Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Davy
It felt good to be back at work, using my hands to make old things look new again, or at least pretty again, because retro stuff is still shaped like old stuff even if you wrap it in new material.
Matty met me for lunch and wanted to know all about my weekend, but I had to be careful which parts I told him, to make sure I didn’t say something Master wouldn’t want me to.
I told him some of the things we did, but he wanted the fun details, sex stuff, and I told him, “I don’t think he’d want me talking about that. I haven’t asked him, and I need to do that before I share personal stuff.”
“I can’t talk about Will to other people,” Matty told me. “Daddy would make it so I couldn’t sit down for a month if I spilled secrets about Will. It’s a club thing, right? Protecting the entire band and their secrets.”
“I know, but I need to make sure Master is good with me sharing private stuff with you. Also, there’s some stuff about new songs that I don’t think he’d want me talking to anyone about. I mean, ya’ll hear new stuff before it goes public, but that’s after they’ve mostly polished everything, so they think the songs are ready for the public. He says ya’ll give them feedback before they share them publicly.”
Thankfully, he changed the subject. “Did you get to drive the car?”
“I was terrified! The first time, it was on this road that goes over the top of mountains, and there were hardly any other cars, but I was still scared I’d fuck up and wreck a two-million-dollar car.”
“Does that mean there was a second time?”
“Yeah. He rented Road Atlanta, and someone taught me how to drive in ways no one ever has before. A lot of it was defensive driving stuff, and how to get away from someone chasing me, that kind of thing, but then it was all about how to drive fast, and how to handle curves. I got up to a hundred and ten miles per hour on the straightaways! So much fun! Still a little scary, but more fun than scary. He made me drive on actual mountain curves when we left, but I managed it okay. Thankfully, he took over before we got to the interstate.”
“I am so happy for you! Seriously happy for you. Do you think maybe we can do something together, the four of us?”
“I’ll check with Master.” I hesitated a second and asked, “Do you know what a boot camp is? I mean, in our lifestyle?”
He was eating his burger with a fork since he didn’t have a bun, and he put his fork down. “It’s a thing in the DD community — domestic discipline. It’s like, a spanking every morning to start the day, and there are essays to write, questionnaires to fill out, and orders given kind of randomly throughout the day with immediate punishment if you don’t jump straight to obeying. I think there’s corner time and some other stuff built into the day. It’s designed to get the wife in the habit of obeying, and to put her in the right submissive mindset to let her head-of-household be in charge of decisions, so she doesn’t argue about them or expect to have the right to certain things.”
“Master says if we get to the point where we sign a permanent contract, I’ll have a week-long boot camp, and that if I need details about it before I’ll initial a contract, it means I don’t trust him enough to enter into a permanent long-term relationship.”
“I mean, either you trust him to be your Master or you don’t, right? If you think he’ll do something to cause harm to you physically or emotionally then he’s right — you shouldn’t agree to anything at all, much less a TPE type contract.”
I worked a total of thirteen hours before going home, and I spent about fifteen minutes in the shower, as long as the hot water lasted, before I looked up how to give a proper foot massage and watched a few instruction videos. I did a search for Lord Byron for anything posted in the past week, and was relieved no one figured out it was us during our trip.
I did crunches to failure, push-ups to failure, and then a plank as long as I could, and I texted Master the numbers I’d made it to for all three. He texted back a video of someone doing stretching exercises, and he told me he wanted me to follow along with the video. The girl doing it was super flexible, but a girl behind her was doing the same things but was at about my level of flexibility, so I watched her more than the main girl, and it worked out okay.
And then all day at work the next day, I wondered what would happen during maintenance.
I opted for a huge salad with grilled chicken for lunch, just to make sure I didn’t have anything heavy in my stomach since he said not to eat again after lunch. Mac picked me up without Master, and then deposited me into the garage. Some different wrist and ankle cuffs were on the shelf — not as uncomfortable as the punishment ones had been, but not super-padded, either. I put them on and read the note they’d been sitting on.
Go to the playroom and follow instructions in the jail cell.
I had the code to get into the house from the garage now, and my palmprint brought up the screen to put the code in for the playroom.
I made my way to the jail cell and performed the seven bulleted items — using a liquid glycerin suppository, then a Fleet, and then a bulb enema with a little salt in it to rinse the Fleet out. I lubed myself and the too-fat plug, and put it in me. I struggled a whole helluva lot getting it in, but I finally managed, and then I washed my hands to get the lube off, which had been in the instructions but it wasn’t a bulleted item.
He’d lined everything up I was to use on the small bed, and the only thing left was the blindfold. I lifted it, walked to the center of the playroom, put the blindfold on, and then reached up to grasp the bar over my head.
I have no idea how long I stood in the dark, but my arms and hands were beyond heavy, and my shoulders ached when the door finally opened and I heard footsteps I had to assume were Master’s.
The footsteps walked around me twice, and my heart rate sped with each step. Each circuit.
