I’m eager to have my sweet submissive back. Not that the mild-mannered Merry Mills is tough to take, mind you, just that I’m ready to be me. But before we get back to Master and sub, a transition is in order.
“Here, let me unhook your bracelet,” I direct her. She obediently lifts her wrist and I relieve her of her servitude, temporarily. “Go throw on some exercise clothes. We’re going upstairs to work out.”
Several minutes later, in the elevator, I explain, “I don’t want to confuse the role play with our scene. Besides, I ate like a pig the last few days and I need to work it off.”
“So, just to be clear,” she asks, twisting her wrist in front of us, “we’re not in scene right now? We’re just Edward and Isabella?”
“Just,” I say, matching her smile with my own.
Still, she watches me somewhat warily while she runs on the treadmill, wends her way through the various machines, and works her abs and glutes on the floor. Though I give her my most convincing attempt at innocence, she doesn’t quite believe I’m not going to jump in with some crazy BDSM version of Jack LaLanne.
“Whatsammater, baby? You don’t believe me?” I ask, pulling her into the elevator afterwards.
“Not sure,” she answers cautiously.
“Trust me. We’re going to go back to the apartment, clean up real nice, have ourselves a nice long chat about the role play, and then…I’m going to collar you again. And you will know for a fact that we are not just Edward and Isabella anymore.”
“Gee, that’s comforting.”
True to my word, we’re sitting cross-legged, facing each other on the couch twenty minutes later in jeans and tee shirts and she’s squirming just like she always does when I make her process a scene.
“So, what did you think?” I ask, eager for her opinion.
“I think you’ve spent an awful lot of time working on this little reform school of yours,” she says, half-accusingly.
“Indeed, I have,” I admit, though I fail to reveal exactly how long the fantasy has incubated in my head.
“So…will we be seeing Merry again?” The corners of her mouth lift slightly with the question.
“Oh, I believe we will. Headmaster’s got plans for her,” I answer wickedly.
Suddenly, her mouth forms into a serious line. “Wait, have you done this before?”
“Absolutely not, sweetheart,” I reassure her, pressing my hand to her forearm across from me on the couch. “I mean, sure I’ve acted out school girl scenes before, but nothing even close to this elaborate. This is all for you.”
“So the uniform…?”
“I bought it for you. Only for you, Isabella.”
She relaxes visibly. “Can I ask you something?”
She struggles for a bit, trying to work up her courage or figure out the phrasing, I’m not sure which. I take both her hands in mine, hoping that will solve the problem.
“It seemed like you wanted me to break the rules. Was that my imagination?”
I feel the broad grin spread across my face. “Not at all, sweetheart. That’s part of the exploration, the fun of it.”
“But that’s not…normally what you want, right?”
“Complicated question.” I search deep for my honest answer. “Normally, no. What I want is exactly what I demand, with perfect obedience. Exactly the way you deliver it eighty percent of the time.”
She blushes bright pink.
“But I’m not gonna lie and tell you the other twenty percent isn’t also a boatload of fun for me.”
She nods knowingly, adding a small chuckle at the end. “So you’re saying you don’t want me to be perfect then?”
“I’m saying you are perfect, Isabella.”
She looks up shyly. “You would’ve been disappointed if I hadn’t pushed the scene all the way, then?”
“Intensely,” I admit, not hiding my happy grin. “First of all, watching you panty dive like that was…” I actually shudder recalling the exuberance with which she tucked into her task. I shake my head, and restart. “Let’s just say I’ve been looking forward to that particular moment for a while now, starting with the first time you introduced me to those see-through panties.”
She smiles proudly. “Dirty old Headmaster.”
“Is there anything else we should talk about before I get you out of those clothes?”
“Well, when you put it like that…my mind is a complete blank.”
“So I figured,” I smirk knowingly. “I need ten minutes to set up in the bedroom. Be waiting outside the door, not a shred of clothing. Ready?”
Her smile is brilliant, now that we’re back on somewhat familiar territory. “Ready, Master.”
Master opens the door to the bedroom exactly ten minutes later, wearing his softest, most distressed pair of jeans and nothing else—my favorite Masterly outfit. Behind him, the lights are dimmed and there are several candles burning along the bureau, the sweet scent of vanilla wafting over to the doorway. I can’t help myself, my lips quirk upward.
