The Master’s Command
The phone rang at seven, a sharp intrusion into the quiet of the afternoon. I answered with the casual tone of a wife, but the voice on the other end was cold and demanding. “Wrong answer,” he snapped before hanging up. When the phone rang a second time, I didn’t hesitate. “Good evening, Master,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation.
He tested me with a quick math problem, a ritual of obedience. Seven plus seven. Fourteen. Times two. Twenty-eight. “Very good,” he replied. “That is exactly how many strokes you will receive tonight.” The anticipation settled in my gut like a heavy stone, warming me from the inside out. He told me he would arrive by nine-fifteen and that my instructions would follow via text.
Half an hour later, the message arrived: Prepare yourself. Dog collar, maid’s outfit, thong, bra, and anal beads. I moved with practiced efficiency, showering and preparing my body for his arrival. I slid the beads into place, feeling the fullness, and dressed in the lace and nylon that marked me as his. By nine-ten, another command flashed on my screen: “Prepare my dinner. I arrive in ten minutes.”
When he walked through the door, I was waiting in the kitchen. I dropped to all fours, presenting myself as his loyal pet. I held his slippers in my mouth, guiding him as he stepped out of his socks, a silent gesture of total submission. While he showered, I finished the meal, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Dinner was a lesson in humility. When he ordered me to the floor, I asked if I would be eating. His response was a smirk. He had already placed my meal and water in bowls on the kitchen floor. I ate like an animal, sauce smearing across my cheeks, drinking greedily from the bowl, fully embracing the role he demanded of me.
Once the meal was cleared, the real session began. He bound my wrists to a ring in the ceiling, stretching my body taut. He began to apply new clamps—sharp, biting pinches that made me gasp. He adorned my most sensitive areas with them, playing with the metal, watching me writhe in a paradoxical blend of agony and ecstasy. I lived for the look of arousal in his eyes.
The clamps were eventually removed, replaced by the sting of the rod. I counted each stroke aloud—one, two, all the way to twenty-eight. My skin burned a deep crimson, and my moans filled the room. The pain transitioned into a searing heat, leaving me drenched and desperate for him.
He finally claimed me, his touch rough and possessive. After a period of intense friction, he allowed me to take control, riding him with a frantic energy. In a final act of submission, he placed a clamp on my tongue, forcing me to drool across his chest as I reached a shattering orgasm. As he masturbated, watching me bind my own breasts and apply the remaining clamps to my skin, I felt a profound sense of belonging. I was his, completely and utterly, until the very end.