The Collar

" .... E le tue mani suonano dolci note per me Seguendo un canto che ormai limiti non haaa..... "

Matia Bazar playing Cavallo Bianco, but with the voice of Silvia Mezzanotte. The sound spiraled out into the living room, she was following with her body, revolving open armed, head tilted to the shoulder.

The skin still had the scent of bubble bath, the music was a shower of the spirit to clean up the little boredom after the work at the office. The dance lightened the muscles, dissolved the tensions of the day.

The nights she took service she had to be another person, to the best of her possibilities.

Her house was well heated, she could take off the bathrobe and apply naked to her toilet. Even before the make-up and the clothes, she took from the drawer a thin black silk lace, then fastened it around the neck.

The act by which she erased her normal existence and became another person. The Slave.

Wearing the mark of her condition she went on to dress up with care, the Master would not tolerate imperfections, not even a thread of vulgar exhibition. She had deep black hair, eyebrows, and eyes, contrasting with the paleness of her skin. There are women who seem born to wear the egyptian hairstyle, hardly she could imagine one more suitable for her face. Black back seam stockings, a veil of hair had to be left on the lip, all according to the taste of the Master.

Great taste, she recognized looking at the full-length mirror: light, minute, small breasts, a slightly upturned nose, thin lips, suited with tailleur, skirt and painted shoes. The jacket would protect those treasures from the looks and from the cold on the way to the Master's home. A pocket-sized Venus in furs.

She rang the bell, was opened without a word on the intercom, climbed the stairs, the door was ajar.

He was in the living room, reading between paintings and carpets, as always. She closed the door and without disturbing him went straight to the kitchen, undressed leaving only the stockings and collar, began to prepare the tea.

The Master would have appreciated her elegance later, when she would have dressed at the end.

While waiting for the water to boil, she contemplated the winter landscape outside the window, the snow on the roofs, the clouds that seemed animated by an inner light. So abandoned, still as a painting, the opposite of the emotions bubbling inside her in anticipation of what was about to happen.

The water was ready, the Master had many different blends, some in bags , some in glass jars. It was necessary to guess which scent would have been better suited to his mood at that moment, without even having spoken to him, only on the intensity of his silence. Difficult, but it is one of the small magics distinguishing the perfect Slave from the just good ones.

Still in silence, with measured steps, she entered the living room and served tea on the Japanese table before the couch.

He kept reading and reached casually for the cup, she went to the corner of the rug and got down on her knees, sitting on her heels in a waiting position. She felt cold, the window had its curtains deliberately open, someone from the near houses could see. None of this mattered during the service. The mantra like a sponge washed away thoughts and time, there was only her breath and the sight of him.

"Footrest. "

The Slave approached and stood on all fours under him, knees, elbows and face sunk in the warmth of the carpet, the back offered so that he could get comfortable and place the cup.

In the end she was one of the many accessories of that beautiful apartment, loved like the paintings and ornaments.

In the end the only true loves of the Master were beauty in itself and knowledge.

She was happy to be part of it.

Even in that position she kept lulling herself with the mantra, untouched by boredom, her essence danced in a secret garden. The only important thing was that the cup did not fall.

Time began to flow again only when the Master got up and moved to the bedroom.

With a ritual already repeated many times she also got up and followed him, passing in front of the kitchen and the pile of her abandoned clothes. Entering the room she turned around the bed and stood head down, facing the entrance. The Master was stripping, he had already taken the cane from the closet. He was not fond of whips, considered it too common, and yet nothing could match the whistle of the cane cutting the air. Before being stopped by flesh.

" Down. "

She climbed on the bed and stood on all fours again, less huddled, her back and buttocks had to be completely offered, the legs slightly apart so that he could enjoy her fruits. His cheek leaned on the pelvis to feel the delicacy of the skin.

The Slave even allowed herself a sigh under the caresses, then the hands of the Master abandoned her and the cane whistled in the air.

The first blows were those almost bearable, the pain was too sharp to perceive it completely. But her executioner did not act at random, he never hit the same spot, when the cane sank in the flesh he left it resting a moment so that all the force could pass through. When the cane was lifted again, the skin would rise and follow it like glued. Colored stripes were left, which swelled in a short time, at a certain point the skin began to crack. Then the real pain started and she saw flashes of white and yellow light with each stroke. The skin ablaze, the sweat was collecting underneath.

A slave of lesser quality would have needed the gag, or would have used her underwear as a bite to not scream. It would not have been polite to scare the neighbors.

A trickle of sweat was flowing along the breast, it had collected at the base of the nipple, the new sensation was like a trigger, the heat was finally spreading, she felt like a melting candle.

She would have liked to be as normal as the others, to be able to come at the pleasure immediately, without all that effort.

The Master had felt the change too, stopped the punition, with a gentle push made the Slave spread out, with her arms outstretched. She was panting, clawing at the blanket. He massaged her slowly with oil.

Spicy oil, a mantle of flames thrown on her shoulders.

Then he stood before her, held out his hand and she kissed it, thanking in tears. And invaded by fire, she reached for the wrist, feeling its heaviness, then up to the firm arms and more.

But a Slave can not look into the Master's eyes, and the Master can not lower himself to satisfy his desires with the Slave, she would have despised him first, if he had stooped that low.

So, reaching the height of the chest, as she had done every time, she took off her collar and let it fall.



( ferrus_manus@hotmail.com )