Slave Girl Emily Ch. 01

Author's note: This is Chapter 1, "Andrew," of a story about a young woman named Emily, a submissive with an assertive streak. A typical story line has a girl meet a Dom who introduces her to BDSM and helps her discover her inner sub. But does it have to happen that way? Here's a possible alternative. rosa-blanca.ru: Bondage, Spanking, Toys, Straight sex, Oral sex.

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Chapter 1. Andrew

Vibrators buzz in my pussy and ass. I'm frogtied, ankles bound to thighs, wrists bound to ankles, back to the bare floor, feet far apart in the air, clamps on both nipples. My body's humming with arousal, an engine revving higher and higher, tach in the red - I'm whining, "Please, Master!"

He looks on, mildly interested. He's dressed in a light gray suit, white shirt, lavender tie, black shoes. He sits close to me on a wooden chair, leaning back, relaxed. He watches awhile, then uncrosses his legs, reaches down, and turns the vibrators off. He sits back again.

"No, Master," I sob. I writhe on the floor and struggle against the ropes. If only I could free a hand and touch myself - or maybe I could work myself over to that table and rub my pussy on one of its legs. I try to wriggle towards it but can't make any progress - instead I fall over onto my side. "Master, Please," I beg, "Pleeeeeeze - "

"Not yet, Emily," he says, smiling gently.

"When, Master?"

"When I decide it's time," he says.

Master stands, turns me onto my back, and adjusts a nipple clamp. He sits again, leans forward, and massages my clitoris.

"No, Master, I can't stand it!"

There's a word I could say, just one word, and then he'd have to take the vibrators out, untie me, and let me masturbate. Maybe he'd even fuck me if I said it.

I don't have to guess the word - I know it as well as I know my name. It's not "please," not "no," not any of the words I've spoken, whimpered, shrieked for the last half hour as I've begged him for an orgasm.

I won't say the word.

Master turns on the vibrators. Oh, it's unbearable, the engine's screaming, needle slams through the red, off the scale, I'll explode if he doesn't let me come . . .

* * *

"I'm sorry," I said in a small voice, and I really meant it.

"Listen," Mark said. "I'm not saying you have to be perfect. But you were supposed to be here like an hour and a half ago. I tried to call, and you didn't answer. Where were you? Why didn't you answer your phone?"

I shrugged. I'd been at Starbucks with my phone turned off, reading my psychology assignment over a cup of tea. I knew what time it was, and I knew when we were supposed to meet up. I was looking forward to it. I just couldn't get up and go. How do you explain that?

"You aren't even going to tell me where you were? Don't you think I deserve some kind of explanation? Or maybe you were doing something you didn't want me to know about. Maybe you've been seeing some other guy."

"I'm not seeing another guy, Mark, I promise." I laid a hand on his arm, feeling its hardness, thinking of what it looked like when he swung a baseball bat, what it was capable of.

He pulled away from me, closed and opened his fists, strode across the room and back. "We go through this over and over, Emily. You're late, or you don't show up at all, or you go to the ladies room and disappear, and there's never a reason. You're not reliable."

"I know, Mark. I'm sorry."

"Maybe there's something I could do to help. If you have trouble remembering things, I can call a half hour ahead to remind you. If you'll just leave your phone on."

"Sometimes I forget to charge it," I said, but that was a lie. It's true I sometimes let the battery run down on my phone, but it wasn't forgetfulness. I wanted it to run down, and I wanted to be late. Not late to class or to meetings with my professors - just late seeing Mark.

"Well, I can understand forgetfulness," he said. "I forget things too. It's just that you're too important to me to forget. Maybe I'm not important enough to you."

Jesus, I thought. Here comes the Guilt Trip, right on time after the Offer to Help and the Understanding. I'd been putting up with this kind of shit for as long as I could remember.

When I was seven I broke a glass. I wasn't being clumsy, I've never been clumsy, I just broke it to find out what would happen.

Daddy said, "That's all right, honey. Even your mom and I break things now and then."

I said, "Jane says her mother spanked her after she broke a glass."

"Well, we don't spank in this family."

When I was thirteen and Mom found a pack of cigarettes in my purse, she said she was disappointed in me, and I said Lexi Miller had been grounded for a whole week after her father found cigarettes in her purse. Mom bought me a book on the dangers of smoking.

