I would be very interested in speaking to former members of the Military/Armed Forces--not for play purposes, but for research--especially if you served during wartime.  Contact me.

a most interesting thing has happened to me over the last few weeks . . . 

I seem to be getting random txts from people I know in the "vanilla" world, who know that I'm into kink, who have apparently read "50 shades of gray" and now want to know what advice I have for wading into the waters of a "darker" sexuality.  Here's what I have to say in a nutshell:

1.  Your bedroom is your Tardis--it is any time, any place, any where you want to be so long as your partner has the same willing suspension of disbelief

2.  despite politics, Nobody is going to judge what you do in the bedroom.  

3.  if you are the Dom, make whatever you're wearing "you" at your ZENITH and make SURE the slave is ALWAYS naked . . . . A L W A Y S . . ..   A L W A Y S >:(

4.  Dont worry about it becoming a "lifestyle"--worry more about it becoming a once a year trip to the amusement park

5.  don't do it when you're angry

6.  don't do it when they are angry

7.  if you don't fully comprehend what you're doing, don't do it

8.  don't do it without reading something about Ds OTHER THAN 50 shades of gray

9.  don't worry about being gay, bi, straight, trans or other -- all those things are kind of stupid and superfluous to the truly horny

10.  You can get damn near everything you need for your dungeon at Tractor Supply company, just please don't tell the sub that--they are secretly haughty and this is why they need to be brought down to the dirt floor  

11.  knots are fun, knots are good, but a quick release knot is a far better ally than a knife 

12.  Get a collar that pleases you, but understand that it's there to decorate them

13.  never underestimate the importance of lube

14.  if you make it to a level where you're going to play parties, DON'T get hooked by the losers who want to make it into a competition

15.  the losers who want to make it into a competition have ignored rules 5, 6, 7 & 8 and certainly have no clue about rule #1 because they apparently have watched "the prestige" one too many times and transferred the showmanship magician mentality into S&M scenes

16.  Ds / S&M really aren't that weird.  There's far weirder shit out there.  

17.  experiment

18. Dream

19.  Keep adding to your collection

And finally . . .

20.  Fuck all rules

I need a pitt bull . . . 

<ahem> pay attention . . . I have something for you.  Sorry but it's a warts & all edit so some may have a field day with typos.  Others are wise enough to just enjoy smut in the rough ;)

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Ayala rolled her eyes slightly and chuckled, “That’s what they all say.  Silila, Manala, enter!” The long, manicured hand of Manala slipped around the heavy chamber door.  As the shemale cautiously peeped inside, Silila pushed past him, her eyes eagerly searching the chamber floor ahead of Ayala’s order.  “Silila, sample the product , but be careful—it’s swimming in piss.”

     “Not a problem,” Silila winked as she dropped to her knees on the hard, stone floor, producing thin white strips from a pouch on her slave belt. 

     “Manala, go fetch the castle ferrier.  We will mark him while he’s tame.  Bade the guards to enter the room on my behalf.” 

     Manala let her sights fall briefly on Silila.  A hint of disgust fell briefly over her neutral expression as she spun on her heels to exit the chamber doors.  The guards entered the room and stood at relaxed attention, even as Silila became more and more animated over the results of the tests.  “Oh he’s good  . . .  he’s good! He’s good!!”  she squealed, biting her lower lip.  “sometimes I get a lavendar or orchid or maybe even a faint violet color . . . but this?  It’s . . . such a deep, dark purple!  Purple as the Queen’s velvet, purple like a deep bruise . . . purple like the deepest blood forced out from beneath the skin.  He is truly magnificent, Master.” 

     “Keep the results to yourself as the ferriers enter, Silila.”  Ayala warned.

    “Oh, but you don’t just find one like this everyday!    He could knock a spinster up with a look . . . “ Silila stood and ran her hand along his right thigh and side.  “Where will they mark him?”

     “I assumed that you would be staying to witness where.”  Ayala said as she signaled the guards to approach.  As they flanked the still docile man, Ayala raised both of her fists to eye level and turned her wrists towards her face.  She then bent over and touched her wrists to the tops of her knees and immediately the guards set to work freeing the man from the chains.  They directed him to a fur in front of the fire, curling him into fetal position, large leather straps slipped around the small ends of his thighs closest to his knees, his wrists buckled to them as heavy clasps snapped into place.  Ayala motioned for the master’s seat.  With great strength the guards hoisted the solid wooden chair from the opposite end of the chamber, setting it down directly in front of the fire and in front of the man.  Ayala signaled for the guards to leave, and took her seat upon the chair.  “Silila, do you know where to find the muzzle?”

     “Isn’t that Manala’s job?”  Silila retorted as she stuffed the used strips into a smaller pouch.

     “Silila,” Ayala commanded, her eyes narrow and hard, whispering so as not to use the voice, “Get the muzzle”.

      Detecting the authority in Ayala’s voice, the voice carried Ayala’s command like a ripple through Silila’s body and consequently, the man’s.  His eyes drowsily opened, sharp and piercing even in the shadow of the firelight, transfixed upon the image of Ayala seated on her throne.  He feebly tested the bonds at his elbows and knees, then rested once again, the whiskers on his face blending in with the fur.  Silila interjected herself between their gaze, awkwardly kneeling on the uneven floor, and presented the muzzle to Ayala with her hands jutting out above her bowed head.  Ayala brought herself up to the height of her seated posture and took the muzzle from Silila’s hands as Manala entered the chamber with the royal ferriers, “Perhaps you’re right, Silila.  Perhaps this is more Manala’s job than yours.  Manala?”  Ayala said as she held the muzzle aloft, “Gag the wild male.  Be certain to leave the vents open so that he may breathe.”

     “Yes Master.”  Manala said, taking the muzzle.

     “And as for you, Silila, hold your wrists together where I may see them.”

     “But . . . But Master I was only—“

     “Hold your wrists together . . . . or I will have the ladies outside hold them.”  Ayala said with a quick nod in the direction of the guards. Silila brought her wrists to neck height and closed her eyes as Ayala swiftly clasped them together, hanging them from the ring at Silila’s own neck.  “Manala, do we not also have a smaller more feminine muzzle at our disposal?”

     “Yes Master, we do.”  Manala agreed obediently.  “Shall I fetch it for you?”

     Ayala gave a wicked smile as Silila shook her head so hard that the rings on her collar rang like bells.  “Yes, I believe that may be of use to me.  Bring it to me along with your cushion.  I wish for you to be seated by my side.”

     Silila stood up on her knees and buried her face in her Master’s thigh.  She gasped as Manala firmly grabbed her by the base of the ponytail and pulled her head back, fitting the muzzle over her mouth and nose.  Manala quickly buckled the straps behind her head and let the girl go, knocking Silila off of her knees and clumsily down onto her buttocks. 

     “Leave her as she is and sit.”  Ayala said, turning her attention back to the ferriers.  “We have a new prisoner that has fallen into the Queen’s favor.  Two marks are to be made, the Queen’s being the highest, sitting above and between the shoulder blades at the base of the neck.  He must also wear the mark of the chamber around the left ankle.”

     “By ink or by brand?”

     “By ink . . . We shall reserve the use of the brand at the Queen’s discretion.”

     “The shemale also requested that we supply you with rings.”

     “That is because the shemale is quite mindful of her Master’s tastes.”  Ayala said, standing.  “Turn him over.”  The ferriers rolled the man to his back.  After three quick glances Ayala motioned for the man to be rolled to his side again.  “After the marks.  He’s quite well suited for it.”

     “As you wish.”  The ferriers replied, each producing from their leather aprons the tools of their trade—a thick, black bottle of ink, long hollow needles, delicate hammers decorated with magic runes and other symbols, and brightly bleached rags.  They arranged these items in the glow between the man’s great white back and the fire, taking care not to spill the ink or let the needles touch the gritty stone floor.   The ferrier at the man’s shoulders set to work immediately, tracing the queen’s design on his back with the tip of a fine feather.  She made elegant curves and rolling lines as easily as a calligrapher on paper, encasing the Queen’s stylized “Q” in a circle of black thorns and black roses, a great black crown hovering above all.  She wiped the excess from the stain and readied her needle, nodding to the other ferrier, who, grasping the man’s ankle, had made no preliminary marks whatsoever.  With a nod she turned and held the man’s ankle firmly between her thighs and set the needle upon his flesh.  In unison they made their first marks, tapping the needles with their hammers, causing the man to flinch.

     “All must wear the mark.”  Ayala said, confident the voice would not disturb the work of the ferriers.  “Mine and hers.  Your flesh does not belong to you now.  Your blood is no longer a hidden lake.  To woman’s liking shall I make you, and in that you shall be more than you ever could have been as a man of the forest.” 

