Warnings:
NSFW. Sexually Explicit. May Be Disturbing. Erotic Fiction. A Work Of The Imagination
Desire is a funny thing, not funny as in comic or laughable, rather it is funny in the sense of being ironic or peculiar. But when I reflect about desire a little more I think about the ends to which I will go to scratch that itch. My pretenses of being a rational human vanish. When I consider Mistress, I am lost.
I prepare for my visit to her home. Shower, shave where I need to be hairless, the tricky part being my scrotum. I clean my asshole with a stream of water and liquid soap, working two fingers in to feel the stretch and know it is ready for her use, should she so desire.
When my body is clean, I make certain my clothes are clean, starched and ironed. My boots are shined, belt is shined, belt buckle gleaming.
I have the flowers she loves, a bouquet of roses, in yellow, red, pink, and white.
I knock on the door.
“It’s unlocked. Come in,” says a voice on the intercom by the door bell.
I enter. On the table in the foyer is a vase for the roses, with water. I place the roses in the vase as artfully as I can. Next I empty my pockets, keys, wallet, along with the collar I so carefully worked and polished the night before. It will be placed about my neck at Mistress’s discretion.
In the foyer closet are the hangers for my clothes. Even though I meticulously prepared my clothes and boots, they always go here. When I am naked, I turn off the light. I kneel on the cold and hard marble tiles of her foyer. And wait in the darkness.
The room was cold that night. My nipples hardened. My scrotum shrank. I was uncomfortable.
I hear Mistress coming. The darkness is complete, but for the light of her candle.
“Kneel up. Eyes forward”., as if I could see in the near complete darkness. A blindfold is placed over my eyes. Assured that I can see nothing, she then turns on the light.
“Present yourself.” I stand, hands at my sides. I can feel and hear her breathing. She takes out the skin fold calipers and begins to measure the bodyfat around my waist.
“Acceptable. Kneel for my collar.”
I kneel to accept the collar as it goes about my neck. Then a lead is fastened to the collar’s D-ring. I can smell the leather of the collar I worked on the night before.
“Follow.” I crawl behind her, the lead slack.
Crawling through the house, I feel the floor surfaces, tile, hardwood, an occasional carpet runner.
“Stop.” I hear Mistress open a door. I smell the essential oils in the fragrance diffuser. Ylang Ylang and lemon grass.
I notice that I am no longer crawling on a hardwood floor, but carpet. I cross the carpet. My hand collides with a heavy chair leg.
“Stop. On your back. Scoot under the chair. Pay proper homage to Your Queen.” It is a familiar command and always a welcome one. I know the Queening Chair, its open seat, the headrest and cradle where my head belongs. When I am in position, she raises the cradle adjusts it so that my mouth and tongue will align with her labia or clitoris, or her perineum and anus, depending on how she positions herself. Since I am blindfolded I have no idea of what the whims of her senses may be tonight.
Then the scent of her sex overwhelms me. I set to work, aware of my duty, eager to please. Broad flat tongue strokes on her labia. “Yes. More.” She shifts slightly. Her clit. I lick, I suck, I even dared to nip it with my teeth, before licking it again. I hear her growl of pleasure, the only sign I have fulfilled my duties.
“Scoot out. Good job.” She hands me a water bottle. I drink.
She fixes the lead again. “Time for your milking.” I was surprised and excited an the prospect of an orgasm.
I follow her to a bench that exposes buttocks and anus. The bench allows me to rest my upper body, while my penis juts out, available for whatever stroking she wishes to give it.
I feel the gloved finger, the lube, the stretching, the teasing in and out. The dildo pushes in next. My prick hardens more. I feel her hips against me. I am excited and strangely serene.
“Tonight I will collect.” It was a command I had been told about. Until tonight I had never heard it said.
She began the thrusting in my ass, along with the stroking of my dick. My pleasure was building. I was going to ejaculate. When the crisis came, she placed a lubricated tube, made to the thickness of my penis to collect the semen.
I was satisfied. I am always, slut that I am.
“I’m surprised by the yield. Let’s hope the sperm have good motility. I’m taking your blindfold off.”
The room was appropriately dim and my eyes adjusted easily.
“Come to the bed. You may walk.”
I went to the bed, climbed in beside her. We were, in that moment, almost like a regular couple. Vanilla. Almost equals.
“With any luck, your sperm will impregnate a woman in a lesbian marriage. Yes you will be a father, pay child support, medical bills, school tuition from pre-kindergarten through graduate school. But you will never meet your child or the mother.
“You have been chosen because of your good health, intelligence, financial success. You are a modern day god, a Zeus or Apollo.”
I was stunned. I was used. I felt empty. But such are the consequences of absolute service.
Dispatches From Dystopia 