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"When it is recalled that until the Christian era the underworld was never regardded as a hostile area, that all gods were useful and essentially friendly to man despite occasional lapses! When we see the steady methodical inculcation into humanity of the idea of man's worthlesseness - until redeemed - the necessity of the Devil may become evident as a weapon, a weapon designed and used time and time again in every age to whip men into a surrender to a particular church or church state." - Arthur Miller
"Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that it's heart may stand in the sun, so you must know pain." - Kahlil Gibran
2005-11-14 - 12:34 a.m.
A Weekend in NYC
by Original Cyn - Heidi Michelle
I've just returned from a weekend's sojourn in NYC serving my mentor. As is so often the case, he's in the U.S. on business and our times together are a mixture of professional and pleasure. Often, I'll awake in the morning next to a cold pillow and a note that offers guidance. He lists his expectations regarding my day, my accomplishments, and my schedule. I find this deeply satisfying. I enjoy, to an incredibly delightful extent, spending my day getting ready for him; paying exquisite attention to every detail of my dress and demeanor. I love hunting for that unexpected gift, the right memento that brings his stunning smile to the corner of his lips, the pride and sensual gleam to His eyes.
M is tall, dark haired, dark eyed; a handsome man. He speaks seven languages, three of them Chinese dialects. When we do meet up on either coast, we often spend a night in that city's version of China Town. This night was no exception.
I wore a dark, smoky blue silk dress, short at mid thigh, sleeveless. The kind of dress where the skirt seems to float over each curve, each valley, teasingly, the top tailored, clinging to my breasts and belly, and the soft arc of each hip. He was stunning in a navy blue Armani suit, his white dress shirt a magnificent contrast with his dark coloring, tie-less, collar unbuttoned to show off just a hint of his dark pelt.
We leave the hotel, stepping into the cab and he places one warm hand around my waist, resting strong fingers on the rippling muscles of my belly as he bends low to my ear.
"Raise your skirt high around your hips. Do it now." In a fluid, sensual gesture, M removes His jacket, tossing it to the seat before me. The slow glow of arousal, simmering all day, intensifies to an ethereal degree. His gaze peruses me, that slow smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he nods, satisfied, my knees spread just enough to be a little bit of a tramp, a little less of a lady.
"Beautiful." My favorite of his expressions, one I strive to bring forth from him. "But..." My eyes follow his, dropping over my hemline, which has slipped sensually over my hips. One warm hand slides slowly beneath it, upward, his fingertips running gently over the smooth silk of an under-wire bra. Glancing quickly at the cabby, who's spending more time watching the rearview mirror than the traffic in front of him, I blush, and M's smile lights his eyes.
"Is he watching you?" husky and quiet his whisper leaves me panting.
"Yes." I whisper back, barely audible.
"Yes." He echoes his voice deep with satisfaction.
Arching back slowly, aching for his touch, and the feeling of his fingertips tracing circles around each hardening nipple. I revel in the arousal he creates before slipping the edge of the bra down over each swelling, ripening breast, spilling them out of their silken restraint to press eagerly against the soft, silky dress. Pulling the warmth of his hand away, he settles back in his seat.
"Shimmy your shoulders for me," another quiet command, his eyes watching mine as I do so. I feel the weight and the sway of each un-tethered mound brushing languidly against silk. His lips move next to mine, a quick soft bite of my bottom lip.
"Leave them this way."
"Yes Master." Voice quivering, I glance down at my breasts rising proudly against the thin material which does little to hide their outline.
We arrive in China Town (without the accident I felt certain would happen) and exit the cab. Standing on Mott Street, the air redolent of herbs and spices and old food, its chill felt through the silk of my dress and stockings, "Sublime slut. Wanton tramp of my dreams. Jump for me." He says.
I pause, disbelief in my eyes as they meet his. I jump, a small, graceful hop, my sandals barely leaving the pavement, feeling each breast bounce.
"Again."
It feels like everyone around us is staring. I feel the warmth in my cheeks, flushing with the thought even as I realize it isn't true. Nobody is paying us any attention at all, a few stray glances, perhaps. The imp in me laughs aloud, moving my shoulders in a small circle, left to right, then right to left, my hands clasped behind my back watching his eyes take it in. I watch him, torn between amusement and impatience at my lack of immediate obedience.
I jump. Wholeheartedly, elbows bent the slap of my sandals loud against the cement, my laughter echoing his. Landing, a soft moan with the ache in the jounce of each breast showing plainly on my face, reflected in his response and I jump again, and yet again. I stop, each hand cupping a breast tenderly. The ache feeds the warm arousal in my belly. He reaches for me, spinning me around in his arms, replacing my hands with his own. His palms flat against my ribcage, underneath each breast, thumbs teasing, his teeth nipping lightly at my ear lobe, guiding us down the street.