     The man continued to flinch as the ferrier’s needles dug deep over the sensitive spine and the fine bones of the leg.  Through his muzzle Ayala could hear his choked and holding breath, the blasts of his nostrils, the grinding of his teeth.  He became glazed with sweat, delaying the ferrier’s work as they stopped again and again to wipe his skin.  He pulled regularly at the bonds at his wrists, twisting and rubbing the leather and chains until the sound they made became just as much of an ambient sound in the room as the crackling fire or Silila’s spoiled tears.   Soon the strikes of their hammers no longer elicited a fighting response.  Just as Ayala had seen time and time again in the wild forest men, an ease of acceptance began to overtake him.  His eyes opened and closed languidly, his breathing slowed, and even as the ferrier at his head heaped more and more cords of wood upon the fire, his skin began to appear dry and supple once more. 

     After the fire had consumed the basket’s worth of wood, the ferrier at the head of the man sat back buttocks to heels and heeded her finished work.  Her lips parted before she spoke as her eyes softly drank in the wholeness of her work.  “May my work serve Queen Castia.”  She mouthed breathlessly as she gathered her tools and pushed herself off the floor, excusing herself from the chamber.

     Though the area of the other tattoo was smaller, the other ferrier took her time to complete it.  She turned the man’s foot gently in her hand, making certain all the rings of ink that now permenantly encircled his foot were smooth and perfect.  She polished his skin with the rag over Ayala’s mark and dismounted, her rough voice fililng the hushed chamber as she motioned with her head, “We’re gonna need them if we’re going to fit the rings.”

     Ayala glanced at Manala and immediately the shemale was to her feet and through the door to fetch the guards.  As they approached Ayala held her hand flat in the direction of the man’s head and grasped in mid air, pulling away from his body.  The guards unclasped the metal bonds holding his wrists to his thighs and set the man gingerly on his back, pulling his hands above his head and locking them to an iron ring.  They replaced his thigh restraints with fur-lined ankle cuffs, likewise locking them to an iron ring just below his feet.  As the ferrier fitted the shiny silver rings into a tapered hollow needle, Ayala stood and with her palm outstretched, bade her to pause.  She untied her long skirt at each hip and let it fall to the floor, revealing her tall, laced boots and gloriously wild and thick bush.  The man shifted in his chains.  His eyes narrowed, his breath quickened as Ayala approached and stood over him.  Carefully she squatted down and fixed her bare pussy over the hard leather nose of the muzzle.  From deep within his chest the man moaned, subtly at first, then earnestly as he breathed the scent of her in more deeply through the vents of the muzzle.  Ayala tightend her grip around his arms and head with her thighs, and as his arched back reached it’s peak, the ferrier pinched his right nipple and drove the needle through it.  Ayala shut the vents in his muzzle as he screamed, and as he tensed and held his breath, the ferrier grabbed the left nipple and drove another needle through.  Ayala let go of the man and stood with the help of the guard, stepping back to admire gleaming metal rising and sinking off of his chest with his gasps. 

     The ferrier allowed a very thin smile to crease her weathered face as she folded her arms and admired the well-centered rings.  Her eyes flowed down his stomach to the once again hard and dewy cock snaking up from between his legs.  “Bid your guards to leave.  There is a matter of payment to discuss.”

     Ayala raised an eyebrow and smiled beneath the mask, secretly amused by the forthrightness of the ferrier.  Snarls cut through both the guards faces as Ayala agreed to let them go.  The ferrier stood unflinching as the imposing women exited the room, leaving only Ayala and the slaves.  “Payment . . . has never been an issue, Master ferrier.  The Queen pays in silver and gold, and generous amounts at that.”

     “To my apprentice may the commission go.  She does such lovely work that a child such as she could find such a pittance to be a great boost to her new and blossoming business.  I have . . . a different price.”

     Ayala’s smile grew to such that it was impossible to hide even behind her high-reaching mask.  “A different price . . .” Ayala echoed, “tell me, was it not you who I saw in these very halls nearly a decade ago round as a sow with not one, but two inside, bought by the very same “price” of which you speak?”

     Manala and Silila drew closer to their Master as the ferrier laughed, her arms uncrossing, hands moving to her hips.  “So it was.  Two girls in fact.  Twin hellcats . . . can’t you see the lines on my face?”

     “It would seem a perfect test for him.  But . . . as you know . . . until he has proven himself no longer ferel, I cannot leave his side.”

     “Have it your way.”  The ferrier said as she slid her garment down her broad shoulders.  Against a background of sun-leathered skin dark freckles rose like stray embers from her white, thick, upright breasts.  She let her hair down and approached the outstretched body of the man, cupping her hands around her breasts as she dipped her foot over the other side of his body.  She lowered her body to his, raising slightly to position his cock.  Even in the firelight Ayala could see the ferrier’s cheeks burn red as she slowly allowed the man to enter her body.  Her knees spread further away from each other as she relaxed into him, her hips instinctively rolling in small, controlled movements.  The ferrier made no sound save for the quickening of her breath as her hips began to slightly jerk and drag forward, greedy for the sensation of going deeper.  She began to breath through her mouth as her buttocks pressed further and further down onto him.  She leaned back and pressed herself fully against him, crying out in pleasure before biting her lip again to regain composure.

     As Ayala watched the ferrier take the man, she caught sight of Silila’s small breasts rising and falling rapidly, very excitedly, as though it were the first time the girl had ever seen a woman take a man.  She reached for the rings on her collar and led her around to kneel at the foot of the throne.  Silila’s eyes pleaded for mercy.  With a coldness in her heart Ayala turned the girl around and made her lay with her chest to the floor, facing the coupling.  Her position forced her ass high into the air, her glistening sex betraying a virginal desire that only her unrelenting Master could relieve.  But Ayala was quite content to let Silila’s inability to stroke herself torture the girl.  She settled back into her throne, her legs spreading a little more than she had perhaps intended as the ferrier began to fuck the man in earnest.  She squirmed in her seat as the ferrier brought her hands to her own breasts and squeezed, pinching the nipples, bringing them to hardness.  Lost in her voyerism, she barely noticed the subtle kisses working their way up her thigh.  Manala ran her smooth hand boldly along the round circumference of her Master’s leg just above the top of the boot.  She stood up on her knees and ran her hand along the inside of her Master’s thigh, kissing where she could reach, her long smooth fingers reaching where her tongue could not.  Ayala slid down slightly in her throne.  She could not help but notice how wet the man’s cock had become as the ferrier leaned forward.  She allowed Manala’s fingers to slide in deeper than she would typically tolerate as moans welled up from the ferrier.  The downy hair that surrounded the base of his cock and balls had gathered clusters of her wetness that stayed even as she seemed to urge him to cum, begging him to shoot her over the edge of ecstacy.  The man’s head rolled to the side.  Ayala felt his gaze.  She found herself torn between commanding his attention and watching the cunt of the ferrier swallow his cock.  Again and again it came out hard and wet until the ferrier was screaming.  She paused and held her breath, holding his cock at the very head.  He picked his head up off the floor, eyes flashing, looking deep into Ayala’s as he flexed the muscles of his cock to dive deep into the ferrier.  Despite title and training, Ayala could not help but put herself in the place of the ferrier in her mind, and as his cum frothed forth from the used and quivering cunt of the ferrier, Ayala let herself go to the eager fingers of the shemale and came hard, squeezing Manala’s fingers in time to the ferrier’s gasps. 

     The man relaxed on his chains, his body lowering to the furs, his eyes throwing a smoldering look to Ayala as she recovered.  With shaky legs the ferrier quickly stuffed part of her garment between her legs and awkwardly trotted half-clothed through the chamber doors.  Alone with her slaves, Ayala regained her composure to speak.  “Manala . . . you . . . . must get . . . . to the Queen’s chambers, now.”

     Manala turned a ghostly white, throwing her hands to her face.  “But, Master . . . I-I only wished to bring you pleasure!!”

     “Do not cross me more than you already have Manala!!  I warned you not to ruin the work!!”

     “I-I . . . I didn’t think . . . oh Master do not send me to her at this hour . . . in my condition!!  She will take no mercy!!!”

     Ayala stood and grabbed Manala by the collar, bringing the shemale close to her face.  “In what condition, Manala?  In what condition?”  She said, activating the voice in full vibrato, “How about I return you in worser condition than you are now.”

     “No Master, PLEASE!!!!!!”

    Ayala pressed her face hard against Manala’s and let the voice come through full throttle until it buzzed through all the metal chains on the shemale’s body, including her chastity belt, which was defenseless against it.  “Get to the queen,  CUNT!”

     Manala’s eyes rolled heavily as the voice waved through her body, urging her to release.  Three short gasps and Ayala knew she had doomed the shemale to the post.  She let the slave drop to the floor and turned to sit in the throne again.

     Silila wept until the grooves in the floor held pools of her tears.  “Have the guards lock him in a kennel in my room.  I want him close to me throughout this process.  And for the sake of your mothers pull yourself together!” 

getting ready to bind my slave with rope and cane him . . . . 