And when I was seventeen, and Mom said she thought I should stop going out with Bobby Cross because he didn't show me enough respect, I told her she was a meddling old cow, and she said that was a hurtful thing to say. I said Bobby's father gave him a beating when he said that same thing to his mother. Mom said that was the kind of behavior she'd expect from people like the Crosses, but she hoped she was setting a better example for me.

Mark said, "Maybe if I just - "

"Maybe if you just ate shit!" I yelled, and stomped out of his dorm room, slamming the door behind me.

At least Bobby didn't go around whining about how I was more important to him than he was to me. Once I turned up a half hour late to meet him at the Outback - I'd spent the time dithering about whether he'd like me better in my denim blouse or plaid. He just simmered all through dinner, not saying a word, and when we got out to the parking lot afterwards he backhanded me and knocked me down.

"Don't ever fucking do that again," he said.

I was shocked and upset. I knew I'd have a bruise on my face, and it'd be a pain to have to explain it to my parents. But after I got home and told my lie about tripping in a pothole, I lay in bed and thought about what it had felt like, getting hit like that, and what Bobby's anger had felt like, fizzing like a long fuse and just blowing up, pow! I masturbated before I fell asleep.

Bobby broke up with me the summer before I went off to college, and it was kind of a relief, really. We were an absurd mismatch: I was going off to an elite university in New York, he was all set to start clerking at a convenience store, and it looked like that was going to be his career path if he didn't get himself locked up instead. And even though it was kind of exciting when he got mad and hit me, there was a mindlessness to his brutality that I didn't like, and an aimlessness to him. He didn't know where his own life was going, and he didn't care where mine was going. I couldn't look up to him.

Mark was my fourth athlete. I know now why I was attracted to athletes: when I'd meet one I'd imagine the violent things he did with his powerful body: tackling, throwing an opponent down, swinging a bat. That was exciting. They weren't all like Mark, either. The other three were overbearing instead of manipulative. But the overbearing ones were crappy lovers. They had no imagination. I couldn't respect them.

By the time I stormed out of Mark's dorm room, I knew I was nowhere near finding what I'd been looking for. I avoided Mark for three days, and when I finally stopped screening his calls and ignoring his texts it was just to tell him I wasn't going to see him again. There was no point telling him I'd decided I was done with athletes too.

I drifted after that, avoiding old haunts like frat houses and football games. Sometimes I'd meet guys through friends and go out with them a few times, even sleep with them once or twice before losing interest. I had no idea what I was looking for.

* * *

My roommate Brenda had a boyfriend named Zach in the class ahead of ours, and he had a friend named Andrew, a Classics major. Brenda decided I had to meet this Andrew. "He's not an athlete," she said, "sort of thin and scholarly looking, but he's got a kind of suppressed forcefulness, like he's trying hard not to be bossy. There's something attractive about it."

He didn't sound all that promising, but I agreed to have dinner at Symposium with Brenda, Zach, and Andrew. And actually he was perfectly charming in an old-fashioned way, his conversation witty and full of quotations and allusions, which I'm sure the rest of us were catching only a few of, not being literature majors. In looks he was about a million miles from Mark and the other athletes I'd been dating. If I was going to go out with him, he'd take some adjusting to.

Our conversation drifted (or maybe Brenda steered it) into what was hot. Crazy Heart, we agreed, was hot. Lady Gaga was hot; so was Kanye West.

Andrew said, "There's nothing in modern culture hotter than what you can find in Ovid."

"Oh, come on," Brenda said. "I've read Metamorphoses, we all have, and sure, it's sexy. But Jeff Bridges hot? Steam-your-glasses hot? Panty-wetting hot?"

"If you want to get turned on," Andrew said, "read the Amores. But really, I'm constantly getting turned on reading ancient literature. It beats hell out of Internet porn."

"Okay," I said, "Tell us what's hot about, say, Cicero."

"Well," he said, turning to me. His eyes were gray, his gaze unwavering. "Let's see. Cicero was rich, a Roman senator, so he owned slaves. And you know, people then had no guilt at all about using their slaves sexually. If you had a good-looking slave and you wanted to get your rocks off, you just crooked your finger, and you got laid."

Brenda said, "But it was wrong, just like the way American slaveowners slept with their slaves."

"I'm not saying it was right," said Andrew, "just that it was hot. I mean, think about it. You were surrounded by these people who were totally at your mercy because you owned them, and they'd do anything you asked because they had to. You had the power of life and death over them; they had no will of their own, no property, not even an identity, apart from what you gave them. No one has that kind of absolute power over other human beings these days, at least not in this country. And of course I agree that's totally a good thing. But just tell me slavery wasn't hot."

