Obediance

Obediance

I

       I am writing this by candlelight in a basement.  “Basement” is too glorified a term; “dungeon” would be more accurate.  There is a stone floor, a wooden bench, a pole, and a gymnastic horse.  This is not my house.  I don’t know the name of the man who owns it; I was given to him last night by another man whom I was given to by my Master earlier in the week.  My ankle is chained to the pole.  I write these words because I just had to let someone know what is happening to me.  I have not been allowed to express myself freely for at least six months, or maybe nine – I can’t remember and have no way of telling.

       My name was Elizabeth, but no one has used it in months – including me.  It would be ironic if they did, since, despite my father telling me as a girl that I was named after the Virgin Queen, I am the furthest thing from a virgin.  I am usually called “Slut” or “Whore.”  Sometimes “Cunt.”  The word “Whore” has been tattooed on my rear, so I suppose that is as much my name as any other word now.  My husband has a name, but I am no longer allowed to speak it.  When I am allowed to address him, I say “Master” or “Sir.”  Usually “Master.”  Even then, I rarely get to speak to him, though I love him with my body and soul.  When I am near him, I am usually gagged.  Sometimes I have his sex in my mouth, or another man’s.

       My slavery began slowly and, for me, unknowingly.  One evening last year, my husband – not yet my Master – had taken me on a date to an elegant cabaret bar.  I prepared as always: I showered, shaved my legs smooth, neatly trimmed my pubic area.  I wore a sheer thong, matching sheer bra, and dark stockings.  I am not a boastful person, but examining myself in the mirror, I was attractive that night.  I am thin, but my breasts are heavy given how slender I am.  My rear is simply beautiful – all three of the boyfriends I dated before my husband said so.  Beneath my thong the lips of my sex could be seen.  Dressed like this, I knew I would make love that night.  My husband walked into my dressing room wearing a tuxedo.  He kissed me, and I was proud to be married to such a handsome and loving man.  Then he whispered to me in a voice I had never heard: “Give me your thong.”  I looked into his eyes and couldn’t read them.  I obediently stepped out of the string of the thong and handed it to him, my rear and sex now exposed.  He put it in his pocket.  Unsure what to do next, I slipped on my short black cocktail dress and my high heeled mules.  I stepped with my husband into the evening air clinging to his arm and feeling beautiful and loved, if naked.

       We had a wonderful time at the cabaret.  My husband held my hand, touched my cheek, and treated me like a princess.  I couldn’t have been happier.  What’s more, we befriended another attractive couple and asked them to join our table.  I was mildly sheepish – after all, I was wearing a short dress with no panties – but I decided that wouldn’t be noticed.  The other couple, Ken and Alicia, were funny and attractive.  Ken had dark eyes, strong arms, and money.  Alicia had pouty red lips and a stunning smile.  And breasts I envied.  We were quite a party for new acquaintances.  Three hours and five drinks into the evening, Alicia excused herself to visit the ladies’ room.  A few minutes after that, my husband leaned into me and whispered, “You’re going to suck cock tonight, beautiful.”

       “Oh, yes,” I smiled back.  I enjoyed giving my husband head.

       “Not mine.  Ken’s.”

       I blushed and laughed at his joke.

       “I’m not kidding,” he said, looking at me intently.  I was a little drunk, or at least that’s how I explained what happened next to myself.

       “Okay, if that’s what you want,” I whispered meekly back, squeezing his leg.  My husband didn’t say a word, and stood up to leave.

       I now sat alone at the table with Ken, an attractive man but a complete stranger.  I was at a loss as to how to proceed.  I am not a prude; I have enthusiastically performed every sex act my husband has ever desired, and he is demanding.  But I am unfailingly loyal to my husband, and the contradiction between being sexually faithful to him and being obedient to his instructions confused me beyond words.  I looked Ken in the eye and said, “They seem to have found a better offer.”

       Ken smiled and clinked his glass on mine.  “Let’s get to know each other better,” he said.  I slid closer and our legs touched.  We spent the next hour drinking and flirting.  Still, I was unsure how to broach the subject of my husband’s instructions.  After a time, I innocently kissed Ken’s ear and whispered, “I have a surprise for you.”

       We locked eyes, I smiled at him with my brightly lipsticked lips, and slid under the table.  My hands trembled as I unfastened his belt.  I had only ever performed oral sex on four men in my life, and while I passionately love the feel of a man’s sex in my mouth, I was also passionately loyal to my husband.  But loyalty means obedience, so I slid Ken’s trousers down.  Beneath his form-fitting black shorts was the outline of his engorged organ.  I traced the outline with my fingernail before sliding my hands inside the waistband and pulling down the shorts to reveal Ken’s manhood. 

       Ken’s balls were large and his sex radiated heat from the blood that engorged it.  I held it against my cheek for a moment, unsure if I could actually take it in my mouth.  I loved my husband and wanted to be faithful, but also wanted to obey him.  I suppose I am a submissive person, because obedience won out.  I opened my red lips and took the head of Ken’s member in my mouth.  It felt like other men I had taken – wonderful.  Hot.  Throbbing.  Salty.  Intimate.  There is a reason why women love to fellate their men – not just their men, but men.  We feel beautiful when a man desires us enough to hold our face in his hands and place his organ in our lips.

       I now felt Ken’s hands on the back of my head, urging me on.  Even though I could hear the music of the cabaret singer and the clinking of glasses just inches away on the other side of the tablecloth, and even though Ken was a stranger I had just met hours earlier, I was not ashamed.  I was an obedient woman following the instructions of my husband, even if that meant pleasuring a strange man with my mouth in public.  Cupping his balls in my hand, I slowly worked my mouth down his shaft, savoring the musky smell of his groin and the heat of his organ pulsing between my lips.  As I took his full length in my throat, I could sense that he would shortly finish in my mouth.  Moments later, I felt his body stiffen.  Ken held me by my ears to keep my head in place while he drained his semen down my throat.  I submissively swallowed as fast as I could.  Then, before I could emerge from under the table to thank him for allowing me the pleasure of fellating him, he zipped his trousers, pushed the table away, and walked out.  When he pushed the table away, of course, he exposed me to the other patrons, on my knees, my makeup smeared, with a telltale trace of semen on my lips and cheek.  At that moment, Alicia walked by the table.  “Whore,” she muttered, as she left to follow her husband out the door.  That was the first time, but far from the last, I would be called that name.