Let me answer a question for you since I see you peeking in from time to time when you really have no business doing so:  Yes, I was dominated at one time.  It is not entirely impossible for Queen, especially one as sexist as myself, to have served a man at one point in her life . . . but having had that experience with someone who was clearly worthy of the title of "Master", I can smell a fake one a thousand miles away.  So if you are a dominant male, it's fine to message me or chat or whatnot--I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious about why you are looking in on me--but don't ever expect me to bend to my knees before you.  

I am now also on F3tlife under the same screen name . . . 

I have discovered a fondness for caning . . . too bad he heals too quickly for pictures

the slave and I will be out and about tonight . . . shopping at The Chamber, then on to outland.  

Many of you have asked why I prefer to be called "Master" when I am a woman who believes in Female supremacy.  The answer is really quite simple.  I am to be addressed as "Master" because I have demonstrated mastery in my life in a multitude of fashions.  I am nobody's "Mistress" .  To me the name seems to insinuate a kind of flippant dalliance into another woman on the side to whom you have no intentions of committing to in any way shape or form.  I'm a married woman, and I already have a commitment in my husband and our marriage.  When men are looking for a "mistress", they're generally looking for a barbie doll in black.  But when they come looking for a Master, male or female, they must be prepared to commit themselves to that person's tutelage and honor and respect the confident hand that is willing to guide them to a similar place of security.  

I hope that helps shed light on why the word Master is a more fitting description for who I present myself to be.  

     Ayala reserved the largest of the Queen’s women for her use as Master of the Chamber.  They were muscular and masculine, yet still retained an unfathomable shape—hard curves disappearing into no where, an extremity of shapes still velvety to the touch, both of them dressed in V-shaped body suits that covered their breasts and sex only, both of them collared.  They flanked the dungeon doors, following Ayala in as she entered, walking on their toes as if presenting a kind of readiness to pounce.  The man was lying on the floor, the glowing gurney flickering and dying beneath him.  Ayala directed her eyes to the winter-white blonde.  The guard clasped her hands up front and bowed her head, her legs spread, feet placed flatly on the ground.  Ayala squeezed her fist tight within the leather glove then pointed to the man before turning her palm upward, raising her arm to eye’s height.  Like one mind in two bodies, the guards both dropped to one knee, each taking one of the man’s wrists, enclosing them in sharp metal manacles.  The blonde slapped her heavy hand upon the first bond that crossed the man’s chest, a dangerous action that left his upper body freed.  Ayala paced around the pillar, behind the slightly smaller guard, trying to gain a sense of how much of the drug was left in his system.  The blonde continued to go down the line, freeing the bond from his abdomen, the two of them chaining his ankles before letting go of the last bond covering his legs.  As the cleared his body attach the heavy chains, Ayala’s answer came with a glance—his eyes were open, calm and still, and boldly staring into hers. 

Without thinking, Ayala tightened both of her fists, forgetting momentarily that the guards had been trained to the sound.  But the rattling of the heavy chains across the stone floor continued the work without interruption, and as the two guards walked away from each other, the man arose off the floor.  It was here that Ayala could plainly see the true prize that he was.  Many was the number of them who had found themselves chained to the pillar all ribs and sinews, all long, featureless torsos, but this one . . . this one, Ayala reasoned, had become more than that by his own hand.  Every part of him was big and covered in muscle, not a single rib showing, not a single part of him slack, this perhaps being the by-product of time spent building stone houses in the woods, or time spent deliberately building himself to be biggest and best against all those who would think of themselves as forest kings.  Even his sex seemed to carry itself high and tight as it hung helplessly between his spread legs, a crown in the wrong place, unaroused yet generously meaty, enough even to attract the discliplined eye of the blonde guard as she ran a quick and dangerous glance over him.    

The guards struggled against the last link of the chain before snapping the ends to a bolt on the floor.  They kneeled on both knees within the angles of the chains, coolly facing the pillars.  His head dangled momentarily before craning upright.  Behind her, Ayala could hear the scurrying of Manala through the chamber doors, the slave bells on her chastity belt tinkling before folding herself to the floor.  She was not alone.  A second, more delicate ringing fell to the other side of the door just as it closed.  In her mind Ayala could see the catty look subtly crossing Manala’s face as it always did when alone with Sallila outside of the Queen’s presence.  Ayala turned and pointed towards the wash basin.  Sallila clumsily scrambled up off of the floor and grabbed the metal tub, protecting her hands by gathering the tails of her own tunic, sloshing the water sloppily about the pock-marked floor as Manala followed slowly behind, reverently picking the straight razor from the pegs in the wall, her strut clearly contrasting her air of control against the almost crazed stupidity of the girl slapping the wet sponge against the flinching man’s body.  “The whole thing, Master?  The whole thing?  Shall we shave the whole thing?”  She said, enthusiastically scrubbing the mud, sticks and leaves off his body.

     Ayala glanced at Manala, who rolled her eyes slightly as she stopped to present the razor.  With her forearm straight to the finger, Ayala cut her hand against her clavical and pushed it down, a signal to save the beard.  “Soak his chest, so that I may shave it, Silly-ya”  Manala quipped.

     “It’s Sill-li-la.”  She spat back with the insolence of a teen, “So what?  We’re gonna keep the pubes growing on his face?”

     Manala bit her lip as she tightened her grip on the razor, lining it up to his chest, “How quaint of you to second guess the Master of the chamber.  If you ask me, it should be you on the pillars next.”

     “It should be you on the pillars next.”  She said through her nose in a mocking tone, “Who died and made you Queen?  Oh wait, you already are a queen.”  She said as she soaked his belly. 

     Manala followed with the razor, not far from Sillila’s head.  “Better than being a slutty princess . . . or a piggish whore.”

     “Enough.”  Warned Ayala, reluctantly allowing the voice to vibrate through the mask, the quarrelling slave sisters absorbing the slight sting of embarrassment. 

     “Don’t ruin the work.”  Manala hissed as they recovered their senses, returning to stripping the man of hair. 

     As Manala worked her way down to the toes, Sillila jumped to her feet to retrieve towels.  She quickly worked his body over and left the skin bone dry and shiny after being freshly shaved, the extent of his work now fully exposed in detail with the hair removed.  Together Manala and Sillila kneeled by Ayala’s side, facing him, the hunger in Sillila’s eyes plainly showing as they both gazed upon his brilliant form. 

 “Leave us.” Ayala commanded, her voice firmly filling the chamber without shaking it, slaves and guards both jumping to their feet to flee the room. 

     The thick chamber door shut heavily behind them.  Ayala and the Man she had captured were alone.  The room was silent save for the crackling comments of fire as it burned from the torches and from the great fireplace of the room.  The sound of Ayala’s flowing skirts whispered with her steps as she retrieved the collar from her work station.  The collar was soft and worn, the evidence of age showing in the fine gray cracks around edge of it.  Ayala pressed her thumb behind the heavy center ring to activate the device.  She took the in both hands and approached the man from the front but he defiantly wrenched his head away, his neck protected by his full and wooly beard.  Ayala fought a knowing smile beneath the mask.  With a quick motion of her right hand she grabbed the man by his matted hair and pulled it back, slapping the collar to his neck and clasping it tightly shut before he could wrench himself away again.  She took a few steps back and waited for the device to take effect, savoring the look of growing enlightenment dancing behind his whitening eyes.  As soon as she was sure that the device was protecting him, Ayala began to speak.  “It may seem overwhelming at first, but you will come to understand the words I am saying.  You must understand that this ability to hear--and eventually to speak--is a gift from Queen Castia to her former forest subject.  Do you understand and accept this gift?”

     The man lowered his head to his chest as far as the collar would allow it.  With his eyes leering sharply from beneath his bushy brows, he gave a small, wicked smile, pushed his hips forward, and emptied his bladder onto the floor in a strong yellow stream dangerously close to the skirts of Ayala.  Ayala chuckled to herself as he finished pissing, suppressing a full out laugh deep within her abdomen as he dribbled on himself from his clumsy position on the chains.  “So much for your bath,”  She said, fighting the temptation to lower the line of communication between the voice and the device.  “It is clear that you have chosen to make things hard on yourself, so allow me to oblige.”  She said, taking the formal bull whip in hand, allowing a brief moment of eye contact between herself, the man and the tightly wrapped whip before taking her place behind him.  Even at her height in the high boots, the bull whip, unraveled, had length enough to coil partly across the floor.  It was not his naked, sublime body that urged and inspired the work, but the weight of the tool in her hand as she raised it upward, the fine sound of the crack as she tested it against the floor, the warning rasp of it as she raked it over where the muscles betrayed his sensitive spine.  “Now hear me,” she said, lowering the defense of the device, allowing him to get a sense of the power of her voice, “You will come to call me . . . Master.” 

