Dinner is Served

       "Sir? Your dinner is ready."

       The delicious smell of baking bread has filled the apartment for hours, it seems, and my appetite is quite whetted by it as I turn from my computer to look at you. Smiling, I see you've dressed up for me. And you're perfect in your pretty little dress, your high heels - making you look even sexier and more irresistible than usual. A pretty smile on your beautiful face as you demurely call me to my meal making the picture perfect. My heart leaps as I look at you, and I feel myself struck dumb for a second.

       I resolve, in that moment, that there must be something wrong with dinner. Either that, or you're going to do something very wrong while we eat; I am not going to let you get away without punishment tonight, not looking like that.

       Something in your eyes tells me that you know what I'm thinking. That, in fact, it's the reaction you're hoping for. Our eyes meet for just a second, and that glint of mischief sparks in yours - in that moment, we understand each other perfectly, and love each other the more for it. Then you drop your eyes, demure as a Master could hope for from his girl, and hiding your mischievousness behind perfect manners again.

       I grin and find my voice. "I'll be through in a moment, dear." The clicking of your heels on the wooden floor as you walk away makes me want to jump up, to chase you down, to have my way with you right then and there, but no... patience is best. You've made an effort for me, today, and I intend to savour it. Instead, I save my writing and make myself breathe deeply, planning my approach and calming myself before moving. Picking a couple of items from the desk's drawer, I rise and follow you through to the dining room.

       As I enter, you are just finishing up lighting the candles on the table. Putting the lighter down gracefully, you fold your hands in front of yourself and step back, letting me see the meal you've prepared. Two places set across the table, a tray of fresh, warm bread in the centre. On each plate rests a delicious-looking steak with a nice salad beside it. The sight, the smells, are gorgeous, and it is (as well you know) a meal that I love.

       I feel an oddly conflicting sensation there, as I see the effort you've put in to tonight – there's delight at the sight of a wonderful meal, made better yet by the fact that it's you who has made it for me. Mixed with that feeling, though, is the sinking sensation that finding a reason to punish you tonight will not be easy. Well, that's no great matter - I will simply have to do the work needed to make an excuse!

       I put aside that thought for now, and nod my approval at you as I take my seat. Though you have set the table for two, you are being a good girl tonight, and wait by the table for me to give you permission to sit. I take a moment to consider that, looking up at you and admiring your beauty and submission. Then I shake my head.

       "Bring your plate around next to mine, darling," I say instead, patting the table to show where I mean. A few quick steps and you obey, moving the place mat and plate around and stepping back to wait for my next order. Lifting the soft cuffs I brought through, I take your arm and turn you around wordlessly to face away from me. You place your arms behind you without resistance or hesitation, making my smile grow wider while I fasten your wrists together at your back. Letting you turn back around, I point to the floor beside me and watch you sink down, graceful and beautiful, to kneel by my side. You look up at me there, meeting my smiling gaze, and I look into your deep eyes. My heart thumps in my chest as we smile together for a still and perfect second, before i lift the other toy I have with me, the blindfold, and slip it over your beautiful eyes. There's the barest start of a protest from you before you catch yourself, and then you still again, quiet as you await your Master's pleasure. For all your stillness, I catch the hint of excitement in your breathing, and your tongue darts out nervously to wet your lips.

       I chuckle, turning back to our meals, leaving you waiting. I would not want the steak to get cold, after all your efforts to make me my perfect dinner. And the steak is perfect, the first bite delicious and juicy. A wonderful, tender cut of meat, cooked rare as you know I like it. I savour the taste, then slice a small piece from yours, putting it to your lips for you to take from my fork. Watching you eat it, savour it, as I take another mouthful for myself, I enjoy you as I enjoy my meal. You start to say something as you finish the mouthful, but I shush you and you quiet again, silently accepting the bites I offer you, smiling as I push salad against your lips to eat. I smile too, though you can't see it - savouring the same irony as you, I think; that I am serving you your meal.

       I doubt anyone could mistake our roles, though, not with you handcuffed and blindfolded at my feet, your meal coming in whichever order amuses me. And I enjoy making those choices too, seeing you react to whatever I have chosen from your plate. The momentary adjustment as you feel steak, or salad, or bread, savouring whatever I choose to offer your lips. After the first few bites I offer you my glass, letting you drink a sip of the cool orange juice you had ready when I arrived to wash down your food. A little trickle of juice escapes your lips as I withdraw the glass, and I tut affectionately.

       Wiping the juice away with my napkin, I stroke a finger down the line of your neck, and enjoy your soft shudder at my touch. Turning away with a chuckle, I eat some more of my own meal - it's important not to rush things, either the meal or you. It would be a terrible thing to waste any of this wonderful food, after all. A few mouthfuls more for each of us, and then I lift your fork from the table for the first time. Its cold metal touch makes you gasp as I pull it across your warm skin. Scraping the tines across the tops of your breasts, I smile at each gasping moan it wrings from you. You give a little shudder, and a hint of withdrawal before you catch yourself and push your chest further out, offering yourself proudly to a second pass of the metal.

