As I waited in the lobby on Friday evening for Master… or rather, Hans… I was unusually nervous. Before I’d left his room earlier that afternoon, he had used a hypnotic trigger that dropped me into an immediate, mind-blowing orgasm. He also warned me he could do it to me again, whenever and wherever he wanted. That worried me a bit, but I was more worried about who else knew how to control me in this way?
Meanwhile, I was waiting in the lobby for him to arrive at 17:00 hours. Actually, I had been waiting since 16:45 to make sure I didn’t keep him waiting. He was my Master for this weekend, and it had been drummed into me that I must never inconvenience my Mistress or Master, and that keeping them waiting was particularly disrespectful – a mistake not to be countenanced.
Yet, Hans was German, and therefore punctual to his core. I didn’t check, but I would bet long odds that a hypothetical clock would have just started chiming five when the lift doors opened, and Hans stepped into the lobby.
I was wearing a light, tan jacket, black midi top, and a loose grey skirt that fell to mid-calf. I also wore comfortable, black shoes, but no bra or panties as he had specified that he wanted easy access to my cunt and tits. I was under no illusion about what was going to happen this evening.
He was wearing khaki slacks that had a sharp, almost military crease, a crisp white shirt open at the neck, and a black sports coat that set off his blonde hair. He looked relaxed, casual, commanding – and yummy.
He smiled when he saw me waiting for him, and I gave him my sunniest smile, then stretched up on tip-toe to receive the kiss he placed on my cheek. He reached down and took my hand, and led me out the front door to the waiting limo.
I sank down into the deep leather seats and sighed. Hans looked at me, and said, “You look quite pretty tonight, Katja. Open your legs, please.”
I looked up at him, opened my knees wide, and said, “You look good enough to eat… Hans.” I smiled coquettishly at him.
He flipped my skirt up to my waist, revealing my naked pussy, then ran his fingers over it. I shivered deliberately.
“Freshly shaved,” he said, “You are thoughtful of your Master’s desires. Good!”
I tucked my hands slightly behind my back as if they were cuffed there, giving the impression I was helpless to stop him from doing anything he wanted.
He started stroking my thighs, moving his fingers slowly up and down inside my legs, in no hurry. He had all evening, even all night if he wanted, and intended to punish me for being a brat. Eventually, he started lightly running a finger along the outside of my already puffy labia, tracing the outlines of my pussy.
While he was stroking me, he kept up a steady stream of amusing, interesting banter, talking about flying, and some of the funny things that had happened to him in the military. I smiled, giggled, nodded, interjected at all the right points, while using my body and voice to indicate that I was being tortured by his edging.
He had just parted my inner lips, and was slowly breaching the entry to my vagina with his finger, when the car stopped at the restaurant. He had just found me wet and eager for more when he withdrew, then held his finger to my lips. I slowly and lasciviously licked it like candy, holding his eye the whole time.
He smiled. “You really are a slut, aren’t you?” then patted my pussy, and told me to pull my skirt down. I moaned more loudly than I needed to, and reluctantly complied.
“Only for the right people… Hans,” I lied.
Hans knocked on the window, and the chauffeur opened the door, and handed me out.
I knew it was going to be a long, trying, edgy night for me, and that I would need every trick I could muster to survive it. I needed not only to survive, but to triumph, both this evening, and throughout the weekend.
And I intended to triumph, cum hell or high water.
I had thought about the post-hypnotic suggestion he had triggered earlier in the afternoon. He had warned me not to be too bratty, and was using his ability to trigger me into a massive orgasm as a threat.
I decided it was an empty threat because it would embarrass him more than me. If he triggered me in public, people would probably call an ambulance, thinking I’d had some kind of seizure. He would have to explain what was going on, not me. So, I decided not to care that he could trigger me.
Moreover, I am a brat. It’s part of me, and a part that my Mistress seemed to find amusing. If it was something she appreciated, then I was not going to stop.
But finally, my sense was that both Miriam and Hans respected strength, not craven capitulation. If I meekly stopped being bratty, they would notice, and, I believed, I would lose at least some of their respect.
Accordingly, I decided was going to be who I was: completely submissive to my Mistress, and, for this weekend, to Hans, fulfilling their every desire as best I could – but a brat despite everything.
So, as he played with me in the limo on the way to supper, I smiled to myself. He thought he had dominated me. He was going to find out that although I was absolutely submissive to his will, he hadn’t moved me even a centimeter.
Hans apparently knew that I loved Italian food, and had picked a fine restaurant not far from our hotel. When we walked in, the Maître d’Hotel appeared as if by magic, and greeted Hans effusively. When they shook hands, I noticed that what looked like a €100 bill exchanged hands.
