A Slave's Need

Submitted by Nicolae Parx

Full of need, he lifted his face and looked at Her.
It's not always that easy to tell if a boy's head is needy, that is, that he thinks he has been deprived and wants simply to play with and touch his penis carelessly and casually or if his body is truly needy and might explode unless he can ejaculate away his essential physical requirements or risk exploding. It's not good for boys to have to make that decision by themselves, either.
She thought that's why his lips were contemplating something between murmuring one more time, 'I am your slave,' or declaring, 'You are a domme bitch from hell.' In his world, which was really the world She created for him, they were really statements of the same thing.
It was obvious that he'd never gone that long before -- not a full 6 weeks without either masturbating or ejaculating -- as it was clear that the denial was grating on his already frayed nerves. When She put the chasity device on him, he called it his chastity that he was pledging to her but She knew better. What he was really giving her was the fundamental essence of his way of life the way it used to be before he was her slave.
Maybe it was the night he took her hand, mashed it firmly into and around his caged genitals and half-grumbled and half-pleaded, "These are yours. Take them. Use them. Any way you want." She counted to two and waited for what She knew would soon follow and he didn't disappoint her.
"Please." She felt her hand being pressed to him harder as he gave himself to her intensely and She greeted his gesture of what they both already knew but loved to hear repeatedly with a firm grip that needed no words to make her point. They communicated so well. She never needed his permission and he knew it. When he offered more and more of himself to her more and more intensely, it was simply his need talking -- or screaming -- at her. He never needed to give her permission but he always needed to be assured how She wanted him.
Anyone can be a sex slave. Only one can be Her slave. she have very high standards and she choose only once. He was hers. And she kept him halfway between heaven and hell.
His lips' whispering the word "please" was her second favorite word in his vocabulary. There was something about the way he said it, about the way his mouth formed it, about the way it used to stick in his throat, and about the way he learned to push it out with a huge gulp of air that hovered between a demand and an urgent plea. Now that his natural state was wearing her cage in his nakedness for her pleasure and because it was the state that felt the most natural to him, she was pretty used to hearing him beg. Her ears had learned the difference between his constant state of want and his less-frequent but animalistic intense need. She knew which was real, although that didn't dictate what she would do with him. That was always up to her and her mood
she preferred him to remain in need. So she kept him there. At times, she put him there and then dangled him in it like a puppet on her string.
Once, when the cage was new, she made him crawl up and down the bed on crisp white sheets just to feel the agony of fabric against the bits of cock that stuck out between the bars. Each time she made him wiggle back and forth, he learned to know that his need was what she ate for breakfast. She distinctly remember the way he said THAT "please."
The first time he had enough courage to wear the chasity through a metal detector at the airports; his hotel room was high enough to look over the entire city. she figured in her own fantasy, which is, of course, the only one that matters, that the whole population of the southeast US should know that my slave was caged and suffering his personal purgatory that I imposed.
"On the floor," I said simply into the free night and weekend minutes that my new cell phone afforded.
Slipping from his knees to the carpet, I could feel him in place when I gave him my second instruction.
"Hump the floor," I smirked. And he did.
Within seconds, he was screaming for relief, release, and reprieve -- none of which he was going to receive that particular evening. A six-week commitment is just that and it was never a question of my holding him to it. It was a given, or as lawyers say, it was stipulated. There need be no discussion.
It wasn't until he returned that I set out his biggest challenge.
In the reality I created for him, the cage had to be removed at times. Sometimes, it was for personal cleanliness and other times, it was for him to use certain exercise equipment. I like my slave clean and in shape, so I was generous enough to allow him to remove it when I was with him so he could fulfill other needs I had for his body. It was one of those times that I turned into the closest thing to hell that he ever endured.
Whenever I allowed him to remove the cage for brief respites, he always tried to catch my eye in silent begging as to whether or not I'd allow him a few minutes of what I came to call a distant memory. He didn't masturbate anymore; he wasn't allowed. But he loved it even though it was a mere reminiscence of another time before I took him as my slave, and his need to touch and fondle and play just a bit was omnipresent underneath his six-week promise and his new reality that I was creating for him. This time was no different. He wanted to touch. He wanted it badly.
When I didn't return his pleading gaze, he screwed up his courage and asked.
He is required to ask. Whenever he wants something; when something pops into his head; when his body has a need or his mind a desire or even simply a question, he is obliged to ask me. He is not allowed to hold anything back. This time was no different.
"Mistress," he began by using my first favorite word that his lips can utter, "may I masturbate?"
The question itself, along with the colossal craving that underscored it, always entertains me. That's one reason I insist that he ask for whatever it is that pops into his head. He amuses me and I love being entertained.
He was on his knees and his eyes, dripping with need, stared into mine. I love a slave who is proud enough to look me in the eye, hold my gaze, and communicate what is inside him and that, along with a few dozen other details, is why this one is mine. I always take his need seriously.
"Yes," I began to his obvious utter amazement. But I wasn't done.
"You have 90 seconds," I added and watched his deep-set eyes fill with shock. "And," just for my own amusement, "you can't come."
His stare of disbelief was almost worth it, but I did promise him 90 seconds so he dangled from the She giveth and taketh away string that I kept him on. He was just too good a slave to start without my giving the word. Holding his pleading eyes in my own stare, I counted silently and when I reached a number that made me happy, I said, "Start now."
He reached for his temporarily freed penis and began that masturbation rhythm that only men can do for themselves. Stroking lovingly and forcefully, he shut his eyes and elevated himself back to the time before he was caged, into his distant past where he could touch and feel and stroke without regard to my wishes or timetable. I could feel his comfort in touching what used to be his and I watched his technique and method to determine if I could use it later to torment him when I felt like watching him suffer again for me.
My watch said 20 seconds when the first moan fell from his lips.
At 30 seconds, he was groaning.
At 45 seconds, his throat emitted a deep grunt that made me wet enough to consider stuffing my new red silk panties into his mouth, but I knew there was more coming and I didn't want to miss a syllable. At 60 seconds, he was trembling.
"Only thirty seconds left, I reminded his unhearing ears. "Get what you can because you won't touch again until the six weeks are over." He gulped and sighed and added a second hand to the show.
At 75 seconds, I heard it. From somewhere deep inside him, a place I'm not sure he had ever touched before with the simple act of familiar masturbation that now seemed like such a foreign gift to him, his body threw out an amazing growl when I said, albeit throatily, "Remember, you may not come."
He still had 15 seconds left but instead of using them, he fell onto the floor and pressed his hips into the Berba carpet and forced his hips, chest and legs into it while his entire body shook and trembled. All the while, his throat continued to growl. He knew it -- he had reached his limit -- and a single touch would have thrown him over his edge.
Beating himself in the floor, he obeyed my simple command. "You may not come." That's all I needed with him; that's all I ever needed with him.
That's why he is mine; that's why he is my slave and is the culmination of everything I've ever sought.
His need was now worse that when he started. And he wore it so well that I pulled his head to my lap and held it there for a few seconds before sending him to the stationary bike to begin that night's workout. If he did well and sweated for me, I'd let him make me coffee later and suck my toes while he thanked me for attending to his need.