       A mewl escapes your lips as I press a little harder this time, leaving a trail of red lines gently scratched over one breast, then the other. I almost wish you could see my grin, see how much I am enjoying this, but there's so much more fun in keeping you in helpless darkness, and I'm sure you know how much you please me in any case.  With a scoop of my hand, I pull your breasts out from your dress, pushed up and out by the fabric beneath as you arch your back to offer them up to me. The next pass of the metal slides just past your hardening nipples, and I savour your delicious shudder, putting down that fork and lifting the one we're eating with to offer your panting mouth another bite.

       "Eat up, girl," I say, voice my throaty. I find I'm having difficulty keeping steady, now, the delightful sight of you at my feet, helpless and blind, is becoming overpowering. It's my hand trembling with desire as much as your blindness that makes it difficult to get this forkful of salad into your mouth, but we persevere, and as you chew my free hand caresses your breasts, tracing the scratches I've left. Feeling your little trembles. Brushing your beautiful, hard nipples, and feeling you stiffen and shudder at my touch.

       As you swallow, I dab the escaped dressing from your chin, and finish the motion with a little slap to your cheek. A light one, by our standards anyway, but heavy enough to rock your head to the side.

       "Messy slut," my reprimand is warm and loving, but the backhand slap to your other cheek is less gentle than the first. You gasped apology makes my heart beat harder, and my hand comes down again for the third slap, harder still. It takes a moment for you to recover your balance, your cheeks a bright red, but you do, straightening and steadying yourself.

       "I'm sorry Master," you answer, voice quiet, warm and firm. "I'll do better next time, please let me try again."

       I gather another forkful for you, and offer it, holding it as steady as I can in front of your mouth and letting you know it's there with a gently brush across your lips. Amused and aroused, I watch you carefully lean forward, tongue darting out to taste and make sure where it is and guide your mouth to the delicious morsel of food you'd prepared for us. Your dedication to the effort is lovely to watch, and I can't restrain my impulse to tease you, moving the fork a little here and touch there to make things harder for you, and my free hand slipping down to confuse the issue by stroking your lovely breasts.

       I think you would manage, even so, if I were one to play fair. But, being me, I don't: instead, I tweak your nipple just as you finally get your mouth around the salad. You jerk at my pinching, twisting touch, and that's enough to spill a little leaf. A shudder runs through you, and I can see you repress an urge to complain of the unfairness of that trick - a good choice for you, my darling bitch, it is after all rude to talk with your mouth full. Remembering your manners does nothing to shield you from punishment for being a messy eater, of course: a couple of hard slaps to your breasts, stinging and marking them with my palm prints, and then I take both nipples in my hands, letting you swallow before I pinch down painfully.

       "Sorry, I'm sorry Sir," you say with a gasp of pain, and then a whimper as I twist roughly. Clearly you've overcome your desire to protest my actions; my clever love knows better. "I'm sorry I'm such a messy girl, Sir. Please may I make it up to you?"

       I grin and twist harder, your head going back with a yelp as you make an effort not to struggle against my grip. "Oh, I will, my darling whore. I will."

       Lifting your plate down to the floor under the table, I grab you by the hair and push you down. With your hands bound behind you, it's an awkward posture for you, and I end up supporting your weight as I push your face down to the remaining salad.  "Clean your plate, slut."

       You lower yourself as best you can, spreading your legs wide to lower your face to the meal. Releasing your hair, I let you eat, struggling for balance as you blindly search your plate with your mouth. It's enough to distract me from my own meal, as I watch, and I finish my salad slowly, watching and listening  to you struggling with yours all the while.

       When I'm done, I push my chair back so I can watch you finish. You've been as careful as you can, as neat as possible - but blindfolded and bound, you could scarcely avoid making some mess. Impressed as I am with how little there is, I am still pleased to have the reason I sought to punish my ever-naughty beloved. Grabbing you by the hair and bound hands again, I pull you upright on your knees, and slip the blindfold off your eyes to let you see the debris you've left around your plate. Your smile is impish as you apologise, voice sincere and soft and belying the glee in your gaze as I turn your head to look at you.

       "I'm sorry, master," you say, wriggling in my grip. "I've been such a messy girl, Sir, please will you punish me for it?"

       Ah, my perfect slut, you know me so well – I so dearly love hearing you ask for your punishments. I nod firmly, and see a little shiver run through you at the sight. Anticipation and perhaps a little fear? Whatever it is, it's delightful. I take a moment to wipe your face clean of the stray dressing with my napkin, and then I pull you up, lifting you across my knee.

       “I shall punish you, dear,” I say, stoking fingers up the backs of your legs one at a time, teasing a little as I speak. “I do not intend to tolerate a such a messy slut!”

