HOW WE SERVE MASTER

I’ve written a lot about Mistress Kaylish recently. I guess she’s on my mind because my next appointment with her is coming up soon.

Here’s how the appointments get started.

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BEFORE THE ARRIVAL

It’s my responsibility to reserve and pay for the hotel suite. I text Yoshiko the room number. And I arrange a room key card for them at the front desk.

Mistress Kaylish and her slave always arrive at 7:30 pm.

At 7 pm, I have to be naked and kneeling in the center of the suite’s sitting room, my eyes cast down to the floor.

I stay like that until they arrive.

My pussy is freshly shaved.

Mistress Kaylish requires every pussy she and Yoshiko work to be absolutely hairless — not even the whisper of a hint of a sign of a suggestion of stubble.

So I shave in the suite just before it’s time to kneel.

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AFTER THE ARRIVAL

Nothing is said for several minutes after they enter the suite and prepare their tools of the trade.

Eventually, Mistress Kaylish will walk over and stand in front of me. I’ll stare at her shoes until she says …

“Whore.”

That is my signal to raise my head — not lifting my eyes higher than her chin — and ask …

“How may this whore be of service, Mistress Kaylish?”

And then the long, fascinating evening begins.

Because of my age, the first thing Mistress Kaylish does is order Yoshiko to bind my breasts.

My sag is offensive.

After that …

I never know what to expect.

Mistress Kaylish is quite heartless and inventive.

And very expensive.

An evening with the monster and her pet demon costs me about $2,200 for each appointment — when you include price of the suite, a little taste for the hotel consigere’s understanding and silence, plus an expected tip for Mistress Kaylish and her slave (who probably has to turn around and give it all to her owner).

But worth every penny.

On those nights I extremely grateful for my family’s generational wealth and my stupendous inheritance.

During my last appointment with Mistress Kaylish, she made me kneel naked in a corner facing the wall while she dominated another client on the phone.

It was just another way to abuse and humiliate me.

I’m paying for her time — $300 an hour — but another bitch is getting Mistress Kaylish’s attention.

After several minutes, her slave assistant Yoshiko came over and worked a butt plug into my asshole.

And my corner time dragged on.

Poor Bunbun.

She said she almost peed herself today while walking downtown to a restaurant with a pal of hers.

As they strolled down the sidewalk, who did they see walking toward them?

Yoshiko.

Bunbun said she was almost too paralyzed to keep walking.

Yoshiko is a lesbian sex slave owned by Mistress Kaylish.

And not just any kind of sex slave. She is trained to assist Mistress Kaylish.

And while Mistress Kaylish’s mechanism is a riding crop, Yoshiko wields a multi lash leather whip.

It is fearsomely painful and humiliating.

I know. Dear lord how I know.

Bunbun has never been under Yoshiko’s thumb. But has watched me submit to her and her owner.

And that was enough to make Bunbun nearly piss herself at the mere sight of the wicked grotesquerie.

She snivels.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Look at me,” I say.

She doesn’t know what to do. I had made it very clear earlier that she had better not make eye contact with me.

She slowly raises her head. Just a bit. Turned to the left so she won’t inadvertently eyeball me.

I say …

“I don’t see how your wife can bear to fuck you. Tell me, how does Beverly possibly get excited looking at that?”

Jessica sobs.

I’m seated on one of the antique chairs in my living room.

My wife Hannah and Jessica’s wife Beverly are on the sofa to my left.

Jessica is kneeling on the floor in front of me.

Naked.

We were discussing her saggy tits.

They were on full display because she had her right arm under them lifting them up.

I usually make older women I dominate cup their breasts as acknowledgement of their aged and pitiful state.

Jessica is 71.

But she can’t cup her breasts because her left hand is covering her pussy.

We had already discussed how awful that vile gash was.

So dry.

So loose.

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HOW WE GOT HERE

I was doing this for Beverly. She and Hannah were friends. Though a decade apart in age, they had a major bond: each had a wife more than 20 years older than she was.

Beverly’s wife …

Needed correction.

But Beverly didn’t have the will — or skill — to do it herself.