"Do you see the two men in front of the grocery?" He whispers and at my soft yes, he chuckles. "They think you have magnificent breasts, for a foreign, milk sucking cow."
The laughter bubbles up, spilling over parted lips as he speaks to the men, his hands never leaving my breasts. I drop my gaze from the two elderly Chinese, their eyes widening in surprise, then respect, before chattering back to Master. We pause, in front of the grocery, my lowered gaze reflecting respect for my Master and the two men, while they converse for several minutes. Master's hands stray, capturing my wrists, folding my arms with his, across my midriff.
As we leave, his fingers graze lightly against my chin, tilting it upward, bringing my gaze to the two men. "Smile for me." I smile, languidly, and listen to what I assume is farewells, before Master steers me away down the street.
"They believe you to be a very well trained call girl, to remain so quiet, so respectful amongst civilized men." His breath in my ear, the pleasure in his voice sends cascades of real heat rippling through my belly, a soft gasp of need escaping my lips.
"Yes, greedy tramp. You like to be found pleasing, don't you?" I nod.
"Even by men old enough to be your father's father. Don't you, superb slut?"
He says this even as we come to the entrance to our favorite restaurant. It is Schechuan, each course served with the traditional slow pace, tiny portions, fiery sauces. It's characters, Master tells me, name it the lap of the dog. Something I'm glad I didn't know the first time we'd entered. It's a small shop, quite luxurious and typically serves Chinese patrons. Not really tourists stop. Approaching the stairs, His hands pull me hard against him, warm breath in my ear. I have one foot on the stair as he leans into the railing, his hands kneading my breasts almost cruelly.
"Tell me!"
"Oh Master." And then in a soft moan his name slips out before I can catch it. I feel his breath against my ear as he grasps my chin, turning it sharply, his mouth descending on mine in a hard, brutally arousing assault that leaves me clinging to the railing. Sliding one hand beneath my hemline, fingers tracing the tops of my stockings leaving the soft flesh of my inner thigh quivering for more.
"Oh so soon, disobedient tramp. Slave of mine?" As part of our understanding I am permitted to use his name only amidst cries and moans of climax. Unfortunately, that command came later in our relationship, so even now there are times I forget, using it with urgent fervor. As his fingers run closer and closer to the heart of me, I whisper a ragged apology, lost in the sensations his fingers create.
"I can't hear you." Arching my back, spreading my knees wider for his fingers, hands against the cold metal bar of the railing. In a moan rather louder than a conversational tone, I respond, apologizing again. A man and a woman pass us, his body hiding any impropriety, but the tone of my voice, its breathlessness, and the word "Master" makes them pause, briefly, before ascending the stairs. The woman's laughter floats backward behind her at some comment the man makes, my face flushing in embarrassed warmth.
"Do you burn for me, delightful slut?" My frantic nod elicits a chuckle from him, as his fingertips brush lightly against the soft silk between my legs. "Show me." I tremble at his words, reaching down with my own hand I remover my panties. As they slip away from my skin it make me shiver, and I drop the scrap of moist silk in His hands, a small triumphant smile on my lips, the panties my newest "find", a surprise for Him.
"Oh, delicious tramp. Sweet little whore, a gift for me?"
I nod, drinking in the pleasure in his face, in his voice, in his eyes. I see his hand flex, rubbing the soft material.
"Spread your knees, wide, little animal."
I do, trembling, aching inside and feel his fingers, covered in the soft, moist silk slide over slick, hungry lips, brushing lightly against a swollen, aching clit, eliciting urgent moans. His fingers tuck the panties deeper into the groove of my hungry pussy, His thumb resting lightly against my clit.
"Rock your hips for me, little tramp. Show me your hunger. Show me your need."
One foot still on the stairs, I arch my hips against his thumb, my breath quickly turning to pants as he encourages me, my throbbing clit greedy for contact, for rhythm, for release. I soak the panties, feeling his fingers pushing them further inside of me as I respond wildly to his commands. Small moans turning deeper, the intense pool of liquid fire in my belly coalescing, quivering for release. His teeth clamp lightly on my bottom lip, then mocking the wanton abandon of my body his calm, decisive command to "stop!". I gasp when his teeth sink deeper into sensitive skin and I slow my rhythm my body begging for more, eager for the peak that feels so close. He removes the panties slowly, raising them to his lips, a soft kiss to the silky material before tucking them into the inside pocket of his jacket. I stand a quivering, trembling, wanton ache as his hands straighten my disheveled appearance. With a nod of approval, the faintest gleam of admiration, in his eyes as he leads me toward dinner.
