This is a beautiful story! her-master:This picture brings back a memory. Though the memory is not
This is a beautiful story! her-master: This picture brings back a memory. Though the memory is not sexual, as the picture is, I remember it as one of the defining moments in my relationship with a very special girl: She was beautiful, but nearly painfully shy. She was a dancer with a figure that would get attention in any room, no matter what she was wearing, but she was also one of those girls who could barely make eye contact with the outside world. It was ironic because men would look at her with desire, but few could muster the courage to speak to her, assuming that a girl like her must be brimming with confidence, that she would suffer none of their silliness. In reality, she was dying from loneliness when I found her, with no awareness of her beauty or her worth. Maybe some of you know the kind of girl I’m talking about? One thing about this pretty little girl is that she was grew to be completely enthralled with the idea of being owned. When we were together, everything about her body language, the way she spoke, and even what she wore was calculated to proudly show that she belonged to me. Though she was shy, she was not shy about this. We once found ourselves at a formal reception in a very nice restaurant. I don’t even remember the occasion, truth be told, but I do remember it was black tie, and I remember what she wore—a stunning, strapless blue dress that hugged and lifted all the right parts of her body just exactly so—perfection. By that time in our relationship, she also had taken to wearing a very simple necklace that was somewhat of a cross between a necklace and a choker, with a little ring pendant hanging from the front of it. At first glance, it looked slightly like a collar, but, upon closer inspection, you would realize that was exactly what it was. She had learned that my mood was mercurial, to say the least, and she was always slightly on edge when we were in public—since she took pride in showing her obedience to me, I gave her many opportunities to do so. Also, though she was not particularly into pain, I had proven to her a number of times that any hesitation or misstep would be dealt with severely, as soon as we were in private. She had already spent several days in class trying to figure out how to sit in the hard wooden chairs on a very bruised ass. I think she learned her lessons so quickly because, every time I had to teach her a lesson, those chairs were a constant reminder for two or three days. As I’ve said so many times, there are many ways to train a girl. The reception was crowded, populated mostly by older, wealthy patrons, and everyone had a drink or two, so the mood was that odd combination of shallow, carefree boredom. The girl and I were standing at the bar, drinking (very mediocre) sparkling wine, and, upon that bar, there was a silver tray with little puff pastry cases stuffed with duxelles. I asked her if she wanted one, and, without thinking, she quickly said, “sure.” So, I picked the little pastry up with my right hand and laid it in my left hand—not quite on the palm but on my fingers. She must have caught something in my eye because I saw a flash in hers before I even moved. Holding her gaze with my own, I moved my left hand across my body, away from bar, and lowered it by my side, below my waist level. She only hesitated a split second—without me saying a word, making a gesture, or giving her any clue what I wanted her to do—she knew. She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath in and out. When she opened her eyes I saw nothing but determination and obedience—a most wonderful thing to see in a beautiful girl’s eyes. She laid her champagne flute on the bar, stepped back a few inches and knelt beside me. Once she was on her knees, she reached her hands behind her back, clasped them there, and looked up at me expectantly, waiting. At this point, conversation near us quickly died down as people turned to look—this must have been some joke between two kids. Perhaps she had lost a bet or something? All in good fun, right? However, I’m sure the more perceptive members of the crowd had already noticed the way she deferred to me and her necklace. Im sure some of them had no doubt what was actually going on. Looking down at her, I nodded. With her hands still clasped behind her back, she bent her head forward, and her lips delicately brushed my hand as she ate the little morsel out of my palm. She chewed carefully, swallowed and sat back as if awaiting further instructions. In that moment, I couldn’t have been more pleased with anyone or anything in the entire world. I reached down and lifted her, cupping her chin gently (perhaps no one in the restaurant also saw that my finger slipped through the ring on her “necklace”), smiling at her as I guided her to her feet, to her proper place—standing beside me. I smiled, and she laughed gently into my mouth as I kissed her lips. She was rewarded very well later that night and far into the next morning (six or seven times if I remember correctly.) But, at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be told that she was my perfect little girl and that she had made me the happiest man in the world. -- source link
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