Actress

May 1, 2024 // By:analsex // No Comment

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Asian

(For my Master.)

*

“Anything goes, make it long.” The recorded prompt sounds bored with herself, weary of the words she is condemned to speak. She used to sound annoyed with me, but in the fifth hour I stop taking it personally as I start to crack.

“Hello?”

“Does your bed creak?” No, I think to myself, but my desk chair does.

Moving to the fifties modern style chair I sit in now as I write this I rock back and forth to produce an audible metal creak. “Like this?”

“Yeah, baby!” I can hear he’s thoroughly abusing himself to the sound of my creaking. The absurdity of what my psych degree has got me for a career is not lost on me and I do smile. And this will be an easy call. Just making a sound effect until this wanker finishes? This is the kind of thing I could draw out…

However, I’m looking at the clock with growing agitation. I was supposed to have been dismissed an hour ago and now I’m getting out of breath creaking in my chair for a guy proving to be a very long call. I add in some phony moaning to encourage him, frequently gasping, “More?”

“Yeah, I promise, I’m almost there!” he says, suggesting I’m rushing him, the opposite of what I’m supposed to do. I don’t fucking care. The window of time I have between shifts is closing and I am expecting a midnight visit from my Owner. Nothing is ready.

I have to clean up so he doesn’t see the squalor I tolerate between visits, though he’s said, “I won’t be storming out if you didn’t do the washing up.” It’s a little beyond that. I also have to shave extensively. “More?” as I creak on my “bed.” The guy eventually finishes, says “thank you,” to his credit, and just when I am expecting a supervisor to dismiss me, I get another call. I have blankets to get in the dryer, a cat box to consider, so I just moan a lot because I am too stressed to bother with conversation.

Finally, I have about three hours to myself before my late shift and then what makes this all seem worth it, my Owner. When I couldn’t find work it was looking like I might be headed back to stay with my father who had offered to take me in. The trouble was, back home was on the other coast and the man I belong to is here. The thought of giving up broke my heart, so I have been doing some “phone acting.” I have always wanted to work from home, but didn’t realize how home changes when you work there. Especially listening to the most unimaginative depravity for hours on end.

I hoped I hadn’t contaminated the sanctuary I work to keep for my own pure perversion. I needed my Owner to purify it with me; as he reminds me, “There is no sin except stupidity.” I get off on my Owner’s delectably involved sentences, the surprising descriptive words, the humor… I have a caller who mostly wants me to say the word “cunt” again and again. Parts of speech other than dirty nouns can fall away, except for Fuck, which, as we all know, is multi-purpose.

The supervisors are fast talkers, so the phrase I took to mean I could call it a night actually meant finish out the hour. Oh fuck. Fortunately, I can’t disable my call waiting with their instructions—I still get beeps and didn’t have any, so he didn’t come tonight. When I hang up with permission, I look around pleased at my clean apartment, at the ropes, flogger, candles, clamps, gag, razor blades, and peroxide arranged on my dresser. The collar and lead are by the front door. The crop is on the cleared dining table. I touch, and yes, I am hairless. I get in bed and read until I sleep. I remember almost nothing about any of the callers but the creaky guy and fall asleep strangely content and unusually sober.

The corded work phone rings loud by my bed and I happily answer early in the morning. It’s him.

“Are you awake, my Possessed?”

“Barely. Hello, Sir.”

“Bad news, I’m afraid. Greyhound is sold out. I will call you from the train station, but look up return trips.”

At ten AM, I know he got either the 9:00 or 9:20 because he didn’t call. To get home when he must, we have about three hours alone together. He won’t know that until he arrives.

“Oh, shit,” he tells me around noon when he’s in town and I give him the news. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

I have always met him at either the train or bus station, but in what seems like so much less than thirty minutes, there are four decisive knocks at the front door, as rapid as my heart starts to pound the instant I hear the sound. I think to myself. ‘Just answer the door, give him the wordless kiss you do at the station…’

I open the door and there is my Master. We take hold of each other with our eyes and start our kiss before I vaguely recall a reason I don’t leave the front door wide open.

“The cats will escape,” I tell him, pulling him into our sanctuary by his jacket.