Dinner, as usual, was an exquisite progression of superb flavors and textures, save a few of the more traditional dishes, which Master enjoys, I think, to watch me as I struggle not to grimace. Chickens feet, soup with fish eyeballs floating in it. He sits, sensually feline, on a cushion on the floor, while to his right, I kneel, the low table in front of us covered in rice paper. I am grateful for my experiences in the Far East, and the early use of chopsticks, when I am with him, here, my gaze taking in the covert and mostly not covert glances from the Chinese clientele, always curious about a white man who speaks their language.
My eyes fall on the woman who passed us on the way in, just as he is offering a tidbit of pork to my lips, my distraction gaining his attention and a small grin as he glances over at the couple. I linger over the end of the chopsticks, their smooth bone finish sliding gently against my lips, watching Master's smile widen, grinning in contentment back at him. We play subtle games with the food and the utensils as the meal progresses, aware of the growing fascination of the Caucasian couple. Funny thing about the Far East, its people will stare, intently, and comment, rudely, at foreign strangers. But when things turn sensual, they are implicit about providing a sense of privacy, just the opposite seems to be true for westerners.
Master had been sharing the occasional comment he'd overhear, for my benefit, adding laughter to our play. We share the warm, wet towel, the sensual play of fingers twining, stroking promising so much more, the intimacy between us reaching a level that is breathtaking. I can feel the flush of the spices from dinner mingling with the arousal his gaze that his caresses have been stoking all night long. I beg him with my eyes to do something about it.
Chuckling, he pulls me close, whispering in my ear, asking me if it was unbearable yet; to which I replied, knowing how much further he can take me, honestly. "Beautiful." His eyes on mine, "For your honesty, delicious tramp, you may go to the ladies room. Stroke yourself three times, from my dripping cunt to my hungry clit, then plunge two fingers deep into my cunt. Repeat this, until you shiver on the very edge then stop. Return to me."
I stand, trembling with the impact of his words, turning away. His voice, low and husky around my name draws me back to him. In his hands, drawn from his coat pocket, are my panties. I kneel before him, shaken, hungry, his lips at the corner of my mouth, his whisper "I will take them off, myself" leaving me a puddle of urgent, greedy arousal.
I walk, dreamily, hips swaying, toward the ladies room, reveling in the quiet solitude on the inside, the soft smell of incense around me as I lock myself in a stall, fingers greedily pulling my dress up over my hips. I follow his commands to the letter. Straining, aching for release at the very edge of climax. My panting is audible to my own ears. Also audible is the outside door opening and quietly shutting. It is really no surprise, as I walk out of the stall, panties in I encounter the Caucasian woman from the table across from us. I drop my gaze from hers, a small blush staining my cheeks as I take in my reflection, disheveled, in the mirror.
Straightening my dress, my hair, washing my hands, I wait and hoping for her to speak. For a moment I think she almost did. But the moment slides away and she enters the stall, I exit the door. Master is standing facing me, as I come out. His satisfaction is apparent by his expression, along with a lifted eyebrow, which I understand almost immediately. I shake my head "no" as I walk toward Him.
"Pity, she might have been amusing." I smile; his look is searching, as he has done from the beginning, looking for some small indication of rebellion or jealousy. He never found one.
"I thought, for a moment, but *shrugging* she never spoke."
"Adored, aching tramp. I am pleased to see the sway in your hips and the hunger in your eyes. I would have known, otherwise. My smile is soft, full of adoration as I nod, understanding what He hasn't said and we leave, heading back to the hotel.
The rest of the evening is a blur of intense, hard, physical session. He restrains me ankles and wrists, exploring my hunger with anything and everything at hand. I am His slut for double penetration, enjoying the sensation of such complete fullness to an almost frightening degree. Writhing beneath his palm, and then his leather belt, we explore pleasure and pain. He builds it higher until I beg Him to stop, soft tears spilling. I kneel, I crawl, I hold one pose for nearly an hour; hot wax dripping from a lighted candle over the sensitive skin of my calves. Begging and pleading my release. An explicit verbal description of what I would have liked to do with the woman in the bathroom proves to be just what he was waiting for. I give it.
Nearly six hours after returning to the room, he permits me my first climax, which reduces me to tears, whimpers and finally pleas for more. Catching a second wave of response he brings me back up, eager, greedy, anxious for more. I come again and again for his pleasure.
Fact or fantasy *smile* ...I never kiss and tell.
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