He is amused. “What’s so funny?” he asks, already sharing my smile.
He shakes his head. “You don’t miss a trick, do you? Lift your hair for me, Isabella.”
I hold my hair out of the way while he fastens the comforting black velvet around my neck. I know exactly who I am in this collar, and there’s no dilemma about disobeying. Master steps behind me, starts his fingertips through my hair and says, “I’ve got this. You can let go.” I feel several gentle tugs and some twisting, and next thing I know, Master has clipped my hair up in a loose updo. Running his thumb along my bare neck, he admires his handiwork—and most likely, my goose bumps—from the back, and then the front.
Not only does he admire my hair, but I feel his eyes pass slowly over every feature, as if he’s trying to memorize me for a final exam. “You look so beautiful like this, Isabella.” He extends one finger and traces a teasing path along my body, starting with my chin, down my neck, looping around one nipple, and continuing down my stomach. When he reaches my dark triangle, he pauses.
“You know, I was thinking about how you’re leaving me for a few days…”
Oh God, don’t remind me.
“...And how much I’m going to miss you.” He cups my cheek in his hand and brushes his thumb across my lips, then leans in to kiss me. My breath catches on his acknowledgment of our upcoming separation, and the effect he’s admitting it will have on him.
“So I asked myself, ‘Master, what can your sweet, sweet subbie do for you to ease your soon-to-be-aching heart?’ And then, it came to me!” His eyes light up happily. “Well, aren’t you going to ask me what it is?”
“Of course. What can I do for you, Master?”
“You’re going to give me a day of pampering!” He steps out of my visual field and reveals a bedroom that has been turned into a makeshift spa. There’s a towel draped over Master’s side of the bed and bottles of massage oil set up on the nightstand.
“I get to give you a massage, Master?” I honestly think I’m more excited than he is; but when he answers, his glee proves me wrong.
“Yes! For starters…oh we’ll get to the rest later. Here, follow me,” he instructs, taking my hand and leading me over to the potions. “You’re going to use these on me and work me from head to toe. And you’re not going to want to miss a spot!”
I glance down at his jeans, and I must have a question in my eyes because he says, “Oh, don’t worry, I’m going to take these off…”
“…in a minute. But first, there’s just one catch.”
And that’s when Master grabs the blindfold I failed to notice next to the pillow and pulls it down securely over my eyes. Okay, then. A blind massage.
“Now, I don’t want you to worry about spilling oil all over my bed, so here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll be in charge,” he sniggers audibly, “and when you want some oil, just hold out your hand like this.” He cups my hand palm up. “Got it?”
“Yes, Master,” I answer, a shiver of anticipation running down my spine.
“I know sometimes you get so into your duties that you might be tempted to take me into your mouth, or even touch me with this,” he adds, cupping my wet pussy with his hand. Then, leaning in so close I can feel the hairs on his chest tickle mine, he says, “But this isn’t that kind of spa. Just your hands, Isabella. Got it?”
“Okay, here we go then.”
I hear the zip and soft rustle of fabric, followed by the faint squeak of the bed as he takes his position.
“Ready,” he says with a muffled voice, which leads me to conclude he’s face-down on the bed.
Lifting one knee and then the other up onto the bed, I cup my hand and wait for the warm oil. I get my bearings with the opposite hand, locating Master’s firm shoulders, and drizzle the liquid down the middle of his back. I begin by kneading my thumbs into the base of his neck. I feel woefully underqualified, and suddenly wish for our next activity to be couples massage instead of painting.
“That feels great, Isabella,” he moans, soothing away most of my inadequacies.
I’m disappointed that I can’t straddle his lower back or place a kiss between his shoulder blades, but orders are orders. I work my way down his back, up one arm, across, and down the other, before resting my palms on his trim waist. I have no idea what I’m doing but try not to be too self-conscious around his ass, kneading his cheeks, pressing them together, pulling them apart, drizzling extra oil into the crack between them. Master is unusually quiet and malleable, and I realize he has no specific expectations other than ‘being pampered’. Easy peasy.