     The taunt chains that held his arms vibrated.  The man clenched his fists.  Ayala raised the whip and brought it across his back.  He gritted his teeth but made no sound.  A second time Ayala brought the whip across the other side of his back, the tail of it wrapping around his shoulder in a cruel lick.  A hissing sound escaped his lips.  Ayala’s grip tightened as a red X appeared across his back, guiding new strokes as they came lightening fast, this fine, sadistic tool blessing his skin over and over with a white, stinging pain that stole his very breath with their stroke.  His whole body tensed, and when it seemed to raise up on the chains, Ayala halted. 

     The sound of one single breath echoed through the room as he let it go, followed by the sound of panting, and the sound of the hard bottom of Ayala’s boots pacing, stalking, the work beginning to take hold.  From her belt Ayala grabbed the smaller signal whip.  Crossing both arms alternately she raked each of them across his back, left and right mercilessly following each after the other without rest, in rhythm, until he could easily feel the subtle ridges in each.  He held his breath again and pulled at the chains will all his strength, rising, until one deep strike forced a bellowing scream from deep within his heart. 

     Ayala hooked the bull whip under his chin and hoisted it back, pressing her cold bare breasts against the red marks criss crossing behind.  “The words.”  She intoned, the line of communication barely open as the voice hummed through his body, “you will find them.”

     The man’s mouth gaped open as the vibration of her voice echoed throughout his chest.  The instinct to form an utterance came rising from his throat.  His jaw quivered as Ayala ran her gloved hand up his thigh.  She removed her hand from his thigh, and finding a slit in the skirts, she dipped her glove into her sex and brought it to his nose, filling his senses with a flood of her pheromones.  His eyes rolled as his head fell backwards, surrendering in some small way to Ayala’s shoulder as she indifferently looked over his.  She placed her other hand flatly against his chest and pressed him back, digging the whip further against his chin.  The sight of his strong erection confirmed all that she needed to know.  With his face close to hers she whispered, “Have you words, now?”

     The man’s lips patted together softly.  His eyes languidly opened and shut as the pleasure of feeling her soft breasts mixed with the searing pain of the whip strokes on his back.  The bond was taking place before Ayala’s eyes, and in some way it was even greater than she could take.  Then, as if both were experiencing the last resistance asserting itself, the embrace of Master and slave broke with Ayala letting go, the man gritting his teeth and tightening his grip once again, freeing dust from the pillars as the chain grated through the hole.  Ayala stood before him, her eyes flashing with power, disabling the device on the collar completely as she commanded with the voice full on her massive, struggling subject.  “Cum for me!”

     The man’s cock bobbed and he shuddered, thrashing against the chains, his jaw almost snapping to form the words. 

     “Cum for me!”  She commanded again.

     His breath held, nipple tightening like the muscles beneath his chest as his body gathered upward again.

     “CUM FOR ME!”  She echoed and every brick in the chamber shook in their grout.

     “Y . . . ye . . . Yes, Ma- ma-MASTER!”  He cried as a stream of cum was let loose from him, all muscles shaking and drained as if it were being drained from the very essence of him.  In three strong spurts it shot away from him to the floor, to mingle with the piss and the soapy water of his bath. 

     Ayala closed her eyes, retreating into the blackness, slowing her breath, as he turned white from head to toe, panting, repeating over and over again, “yes master, yes master, yes master . . . “

     “You have found the words . . . “Ayala said in a soothing aspect of the voice, her breath slow and controlled as it flowed in through her nostrils. 

     The chamber door crept open.  The long, manicured fingers of Manala wrapped around the edge as she cautiously peered inside.  As soon as his head dropped, Ayala turned towards the door, not wanting him to see her knees wobble as she stumbled slightly.  “Be careful,” Ayala whispered hoarsely as Manala passed by, “There is enough to test, but he pissed on the floor.  You will have to search carefully to gather enough to be untainted.””

     Manala threw her arms outward as her Master teetered on the thin heels of the boots, “Yes Master but . . . Master are you okay?”

     Ayala shot a withering look up from the mask, her eyes narrow and spiteful purely out of instinct, “Don’t you dare say such things in his presence!”

     “What?  No!  I . . . it wasn’t meant to be a challenge to you!”

     “Sillila—gather the product to sample.  Manala must go to the Queen!”

     “Master, no!”

     “GO TO THE QUEEN” Ayala commanded in the voice, grabbing Manala by the collar.

     Manala fell back in horror, covering her face with her long fingers as Sillila indifferently pushed her way through the door.  Ayala departed them both, using the hallway for support as they passed out of sight, to her room where she could collapse unseen on her own soft bed. 

Happy Thanksgiving, perverts . . . 

Ayala neatly folded her hunting garb and closed the trunk tight, saving only the voice.  Despite the coldness of her tiny stone room, Ayala hesitated to dress.  She glanced at herself in the mirror and for just one brief moment saw a delicate hourglass shape poured into a frame of white, a bush of hair fiercely flaming up from the center, no different from any of the towns-women, no different from all the unobtainable women who sparked wars with their beauty.  But innocence was not the stuff of Ayala’s work.  Ayala’s work was to wrap her body as tightly as possible within a whalebone and leather corset to show them just how tightly her hourglass shape could be cinched.  Ayala’s work meant leaving her shoulders and breasts bare as both the front and back laces were adjusted by the nimble, attentive fingers of the Queen’s shemale.  Ayala’s work meant pulling on the long black skirts and bustle as the shemale’s expression fell to an almost whimper.  “Speak, Manala.  Surely your knees are accustomed enough to our floors that they do not ache from groveling.”

     “No,” The shemale responded sweetly, “It’s just . . . I never get used to the sight of you, Master of the Chamber.”  She said, turning her head away, hands folded neatly in her lap as she lowered buttocks to heels.  “May I also help you with your boots?  Are you wearing the high ones this time?”

     “Yes, I am wearing the high ones, and yes I require your assistance.  What a question, really Manala.”

     “One beneath you cannot assume, Master.  Having been in the Queen’s charge so long, it’s hard to remember the protocol sometimes.”  She said, fluttering her heavy lashes, her eyes downcast, barely hiding the tiny black tears leaking through her heavy makeup. 

     “Careful what you say, Manala.  We are both in her charge.” 

     “No Master.  Forgive me.  I carry no disrespect for the Queen in my privilege of speech, it’s just . . . . “

     “She is not me.  Is that what you mean to say?”

     The shemale’s eyes shot up to Ayala, whites plainly showing in the dark room.  Her mouth trembled.  The oily black tears that had barely budded past her lashes now streaked down her cheeks.  She bent her body to the floor and laid her head against the tops of Ayala’s bare feet, synthetic pony tail with hair as straight and smooth as silk spilling over her legs.  She reverently flattened her arms and hands to the floor as Ayala laid back on the bed, drawing her feet upward.  “Is it true?  Will he really be your last?”

     Ayala lifted her skirts to the thigh and reached for the boots.  “Yes, Manala.  He shall be the last.  And what a way to end it all!  He shall be a great challenge!”

     “Oh, but Master . . . “  Manala said, raising up on her knees, placing a well manicured hand upon Ayala’s thigh, “If you leave, all will be lost for me!  I want so badly to follow you to your domain, to be a servant there as I have been here . . . “

     “Fit the boots, Manala.”

     Manala swallowed the lump in her throat and sank back down.  She placed the arch of her Master’s foot against the mound of her thumb and fitted the pointed toes of the boots neatly around the natural shape of her toes.  With a gentle shove she slid Ayala’s heel into high arch, smoothing the long leather flaps against the graceful bow of her legs.   Her fingers worked as nimble as a spider’s to lace them the great distance up Ayala’s leg, over the thin ankles and up to where the legs subtly widen to form the smooth mound of her calve, to the sudden thinning at the knee and up to the thigh where Ayala, looking with a wicked smile down to her servant, parted her legs for the shemale to see.  Manala gasped, loosing mastery of her craft, lacing and relacing the last four grommets as her focus waned.  Ayala raised her booted foot against the leather chastity belt of the shemale, pressing hard as her servant seemed lifted to heaven by the sensation.  “Fit the other one.”

     Manala’s hand trembled as she felt the floor for the other boot, selfishly savoring the feeling of the lacy bridges of Ayala’s boots rubbing against her long imprisoned sex.  She licked her lips before biting them as she once again took Ayala’s foot in her hand, taking the risky liberty of running her thumb along the wrinkly sole of her Master’s foot before commiting them to the boot.  She speedily attempted to lace the boot without stopping, braiding the long laces in and out and between each other, fully aware that their equivalent on the other leg was now illiciting a kind of wetness within the cage that would surely bring the wrath of the queen down on her back, later, in her chamber, while they were alone with the whips.  The laces became shorter and shorter until they reached the top rung, which Manala finished with a pretty bow even as she became nearly breathless with excitement.  Ayala grabbed Manala by the ring on her collar and brought her close, the fullness of her breasts swallowing Manala’s tiny buds within the natural, generous mass of her flesh.  “Fetch me the mask.”