“They will do that,” he tells me in his English purr, hardly taking his tongue from the lips I’d just painted moments before.

I am the slave, but I’ve missed my Owner so much Kartal Öğrenci Escort my hands are all over his back, at his waist, at his neck.

“Am I touching you too much, Sir?”

“No, but you are trembling all over.”

I realize I am shaking the way my hands do, but at this moment it’s my whole body. I have given up on writing with a pen, eating what requires a knife and fork, but just answering the door for my lover sends me into full body spasms. That’s love, not lithium.

We kiss each other with equal desire, matched motions of the lips and tongues, but it’s still obvious who is the Owner, who is the possessed property. Before he even pulls me by the hair, I need no reminder. He knows what I am—submissive—and knows it’s that inspiring this selfish kiss that shows no sign of ending: His slave is fervently submitting, shivering at the emotion of being held by him again. He allows it for a luxurious moment, lets me pet his back and the sweet skin of his neck while I devour his mouth.

“A slave missed her Master?” It’s not a question. Then his hand is firm in my too-long hair. We have not seen each other in two months so he forgives the uninhibited affections another Dom might not tolerate.

One can imagine how I gushed that the slave adores, loves, loses her mind at the sight—”I am very happy to see you, Sir.”

Still shaking much more than might be charming, my Owner gently tugs my tangled hair (I did my best to comb it while talking to the tossers) to lead and bend me over the table. Once in position, he pulls me up again.

“Look in my eyes. You said the other night you can’t look people in the eye and I want to make sure you can look in mine.” I do look up shyly at first while he unbuttons my girly white dress, but once eye contact is made I feel completely at home with him. There is nothing in his gaze to fear or despise: I had told him that when I could see the weakness in my former master’s eyes I was no longer sub to him in my heart.

The man standing before me now knows that if I am willing to look at him openly, there is no weakness or negativity of any kind to be seen. In him I see layers of calm, intellect, and the color gray-blue. Behind the eyes I sense the power in him, but it’s hard to perceive beyond the warm blue smile they radiate. It’s not a staring contest, but a soft stare that is effortless to maintain. Once again, he Owns me deeper. All lovers enjoy looking into each other’s eyes, but between a Master and his slave there is a process at work, working on us and through is. It’s another way to give him Ownership of all that I am. He gives me the security of his Dominance without having to tell me the words I can never hear enough: You are Mine.

He guides me back to the table to give me the punishment I’ve been craving so badly I thought I’d climb the walls all the way up into the cobwebs.

“You are long overdue for your punishment, my pain whore.”

“Yes, Sir,” I murmur in my substate voice. I do my best to keep my legs and back straight as I bend at the hips to get in position. My legs barely cooperate and tremble cartoonishly. My attire won’t matter if I can’t present myself in a dignified posture.

I recall he told me last time my ass looked like a black apple in these panties, which I took as a compliment, but I barely take in the much missed sensations of slaps and strikes for which I thank profusely before hearing a sound like duct tape being unrolled. It’s the latex panties being peeled from my saturated cunt. My sense of time is distorted or else he’s moving faster as time is against us. He comments on the wetness that shocks even me. My mind has so much yet to learn, but the body is trained. The sight of him makes me an honest whore.

“I think I should make you cum for me here before I lead you to the bedroom.”

I remain bent and trembling over the table feeling faint as he removes his hand from my body, slick as the latex he’s stripped, and I use my own sweat to stick in place on the varnish as I listen to my Owner undress.

He does something to me. The body can die little deaths more intense than the release I recognize as orgasm. When his palm returns to my cunt lips and fingertips to my clit I just lose it and beg and scream until I am quickly weak as a kitten. It wasn’t an orgasm, but it was not fake—something that has concerned us both since I took on work pretending arousal eight or nine hours a day. The word ‘cum’ doesn’t describe it as it wasn’t release, but acquiescence to addictive hunger binding me tighter. I said I would never fake and what he heard was not feigned, not the noises I make for the wankers, but it was more from the brain than the body, this brain and this desire that can punish me worse than any flogger, a piece of why pain can be pleasure—our lesson plan for this afternoon.