The blindfold affords me that much more tactile intelligence, my fingertips taking in all kinds of information from knotted muscles and sensitive touchpoints. By the time I finish Master’s ankles, he seems perfectly relaxed and content.
“Ahhh,” I sigh heavily, flopping over onto my back and dropping my hands by my sides. “Everything feels fantastic, princess. Are you sure you haven’t been taking an online course in massage?”
“No, Master,” she says softly, not fully accepting my compliment. She cups her hand for more oil and I happily supply her with the lubricant for my front side.
She’s far less self-conscious with the blindfold on, which was, of course, half the reason for it—the other being her heightened sense of touch and sharper concentration on the task at hand. As the oil drizzles across my chest, I fight the urge to close my eyes, because watching her is just so damn satisfying.
She scritch-scratches down my sides, a playful smile alighting on her face when I twitch and wriggle. Pointedly ignoring my midsection, she slides down to my feet and spends at least five minutes on each one, providing every toe with individual TLC. Part of me regrets disallowing her mouth, but despite product claims to the contrary, the oil tastes disgusting and I don’t want her feeling pressured to ingest large quantities of it. I know whatever Isabella attempts, she’ll want to go all out for her Master, and right now, I prefer resting in the palms of her more than capable hands.
Hands that have now found their way to my ball sac.
“Master,” she whispers, gently rolling me around between her fingers. “About this not being that kind of massage parlor? May I not give you a happy ending?”
My sweet, sweet subbie.
“Oh absolutely, princess. But just with your hands,” my cock and I respond.
She grins and settles onto her knees between my legs, then rests back onto her heels. Yes, princess, get comfortable. Stay a while.
With a confident grin that reads pure sex, Isabella cups her hand and waits for handjob juice, which I happily supply. Standing my cock up in one hand so she knows where to aim, she releases the oil in a dramatic stream rivaling the most flamboyant delivery of vodka into a waiting martini shaker. And then, the real fun begins.
Separating my shaft and balls into separate hands, she stretches and twists, torturing me with long, luxurious strokes that quickly bring me to the brink. “Someone’s been watching handjob porn,” I mutter, causing her to release into gales of laughter.
“Guilty,” she finally responds, a devilish grin on her face to match her admission. And now, I’m curious.
“Asian girls?” I inquire.
She shakes her head and continues working me.
“Hmmm,” I play along, “amateur home videos?”
A highly adorable distasteful grimace crosses her face, and she shakes ‘no’ once again.
Stretch. Twist. Stroke. Mmmmmm.
“You have me intrigued, Isabella. Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?”
She pulls her lower lip between her teeth but she can’t quell the smile. Or the blush.
“Oh my,” I tease, realization dawning. “You’ve been watching manjobs, haven’t you?”
She nods her head, this time in a vertical motion. With renewed effort, both hands slide and pull and blanket me with the most sumptuous attention. My groaning and squirming and summoning some clearly inpirational video clips have brought Isabella into the fold, and all the signs of her arousal are in full evidence—tight little nipple buds, a telltale glistening between her legs, and her mouth dropped open and serious.
Despite my best efforts, my head tips back and I lose my visual. And just when I find my rhythm and start searching for the white light, Isabella retracts the hand holding my balls.
I glance down, surely failing to mask my surprise, but luckily, she can’t see a thing. Slowly, with shaking fingers, she extends her hand, reaching out for more oil. This can only be a positive development, I figure, impatiently reaching for the oil and pouring a generous portion into her hand. That ought to hold you, princess, no matter what fun you’re conjuring.
Isabella pushes at my thighs with her knees, insistently opening me further and further. The slosh of lubricant feels messy and dirty and decadent. She spreads some upward, but the lion’s share was for my balls. Oh, princess. You remembered.
While her left hand slowly steers me to Paradise, the fingers of her right hand venture around, down, back, and eventually—blissfully—inside. “Oh, God…feels amazing.” I moan, lifting and pressing with my hips, throwing my arm over my eyes and skimming along the surface of the ocean like a horny little wave runner.
Sensing my shift, Isabella increases the pressure everywhere, tightening her grip and ratcheting up the tension. My head thrashes side to side and I’m mumbling incoherently. Some kind of grunting noise fills the air, and I’m startled when I realize I’m causing it. Through the cloud of escalating desperation, I hear her sweet submissive voice.