Neither of those was a problem for me.

Jessica had strayed. And was in danger of doing more of it.

She had shared what Beverly saw as a romantic kiss with an old friend at a party.

Beverly feared it would develop further.

Hence …

Me.

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WE LEARN THROUGH SUFFERING

I pick up the pair of linked nipples clamps off the small table beside me.

As I start to clamp her nipples, I say …

“Tell her again.”

Jessica suddenly sucks in a breath as the first clamp bites down.

Looks over at Beverly.

Her voice trembles.

“I didn’t cheat, Sweetie. I’d never cheat on you. I love you. I love you. I love you so much. Just you, Sweetie. Just you. You’re all I ever want.”

She gasps.

Both clamps are on now.

I stand.

Take my cane off the small table.

Walk around Jessica.

Time to stripe her ass.

The night is still young and I don’t think Beverly is convinced.

Looking back at my initial posts, I fear I’ve made myself more monstrous than I really am.

I do believe that in a lesbian marriage, one of the wives must be clearly and totally in charge, and rules must be obeyed and enforced.

But I’ve not really mentioned how I make Bunbun happy.

Well …

On her birthday three years ago I gave her a gift she still treasures.

She had never seen the submissive side of me. The sniveling, frightened, sobbing side.

So we got a suite in the ritziest uptown hotel.

And hired a dominatrix.

Young. Twentysomething. Irish. Strong. Sleek. Red headed. Ice cold.

Mistress Kaylish.

Her mechanism was a riding crop.

Hannah was just there to watch. And enjoy.

I’d never worn a ball gag before.

Never had my pussy slowly, dispassionately, methodically spanked for 45 minutes straight.

Never been collared.

Never had to swallow mouthfuls of another woman’s spit.

And many more nevers.

Hannah says her favorite part was when Mistress Kaylish strapped into her large girl cock, sat down on the suite’s sofa and told me I would be allowed to beg her not to take me anally.

And beg I did.

On my knees.

Shaking.

In tears.

For an hour.

To no avail.

At the time, I thought, “Hannah best enjoy all this, because I never want an evening like it again.”

But I have served Mistress Kaylish regularly since.

Damn.

That girl cock was hateful.

Just hateful. Hateful.

I mean … hateful.

There’s a certain Slant of light, (320)
BY EMILY DICKINSON

There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference –
Where the Meanings, are –

None may teach it – Any –
‘Tis the seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –

When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –

A man walks into a bar with a duck on his head.

The bartender asks, “Is there a problem?”

The duck says, “Yeah, I got this man on my ass.”

“Whose pussy is this?”

Hannah looks over at me. Her eyes are so sad.

Sitting on the bedroom chair, I remain stoic.

The man lying naked atop my naked wife’s back repeats his question.

“Whose pussy is this?”

Hannah turns her head away from me. I can barely hear her.

“That’s your pussy, sir.”

He raises his hips. I can see the midsection of his long cock.

He trusts down. Quick. Hard.

Hannah gasps.

But to her credit, she doesn’t sob.

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It all began five days earlier.

That night, I had scooched over on the sofa and started kissing Bunbun.

Tongues first, then I worked my way down to her neck.

I took off her blouse and bra. Licked her nipples.

I really love nipple play.

Love to bite them.

Twist them.

Pinch.

Maybe I overdid it. But I was enjoying myself.

So much so that I suggested she go to the bedroom and get sexy for me.

(Ha! As if anything I tell her to do is a “suggestion” only.)

Usually it’s up to her to pick the proper lingerie to fit my mood, but this time I knew exactly what my horny self wanted.

“Put on the skimpiest sheer black panties you have,” I said.

Adding …

“And that bra I like. The cupless lacy black one.”

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Here is where we reach the critical phase of every well-structured Story Arch.

It’s when Rising Action becomes Confrontation as the tale’s Hero (me) goes jackhammer-down on the villain (Hannah, aka Cunt).

But first, an intermission (as if this were a movie rather than a piece of narrative scribbling, but whatever who gives a rat’s fuck)

Anyhoo …