WriterOfSin
TMF Regular
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- Jan 2, 2009
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Inspired by may5sq1's fantastic picture, 'Dedication to Jay Edwards', (Seen below in attachments) I present a short story of my own, based on that fantastic drawing;
The master sits, watching her as she gracefully walks out of the shadow of the archway leading from the house to the immense garden the property held. The sun was fierce, a constant heat slowly roasting her peachy-complexion all over. She wore nothing, since he had not permitted any clothing when he had her summoned. He stands watching her, arms powerful from years of constant exercise showing his physical power, but it was the cold green eyes, hidden underneath a pair of slim sunglasses, and the steel-grey hair that topped his crown that showed his stern interior. Wearing a simple salmon shirt and blue trousers together with the dark brown slippers he often chose when he decided to relax around the house, she would have called the outfit ludicrous on anyone else.
All it did for the master was demonstrate that he did not need to dress in the dark greys and blacks of other masters, that he understood true power was in the mind and not the appearance. She stops within two feet of him, the folded arms a sign that he wished to inspect her. "Attention, breasts," He utters simply. She follows the command, a shorthand instruction for the position he wanted her to assume. Rising onto tip-toe, her hands cup each breast as the thumb and forefinger of each hand tweak her pert nipples.
She could stand like this for hours at a time, trained by him for years in the multitude of positions he expected his slave to be able to keep. The heat of the sun was still beating down on the tiles though, and already they were getting painfully warm. Anywhere else she could have held it for as long as required, but she knew that she would fail if the master required it here. "You've spent much time in the dungeon," he speaks in that silky-hard voice of his, knowing she will not respond until he orders it. "You would look better with a tan. So, I will permit you to tan yourself in this nice, bright sun."
His mouth curls slightly in a grin. "Of course, we don't want you to be burnt anywhere where I wouldn't like it, so you may put these on." He pulls a thong from his pocket, tossing it to the ground before her. "Put it on." She obeys, hands dropping from her breasts as she puts her feet flat on the ground, the tiles hot to the touch. He retreats to the shade of the parasol that covers his table beside the large pool of shimmering azure water.
He picks something up, brings it back to her. "And I will not have your precious little toes burned before I can have my fun." A pair of luxuriously soft ballet slippers follow the thong, and she quickly slips them on, grateful to the master for providing her with that protection. "And now for your last piece," he utters with a flourish. She sees the black leather bundle in his hands, knowing instinctively that he would not allow her this reward without some form of bondage. She turns to his unspoken command, arms folded across the small of her back. He draws the sack over them and her shoulders, tying the leather thongs that secure it, one behind her neck and the other in front.
Silently he steps off, walking back to his seat without a care in the world. He sits, one leg folded lazily over the other, watching her. She walks back and forth, then stops. Her foot begins to itch. Dismissing it as something minor, she carries on with her pacing, before stopping with a yelp as her other foot begins to itch. The first one hadn't stopped, instead it had gotten worse, and now the other foot had started. Then, with a look of horror crossing her face, she looks down at her legs. In between them she could feel the slow excruciation of an itch right on her lips. She bucks wildly, trying to escape her bonds, but the slippers refuse to move, and with her arms bound, she cannot remove the thong from where its villainous work carried on.
The master idly picks up his drink, a simple tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, made that morning by the slave herself, and watches in satisfaction as the itching powder takes its course, secreted in her slippers and the thong that are just as inescapable as the armbinder she wears.
He reflected that his methods were far more satisfying...to him, at least.
Master and the Slave
The master sits, watching her as she gracefully walks out of the shadow of the archway leading from the house to the immense garden the property held. The sun was fierce, a constant heat slowly roasting her peachy-complexion all over. She wore nothing, since he had not permitted any clothing when he had her summoned. He stands watching her, arms powerful from years of constant exercise showing his physical power, but it was the cold green eyes, hidden underneath a pair of slim sunglasses, and the steel-grey hair that topped his crown that showed his stern interior. Wearing a simple salmon shirt and blue trousers together with the dark brown slippers he often chose when he decided to relax around the house, she would have called the outfit ludicrous on anyone else.
All it did for the master was demonstrate that he did not need to dress in the dark greys and blacks of other masters, that he understood true power was in the mind and not the appearance. She stops within two feet of him, the folded arms a sign that he wished to inspect her. "Attention, breasts," He utters simply. She follows the command, a shorthand instruction for the position he wanted her to assume. Rising onto tip-toe, her hands cup each breast as the thumb and forefinger of each hand tweak her pert nipples.
She could stand like this for hours at a time, trained by him for years in the multitude of positions he expected his slave to be able to keep. The heat of the sun was still beating down on the tiles though, and already they were getting painfully warm. Anywhere else she could have held it for as long as required, but she knew that she would fail if the master required it here. "You've spent much time in the dungeon," he speaks in that silky-hard voice of his, knowing she will not respond until he orders it. "You would look better with a tan. So, I will permit you to tan yourself in this nice, bright sun."
His mouth curls slightly in a grin. "Of course, we don't want you to be burnt anywhere where I wouldn't like it, so you may put these on." He pulls a thong from his pocket, tossing it to the ground before her. "Put it on." She obeys, hands dropping from her breasts as she puts her feet flat on the ground, the tiles hot to the touch. He retreats to the shade of the parasol that covers his table beside the large pool of shimmering azure water.
He picks something up, brings it back to her. "And I will not have your precious little toes burned before I can have my fun." A pair of luxuriously soft ballet slippers follow the thong, and she quickly slips them on, grateful to the master for providing her with that protection. "And now for your last piece," he utters with a flourish. She sees the black leather bundle in his hands, knowing instinctively that he would not allow her this reward without some form of bondage. She turns to his unspoken command, arms folded across the small of her back. He draws the sack over them and her shoulders, tying the leather thongs that secure it, one behind her neck and the other in front.
Silently he steps off, walking back to his seat without a care in the world. He sits, one leg folded lazily over the other, watching her. She walks back and forth, then stops. Her foot begins to itch. Dismissing it as something minor, she carries on with her pacing, before stopping with a yelp as her other foot begins to itch. The first one hadn't stopped, instead it had gotten worse, and now the other foot had started. Then, with a look of horror crossing her face, she looks down at her legs. In between them she could feel the slow excruciation of an itch right on her lips. She bucks wildly, trying to escape her bonds, but the slippers refuse to move, and with her arms bound, she cannot remove the thong from where its villainous work carried on.
The master idly picks up his drink, a simple tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, made that morning by the slave herself, and watches in satisfaction as the itching powder takes its course, secreted in her slippers and the thong that are just as inescapable as the armbinder she wears.
He reflected that his methods were far more satisfying...to him, at least.