     Manala jumped to her feet, clumsily wobbling to the wardrobe.  The black mask—the sight of it took her through the many years of being preened at her Master’s hand in the chamber, back to when it seemed to foreign, so strange, to be permitted to explore the beauty of women’s clothes, to be swathed in the rich luxury of lipstick and eye shadow, to be held tightly in the merciless feminity of hosiery even as she still held memories of being a gangly, wretched, boy of the forest.  She secretly passed the worn leather mask near her nose as she pulled it from the high drawer before turning to Ayala, who towered over her servant as she stood in the high boots.  Manala approached with her head bowed in reverence, fitting the mask over Ayala’s face and neck as she gathered her hair up and away from the laces.  “I know the voice does not permit you to speak, Master . . .” Manala whispered as she quickly braided the laces through the grommets until they reached the hairline, “But how else may I serve you?” 

     Ayala pulled her thin leather gloves all the way up to her bare elbows as the shemale faced her, trembling, head hanging as if overcome with shame.  She narrowed her eyes, clenched her hands and pointed one long, wicked finger to the floor and the shemale obediently dropped to her knees.  With both hands she raised the thick skirts up her master’s thighs and tucked her chin in between, neck craning upward, her collar barely hiding the adam’s apple, her chastity belt barely restraining the growing hardness as she pressed her face into the soft patch of hair between her Master’s legs.  Taking in the full perfume of her Master’s scent, the shemale darted her tongue into the cleft, touching the clit with the tip of it, dragging it down with long luxurious laps as the bud hardened.  She raised her long hands up her Master’s backside and pressed her narrow face further up, her chin touching that tightening spot, that flowing wet place that all the training, all the conditioning, all the forced feminization ultimately could not extinguish the lust for--to be deep inside, surrounded by, sucked by, squeezed by, received by her velvety tightness, cleansed by the falling moisture, bathed in the richest scent of her fertile readiness.  

     Ayala held fast to the rings on Manala’s collar with both hands as her far-reaching tongue rubbed fast and greedily.   Her breathing quickened as the strikes of the shemale’s tongue sent bolts of sensation throughout her forest-weary body.  Ayala closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the bed.  With a subtle hand she smoothed over Ayala’s thigh, turning it upward as she entered two fingers into the pink, wet center.   Ayala arched her back as the shemale’s long, thin fingers stroked the inside in time with the strikes of her tongue, the muscle inside becoming stiffer, threatening to come.  She took a sharp breath through her nostrils and Manala dug her nails into her hips, pressing her face forward, knowing what was to come next, trying desperately to keep her ears pressed against the insides of Ayala’s thigh, loosing place of the clit in her desperate attempt not hear.  She opened her jaw as wide as it would go, matching the wet mouth beneath her face, dipping her tongue low over the hole, dragging it up to the fleshly ridges that were tightly gathering around the clit. 

     “Enough” Ayala said with a low murmur of the voice.

      The shemale snapped up on her knees and closed her mouth tightly, her breasts raising high and tight , her eyes wide with fear, her expression teetering on the brink of devastation.  “Please, please Master!!  I’ll do anything!”

     Ayala stood up from the bed and allowed her skirts to fall, moving past the shemale even as she brazenly grabbed the fabric.  “You’ll ruin the work.”  She coolly growled, pushing the shemale to the floor as the voice once again brought about a undeniable, primordial shudder, a sound that confounded her senses, a sound that left her helpless on the stone floor as Ayala passed from the bedroom, alone, to the chamber down the hall, to do the work of the Queen’s bidding

Well, it looks like collarme ate my fucking profile picture so you'll have to make do with the ones taken tonight . . . . will be back to the old pic by monday

Started a new job so the story is delayed . . . it is against my nature to leave things undone however, so a new entry may be coming before the holiday.  

and just as an FYI just because CM says that I'm online doesn't mean I actually am -- when I get bored during the day I check CM from my blackberry and I can read messages but I cannot respond to them, and of course, chat is not available. So I generally respond to messages when I can . . .

chapter 2 :

Through the walled city Ayala’s horse pulled the gurney against a hundred hungry arms that pulled and stroked the exposed skin of the captured man.  She had long wished that Queen Castia would provide a different way through—a secret entrance known only to hunters—to prevent such a spectacle from occurring.  But who could blame them for wanting to touch him?  Harvested raw from the forest, he doubtlessly could provide the seed they prayed for.  So many hands ran down his arms and legs that Ayala spurred Henry a little harder than she should have.  She looked behind to see him almost completely engulfed in sea of breasts and long hair of every color, fine dresses and heavy jewelry.  The man’s head lolled to one side and Ayala felt a small spark of fear—what if the dosage had been wrong for his size?  What if he were being aroused, here, in the city, where any one of them would go to great lengths to keep him as their own, where any one of them could be ripped from limb to limb by an unstable virgin male still heavily steeped in the ancient poison of his brothers.  They never seemed to understand this.  With her left hand Ayala reached for the great whip hanging from the saddle of the horse, unraveling its wrapped black tail for all to see before cracking it loudly over the heads of the women.  “Get back!  Stand down!  He is not for you!” 

     The crowd fell back, arms raised in defensive position almost uniformly.  But even as the castle gates came into sight, the many hands came subtly back to the platform.  Ayala again urged Henry forward, keeping her eyes fixed on the thick oak doors of the palace.  Ayala felt the pegs attached to her saddle sink down slightly.   With a quick snap of her neck she turned around to find one of the women upon the gurney, her body splayed fully onto his, skirt hiked high between them, lips parting to match the drowsy male.  Ayala pulled hard on the reigns.  The animal stopped and reared as Ayala dismounted.  She sprightly climbed aboard the gurney and grabbed the woman by the full mass of her hair.  “Stupid, stupid woman!”  She hissed, throwing her to the crowd, “Even a child knows!  Even a child knows they are useless until the conditioning!”

     Ayala stepped down from the gurney and the woman caught her by the knees, begging with wet tears drenching Ayala’s skirts, “Please, please take me to Queen Castia!  I vow to be her faithful servant!  I will train him in every way possible, just please, give me the opportunity!”

     “You should be ashamed of yourself!  To go to pieces over any cock you see!  This is why it is done!  Because if it were up to people like you we’d all be like them, don’t you see that?  Don’t you see that, good people?  We were spared.  We were given this task!  We were charged with being their stewards, not their rapists . . . not their dependants.  The road to ruin lies in ancient thinking.” 

     The woman’s tangled blonde hair moved slightly in the breeze as she lifted her head, her palms open to Ayala, her mouth drawn but closed in obedience.  She sank down heels to buttocks as the gurney sailed forward into groaning doors of Queen Castia’s palace, mascara bleeding like black rivers from her eyes as she dabbed them with a fine, white handkerchief. 

     Ayala closed her eyes and guided Henry with a gentle hand to her neck, feeling a bit nauseous after such a confrontation.  The feeling faded as the oak doors closed behind her and the iron doors of the inner sanctum swung heavily open to the white marble courtyard of Queen Castia, Goddess of the fifth of seventeen continents, ruler, destroyer, unrivaled among the twenty tribes for her Excellency, grace and hospitality, where Ayala had spent most of her adult life in grateful servitude.   

     “My gods what an incredible capture!”  The Queen exclaimed breathlessly as she nimbly descended the stairs to her cold white throne, the rounded toes of her hip-high leather boots almost perfectly in line with the sharp spike of her heel, her black skirts bunched up behind her in a bustle.  With a child-like smile she swept her face over every detail of him, raising a black leather glove to his hairy, leaf littered arm.  “He’s absolutely remarkable in every way!  The size . . . the density . . . even the eyes hold promise.”

     “I noticed that as well, my Lady.  The poison’s not as profound.”

     “Yessss . . . oh and he’s a fuzzy one, isn’t he?”  She said with an impish smile, her bright white teeth shinning over her pointed chin.  “Whatever shall we do with this one?”

     “It shall be as you wish, my Lady.  They are all a blank slate.”

     “Yes . . . but the question is, how shall I be best served by such an incredible find?  My gods, if I would have found him in my youth!”  She said, clutching the red jewel around her neck with her fist, wiping a feathery stray hair back into the billowing white bun on her head. 

      Ayala met eyes briefly with second of the Queen’s beloved, a dark eyed shemale whom she had groomed for the queen many seasons ago.  The Shemale straightened her back and coolly turned her face away, her heavy makeup in the black and white colors of the queen’s court heightening her otherworldly appearance.  “I should think this one would make a poor candidate for any kind of transformation, sadly.”  Ayala retorted as kindly as one could, “He has already been seen by the public, and they seem to already be in the process of making plans for him.”