He helps me to stand and I kiss the back of his hand possessing mine. I kneel. It’s more natural now to ask to serve and the request rolls Kartal Çıtır Escort off my tongue smooth like the slit of his cock. He’s almost as wet as I am after two months and tastes like honey tastes in poems.

I crawl to the punishment room, in only fishnet thigh highs with a vinyl band and some demure patent heels to match the innocent outside and shiny wet under layer; the toes are closed except for little cuts mirroring the eyelets of that thrift shop find. The heels are filthy shiny enough to be fetish, for me. I bought them because I could wear them to feel half like me in the office where I worked a week. Only about 3 inches, they did create that ass-swaying stride. Not the height—they are clever shoes—just the feel and click on slate in the foyer that got me involved in glazed-eyed discussions about keyboard functions and office supplies while daydreaming about being on my knees for one far from that place.

That seems long ago. The afternoon of which I write seems long ago, but so much has happened in the past week. I finally broke down after whoring on the phone to child molesters. I drank countless bottles of wine (I made late night trips to the recycle bin to make sure they were uncountable, at least), doing the evening shift drunk and the morning shift from bed knowing this was fucked up but feeling lucky to have found the perfect work for me. The days went by and I remained, like that poem, only the joy didn’t come after the pain. It was the opposite until today, when I was forgiven.

I had been cruel to my Master. Yes. I lashed out in taciturn messages, rebelling. I was bitter and childish at the same time, as I tend to be, thinking, ‘Don’t you know what you have done to me with your Ownership? Don’t you know I lower myself this way to stay close to you?’ As if it’s his fault I made the choice to be a phone sex worker. As if it were his fault it proved more disturbing than I could have known. In just less than two weeks, the toll I knew it would take on me had been achieved. Then again, the Stanford prison experiment took about 48 hours. Even from the comfort of my own rooms, cats curled on top of me, as many cigarettes as I wanted, the work did its damage fast. On a Thursday, I was enjoying a day off after months of nothing but days off. I left the house. Money would soon be coming in, a tremendous stress relief. I flirted with a monk on the sidewalk. People at the clinic marveled at how well I looked and had those self-satisfied looks of people doing their lives’ work really well. I forgave them.

Twenty-four hours later I was insane. It could be what they call “rapid cycling” in bipolar speak (I hate that term because I picture fuzzy white bears at some Ice Storm swinger party). Or cheap CA wine. Or pretending to be seven years old and enjoy it and having all my ACLU support… in question, at the least.

He had only asked me to call. I wrote, “I might, but you have a wife, everyone around you, and a whore with swelling eye sockets.”

Between shifts I did do a number on myself. I was in a lot of pain, needed him, did something he’d never do to me. Behind his back, cheating on us, I hit myself and the bruises continue to worsen and blossom. I just took pictures. They aren’t shiners, but I look slightly different to myself. I still can’t, even camera in hand, tell him what good that could ever do. He forbids it, but knows if I didn’t love him so much I wouldn’t hurt when he’s gone.

We talked this over on the phone. All my “sorrys” for treating him mean on Friday were rejected. How the hell do you talk to a loved one if he doesn’t want you to grovel? I don’t know. “You weren’t mean,” he told me, “you were frustrated and alone and in pain.”

He’s scared, too, and not just for my sanity. That I wouldn’t love him the same if he were real and not a constructed image. He apologized for still being a teenager, even as I’m the one taking handouts from parents… We’re different kinds of teenagers, my Owner and me. He works long hours. He takes care of his wife. Just when I had wrapped, after ten months, that idea around my brain that he meant what he said about loving her, honoring his promise to her, not being a bastard, he said something else.

I might not like living with him.

“What if I did show up on your doorstep with my bags packed? I’m not easy to live with.” He seems to think if I had more time with him, I would fall out of love. Though I know this additional reason doesn’t change the reality that he will remain married, it makes it easier to tolerate. That he’s not just good, but also scared of exposure, of knowing me as a person beyond a persona carefully created through thought out communication by email, through the elegance of BDSM traditions. Maybe he’s scared that the magic of fleeting afternoons and delirious overnight sessions would be damaged. These are reasons I can relate to more than his honor.