Brenda said, "It wasn't hot."

I stared at Andrew. What he was saying turned me on. But more than that, I felt like I'd agree with anything he said, however outrageous, and that feeling turned me on even more.

"Yeah," I said. "It was hot." Brenda gave me a disgusted look. Andrew smiled at me, gray eyes smoky and warm.

By the time Andrew called me the next day, I'd picked up a copy of the Amores, and by the time we met for dinner the following night I'd read almost half the poems. He was right, they were hot. I was eager to talk to him about them.

He came to my dorm for me, and I just walked with him without quite knowing where we were going. "So you've been reading the Amores?" he said, striding along the sidewalk. He sounded like a teacher checking that I'd done my homework. I had to trot a little every few steps to keep up with him.

"I've been enjoying them," I said.

"Which is your favorite?"

"I like the one where he's going to be at the same dinner party with his lover and her husband. He makes demands he has no right to make, but he doesn't care, he just makes them anyway. He's really domineering."

"I like that one too," he said. "He just assumes he's number one even though she's married."

"I think he is number one," I said. "I'll bet she does everything he tells her - touches his foot under the table, twists her ring to tell him she thinks he's hot - "

I shivered, imagining myself in the scene.

He steered me into a pizza restaurant a block from campus.

"Do you have a favorite?" I asked as we slid into a booth.

He said, "As a slavery fan, I like the one where he's shocked, shocked that his lover would accuse him of getting it on with her slave-girl. The next poem is addressed to that very same slave, and of course they've been screwing. That's hot!"

I said, "If Corinna caught them at it, she could have the slave whipped, or worse."

He said, "There were some legal protections for slaves, but yeah, she could whip or sell her."

A waiter came, and Andrew ordered a pizza for us - mushrooms and olives. It was strange not being consulted. I was surprised to find I was a little relieved: I'd always had trouble deciding what to order. "Beer?" he asked.

"Anything," I said.

"Two Bengali Tigers," he said to the waiter.

The beer was good. We drank, and I listened to him talk about Ovid. The pizza came, and Andrew ate, but my stomach was fluttery and I just nibbled the slice the waiter had put on my plate.

There was a lull in the conversation. To break it Andrew said, "I knew I was going to call you when you said you thought slavery was hot. It was like you were a kindred spirit. Not that the hotness of slavery is all that big an issue. I mean, who cares anymore?"

"Lots of people," I said. "There are slaves right here in New York. They're couples that look normal when they're out in public, but when they're at home, one of them's a slave and one's a master or mistress. It's a sort of kinky sex game."

He said, "Takes all kinds to make a world," and made a dismissive gesture. But his eyes met mine, and I saw curiosity and interest there.

I said, "You'd have to be the master, wouldn't you, if you played that game?"

He looked away. "Yeah, I guess I would," he said. "I've been told I'm kinda bossy."

"You'd make a good master," I said, "strict, definite about your wishes, taking no nonsense, but fair and just if you had to, you know, punish your slave."

"I'll bet you'd make a good master too," said Andrew, looking back at me, smiling, polite.

"I don't think so," I said. "I'm inconsistent and irresponsible, a habitual fuckup. I need discipline. I've got to be the slave."

Andrew stared at me. "Talk about hot," he said. "This conversation we're having . . ."

He was right. I could feel my cheeks turning red, and my nipples and clitoris were heating up. I thought if we went on talking like this, or if I just looked at his gray eyes again, I might have an orgasm right here in the restaurant.

Fortunately for my modesty, it seemed neither of us had anything more to say. I was desperate to go on with the conversation, but my mind was a blank. I stared down at the barely-touched slice of pizza on my plate, cursing myself for the way I'm so often tongue tied.

I looked up at Andrew. He glanced away, as if he'd been caught at something. He seemed as confused as I was.

I looked down again, at my hands. I was wearing a ring - a simple silver one with an onyx. I twisted the ring, nervous, willing my hands not to shake.

I couldn't look up. Seconds passed; they seemed like eternities.

Finally he said, hoarsely, "Emily - "

I whispered, "Master."

He didn't say anything. I couldn't look up at him. The silence was unendurable. The waiter brought the check, and I stared at Andrew's hands as he counted out some bills and laid them on the tray. My eyes were tearing up, my nose starting to run. Now he'd politely walk me back to campus, shake my hand, and I'd never see him again. I'd fucked up, I was sure of it.

