all about… even if it had been little more than a fortnight since they’d first talked of it, that night after they’d spent a pleasant afternoon browsing in his favorite antique shops.

The Gothic
prie dieu
had been the trigger.

At first they’d discussed the item’s realistic value, its condition, and its merits as a new purchase, all perfectly rational. But then he’d whispered in her ear and told her he’d like to see her bound across that dark wooden prayer stool, her buttocks raised and naked while he whipped her with a strap of well-seasoned leather. The idea had electrified her, made her ache for him, and sent her own mind whizzing into overdrive, teeming with ideas and fantasies. Afterward, in the car, she’d been wet with lust as he touched her while she’d described a few of them to him.

Back in the now, while she was dreaming about him and watching the swiftly passing countryside, she closed her eyes, trying to tame her excitement. Hopeless. In the vivid inner theatre of her perennially overactive imagination, she fancied that a young man came and took the seat beside her even though there was no such creature in the entire compartment.

Glancing at this shadow-man from beneath her lowered eyelashes, she saw an oh-so-familiar male beauty. She imagined herself leaning over, her face pressed against the grubby plush seat, whilst this gorgeous dark angel pressed his fingers into her, possessing her. Her master had told her she was a plaything and a slave—and that she should allow any male she met to enjoy her favors. In her daydream only, of course, not in reality.

But he’d still punish her for her wayward thoughts, even if he was the one who’d encouraged her to have them. He’d probably punish her even more severely if they weren’t quite wayward enough.

Fat chance of that. You might be my master, but where cooking up fantasies is concerned, I’m your equal at the very least.

Smiling to herself, she imagined passing a note to this notional pretty boy she’d fabricated and inviting him to join her in the lavatory at the end of the compartment.

Waiting for him, she’d stroke herself, her head filled with images of her master, fantasy layering upon fantasy, morphing and blurring. Perhaps she should lean over the sink and offer him her bottom? His eyes would pop when he squeezed sideways into the lavatory to find her teetering, balanced on one leg whilst the other she’d lifted and had draped across the filthy sink so she could hold her shaven sex open with her fingers. Without a word, the young man would unzip and possess her.

“Oh Master, Master, Master,” she’d chant as he thrust into her, her excitement so immense that she climaxed quickly.

The small regional railway station was very real and very cold when she reached her destination; quite busy, and yet impersonal. The slave felt shiveringly vulnerable with a naked bottom beneath her coat. At any moment, a tricky breeze might come tearing along the platform from across the tracks. Her coat would billow up and a score of strangers would see her sex. She’d shaved her pussy especially to please her master and her excited fantasies had roused her so much that her thighs were already sticky.

As her heart thudded double time, her mind ran riot again. She imagined her master’s voice over the Tannoy, ordering her to lift her clothing and display herself to all. “Caress yourself, you saucy minx,” he might say, or he might instruct her to tuck her hem into her belt, then continue her journey with her plump bottom still on show.

Just then a voice called out her name, soft and low, yet somehow carrying clearly in the throng of busy travelers. She turned and saw a smartly dressed chauffeur waiting beyond an archway beside a black limousine. Clacking and tripping on her high heels, she ran toward him. He was so smart and handsome in his dark, sober livery, but she wasn’t sure about the moustache he sported. She pursed her lips to stop herself smirking.

Soon they were gliding out of the small town, heading toward her master’s country residence. She was still burning from the way the chauffeur had looked at her, his eyes arrogant and appraising when he’d briefly raised her coat. Checking that she’d complied with her instructions as specified and not cheated by putting on some knickers.

The limousine was very comfortable and very sensual in its near-silent, leather-clad luxury. Unable to help it, she began to squirm in her seat, tensing her bottom, remembering the thrill of the chauffeur’s comprehensive glance.

What would happen if I touched myself right here?
Her fingers tingled with the urge to disobey.
What would happen if I slid my coat open and played with myself?
She wasn’t supposed to… but it might be worth it. She imagined retribution being exacted afterward though, here in the car, having her thighs soundly whipped while the chauffeur fondled her and teased her rear cleft with his finger.

Before she realized it, she was massaging her sex. As an orgasm overwhelmed her, she jerked and quietly gasped, and then she saw the chauffeur’s cool, pale eyes in the rearview mirror, his attention flicking momentarily from the road toward her.

The car stopped. They were off the road, in a secluded layby, near a copse of trees. “Come along. Hurry,” said the chauffeur, urging her firmly from the back seat by her arm.

He was a handsome man, but his manner was nothing like her master’s. Her master was composed, always serene and understated, even when imposing the sternest punishment on her. But the chauffeur was quick and a little less refined, excitingly brusque. When they reached a clearing, he made her bend and touch her toes. She quaked as he tipped her coat up over her back.

The exposure was breathtaking and made her well up again, her honey trickling down her thighs. For a few moments, she heard the chauffeur moving about the clearing, then without warning, he lashed her bottom with a thin green switch.

The pain was fierce. She squealed. He struck again. Then followed with half a dozen more sharp blows. Her buttocks were stitched across with living fire. At least a couple of strokes caught her perilously near her furrow.

She was a slave, yet her punishment exalted her. She was brought low because it was a servant who had lashed her, yet raised up because her bottom was marked for her master’s pleasure. She moaned in her throat when she heard the chauffeur’s zipper. She waited for what seemed forever, then almost fell when he thrust himself inside her.

The chauffeur went at her hard and rough and then shot his seed without allowing her to climax. Yet strangely, this only added to the thrill, ramping up her delight in her submission. Her sex was tense when he withdrew and fastened his fly.

“You’re a slut,” he hissed and walked off toward the car. “Comb your hair. Wipe your face. You look a mess.”

When she resumed her seat in the limousine, she was beyond caring about doing right or wrong. Sitting down, she lifted her coat from beneath her burning haunches and pressed her stripes against the cool, smooth leather of the seat. She groaned softly and felt once more the urge to touch herself, then looked up and saw the chauffeur’s accusing eyes. He was watching her in the rearview mirror again. Defiantly, she reached between her thighs and stole another climax, knowing he couldn’t watch her properly and also drive safely at the same time.

Though her master’s country house wasn’t large, it was still impressive. Built from weathered golden stone and set in a long, well-maintained garden, it stood mellow and elegant, in solitude, just a few miles outside a small, picturesque village. Approaching it never failed to delight her. Little Marplethorpe, proclaimed the ivy-clad sign as they glided by.

“Your shoes are dirty and your coat is wet,” the chauffeur observed, opening the car door and allowing her to totter out onto the gravel path in her high heels. “And you’re late. The master won’t be pleased about that.”

Whose fault is that, I might ask?
she thought accusingly but kept silent.

When she was ushered into her master’s study, it was empty. A small fire burned in the hearth, and there were comfy armchairs to sit down in as well as the vast imposing desk and an equally august leather chair behind it. The slave would have loved to warm herself before the hearth or relax in one of the chairs, or as much as she could with a reddened bottom. But she knew she wasn’t allowed to…

Temptation was intense, but she could almost imagine he might have deviously installed a CCTV camera in here so he could keep tabs on her while she awaited his arrival. The longer she stood, the more driven she was to transgress. He was definitely keeping her waiting on purpose. She stood for a full fifteen minutes, feeling unsettled, off balance, yet more and more and more turned on. Reduced to a mere object, an ornament to decorate the room, she felt her sex moisten anew with anticipation.