And then Master stopped behind me and his arms were around me. I felt the denim of his jeans against my ass, but he was shirtless on top, and my heart raced in my chest.
“Tell me why we’re here, slave.”
I was so far gone, it took me a second to manage speech. “Maintenance, Master. A reminder of who we are to each other, to try to help keep me from getting in trouble. Neither of us is a fan of actual punishment, and this is supposed to help keep you from having to discipline your slave.”
“Exactly right. When I have to punish you, it means I’ve failed as a Master, and that means neither of us gets off. That isn’t the case during maintenance, which means either your ass or your throat will be made use of at some point. Possibly both, depending on my mood. You may or may not be allowed an orgasm at the end of the session, but never in the middle, so don’t bother begging.”
He stepped away. “In fact, thanking me for reminding my slave of his status might be a good way to remind yourself why you’re being denied an orgasm, and why the maintenance session is happening.” He stepped in front of me and my nipples exploded in pain, one then the other, and I couldn’t be certain of which clamps he’d used, but they had teeth and they hurt . I held onto the bar as tightly as I could to keep from reaching down and taking them off, and I did my best to breathe through the pain.
He stepped closer, so I could feel his body heat on my stomach and chest even though he wasn’t actually touching me.
“That isn’t an order, slave, just a suggestion. There’ll be no consequences if you don’t do so out loud.”
He took a step back, and I missed the warmth of his body, but then his arms were on either side of my rib cage. “Hands at your back. Grab your elbows.”
My shoulders didn’t want to cooperate, but I managed to get my arms down and in position within about ten seconds, and I was moving the entire time. It wasn’t like I took a few seconds to comply, so Master didn’t reprimand me. He’s usually reasonable about that kind of thing.
He stepped beside me and grasped my left arm just above my elbow. “Four steps forward and go to your knees. Go slow. I’ve got you.”
I felt the mat under my foot on the third step. I took the fourth step and brought my feet together before I went to my knees the way Master prefers, with my legs together rather than the way I’d done for other masters, one leg at a time.
Seconds after I was down, Master was in front of me and I heard the zipper on his jeans. His dick touched my lips, and I opened for him.
There are blow jobs, and then there’s face-fucking, and this was absolutely the latter, with Master’s hands wrapped around the back of my head holding me in place while he pounded my throat and face. My dick was harder than granite and throbbing like it might explode while Master went in and out of the hole he preferred at the moment, pleasuring himself no matter how his slave felt about it.
Sometimes he can do this for thirty minutes or even longer, other times he only fucks my face five or ten minutes and calls it a quickie.
Today it felt like a long quickie, and when he finished he merely told me to swallow his gift and get into position for push-ups.
I could do thirty-two push-ups all at once when I met Master, and I’ve built up to the low fifties now before I’m at absolute failure, so when Master told me, “I want sixty-five push-ups, and you’ll get the cane for three times the number you fail to give me, and then double that number from the belt,” fear flooded my system.
If I could manage fifty-four, the most I’d ever done, that would be thirty-three strikes of the cane. Some days, most actually, my top number was fifty-one or fifty-two.
Forty-two cane strikes would be brutal, and then the belt eighty-four times afterward? I resolved to keep going no matter how tired my muscles were — I’d find some extra stamina somewhere .
He gave me time to do the math in my head before adding, “Today, your mouth, cock, balls, nipples, ass, and asshole will be reminded of who owns them. Every body part will be punished based on the number of push-ups you fail to give me. Also, if you’re at the top of the push-up more than four seconds, it means you’re finished and we use the current tally. No dawdling. Begin.”
At twenty-three, I thought I was managing okay, but then the cane struck a line of fire across my ass, and I screamed in both surprise and pain.
“The last two don’t count because you raised your ass. Form is important. Slow down and pay attention, slave. The count is twenty-one.”
By the time I made it to fifty, six of them hadn’t counted, and I’d been struck four times. My arms and shoulders were on fire, my abs and legs were feeling it, and the stripes across my ass were fucking blazing.
And the huge, way-too-fat plug in my ass wasn’t helping anything except to keep my dick hard as a rock.
But I made double-damn sure to keep my body straight on the way down and back up, and then to keep it straight before I went down and back up again.
At fifty-four, I started going down again, for the fifty-fifth one, and my right arm collapsed, then my left arm, and I landed on the mat with a splat.
“Fifty-four. How many times are you going to feel the cane and the belt, slave?”
It took me a few seconds to do the math. “Thirty-three and sixty-six, Master.”
“Stand, slave, so I can walk you to the bondage table.”
Master situated me so I was leaned over the table with my chest on it, but not my stomach. My wrist cuffs were connected to chains attached to the other side of the table, so my arms were stretched over my head.
I felt him doing something at my knees, and then something was wrapped around my right knee, and whatever it was clicked closed, enveloping my knee from mid-thigh to mid-calf. Next came my left knee, and I realized I could no longer bend my knees.
“Spread your legs a little more.”
I awkwardly managed, and then felt the unmistakable act of having a spreader bar fastened between my ankle cuffs.