The dining room

"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'd finished heating up the food, nothing super fancy for their first meal in the house - roast chicken and some vegetables. She sat at his feet while he ate, thinking about the new place, listening to the music he'd put on their new sound system. Trip hop. Every now and then he'd feed her a scrap from his hand, or stroke her hair or her face. When he'd finished he told her to clear the table and come back quickly.

She was a bit surprised, as she'd expected him to put his unfinished plate on the floor for her, but she rose obediently and picked up his dinner and salad plates. "Just toss whatever's left. There's not much point in wrapping it. Hurry back."

"Sir? Should I just eat as quickly as I can?" - "Hmm? No, didn't you hear me? Toss the garbage and hurry back." - "I haven't eaten, Master."

Faster than she could have imagined he was standing, his hand on the throat. "Put the plates down." She did, bending carefully, his hand around her neck following the motion of her body. He pushed her backwards until she was against the wall, her hands stiff at her sides, while he slowly squeezed her throat. She drew ragged breaths from behind the constriction. Then his other hand rose, covered her mouth, pinched her nostrils shut. She waited, eyes on his, until he released her nose and mouth. She drew a few labored breaths before his hand once again deprived her of all air. This continued for a few moments. Finally he spoke.

"What are you?" - "I'm your slave." - "I control you completely." - "Yes." - "I control even the air you breathe." - "Yes. Thank you, Sir." - "I've never controlled your food before, except when I've ordered for you in a restaurant." - "No, Sir." - "But I can. Are you hungry?" - "Yes, Sir." - "Good. Now clear the table, throw out the trash, and come back here." - "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry." - Releasing her throat. "Damn right you're sorry. Hurry up." He sat back down, watched her scurry with her chained ankles and wrists to clear the table, heard her scraping plates in the kitchen, putting them in the sink. He heard the water running - she must be washing her hands - then she was back in the room, crawling to his feet.

He got up, quickly inspected the kitchen, made sure no food was readily available. Not that she was likely to cheat, or if she did she would confess it very quickly, but that wasn't really where he wanted to go. He returned to her.

"Go make me an espresso, and there's some dessert in the fridge. Oh, and a glass of port too." He put away the placemat and wiped down the table while he was waiting. Soon she returned, looking stonefaced at the single serving of flourless chocolate cake. He laughed. "Here, I won't be TOO cruel." Having her kneel in front of him, he pulled two thin nylon hoods over her head, being careful to tuck her hair into them where it wouldn't tickle her neck. The first mask had only a hole for the mouth; the second mask didn't even have that, fitting tightly over her entire head. The thin fabric allowed her to breathe.

"Now you won't be so tormented. Or is that a good thing? Maybe it's time for a bit more torment." He lifted her onto the table, pushing the candlesticks out of the way. "Make yourself useful." He positioned her arms at a 45 degree angle, placed a lit candle in each hand. "I don't really think much of wax play. Just hold the candles still and you'll be fine." She could hear his footsteps across the floor, felt the light dim even through her closed lids, heard him come back to the table. He jarred it a bit sitting down. A few drops of wax fell on her belly. She cringed, causing more wax to fall on her. Carefully she tried to reposition herself and the candles so that they would be vertical, but she'd lost track of her body. She thought they probably were roughly vertical. She waited, arms up, listening to him eat the cake, sip his coffee. The music was soft in the background, the beat hypnotic.

The candles were not dripless ones. Soon she could feel the wax trickling onto her hands. She tried to keep still, knowing that if she did so the wax would most likely collect in the same place, not causing new burns. Her arms were beginning to get stiff. Soon she would need to move them. She concentrated on holding them still.

He was drinking the port now.

Her biceps were aching, and her shoulders. Wax was collecting on her hands, the overflow dripping down her fingers. Her arms began to tremble. Drops of wax flew, onto her belly, her breasts, as far down as her thighs. She felt some hit the hood, realized that he'd been careful to protect her face. She could feel him watching her.

Now she could barely hold still. She was whimpering, her muscles on fire, too cowardly to bend her arms and let the wax fall on her.

"All right, my love. Almost done."

His hand grasped her wrist, repositioned the candle, tipped it. Wax fell directly onto her breast and nipple, searing, making her cry out. Immediately she felt the port on her skin, the alcohol cooling and burning at the same time, and then his mouth, licking up the syrupy liqueur, soothing her skin. He pulled her hand downward, positioning it over her open cunt. She whined. His hand was firm on hers, implacable. She waited for the pain on her exposed clit. Moments passed.

He blew out the candles, helped her to her feet.