Tuesday, 11 October 2011

Next Morning

It was barely light when I woke for the last time that night.  To say it had been difficult to sleep would be an extreme understatement.  Master had initially fixed the chains to the bed in such a way that I could be restrained comfortably, allowing for some movement in every direction. The only thing I couldn’t do was to turn over completely although, when only the collar was attached to the bedhead, even this was more or less possible. Last night there was no such generosity. My ankles were locked into steel manacles and pulled to each side of the end frame whilst my wrists were similarly locked into tight, cold, steel restraints and pulled up to the head frame. My metal collar could of course be swivelled around my neck until it met with the connecting chain but last night he purposely fixed it just below my right ear so I had lain with the chain links rubbing against my neck. My back stung and the pain from my shoulders throbbed down my spine and into my legs.
Sir entered the room, unlocked my right wrist and without speaking put the key into my palm.
“Do the rest and get the breakfast ready boi” was the only greeting. He turned and left. Even in the gloom I saw that he was wearing the leather jeans that I admired so much topped with the wide belt I had often polished to a mirror like finish. I so desperately wanted him to turn, hold me and say I was forgiven then push me back onto the bed whilst he enjoyed my body in any way he chose. But no, he left the room and I heard his boots on every stair. I breathed deeply, figuring this was to be a long haul back to normality, then unlocked my neck followed by the other fetters. I saw dried blood on the sheet as I got up, thin lines of red matching the pattern now etched on my back.
I did the breakfast routine without comment whilst Sir sat variously reading the paper and watching me over the top of the pages. After serving I knelt by his side as normal. Nothing.  No acknowledgment of any sort. My head pounded, my body ached but I was determined to kneel upright and not show what I felt inside.

At the end of the meal I cleared, still without any word from my Master, and stood as normal facing the wall with my hands behind me waiting for the morning's orders. I waited. Then I felt his fingers softly touching my spine just below the leather slave collar even now rubbing my neck which was still sore from the night before. He ran his fingers down my spine, barely touching me, until he reached the top of my tight leather shorts, round the belt and up the insides of my arms. I tingled inside, my gut churned hot, my cock began to harden simply at the feel of his hands on my skin as he gradually worked his way round my chest and played very gently with my nipples. It was complete ecstasy. I felt the pressure on my knees as my legs strained against the overwhelming need to sink slowly to the floor. My mouth was dry with anticipation. I desperately wanted to turn and face him, to unclasp my hands and hold his. He must have felt that need as he held my shoulders and nuzzled my neck. I still didn't move afraid of spoiling the moment I had craved would end the punishment I was still mentally suffering. Slowly my Master's leather gloved hands reached round and turned me to face him. They grasped me round the hips and pulled me close. I closed my eyes as his face neared mine, my tongue found his and I swam in a flow of his warmth, my breath taken from me. I felt his cock hard against my own, each straining against the leather that held them prisoners. My arms reached round and pulled him against me as urgently as his did to me.
"To my room boi" were the last words he spoke that morning. There was no further need for either of us to speak.

  the slave tells me today that,in regard to what we do and the satisfaction we derive from it "the figures do not exactly add up".Certainly the whole seems to amount to considerably more that the sum of the constituent parts and within the context of our relationship this observation of his is an understatement of considerable proportions. 
   In fact the scale of the not adding up,when regarded by most outsiders,is akin to multiplying oranges by apples,or listening to a foreign language being spoken when we know nothing of it's vocabulary or it's structure.In short the vast majority would not understand  in any meaningful way the pleasure we derive from our esoteric erotica.
   These thoughts come to me on a sultry late summer's evening as dusk is starting to gather over our long back garden.Beyond the small orchard of apple and pear trees that lies at the very end of  this area of land is a small patch of rough grass where I have been known to stake him out,his limbs spreadeagled and secured by strong ropes to the four steel groundpegs.Tonight however  the slave is engaged in digging a hole. 
   Strangely it's a hole that I don't really have a use for,and will probably,on a whim,order him to refill at some point.But for now it serves it's purpose.It's a hard,humiliating task digging  the hole with a shovel and the slave looks extrremely sexy. His lithe little body,clad only in calf length boots and the tight black leather shorts that I issued him as his outdoor summer uniform,strains to shift the heavy clods of clay.He is already streaked with sweat that runs in sexy rivulets down his back as he labours.The sweat glistens as it reflects the light from the small spotlight that illuminates the growing hole. I find myself wanting to lick it off,to taste the results of the instantly obeyed orders that I have given him to perform this task.
   But for now I stand on the edge of the hole towering above the toiling boi,listening to his grunts as he lifts each shovelful of earth.I am wearing  my polished black leather knee boots laced over matching breeches that increasingly show at the bulging crotch my enjoyment of watching him dig his way to exhaustion.I tease the braided leather tail of my favourite bullwhip through my gloved hands as I savour the effects of the heavy labour as it saps his energy.
  Every time he raises the shovel I know that his eye will fall on my crotch and my whip.It is one of the facets of being so much inside his head,of knowing exactly how he ticks.Tonight,for our mutual satisfaction I have recreated a scene from a labour camp where the cruel guard drives the prisoner on until he falls exhausted,but with a refinement. In our case.the slave knows what fate awaits him when his energy eventually fails him and slips away,denying him the ability to move the earth at a rate that satisfies his owner.When that does eventually  happen his limbs will be manacled,fettered and chained, a leash attached to his  heavy leather collar and he will be led from his place of labour down to his place of punishment.
  Of course there is no suggestion that he warrants such harsh treatment,he has laboured to the very edge of exhaustion to satisfy his Master but this is all part of the delicious paradox,the key to understanding and enjoying that which is available to so few.

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