But after he'd put his wallet away, he said, "When I get up, make sure we haven't forgotten anything, then follow me out the door. Walk a foot or so behind me and a little to the right."

Happiness welled up inside me, a huge warm wave. I checked the table as he'd instructed and followed him to his dorm, where he signed me in. I stared down, not meeting his eye, as we rode the elevator to his floor. I trailed him down the hall to his room; he unlocked his door, walked in, turned around, and said, "Come in and close the door."

I did as he'd commanded, turned to him, and said, "Your slave awaits your commands, Master."

He paused, looking more than a little uncertain. Surely he'd had women in his room, there was no such thing as a virgin at this university, but he'd never had an encounter like this one. I knew that if I were in his place I'd be intensely aware that the woman in front of me wasn't really a slave, but just playing one. She could call the game off in an instant if I gave a command she didn't care to follow.

"Master," I said, "may I speak freely?"

"You may," he said, a little relieved.

"Master," I said, "a slave has no right to expect to be wooed or courted. The only pleasure a slave is permitted is that of serving her Master and obeying his every command. I am entirely your slave, and I will obey without hesitation."

Thinking back on that moment, I can't believe how naive I was, not imagining that any Master would ever ask a thing I'd find truly impossible, or so horrible I simply couldn't do it. But I meant what I said with all my heart.

Andrew stared at me, still uncertain. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Take your shoes and socks off."

I was wearing the more or less standard undergraduate uniform for New York in early April: sweatshirt, jeans, running shoes. And I'll just mention here that I've always considered myself pretty enough but a good bit short of beautiful. I have an oval face with a smallish nose, green eyes, and a shapely body with medium-sized breasts. At that time I had long brown hair, and I hadn't even dreamed of getting tattoos or piercings.

I kicked my shoes off and raised my feet, one at a time, to pull off my socks. I straightened up and faced him again.

"Your sweatshirt," he said. "Take it off."

I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and dropped it on the floor. I faced him again, wearing bra and jeans and feeling mildly self-conscious.

"Jeans," he said.

I pushed them down, stepped out of them, and faced him again. My face was hot, and my heart was pounding. I yearned for his next command, and I was terrified, too.

He paused for a long time before he said, "Take off your bra. And panties."

I reached around behind my back, unsnapped my bra, and let it fall to the floor. Finally I stepped out of my panties.

I stood facing him and let my arms drop to my sides, feeling more naked than I'd ever felt before, thinking about my prominent nipples and big areolae, my untrimmed pubic hair. I wondered if he liked the look of them better than I did. There was indecision in his face - he wanted to stare, and he didn't want to be seen staring. But I felt no indecision. I had wanted to be naked, wanted him to see my body - well, now I was naked, and he was looking at me. I said, "Your slave awaits your further commands."

He opened his mouth and said, "I . . ." Once again he didn't quite know what to do.

"A slave," I said, "is incapable of being shocked by anything she may see. She's not entitled to such feelings."

He hesitated only a moment; then he sat on the edge of his bed and took his shoes off. He stood again and took off his shirt and pants. He glanced at me; I frowned at him a bit, and he pushed down his underwear. He was lean, far from athletic, but his body looked strong, clean, and not too hairy. His cock wasn't hard yet; he was too nervous.

I said, "Allow me to arrange the bed for you, Master." I propped the pillow against the wall to make a backrest. My doing this seemed to give him confidence. He sat on the bed and leaned back on the pillow. I stood in front of him and waited.

"Come and kiss me," he said.

I said, "Yes, Master." How would slave and Master kiss? It wouldn't be a tentative, first-date kiss; it wouldn't be loving, not tender, not gentle. I would give, anxious, afraid not to please, and Master would want, take, and offer no thanks. I crawled to him over the bed till my hands were on either side of him, and my breasts brushed his chest, nipples already swelling - it was so sexy to be naked for a first kiss! I leaned into him, pressed breasts and belly flat against him, and kissed him. I put away all shame - a slave couldn't afford it - made it wet and lascivious, mouth open, tongue prying his lips apart, breathing hot into his mouth. And he responded with fierce need, taking me in his arms and crushing me to him, lips hard, tongue thrusting. His hands roved over my shoulders and back - my skin burned where he touched me - down to my ass: he squeezed my buttocks, fingered my crack.