     “Psh!  Could you imagine?  Him . . . as a breeder?  We’d have nothing but boys for generations.  Nothing but mothers tearfully surrendering them to the forests of foreign lands when nothing more can be done . . . nothing but trouble.  Wonder what kind of mother gave this one up?”  She said, raising straight and tall, her expression once again taking on its regal air.  “I have a good mind of making a Eunuch out of this one.”

     Ayala felt her face go briefly white as even the Shemale turned her face towards the Queen.  “A Eunuch?  My Lady . . . !”

     “Well, it makes perfect sense!  You can’t have ones of this size as breeders!  They’ll tear these poor girls apart!  They are nothing but trouble, these big fellows . . . nice to look at, impossible to fully reform.”

     “Why impossible?”

     “Because they are aware that their size makes them different, my dear.  Even the stag understands that the biggest rack controls the harem, so what makes a man any different?  He is beautiful, I’ll grant you that, but in the long run, the most humane way of dealing with him is to  . . . remove that which drives his aggression.  If he cannot be transformed into a shemale, and his maleness posses a danger to the citizenry, than reduce him to being neither male nor female.”

     “I must confess,”  Ayala said, trying her best to make her voice sound strong and clear, “I have never faced such a task.”

     “Silly, Silly Ayala . . . Silly servant girl.  Silly little trophy hunter.  It is not you who would perform such a thing.  It is he.”

     Ayala tilted her head.  “He, Ma’am?  Turn himself?”

     “That’s right.  That is how it is done.  That is the only way it can be done properly.”

     “Is he to be trained to perform such a task?”

     “No.”  Queen Castia said as she lifted the skirts flowing backwards from her hips to ascend the stairs to her throne, “He is to be trained as a breeder.  He is to be seduced daily by whatever beautiful body you may have at your disposal, and alternately tortured in whatever way you see fit, but never allowed culmination, and never allowed any other rest or shelter outside of that which a chaste female may give him.”

     Ayala boldly spoke with her eyes fixed on the Queen, “Are you displeased, my Lady?”

     “Displeased? No, no my dear Ayala!  On the contrary, I believe that by bestowing a eunuch of this size to your Queen, you will have performed the greatest compliment I will have received in all my ruling years.  I shall be the envy of all the Queens in all the Tribes of Hephaedea!”

     “And shall he be my last?”

     The Queen gave a motherly smile and lovingly uncoiled her hand from the arm of her throne, “Of all the years I have denied you emancipation from these tasks typically bestowed upon debutantes, do this for me, and he shall most certainly be your last.”

     “And . . . my house and home?”

     “. . . Shall be free and clear of any and all tribute, taxation or government seizure.  You shall be almost like a Queen in your own right, your clothes, food and other living expenses covered by the treasury of my court.”

     “And . . . a servant?”

     “As always, of your choice . . . save for the one we have here before us.”

     Ayala bowed and placed a hand upon the gurney as the Queen’s servants scrambled to open the work chamber door.  This one last time . . . but how long would it take for someone like him? 

Not sure what the collar me crowd will think of this, but here's my take on paranormal romance (well, maybe more like sci-fi romance) :

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     Alone on the mountain for the third blessedly rain free day, Ayala’s heart soared as the beast cleared the bushes.  Below the narrow ridge it walked along, a straight, steep line cut down into a rocky valley that folded layer upon layer into itself.  Small patches of greenery, like velvet quilted within chain metal, lie temptingly beyond the grating loose gravel and blunt boulders that would surely break every leg on the horse.  She pinned her knees together tightly, sitting sidesaddle, long skirts teasing his flanks as the unbroken mountain wind howled over them.  She caught her hood by the peak and peered into the approaching forest line.  Today, the men of the forest would not find shelter in their hiding places. 

     Breaking through the wall of trees, Ayala allowed her robe to part, revealing the skin of her bosom to the humid breath of the forest.  An uneasy murmur from the horse’s lips let loose a cloud of steam from deep inside his barrel chest.  She gave him a firm pat on the neck as she spurred him forward, the tail of her dress protecting him from the full prick.  When she could no longer see the gaping mouth of the valley, and the tree line behind them became anonymous, she dismounted, removed the saddle and tack, and slapped the skittish animal on the behind.  He was loyal.  He would return.  He was not a stupid young stud.  He would be waiting on the rocky path, eager to assist and return home safely to his stable where water and food awaited. 

     If only the men of the forest were that intelligent, she thought to herself as she loaded the charges onto the collar.  If only they were not so eager to run and feign wild freedom when it was clear their lives were a miserable waste.  Ayala had held in her very hands proof positive that things had not always been so, that men had, in fact, held themselves intellectually superior in ancient times—the works of earth men such a Milton, Shelley, Lord Byron; these were not the works of animals, but of thinkers, feelers, explorers.  And yet, even in their time, even with all they had intellectually accomplished, the wars men hung dark over their history like a shadow.  War was the way of the caveman. War was the way of the men of biblical times, of ancient roman times, of the dark ages, of the renaissance, of the romantic period.  War propelled men, and war escalated war until it even reached the new planets, the virgin planets, and in their final act of escalation, they were finally reduced down to the level of animals—to below animals, being still intelligent but without language, without direction, without structure and without the ability to live amongst the gentile without the training.  The training, Ayala thought  . . . it seemed ridiculous to still be a trainer at her age, but it so delighted Queen Castia! 

     She brushed her robe over her shoulder and threw her auburn hair back.  She placed her leather boot on the trunk of a fallen tree and surveyed the land before her.  Lots of places for a man to hide—many fallen timbers, natural stone shelters, earthy embankments, all within a forest just beginning to yield to the cold and rainy seasons.  Soon there would be snow, and the castles in the Queendoms below would be warm and well larded with the stuff of soups and breads, and yet the men would still hold out here, perhaps praying evolution would be kind enough to bestow hibernation upon them. 

     High upon the incline, a stone shelter caught Ayala’s sensitive hunter eyes.  The entrance to it was too square to be natural, too symmetrical to be an accident.  The subtlest line of mist confirmed his presence—the stone house was occupied, probably by a big one.  The stones seemed too new, too white, to have been reclaimed.  Ayala took her first steps forward, toward the rough stone house, feeling every leaf and every offensive, noisy twig through the skin tight leather surrounding her foot.  He would not hear the skirt dragging behind her, nor the hollow rattle of arrows waiting restlessly in their quiver, but his ears would inevitably trained towards the sound of a snapping twig, the approach of a rival, a threat to his stone creation.  Ayala mindfully used the point of her boots to scoop the forest litter upwards, blessedly crushing only those twigs too soft to make a sound.  She knelt at a fallen tree just yards from the entrance and reached a fur-lined glove up to the quiver.  A flash tip could be used to provoke and confuse him, send him running out of his stone shelter and tumbling down the steep incline, and there, Ayala would be ready with the collar loaded on the rod.  She carefully observed the patterns of his breath—if he were sleeping, the flash would catch his attention but he would not be stunned, pitting her against a groggy, powerful rival capable of dragging her back into his stone home to meet the fate of hulder-maidens, but if he were awake . . . Three short breaths confirmed, and Ayala shot up from her hiding place and aimed for the slab above the door, sending showers of sparks to either side of the entrance.

In a ball of fury he rolled out of the stone hut, and Ayala’s eyes went wild with fear for the first time in her fifteen year career.  He was the largest male she’d ever seen, easily 6’5 at full height, wooly and bearded, possessing a full mouth of pearly white teeth that he gnashed in his bewilderment. 

     Ayala wasted no time in recovering her senses.  She grabbed the rod and thrust it forward, but one swat from his powerful arms knocked it out of her hands.  Ayala hardened her expression and reached for the whip on her belt.   Unfurled, Ayala snapped her arm back and the whip cracked.  The male crouched and made his ancient sounds, the bright yellow in his eyes showing signs of the man-made poison of long ago that doubtlessly fueled his resistance.  “Don’t you remember?”  she purred, brushing the long fingers of her leather gloves over the flesh of her breasts, “What pleasure woman brings to man?”  He tilted his head and kept his teeth bared, balling his giant fists beneath the leaves.  Ayala tucked her thumbs beneath the rim of her bustier and pulled it down, revealing flesh and nipples and all the ripe roundness that he lacked.  “Do you remember now?”

     The man half closed his gaping mouth and peered into the hypnotic beauty of the sway of her breasts, half remembering, half enraged, half desiring, half repulsed.   When he pounded his fists against the forest floor and showed his teeth again, Ayala pulled the bustier up and dropped the whip.  She disliked using the voice on the poor beasts, but such insolence from even the wildest of them could not be tolerated.  She briefly placed her hand over her nose and mouth, just long enough to affix the device.  “You refuse!”  She commanded, her voice echoing all over the forest, shaking the smaller men loose from their tree-homes.  “Low born, you are chosen”  She said, throwing her hand up in the direction of the rod, recalling it to her hand as effortlessly as he had cast it away.  “Submit, in the name of Queen Castia!” she said, lowering her voice, allowing the vibration to cripple the male in front of her until the collar was easy to fit around the girth of his neck.  Ayala witnessed the pupils of his eyes contract, as if he knew what was to happen next.  He reached for the collar and the charge detonated, shutting his body down, bestowing that blessed hibernation he undoubtedly spent time in his cave praying for.  How odd, Ayala thought, that such a wild and frightful creature would seem to understand before the training. 

