She: A Flash Fiction BDSM Tribute
Joe Brewster
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 - 2012
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ooOOOoo
She never asked a thing of me.
Why should She? After all I was her creation. Hadn't I been properly trained?
I serviced her need unencumbered by talk -- mere chatter. A slight nod or pensive smile called me to duty. A sharp look was reprimand enough.
She crafted me as an instrument for her service. Much as Stradivarius plied his art. Fashioning a sturdy yet sensitive device capable of registering the most ephemeral tones. Then, in the next instant - when in the hands of a master-- resounding with a most durable timbre as the instrument itself begged to be strained to a fevered pitch, subjected to the most brutal stresses throughout it's range--in various keys and tempos--to display its creator’s full genius.
She was a virtuoso on the instrument of her own making -- ME.
And like any fine instrument I wanted to be used. Needed to be used. Yearned to be used. Regularly. Continually. Forcefully. I needed to be shown, in the most rigorous way possible, what I was capable of -- the heights and depths. And that was only possible when I surrendered myself to the hands of my Master and Creator -- SHE.
Ah, the nights... the pleasures: after drawing her bath and being blessed with the honor of cleansing every measure of her glorious form--while music softly stirred the dark glow of candlelight--She lay back amid the soothing warmth, breathing the scented air, sipping her favorite wine-- and I caressed her beauty.
Kissing the tips of her toes for hours on end... moving my hands along her soft contours as I massaged her worldly cares away... placing my face against the golden soft moss of her sex... hearing the soft sigh that let the pleasuring commence ... tasting her urge... her need... O, the privilege of bathing my face in the warmth of her feminine expression... O, the triumph of her carnal gratification.
Being generous She would sometimes invite a friendly crew over to watch a favorite sexy television program. A guilty pleasure of sorts. I poured the wine and set out fine cheese and finger food and otherwise tended to the needs of one and all - sexual needs included. As I say She was generous.
I sucked, licked, and kissed any and all of the intimate places her guests so desired and generally showed off my training in all phases of feminine pleasuring. At the end of the night the satisfied faces glowed with admiration and envy. They were jealous of She. They thought her lucky. They wanted a Bitch like me of their own.
I knew better. She trained me. She created me. All praise was due Her. Still, being weak and simple-minded – a man after all - I sometimes let my petty self feel flattered. Yes. With shame I say it. I was a fool.
These were the times when I felt the lash. It took a good stiff whipping to keep me right. Bare-assed and bent over while She swung the strap, I felt the sting of her discipline - not her wrath. For my own good She turned my bottom red and I was grateful.
As if to drive the matter home She traded the strap for the strap-on: She took me with her tool.
Piercing my vanity. Plunging my selfish need. Planting Her will. For my own good She toiled thus. Grinding her lean hips against my red rump as She drove the hilt of the massive dildo beyond my capacity to bear, inviting introspection; impaling conceit.
As I collapsed under the crushing weight of blunt sensation She bit my earlobe and hissed, "My darling Bitch... you like, no?"
"Y-yes, Milady. P-please continue."
With wondrous fury Her thrusts ungutted my being till consciousness nearly left me. I was struck numb with an overload of Bitch-bliss. My mind fucked clean of pride; with glee I trembled.
"There." She said as she pulled a blanket over me and kissed my cheek.
With tears of joy I cried myself to sleep.
The End