“Does this please you, Master?”
“Fuck, yes!” I answer, finally letting go of my tenuous hold on control and releasing in powerful, erratic spurts into her warm, adoring hands.
Master lifts the blindfold from my eyes and releases the hair clip, spilling a soft pile of hair down my back. I’m rewarded with the most incredulous look in his eyes and his fingers pulling gently through my hair. Pleasing Master is always a rewarding enterprise; rendering him speechless is beyond gratifying.
“Hello, Master,” I say, the smile on my face so wide it makes my cheeks hurt.
He can’t seem to stop staring at me, but his smile grows and matches my own. “Hello, princess.”
His hands conduct an entire conversation with my face, and somehow I understand every word; his thumbs sweeping across my eyebrows, the back of his long, elegant fingers gliding along my cheek, and his fingertips resting on my lips. It’s as if he’s been the blinded one, and he is now relying on his sense of touch to remind himself who I am and where we are.
“Best. Massage. Ever,” he says in a lazy drawl.
“I’m so pleased your ending was happy, Master.”
“I’m gonna need a minute here to regroup. Why don’t you go wash your hands and bring me a wet washcloth?”
Ah yes, my slimy hands. I float to the bathroom on my cloud of Happiest-Submissive-Ever-ness. When I return to the bedroom, Master’s eyes follow me every step of the way until I reach his side. His ankles are crossed casually and his hands are interlocked behind his neck. He looks like a man who is perfectly content right where he is and doesn’t want for anything, and I could not be more pleased that I’m the reason. He also happens to look like a Greek God, his muscles greased and gleaming with the lovingly applied massage oil. And of course, painted with his spunk.
I sit down onto the mattress next to him and mop up the mess on his chest and stomach. “I think you missed a spot behind my ear,” he jokes.
“It was quite impressive, Master.”
“You were quite impressive, princess. I’ll have to start queuing up the gay porn more often.”
I raise my eyebrows, and he hastens to add, “For you, sweetheart. Only for you.”
He seems open to conversing, so I push him a little on the topic. “So, it doesn’t do anything for you? Not even those sexy massages that turn into…more?” My drifting voice obviously refers back to what we just did.
He considers my question before answering, “Hmm, there is that one bear on Club Amateur…”
“Yeah,” I say dreamily.
Master bolts up to a sitting position. “Yeah, Master,” he chastises me, thankfully adding a wink so I know I’m not about to get punished. “I’m starved. Let’s go heat up some leftovers.”
Master pulls on his jeans, offering me an entirely disingenuous shrug of apology because he’s afforded me no such luxury. “Oh here. You can wear this,” he says, pulling the blindfold on me again. A surge of anxiety rips through me, as it does every time I’m blindfolded. Master steps right up to me, on top of my feet, in fact, with his bare feet, takes both my hands in his, and kisses me for a while.
When he’s through, he puts his lips close enough to my ear that I can feel the tiny hairs on my neck ripple with his warm breath. “I’m your eyes now, for the rest of the night.”
Oh God, the rest of the night? It’s only, like, six o’clock!
His generous lips are back upon me in an instant, kissing away my growing panic. “I know you’re nervous, Isabella. Just sink into it, and trust that I’m here. I’ve got everything under control.”
Sink into it, I tell myself, taking those first tentative steps Frankenstein-style, my free hand extended out to break my fall or fend off an unexpected piece of wall. Master pulls me with the other, his pace more animated than I would’ve liked, forcing me to trust his lead.
“Sit right here, on the floor,” he commands, letting go of my hand and walking away. “Brisket or turkey?” he calls, and I hear the suction of the refrigerator door opening followed by the rattling of glass jars in the door.
“Turkey, please, Master.”
My ears are locked onto his movements, and I can practically see him pulling plates and silverware from cupboards and drawers and setting up trays of food and drinks. There’s something inordinately sexy about the idea of him moving around his kitchen in those jeans, maybe it’s the whole caveman-providing-for-his-mate thing, or perhaps it’s the blindfold, but when I feel him returning to me, my heart rate picks up.
