Golden Wine

He's a changed man since his stroke, not in large ways but subtle ones. He's spookier, he speaks less and takes his time to reply almost to the point of making the conversation uncomfortable. Does he know he is doing this, I am unsure. I can see he scares people, at times even the likes of me. I still ponder how he got such a good job. Pedigree I guess.

Things have changed not only in him but in the way he lives also. He no longer has the access to wealth as his elder brother does. He spurned his family long ago, all but his beloved mother, and even returned the monies they had given him. Though he makes a very good wage he does not have a maid to tidy his abode as Master James did. I'm glad of this, it makes me feel at least useful, and every day I attempt to please him and keep order in his life. For he is one messy soul.

His condo is lovely and very comfortable, it overlooks the inner city and the waterways. Real estate is expensive in the heart of the Florida Keys, his condo is spacious but only has two bedrooms. I draw and write in his bright main room as I look out over the balcony. There is always something to attract my attention on the city skyline. Ships in the harbor, the flurry of gulls, and the endless stream of humanity below like ants on the pavement. Each tiny speck with plans, troubles, aspirations, and dreams. They all pass me by.

The walls are colored dramatic shades of red, golds, and browns. The decor is of a similar boldness and flavor. There are reminders of his Ex everywhere you turn. Its kind of unhealthy, but I was right she indeed tore out his heart. I guess he loves me, but in a different way, and he seems excited by our son. Its easier than ever here to retreat from the world. Surrounded by the city and its unknowns, they frighten me. He no longer needs to lock the door to keep me here.

In many ways this place seems ideal for him, however I don't see how he can really 'play' here. Though he does have an immense, strong iron bed specifically made to bind unwilling victims to. It didn't take me long to accidentally bruise my leg on the iron rings masked by the valance, and last evening I found out what it was like to be tied there.

At least this time I was not caught unawares lacking a suitable evening meal. I had been ill all day and struggled to write, draw, or do any of my usual activities. He had returned as he had all the evenings before strangely sober.

It was a simple mistake, I had forgotten to use his 'title.' I had spent too long with Master James, and in my mind I refered to him as just David. Well I slipped it out loud. A cardinal sin of the highest order. His hands were on me in an instant. I barely had time to even realize my error before his retaliation. He had been waiting for something and gleefully he had it at last. His green eyes crazed, expression of one drunk on power.

I did not fight him, it was futile, and I had learned it would only increase the hurt I had coming. I turned my energies inward, they would serve me better there. He laid me on the bed, but not face down as I had expected. Panic as he tied me in place spreadeagled, with little room to even squirm. I fleetingly wondered how many others had already preceded me here in this vast iron bed?

His face bore grimness, and the slightest show of deviant pleasure. He straddled my chest with his iron thighs and sat for a time looking down at me. I must be good, I must not give him any reason to hurt. I felt sick with panic.

Thankfully he did not sit his weight on me. He could and had in the past crushed me to the point I could no longer breathe with ease. He knelt above me for log moments his eyes locked on mine. Slowly he unzipped his fly without ever taking his gaze from me, his pupils narrowed in evil deeds.

"Don't you spill a drop," was all he said, as he put his half flaccid organ into my mouth. We were in his bed, I knew he meant it. I closed my eyes and hoped he would wait for me to swallow. A small trickle at first, an inward shudder of revulsion. He saw it, no time to worry about what he is thinking. I have to drink it all. Bitterness flooding my sense of taste, warm and vile.

He was being merciful, he was measuring the flow. He didn't always, and I knew sometimes he just couldn't. One putrid mouthful after the next, I must get it down. "That's right my little one drink your Master's wine." Fingers on my nipples, they were no longer rough, the nails torn from hauling bricks, he had a desk job these days. He kept applying pressure, daring me to gasp. Pinching of finger tips became pinching of fingernails, and he did not understand my breasts had approached a new terrible sensitivity with his frequent obsession to pinch them.

I gasped, and almost choked. He let go of my nipples and held my head. I was fighting hard to resume my disciplined drinking of his offering. Reflexes won and I began to cough, the mouthful I had went all over the red coverlet. A stinging slap to my cheek, a hard pinch to my left nipple. I cried out interspersed with ragged coughing. My face hurt, and my cheek was burning in pain.

He rose and completed his task in the bathroom, the bitterness of him lingering in my mouth. I shuddered and hoped his strange delights would not harm me. Yet I realized he would have usually hit me for my transgression with his belt. I had been spared this evening because he had felt benevolent, this strange Dominant man of mine.