     She formed the gurney on the ground around him and led it up and out of the forest, the male so huge his limbs hung over the sides.  Ayala smiled warmly at the sight of almond-shaped black eyes staring back from the mountain path, nostrils flared and quivering, a sign her horse was ready to eat.  “Yes, Henry.  I missed you too.  Got a big one back there—think you can haul him down?”  she said as she strapped tack and saddle back onto the beast, affixing the gurney to rods on either side.  It was still cool and crisp and sweet smelling, not the grueling oldness of afternoon.  Ayala mounted side saddle again and paced the horse back down to the castle of Queen Castia, a swell of satisfaction rising like the still-young sun. 

Hungry to write a story . . .

“I can’t blame you for wanting to take the red pill.” She purred as she sat triumphantly upon the bed like a queen alighting to her throne. “Really darling, I would have, had I been offered.”

 “But, what do I do now? I can’t . . . I can’t be seen like this!” the other answered, standing star struck in front of the mirror, stroking her thin fingers into her brown hair and twisting it on the way down, watching it all the way down. 

 “Sweetheart, no one is going to know. Did you think I was just going to turn you loose in the world? I still love you. I’m not going to let your flounder about and figure it all out yourself.”

 “But, it’s so odd. I just feel so, different.”

 “Let me be your teacher.” She said, standing tall and steady in her slick, black heels as she rose off the bed again to stand behind her pupil. She brought her lips in close to the other’s ear and whispered, “And it’s only for a little while. She only gave it to you for starters. I put the rest in my jewelry box, and if you like it, I’ll give you more.”

 “What about you?” the other said, spinning around, her blue eyes noticeably more clear and pleading. 

 “Well, if I like it, then we got a whole other problem, don’t we?” She said with a great, toothy smile. 

 More sweetly and gently than she ever had before, the other meekly kissed Her with her lips thickly swathed in lipstick, such a telling sign for one so inexperienced as she. The other slid her hands into Her hair as she had many times before but only this time, she did not pull. Instead she felt her own hair being tugged back, her own graceful neck bowing up to Her stained lips. The other gulped down and felt not a knot in her throat, but a clean, flowing openness, open for Her, naked but for the beautiful adornments hand picked by Her from Her own wardrobe. Red—the other felt so honored to be in red, the red of Her, lace rising roundly up around the other’s full breasts, lace fanning gracefully up from between her tightly closed legs. The other trembled as She slid down the straps to her bra. “Wait! I . . . I want to keep it on!”

 “Of course you do! You only just put it on!” She said as she slipped the ruby red band back up the other’s silken shoulder. “It’s like a whole other world, isn’t it? I’ve always been fond of feminine contraptions…the little straps, little buckles, little bows, the way it holds you in. I love that feeling of being so snuggly confined by all these...superfluous garments.”

 The other turned her head quite without thinking just to look at herself in the mirror again. “It’s so hard to drink it all in.” the other said in a reverent hush.

 She nuzzled her face deep into the other’s dark, thick locks. “So don’t. Don’t let it be just like a pretty picture. We’re not in a museum. You can touch it.”

 The other’s fluttering hand came softly down to the waves of lace cresting her breast. She traced her fingers along the golden flesh and the rough, scalloped edge of the bra given by Her—silk and lace, much like Her black night gown, much like the garter belt that flanked the other’s sides. With reverence and awe the other ran her palms over the smallest dip in her waist, the smooth curves that cinched in at her ribs and flared out again with her round hips. And such succulent hips! The garter belt was like an ornate welcome gate with tight tendrils stretching to her almost oval thighs to hold Her favorite and most expensive stockings. The other slid her hands under the tightly drawn garter straps, letting the shiny new fingernails She had given to her finish the detail on the lace tops to her thigh highs. “It feels so smooth. I can’t believe the shape, this . . . it’s perfect!”

 “You’re perfect.” She whispered lovingly, “You’re breathtaking. Submit to it!”

 The other closed her eyes and leaned her head back on Her shoulder. The other’s breast rose as she drew in a full breath with her mouth half open to catch the scent of Her perfume fully with her palette and not just her nose. The other surrendered that breath and caught another quickly, then let it go and more quickly, and more quickly as Her kisses became more than just petite. Her hands ran under the underwire bra and cupped the other’s breasts. She nibbled the other’s earlobes gently, suckled their velvety undersides and flicked it with her tongue in just that same rhythm as her fingers rolling and flicking the other’s nipples beneath the tight, red lace. So smoothly did she move her right hand down the flowing channels of the other’s rising and falling stomach, so smoothly did she open with Her slim and tapered fingers the other’s lace panties that the other did not struggle or resist when her legs were parted, the cleft between them moistly opening for Her. The other’s body fell lip and helpless to Her touch. “Oh! I know what we forgot!” She said with a little laugh.

 The other gasped and snapped up rigidly, “The water! Oh god!”

  She rolled her eyes and smiled warmly as the other dashed through the bedroom door. She let her hands slap down to her thighs and muttered to herself, “You can take the woman out of the man . . .”

 The other ran to the garden tub and frantically turned the dials to off. Bubbles crested the lip of the tub. The other dashed her hand to the plug, the spillover nearly extinguishing Her carefully placed candles. 

 She appeared at the door in her robe and slippers. “Ït’s not going to hurt tile, sweetheart. Happens to me all the time, so just leave it alone.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the door. “So do you want to take them off or do you me to? Ladies choice!”

 “I…I…I want you to do it.” Said the other as she rose up from kneeling on the floor.

 “Very well then.” She said as She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the other, the other’s taunt garments wilting away as She unbuckled each tiny hook.

 The other instinctively caught the falling bra at the nipples and let the belt come crashing down softly to the floor, but She was already peeling down those lace panties, and as if by magic She led the stockings down the other’s legs without pulling or pinching or distressing the fabric. Even before She had time to rise up again, the other let her last false inhibitions melt away as she lowered her arms and let the bra join its mates on the floor. The other stood naked and shivering, her nipples erect, her breasts feeling heavy and thick as her breath quickened again.

 She clapped her hands instructively with a wicked smile, “Get in the tub!”

 The other obediently dipped one graceful foot in the water, barely stirring a ripple. “It’s too hot!”

 She placed her hands on her hips and drew an exasperated breath. “Sweetheart, we don’t have a lot of time. Trust me, it’ll feel good once you’re in it.”

 The other slid her leg down into the water as she slid into the silken stockings before. She lowered her round ass to the water and felt the water push back as she leaned into the tub. A smile broke her face as she floated.

 “What is it?”

 “They’re floating.” The other giggled.

 “Let me see.” She said as she slipped her hand into the water. She grabbed the other’s buoyant breast and let the hollow of her palm cup the nipple. She smiled brightly back, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “You’re downright bubbly! So are you ready?”

 The other replied simply with a nod as steam rolled off of her too hot skin as it surfaced. She opened up the vanity and brought forth a tan and purple can of shaving cream and a pink disposable razor. She pressed the tab on the top of the can and a little cream came out with a discreet hiss—a little cream, not much more than what would fill the hollow of Her palm. “You’re gonna have to raise up a little . . . and I want you to spread your legs.”

 The other kept her half-closed eyes on Her, teeth like little pinkish pearls hiding under deep red lips. The other spread her legs wide, hot water rushing in to the tender skin between until her pussy felt as hot as her lips were red. The other planted her elbows on the bottom of the tub and raised her hips until the water rushed out of the hair on her pussy like the waning ocean wave leaving sea grass on the shore. She cupped her hand over all of it, flattening the hair with the cream until it was saturated both on top and in between. She lowered the razor and the other quivered. She smiled warmly and took the first stroke up. “Now, now—I thought you’d kind of like the danger element of all this. Me, here, with a sharp, cold razor against your . . . pussy.”

 The other said nothing but her body still shuddered.

 “Fear and desire . . . so acute now, isn’t it?” She said as she took another stroke up the other side.

 The other gasped, her eyes widening suddenly.

 But She could see the dilation too. She shaved off the tuft at the cleft with a deft flick of the wrist. She let the razor float out of her hand and stood, tilting both arms behind her back so the robe would fall dramatically off her naked body.

 The other’s eyes lovingly touched on all the breathtaking beauty of Her body. Her breasts were larger, more pendulous, her thighs and hips like one flowing piece, her waist tempered and slim but more lived in, a little more round. She came into the water and planted her hands on the inside of the other’s thighs. “I’m going to show you a trick.” She purred as she brought her breasts in closer between the other’s legs. “When you’re shaved it makes things more slippery. Keep your hips up.”