Master takes my wrists and guides my hands to the food, naming the food on each plate as he dips down in each one. “Turkey. Cole slaw. Pickles. Bread. Brisket. Chips. Need me to make another circuit?”
“No, Master, I’m good.”
“Okay, I’ll have a brisket sandwich, put the Cole slaw inside, pickle and chips on the side.”
“You seem hungry, Isabella. Are you full or just giving up?”
“I’m full, Master. I promise.”
“Okay, then. Let me just take care of the dishes. You sit on your hands and I’ll be right back”—I turn back and add over my shoulder—“with a towel.”
Truth is, I’m just as messy as she is. Having a blindfolded person feed you is risky business, but she actually did quite well. She only stuck her hand in the wrong plate once, and figured it out right away when she hit the slaw. Making the sandwiches was the hardest part, but once she abandoned all semblance of manners and decided to dive in with gusto, she slapped those meats between the bread like nobody’s business.
She barely flinches when I dab at her with the towel. Good, she’s acclimating to the blindfold.
“Okay, princess, Master’s got an appointment in the spa.”
Before she can process what this might mean, I scoop my arm behind her knees, drawing a tiny squeak as her feet leave the ground. She automatically loops her hands behind my neck and tucks her head into my chest, eliciting in me the most basic, primal response to protect and cherish this trusting creature in my arms.
“You probably want to use the toilet,” I advise, setting her on her feet in front of it.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispers, feeling her way with her hands to the seat and emptying her bladder. I take the opportunity to remove my jeans…again. She stands and waits for me to direct her, aimless and passive and ready to serve.
Little does she know, that is not happening. “Hands behind your back, princess.” I guide her out of the tiny stall and grasp her upper arm from behind. “No more Mummy impersonation. Just walk.” She hesitates before stepping forward, placing her feet carefully, almost disbelieving that the path is clear.
When we reach the glass door of the shower, I pull it open, then lift Isabella up and over the threshold, and with a start, she realizes she’s standing inside. “This might get a little messy,” I chuckle, by way of explanation.
“Okay, Isabella, I’m going to have to temporarily remove your collar, but it’s only because I don’t want it to get ruined. You should absolutely continue to consider yourself collared. Understood?”
I unhook the collar and set it outside the shower, closing the door behind us. I turn on the handheld spigot and wait for the water to heat up before pulling it off the hook and directing it at her back, and then her front. She’s clearly confused as to why she’s getting hosed down, but she stands quietly and patiently. I watch as the water beads on her goose bumps and her nipples pebble up, and when I’m all done watching, I return the faucet to the wall. I lined up the jars earlier, and now I unscrew the lid of the sugar scrub and scoop a generous glop into my hand. Starting with her back, I rub the scrub across her skin in tiny circles.
Isabella’s face scrunches up in confusion, and I watch her with amusement while she decides if she wants to ask or just ride it out. Happily, she simply lets go of the questions and relaxes into my hands.
“This is one of those times I really wish I had a big tub,” I share. I lift her wrist and scrub up her arm, massaging the crystals in circles into her muscles and smoothing her skin. She sways gently as I tug this way and that, and by the time I’ve scrubbed down both her legs, I fear she may tip over. Taking a generous scoop from the jar, I anchor myself behind her and slip my hands under her arms, scrubbing my way up her stomach and hips. Treating her to the R-rated version of the sugar scrub, I smooth the tender skin of her breasts and circle the nipples teasingly, causing her to moan and swoon against my chest and legs. Reaching over my shoulder, I grab the showerhead and rinse her off, leaving silky skin and a completely relaxed girl.
“Sit,” I say gently, helping her to the marble bench and helping her find a place to grip. “I need to take off your blindfold now, so you’re going to have to keep your eyes closed without it. Can you do that for me, princess?”
“Yes, Master,” she promises.
I remove the blindfold and kiss each of her closed eyes. “Be good, Isabella.”
I pull the showerhead to her hair and wet her down with warm water. Pouring her shampoo into my palm, I lather up and smooth the slick product over her hair, trying my best to imitate the girl at the salon. I straddle her knees and let her head drop back, supporting her neck with one hand while scrubbing my fingertips into her scalp with the other. Her mouth drops open, but she obediently keeps her eyes closed. I repeat the process with the conditioner, massaging her scalp as well as I can in this somewhat awkward position.
