Slave Weekend: Her Master's Desire

The rain hammered against the windows of the bed and breakfast, a relentless, insistent rhythm that mirrored the frantic thrumming in my chest. Three hours. Just three hours since my husband, Daniel, had declared this weekend my “pleasure slave,” a concept that simultaneously terrified and thrilled me. We’d been neglecting each other for far too long, swallowed whole by the demands of our six children and the relentless churn of the farm. This was supposed to be an escape, a stolen moment of indulgence, but the anticipation clinging to me felt less like excitement and more like a held breath.

He’d left before dawn, disappearing into town with a shopping list that read like a decadent fantasy: chocolate truffles, rose-scented massage oil, silk pajamas, and a stack of classic romance films. The scent of orange ginger, his favorite, already permeated the air, clinging to the plush towels and the soft, creamy scent of the bath salts he’d brought. I’d unpacked our bags, pulling out my favorite, worn-out flannel shirt, and settled onto the king-sized bed, staring at the flickering images on the screen, a cheesy 1950s melodrama playing softly in the background. Caring for six kids and managing a small farm is a brutal, bone-weary existence, and the sheer relief of this break was almost overwhelming.

When he returned, the scent of chocolate hung heavy in the air, mingling with the fresh rain smell. He wasn’t carrying snacks or movies. Instead, he’d pulled out a sleek, black manicure kit and a rainbow of nail polishes. My jaw dropped. Daniel? The man who considered ironing a Herculean task?

“What’s this?” I asked, my voice a mix of disbelief and a burgeoning sense of delicious anticipation.

He simply smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips, and gestured towards the bed. “Lay down. Let me take care of you.”

I obeyed, sinking into the plush mattress, the soft down comforter enveloping me like a warm embrace. The movie continued its predictable plot, but my focus was entirely on Daniel. He carefully trimmed and shaped my nails, his large, strong fingers surprisingly gentle. The click of the clippers against acrylic was a small, intimate sound in the quiet room. As he worked, he filled my hand with a chilled glass of champagne, the bubbles tickling my skin.

Then, he moved to my feet. He massaged them with peppermint foot lotion, working out the knots and tension accumulated from hours spent on my feet, tilling the soil and chasing after errant children. The scent of the lotion, cool and invigorating, was a welcome contrast to the warmth of the room. He followed this with a thorough foot soak and a meticulous pedicure, buffing away any remaining roughness. It was utterly decadent, an experience I hadn't allowed myself to indulge in for years.

As he worked, he kept my hand occupied with the champagne and a plate of dark chocolate truffles, each one melting in my mouth with exquisite pleasure. I felt pampered, spoiled, utterly vulnerable in his care. But there was a strange undercurrent to his actions, a possessive energy that both intrigued and slightly unnerved me.

Once my nails were perfect, he moved on to my back. The scent of orange ginger, potent and intoxicating, filled the air as he applied the massage oil, his large hands kneading and manipulating my muscles with surprising sensitivity. He worked his way down my spine, targeting every knot and ache, releasing years of pent-up tension. The peppermint lotion on my feet had already begun to melt away the stiffness, and now his touch was easing the tightness in my back, my shoulders, my neck. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his touch and the intoxicating aroma of orange ginger.

As he massaged my lower back, he began to explore my abdomen, his fingers tracing the curve of my hips with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The heat rose within me, a delicious shiver running through my body. He moved down, gently stroking my thighs, his touch feather-light at first, then gradually becoming more insistent. The anticipation built, a crescendo of desire that threatened to overwhelm me.

He paused, his hand hovering just above my private area, a silent invitation. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the moment, the heat intensifying with each passing second. He began to caress my sensitive skin, his touch both gentle and firm, seeking the precise point of pleasure. As he explored, he seemed to grow more animated, his breathing becoming more rapid, his movements more passionate. I could feel him enjoying himself just as much as I was, the increasing tightness of his shorts a clear indication of his arousal.

“You’re going to take care of me next,” I whispered, my voice breathless.

He politely refused, a flicker of something akin to amusement in his eyes. “This weekend is solely for your pleasure, my love. Not mine.”

The words, spoken with such conviction, sent a shiver down my spine. It was a blatant assertion of dominance, a reminder that he was in control of this decadent escape. But as I looked into his eyes, I realized it wasn’t an attempt to frighten me, but rather an expression of his deep desire to see me happy, to fulfill my every whim.

He led me to the enormous double shower, a sanctuary of luxury and relaxation. The water temperature was perfect, as he always liked it – scalding hot, almost painfully so. As he stepped in beside me, the steam clinging to the walls, he began washing my hair, massaging my scalp with a generous amount of shampoo. His hands were gentle and tender, his touch sending waves of pleasure through my body. Then, he retrieved a new shower gel, applying it liberally to my skin, scrubbing away any remaining traces of the day.

As he moved down my body, his hands lingering over every inch of my skin, my desire for him grew exponentially. The heat intensified, my body trembling with anticipation. And then, he reached my private area. The scent of the soap, rich and musky, filled the air, electrifying my senses. He began to stroke and caress, seeking the precise point of pleasure, and as he did, I realized that this was exactly what I’d been craving, what I’d been missing in the relentless rhythm of our lives.

The soap made him lusciously slippery, and within a couple of strokes, I had the rhythm down. He protested, but the sensations he was feeling paralyzed him, allowing me to lose myself in the moment. I stroked harder, deeper, pushing past any boundaries, feeding on his arousal and his pleasure. Finally, he reached a climax, a guttural moan escaping his lips as he collapsed onto the shower floor, gasping for air.

“You weren’t playing fair,” he said, his voice hoarse, but filled with satisfaction. “But I’m happy you enjoyed it so much. Besides, I know you’ll have plenty of energy left over for me later.”

After our shower, he dried me off with a plush white towel and carefully brushed out my hair. Then, he slathered my body with a rich, creamy body lotion, its scent a blend of vanilla and musk. We climbed back into bed, pulling the heavy down comforter around us, seeking refuge in its warmth. After a long, luxurious nap, he woke me, already dressed in a silk pajama set.

He served me breakfast in bed: a fluffy stack of pancakes drizzled with maple syrup and a pot of steaming hot coffee. As we ate, he inquired about my desires for the rest of the weekend, his eyes full of anticipation. “What do you want to do?” he asked, his voice soft and persuasive.

“Him,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. He began to ride me, his movements slow and deliberate, teasing me with his touch before unleashing a torrent of passion. As I rose to meet my second orgasm, I could feel him starting to ride the wave with me, his muscles rippling beneath his skin. The sensations became more intense, more overwhelming, as we climbed higher and higher, lost in the depths of our shared pleasure. Finally, we jumped off the cliff together, falling into a blissful oblivion, clinging to each other as we tumbled down. It was an experience of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, a moment of perfect surrender and mutual fulfillment.

As we lay entangled in the sheets, breathless and exhausted, I realized that this weekend had been more than just a stolen escape. It had been a reconnection, a rediscovery of the deep, primal connection that bound us together. And as I looked into Daniel’s eyes, filled with love and desire, I knew that this was just the beginning. I made a note to plan a future weekend, one entirely devoted to his pleasure, knowing full well that he’d return the favor tenfold.

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Slave Weekend: Her Master's Desire

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