 The other braced her arms around the back of the circular garden tub. She pushed the other’s legs far apart. When the other was spread just right, She cradled her left breast with her hand and fit it neatly in the other’s pussy, pointing her hard nipple into it’s entrance and dragging it up to the clit. The other gasped as She forced the cleft between her legs far apart by Her round, ample breast. She lowered her breast down again, letting the fat bottom slid over the entrance to the other’s pussy before dragging her supple nipple back up to just kissing the hardened clit. She slid it away again and up, up and down, faster and faster, the other’s hard clit and Her hard nipple sliding into and around each other. She took her right hand and slid two fingers into the other, shortening her strokes so that the nipple and clit stayed joined in rubbing without a break. She flexed her fingers inside the other, watching for the other’s swimming eyes roll and flicker with pleasure before pressing them into the deepest part of the other’s pussy. The other cried out—ecstatic, confused and overwhelmed by the sharp sensations in her clit and the deep, slow satisfaction of being penetrated by Her. Each time She felt the other squeezing a bit too hard, She would hold her nipple still and move only her fingers inside to coax that deep feeling and bring it bellowing throughout the whole of the other. The other held her body rigidly, tensing every muscle as She brought the two closer together, until the strokes on the inside were no less intense than those on the out, until even the slightest stroke on the other’s clit or inside of her pussy brought a strong squeeze from the other. “Do you want to cum now?” She said, her steady voice ringing loudly in the tiled bathroom. 

 The other licked her lips, her eyes tightly shut, her breath slowing as she held it longer and longer. She rubbed her index finger in a circular motion on the inside top wall of the other’s pussy and the other tensed again. The other let out a bellowing moan as if pleading for mercy, as if she could not react any other way. 

 “I won’t do it until you say . . . “

 “Yes, yes yes! Oh god please yes!”

 “You’re begging me?” She said in genuine disbelief, the crinkles in the corners of her eyes able to be seen and heard in the tone of her voice.

 “Yes! Please, please god . . . yes, make me cum!”

 She slid her nipple around the sensitive clit and thrust her fingers full force into the other’s pussy, with short, slippery rubs Her nipple crested the water as the other tensed her hips higher and higher up. The other stopped breathing, and with three short movements the other felt a tingling gather to the front of her cleft. It gathered and burst out as She gave it one more slow and hard press with her breast. Deep inside her pussy closed so tight, squeezing Her fingers so hard that they crossed over each other. “Oh god oh god oh god!” the other chanted with each reflexive squeeze.

 And, as if under some spell, as if transformed yet again, as if accessing some hidden store of power, the other raised up from her relaxed position and wrapped her arms snake-like around Her, rubbing her cheeks on Hers, pressing her breasts against Hers. The other brought Her close and exhausted from the deepest part of her lungs, “That was incredible. I need more . . . god I need more! I want you!” and the other pressed her lips hard against Her, forcing open Her mouth with her tongue. 

 She finished their kiss with sending her tongue right back into the other. “Get out of the tub and get dried off. I want you go to the bedroom.”

 The other nuzzled her face against Her again as her purrs turned into growls. “You don’t understand. I need it now! I need more!” She said through her teeth as she nearly snaked her hand down to Her pussy.

 She grabbed the other by the wrist and waived Her finger in the other’s face chidingly. “Go get toweled down!”

 The other, perhaps being more empowered or emboldened by her frank and open desire, rose up out of the tub more gracefully than she had gone in. Being eager to let Her see how deep and red and tight she had become, the other bent over at the waist and started drying off with the fluffy towel at her painted toes, her legs spread wide, calves pressed against the side of the tub. She worked the towel up her legs with fine, time wasting attention. 

 She came out of the tub and quickly rubbed herself down with the pink towel. “Sweetheart, that trick might work on you . . . “

 “You can’t say you didn’t look. Come on, I need more.”

 She smiled and let loose a little laugh, blood rushing to Her cheeks to make them rosy. She let the robe lay loose this time so that only Her bright brown bush showed. “Why don’t you do that for me on your knees in the bed.”

 “On your knees . . . I love it when you say that.” The other said as she slinked naked through the bathroom doors to the bedroom. The bed was bald from being used all day, blankets spilling over the side in waterfalls. The other waited until Her footsteps could almost touch hers, then she crawled onto the bed, keeping her knees wide apart, her belly sinking low, ass high up in the air. The other folded her arms beneath her body, pressing her own soft breasts into her wrists. The other closed her eyes and reveled in the feeling of her pussy flowering open slowly. What had been as tight and tens as she could stand now seemed to be opening—sweet and red and soft as a rose bud. The other freed her left hand and had very nearly touched it when she heard a click and a snap and a sound like a leather belt moving dryly over flesh. The other turned her head and strained to see, sliding her hand back under her breast, swaying her hips helplessly, pleadingly, barely but desperately as She ran her hand under and over the bright pink plastic cock strapped to Her pussy. The other felt her breath quicken as her pussy drew in tight and became almost dripping wet. The other clenched her hands into the bed, and pushed her ass up high in the air. Then she remembered yet another thing they had forgotten! She flipped herself over and threw her hands up as She began to mount the bed. “But….we were going to pick up a guy, remember?”

  She placed her hand on her hip and sighed, “Sweetheart, do you really think we have time for that? Besides, you know . . . “ She said as she climbed onto the bed, “that I know what I’m doing with this thing.”

 The other arched her back and brought her hands up to her breasts, squeezing the nipples hard. “Will it hurt?”

 She grabbed the pink plastic cock just behind the head and placed it just on the opening to the other’s pussy, running her hand under the other’s thigh, guiding it up over her shoulder as she leaned in. “Yes. It’s gonna hurt good.” She said as she pushed the cold, unforgiving pink cock into the other, watching as the head disappeared within the folds, Her mouth open and nearly watering as the shaft pushed it further in, nearly feeling it Herself as the head found the bottom after a long, tight squeeze. 

 The other moaned out loud from the bottom of her lungs, eyes rolling before they squeezed shut, her nipples drawing up into the air like cinch-close purses. She pulled the pink cock back again until the other could feel the round head pressing out against the entrance to her pussy, then quickly it came back up again, forcing a moan from the other as she writhed beneath. She bucked her hips in smooth, slow, incomplete little strokes, then thrust it up hard, holding it there as the other held her breath and held her hips up high. She pulled it back again, then pounded in a hard, merciless rhythm, hitting the pink cock hard against the inside top of the other’s pussy, her bright brown bush burrowing down against the other’s shaven cleft, Herself becoming more aroused and close to cumming than she thought possible in so short a time. She brought her breast down close to the other’s, nipples touching nipples, round breasts pressing into round breasts and between. 

 The other plaited her fingers through Her hair and brought her lips close up to Her, thrusting her tongue deep inside, as deep as she wanted Her inside. The other arched her back and neck and rubbed her bald cleft in short, powerful little strokes against her soft brow bush. The pink cock felt so different this way, so much more soft and alive. The other writhed and wallowed in her ecstasy as she let her moans of closeness escape . . . but a strange feeling came creeping up in the back of the other’s mind. Something different was happening, something odd. The other opened her eyes as She thrust mercilessly to the rhythm of her own soon to come climax. The other felt something moving, as if expanding, just beneath her skin and especially through her filling pussy. “I . . . I . . . I think it’s wearing off!” She said, sliding her hands up her face.

 “You what?” She said, not stopping, voice cracking, her eyes getting harder to keep open as her climax came closer. 

 The other’s eyes hardened and grew darker. For a moment the other’s ample breasts rose, then sank in hard and flat and round as they had been before the pill. The other’s lean and tubular arms became angular and hard and well defined. As the other sat up the abs began to stand out. She knew what was about to happen. She withdrew the pink, plastic cock from the other just as He grew his back—long, hard, balls hard beneath the shaft, head dewing as Hers couldn’t. She fell back on her ass to the bed as he crawled forth on powerful arms, eyes locked into Hers. He put his hand to Her neck and cocked her head to one side, leaning into her. With one sure thrust he split into her, stopping Her breath as it hotly pushed through her slick and pulsating pussy. “The tables are turned my darling . . .” He said as he strained to get deeper and deeper inside of her, feeling her tighten all around his cock at once, the pink plastic cock still trapped between them. And as her eyes widened one last time, as fear and deep desire collided, as her eyelids came softly crashing down just as her pupils had dilated at the sight of her darling prince coming back to his own flesh, He pinned her hard against the bed, cock sticking through her like a pin through a butterfly. She held her breath and let all the little stars gather in her cleft and burst, clamping down on his cock, squeezing it clean as the flood of His cum hotly filled the inside of her pussy.

 Silently they breathed together as one.

 She slid her hands up his broad back.

 He rubbed his nose against her softly scented locks.

 And, swallowing, she licked her lips and whispered, “Next time, I’m taking the pill!”