Leahl's blog

She lay exhausted on the carpeted floor as he moved back and forth within the bedroom, bringing things in, arranging them in the walk-in closet. She roused when she felt him fastening her wrist and ankle cuffs, then lifting her head to put her collar around her neck. He'd brought the small dressing stool over and placed a pitcher of water and a glass on it. She put her head back down and felt him clip a chain to her neck, then to a hook in the wall. He gave her a blanket and a pillow.

"All set, my love? Do you have everything you need?"

She suddenly realized that he wasn't setting up another scene, that it was bedtime. She'd never slept anywhere but in his bed. They'd talked about it, planned for it even, but while she found the idea arousing it was also frightening - and he, it seemed, enjoyed the fantasy but really preferred her company. Now she was to sleep, not even at his feet or next to the bed, but in the closet.

"Bedtime."

She'd moved beyond anticipating what was coming next, which room he would lead her into. When she heard his voice, she was almost startled. I am tired, she thought. She followed him slowly up the stairs, grateful to be crawling up and not down. He led her through the large bedroom, cool with the breeze, street lights from the distant road creating only a soft glow through the open curtains. Past the closet/dressing room was the bathroom, large with its soaking tub and steam shower. He removed her chains and then her collar and cuffs.

"Let's get that wax off you and get you ready for bed."

I want to share an experience I had last week, although it's not really a denial story. Feel free to wander off.

My master and I were staying with friends and one night we got into the Scotch, except I'm not much of a drinker because it goes right to my head, and my master and our friend started talking about sound systems and listening to jazz, so I had enough Scotch to put me in a happy place and then I toddled off to bed.

I was deeply asleep, in this wonderful slightly alcoholic daze, cuddled into the bedsheets, when my master came in and started stroking me. I woke up enough to love it, and it was instantly very very arousing, but in this slightly unreal way. I was still half asleep, and a little buzzed, and I think I'd been having an erotic dream as well - anyway, I just had no barriers between me and the arousal. It was a bit like what I've described before, where I'll get very broken down and inarticulate and animal-like, but it wasn't as a result of heavy play. I just slipped into it, like an otter into the water.

"Hungry?"

She had been, previously, although the substantial load of come she'd just swallowed had put a damper on her appetite. She knew she'd be hungry again by the time dinner was ready, though. "Yes, Sir, I am." - "Good. I am too. Let's get the table set." He unclipped her hands and the chain that ran from collar to ankles, but substituted new, short lengths of chain connecting wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle. They made their way into the kitchen, where he began unpacking groceries and she stood up - finally! - and poked around finding china and silver.

All their new things were in the house - mostly furnishings, although they'd gotten a new set of pots and pans and some fresh linens - but they hadn't transferred their old possessions back from the rental. That would happen early next week. In the meantime it was a challenge to remember what they had in the new place and what they needed to bring with them. She located the mismatched dishes that she'd brought, piecemeal, over the past months so that she could heat up some lunch and chose the nicest of them. "One place setting, Sir, or two?" - "One, my love." She carried the heavy earthenware to the glossy new dining room table and set one place at the table's head. She arranged candles and the new salt and pepper set, put out water and wine, and then there wasn't much else to do. With permission, she placed a small pillow next to his chair, for her to sit on.

He sat in the living room, sipping Champagne and watching his slave prepare a fire. She'd brought in the large logs from the woodpile in the garage - hampered, it was true, by the chain that ran from her collar to her ankle cuffs, but slowly the pile next to the fireplace grew larger. She could crawl, if she liked, to the garage, or she could bend over and scuttle if she preferred, but to return, with the heavy log, required a combination of crawling using only one hand for support - as she was holding the log in the other arm - or, as a respite, kneeling up with the log in both arms, but with her upper body bent awkwardly toward her feet.

The guest bedroom was the smallest in the house. They'd furnished it simply, with a double bed and a small dresser. He'd laid an assortment of brushes on it. "Pick two," he said. She picked a large powder brush and a very small tipped soft calligraphy brush. He handed her the die. "Roll it." A five. Oh well, she thought, at least it hadn't been a five out in the garage.

He bound her open on the bed and began swirling the powder brush all over her body - her thighs, her breasts, the curve of her waist. When she was wet and squirming he began on her pussy, dragging the brush slowly up her lips. They were closed enough that the brush barely if ever touched her clit. He counted. One... two... three... up to sixteen. And again. One... two... three... to sixteen. Five times. By the end she was thrashing against her bonds. Only one more brush to go.

By the time the sixteen minutes were up, she was no longer languorous. She was frantic, wriggling, moaning. Her nipples and her clit burned in different ways. He'd removed the clothespins from her nipples after ten minutes, swayed by her desperate pleas and the tears that stood in her widened eyes. When the timer rang, he opened the hair clip and pulled the ginger off her clit.

Although he'd had mercy on her about the clothespins, her suffering during the sixteen minutes had aroused him to the point of indulging his selfishness. Ignoring her petition to be allowed to wash, he fingered her for a few moments, prolonging her agony while increasing her arousal. And his own. Finally he bent her over the arm of the chair and entered her, enjoying the gentle tingle on his own cock as the residual juices from the ginger mixed with her own juices to create a tight warmth that he almost couldn't resist. He pulled out before he could get too carried away and led her into the large bath between the guest room and the laundry closet. They'd put in a large walk-in shower with a hand sprayer, tiled in large slate tiles, that could hold the dog as well as a human to wash him.

The kitchen was large, with big windows and a farm-style table in the middle. He'd lit a fire in the fireplace and the two of them sat by it, he in the couch and she at his feet, until she'd recovered from the beating. He made them both strong, sweet ginger tea and they toasted the room and each other. When they'd finished he stood up, pulling her to her feet.

"You sit now. I'll be right back." She sat in the chair, staring at the fire, thinking of nothing, until he returned. He had the remains of the ginger root and some clothespins from the laundry closet. Incongruously, he also had a large hair clip, probably the one she used to coil her hair back when she worked out. She looked at him, languorously enjoying his nearness, while he arranged her in the chair, leaning back, legs spread open over the chair arms. He sucked her nipples erect, licked her clit until it throbbed, then left her there, open, while he whittled the ginger into a small oval. She was unsurprised when he fitted this over her clit, gently holding the lips closed with the hair clip. Its teeth bit into her not unpleasantly. She enjoyed their soft bite, the spreading warmth of the ginger. She know that it would be a fiery torture before long.

He pulled up to the house, parked in the driveway. "Get out, take off all your clothes, hands on the hood, ass out." It was dark, and the driveway lights were off, but still she glanced at the neighbors' houses, lights aglow over the suburban foliage. "No, please. Please pull into the garage. Please." - "Out. Clothes off. Wait for me, I'll be back in a while."

He dug around for a moment and tossed her collar and cuffs into her lap. Then he shouldered the duffel and carried it and the shopping bags into the house. He puttered about, putting things away, setting them up, glancing out the window periodically to see what she was up to. She'd gotten out of the car and was crouched next to it, carefully removing her things without venturing her head above its shelter. He grinned. He'd scoped out all the lines of sight from the neighbors' front doors and she was pretty safe. Of course, someone MIGHT come wandering over to welcome them, but that risk just added to the excitement. His excitement.