       That last word I punctuate with a firm spank on your raised bottom, getting a lovely yelp from my girl. Another smack, a little harder this time, and you moan. My left hand steadies you as my right brushes down, and then up, caressing your thighs before slapping again, twice more, each harder than the last.

       “Thank you Sir,” your voice is low and trembling as I resume stroking, your legs parting gently at my touch. “Thank you for punishing your dirty slut, I'll be neater next time!”

       “Yes, you will,” SMACK, “my naughty little slut.” SMACK!

       The last two are hard, fast, and stinging, making you wriggle delightfully in my lap. Only now do I pull up your skirt, baring your arse, already red from my attentions. My hand strokes across the warm stinging flesh, caressing, brushing nails across your skin.

       “Have you learnt your lesson, wench? Or do you need more punishment?”

       “Sir,” you start, and pause as my nails dig in harder. You squirm and moan, legs parting wider, as I scratch. “Sir, I won't make a mess again, I promise.

       “But you are my Master, Sir, only you know if I need more beating!”

       I laugh at that, feeling warm inside as I hear your words, hear you submitting yourself to me as we both want, and need, and love. My hand comes down firmly again, leaving a clear palm-print on one cheek, then the other loud cracks filling the room. Each makes you jerk and yelp, and then as I touch the marks I've left, writhe against me eagerly. Across my lap as you are, you can't help but notice my erection as it presses against you – and I can't help noticing that your wriggling body presses wonderfully against it.

       “You clearly do need more, my darling slut,” I say, stroking down between your thighs and hearing an eager moan as I brush, ever so lightly, across the wet lips of your sex. “You're still making such a mess.”

       A moan from you, as I draw my fingers between your opening lips, and I pull them around to your face, sticky with your juices. “See? Dirty slut.”

       “I'm sorry Sir,” your voice is raw and throaty, muffled by my grasp. Your tongue darts out to lap your juices from my fingers unbidden. “I'll clean it upfor you, see?”

       My laugh is dark and rough, amused at your protestations while you wriggle and writhe against me, each movement heightening my arousal and speeding my heart. You moan, sounding almost disappointed as I pull my hand back again, away from your eagerly licking tongue. Swinging it down again, I let my palm smack into your red wriggling arse, six hard blows making you jump, squirm, and cry out. Another six follow, lower, spreading your thighs and leaving reddening marks on them too. Your cries die to whimpers as I beat you lovingly, tenderly and hard.

       Both of us are breathing raggedly as I lift you off my lap and stand. The candlelight illuminates you wonderfully, your eyes shining, your cheeks glistening with tears, and I lean in to kiss you, tasting your moan and feeling your joy at pleasing your master in your wriggling body. I can no longer contain my urgency and I growl, pushing you down across the dining table beside our plates. Unbidden, you spread your legs wide for me as I unzip and free my hard and eager cock, pressing myself to your wetness and hearing your gasped, pleading moan.

       That prompts me to thrust hard, plunging myself into your welcoming warm embrace, our cries of joy mixing as I bury myself inside my beautiful slut. I regain some control, then, as I pull back and thrust again and again, pounding slowly but hard into you as your breasts press down onto the cold stone of the table. You match my rhythm, gasping happily as you push back against me, your breathing quickening to moans as I ride you hard.

       Your body squeezes me, tightening around me as we shudder together, both feeling our bodies working together. As my hand swings down to slap your arse again, matching the rhythm we've found, you regain your voice and plead.

       “Master! Oh, Master, please,” you cry, the words forced out between gasps for breath. “Please may I come for you? Please Sir, I need to so badly!

       “Please, let me come?”

       I don't answer straight away, letting your please rise in desperation as we speed up towards our goal. I can hear the effort you're putting into controlling yourself, the struggle to remain an obedient slut as you please me, and my joy and pride in you burns bright. As I feel myself slipping over the edge, I growl down at you between my own panted breaths. “Come for me my beloved whore, my dirty cunt! Come!”

       Your thanks are lost, incoherent amongst your cries of joy as you relax, release, let your body shudder and arch while you sing out in ecstasy. My own shout of joy joins yours as, with one final thrust, I come deep in you, filling you and collapsing on top of you. Spent, we pant for breath, indecorously fallen across the table, until we each regain the strength to move. Your sweat- and tear- slick face is shining in the candlelight as I lift you, and unsteadily we look into each other's eyes. Our breathing slows back towards normal, and I lean in to hug and kiss you, both of us yet unsteady on our feet. Your loving kiss returns my own and I hold you for a timeless while before breaking it and looking down at you. You curtsey as I let go, so beautiful still bound and your lovely clothing disarrayed. My perfect, beloved slut; nothing could be better. That wonderful impish glint is back in your gaze as you speak.

       “I hope you enjoyed your meal, Sir.”