“The thought of never kissing you or holding my slave fills me with dread, Kartal Elit Escort but I don’t want my Ownership to tear you up like this.” “I don’t want this to end,” I tell him. “I belong to you, Sir.” “I’m too selfish to give up my precious possession.” “Keep me, please. This doesn’t feel over because we care about each other too deeply. We’re lovers.” “We are. The lust and affection I feel for my slave is real. We have a bond that is undeniable.” “We’re fucked.” He sighs. “We’re fucked.”

Then I make a real confession. I came close to calling him in my hysteria a couple of nights ago. While I was fending off further self-injurious impulses and muffling my screams with my pillow, I considered calling him late at night on the cell number that was obviously for emergencies only. ‘Well, this is a fucking emergency!’ I thought and imagined calling to tell him I am in pain and I need him, even if such a call would ruin his life.

“It would have been awkward,” he said with a laugh, “but of course I would have spoken to you.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I tell you I want to be there for you. What good is that if I’m not when you need me?”

I think I just ask, “Really?” a few more times, in disbelief. I am so happy at his response, lack of apparent terror at what I almost did, and so glad I did not call.

In my despair that night, I had dramatically accused him of leading me down a one way path to nothing. Though I took that back, he wouldn’t allow me to deny there is some truth in that. There is something fated about our connection—it doesn’t seem possible to undo it or to make myself truly want to. The image that plays over and over in my mind as an illustration of this inexorable state is one from the last time I was with him.

I wear my collar to the bedroom as I crawl on the end of his lead. As I reach the door, the image evaporates, so I rely on my Owner’s delicious account of the events of the next two hours. He was alarmed when I said just days later I remembered very little. It was that I was deep in my substate, very different from normal consciousness, but also that I was so blissfully free of all pain I didn’t want to remember that. The contrast of such pure contentment with the reality of missing my Master so much and spending my days on the phone contending with a sexuality so different from what I share with him was to hard to bear. I couldn’t stand the memory of being that happy, even as I crave the next visit.

I crawl to my lesson. We had decided the time had come in my training to experience pleasure and pain at once, rather than alternating between the punishment that gets me welcoming wet for him and the orgasm he uses to dominate me after his hand is unable to resist the effects of his more sadistic side.

I get on all fours on my bed, exposed. My Master has his crop in hand from the entrance way, but seeks something more for my vulnerable back.

“Where is the flogger?” I can tell he is surprised I’d forget anything.

“I hid it, Sir.” I hadn’t really meant for him not to find it—I like the feel too much—and he spots it quickly on the wall, in the vase where there are usually roses.

He returns to the bed to tie me down, placing my wrists in his leather cuffs and tying them together and to the head board. I raise my head from my position on my belly to watch his hands work, to watch the intent look in his eyes, the smile like he’ll speak at any moment to tease me about how I watch his every move.

When my legs are tied down, I feel the crop on my buttocks and thighs, which always shocks on impact—it makes a sensation in two parts, the first of which is a biting pain that frightens me before receding into a more sensual throb. When the blows come fast enough, all levels of the pain it causes can be felt at once, like fireworks dying as new colors appear.

The flogger to my back is pure pleasure, though I know the sensation is in the category of pain. I always want to be struck harder—it’s a pleasant sting that is instant gratification—not complicated or scary as the crop. It’s a sexual feeling, like being fucked on the surface of the skin.

My Master alternates between the two implements, restricting the crop to the fleshier areas of my ass and thighs, while the tails of the flogger are free to catch me everywhere—the side ribs, the back of my neck occasionally, or between my legs. He does not stop when he enters me with his fingers to fuck and punish me at the same time. I learn that pleasure is not pain and pain does not transform into pleasure, though each contains an element of the other, but that I can feel both at once. Pain is still pain, even when I want it and respond sexually every time I’m in this aspect of my Master’s care, and the fingers controlling me from inside have me struggling in my ropes more than the punishment.

He notices me grinding my pubic bone into the mattress and lets go of the crop to reach underneath me, get to my clit while he fucks me fast and deep with his other hand. I beg him for it: “Please touch my clit so I can cum for you!” He does not deny me and I attack him with the same intensity he’s offered me, squirming on my Master’s hand with no thought of anything but release from pleasure. My next plea is for him to please stop.

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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

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