“Be right back,” I tell her, stepping outside the stall to grab her towel. “Okay, up you go, Jello girl,” I command, drying her off before wrapping her in the luxurious bath sheet. “Remember, your eyes are still closed.”
“Mmm” is all she says in response.
I lift her again and deliver her to the vanity chair in front of the mirror. I quickly dry myself before reaching for the hair dryer and her brush. I’ve watched her dress a few times, though mostly she uses her own room for any serious grooming. But it’s not as if we’re going to the Ritz later. The object here is the pampering, the complete attention focused on her, and the soothing blast of warm air and pull of the brush through her hair.
When I occasionally look up from my task, I’m rewarded with a look of bliss on her face in the mirror, and I wonder why I don’t do this for her more often. Maybe we’ll make it a weekend ritual, maybe even on our “off night”? It feels great to lavish her with the attention, and I’m honestly not sure who’s enjoying it more.
Probably Isabella, I figure, as I turn off the blow dryer and she moans long and low. I bend over and give her an upside-down kiss. She smiles dreamily and says a lazy, “Thank you so much, Master. I love this spa.”
“You’ve been a very good girl, and just for that, I’m going to put your blindfold back on.”
She smiles as I tighten the blindfold over her eyes and hair. “Time for bed, sweetheart.” I nudge her up by her elbow and unwrap the towel when she stands. “You won’t be needing that. But what you will need…” I refasten the collar, “is your reminder that I own you. Always. Now, tomorrow, next week…wherever you go, Isabella. You’re mine.”
And I’m so totally yours.
We somehow manage the teeth brushing and Master arranges me on my back on the bed, where I feel a fresh towel beneath me. A shiver of anticipation ripples through me to think I might be getting the same massage treatment I lavished on him earlier, but a moment later I feel greedy for having the thought after all Master has already bestowed upon me tonight.
A drizzle of oil hits my neck, nipples and thighs, and finally, my mound. Master teases me with one finger, then more, until I’m a writhing mess beneath his hands.
“Are you thinking about Chad?” he suggests, referencing my earlier gay porn reel.
“You’re so much better than Chad, Master.”
“Oh, come on now. What if he did girls? Fold your hands under your head and spread your legs, just like he makes those supposedly straight guys do.”
He must know exactly how much he’s turning me on. I split my feet apart shamelessly and lick my lips. Master massages me with his hands moving in two different directions and his oiled up fingers slide everywhere, twisting and curling. Up my sides and back down, building and freeing the tension, until I’m bucking and begging.
“Yes, Master, please.”
“Let go, my sweet subbie. Come for your Master.”
He slides his fingers inside and fills me up. My hips chase after his hand like a large hawk taking flight. I fill the room with my lilting climax, and he eases me back down with gentle, loving strokes.
“One last pleasure, Isabella,” he croons, climbing between my thighs and lifting my calves over his shoulders. His lips find their way to my mouth and I open for him, taking everything he has to offer.
“Isabella,” he whispers urgently between kisses.
Suddenly, he slides the blindfold up and off my head. “Open your eyes, sweet princess. I need to see your eyes.”
“Master?” I blink open and squint into the darkened room. It takes me a few seconds to adjust to having my sight back. His eyes are deep emerald pools blasting into me with the intensity of laser beams.
“Yes,” he answers. “Yes, yes, yes.” He closes his lips over mine as he pushes inside and claims me.
Afterward, Master kisses me tenderly as he clears the excess oil off my body. My shoulder, my breast bone, a nipple, my hip. He tosses away the towel and opens the nightstand drawer, drawing out a set of thick Velcro cuffs connected by a heavy metal chain.
The hard floor will be a tough pill to swallow after Master’s pampering, but I’m ready this time. Master lifts my left hand and fastens the cuff tightly.
“I have a very special place to chain you tonight,” he says mysteriously. He hops athletically onto the bed and climbs over me, pulling my left arm across his body as he turns us both onto our right sides and secures my hand against his chest. I hear the distinctive rip of Velcro and a firm tug. “Stay,” Master commands.
Holy shit. He’s chained me to himself!