We were quickly seated side-by-side in a choicely located booth, per Hans’ request.
After we were settled, the waiter appeared at our side, put menus down in front of us, and asked if we would like an aperitif. I started to say no, but Hans interrupted me and said, “Please. I will have an Urquell Pilsner, and the fraulein will have a Tio Pepe sherry.” The waiter bowed and hurried away.
I had intended to avoid drinking because I needed to keep my wits about me, and maintain control. Moreover, drinking was especially dangerous for me as I was petite, had never had that much tolerance for alcohol, and it had been almost three months since I had had anything to drink.
But Hans clearly had other intentions.
Once the waiter left, Hans turned and smiled at me. “Lift your skirt at the back and sit your bare ass on the banquette, then pull it up around your waist in front, and spread your legs. It’s time for the fun to begin, ja?”
Struggling to be unobtrusive, I did as he ordered, with the result that my skirt drew a thick line across my waist, but covered nothing. The leather seat was cold at first, and I shivered, partly because of that. Fortunately, the tablecloth covered me.
Or so I thought.
Hans slid the tablecloth forward so it fell in front of my knees, keeping it away from my waist, leaving my spread legs and pussy visible to anyone who leaned over from the side to serve us. I swallowed hard. Hans was a highly-experienced Dom, and intended to make this as humiliating, as tantalizing, as agonizing as possible.
The waiter brought our drinks, set them down from the far side of the table, bowed, then moved off, noticing nothing.
Hans recommenced petting me, picking up where he left, off, inserting first one finger, then eventually two into my pussy, stroking my G-spot, then withdrawing to paint my labia, and trace around my clitoris using my own wetness, then back again. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his technique highly effective, and I was getting steadily wetter as time went on.
This continued through our aperitif, during which he ordered antipasti for himself, and I requested a Caprese salad. He selected osso buco for his entrée, while I ordered veal piccata. He also ordered a bottle of an off-dry, German Riesling to go with the antipasti, plus a Sangiovese rosé to go with the main courses.
He insisted that I keep pace with his drinking. Since he had at least twice my body mass, this meant that I was effectively drinking twice as much as he was, and it quickly went to my head.
Half way through the main course, I was definitely muzzy, probably drunk, and incredibly horny. But that was not where his fun ended.
I had a short respite while we ate our appetizers, but when the main courses arrived, he upped the game.
“Katja, put your hands in your lap,” he said as the waiter, who had gotten a real eyeful of my naked pussy, left. I did as he ordered.
“Now put two fingers inside yourself and massage your G-spot with one hand, and your clit with the other. Do not stop for anything or anyone until I give you permission.”
Reluctantly, I did as he ordered, trying to keep my touch as light as possible, and moving my hands as slowly as possible. He smirked at me, very much aware of what I was doing.
Then he began to cut up my food and feed me as if I were a small child, as well as feeding himself. He was in no hurry, so I had plenty of time to chew and swallow, and he made sure I got quite a lot of wine between bites, holding the glass to my lips, and forcing me to drink more than I would have on my own.
At first, this was embarrassing enough, but as the meal went on, other diners began to notice him feeding me, and clearly were wondering what we were doing. Then they started watching me more closely, and began to wonder if I was, indeed, playing with myself in public as it seemed – which, of course, I was.
I had thought myself immune to this kind of embarrassment, having been put on show in much more conspicuous and revealing ways. Yet, the combination of the wine, him feeding me as if I were helpless, my masturbating in public, the gathering attention of the people around us, and my complete inability to do anything about any of it, put me in a state of perpetual embarrassment – and arousal.
Hans clearly knew that I was an exhibitionist, and that I got off on precisely this kind of submission and humiliation. Worse, Hans had always held an incredible animal magnetism to me that would have put me in heat even if he was doing nothing.
As a result, I was being dragged ever closer to cumming, no matter how hard I tried avoid it. And so, naturally, Hans ordered dessert.
He took his time, deliberating and discussing the various choices available, all while the waiter tried gamely not to look at me masturbating, while I tried not to meet his eye.
I don’t even remember what Hans ordered – except he ordered a grappa for himself, and an Amaro for me – which I definitely did not need.
Desert was a typical Italian cream pastry, and was probably yummy. Cannoli, perhaps? But by that time, I couldn’t tell, and really didn’t want to drink the Amaro. However, I do remember that when the desert arrived, Hans said, in a casual tone, “You may stop now,” and began to eat his desert.
I almost collapsed, I was so relieved. He chuckled without looking at me. That made me mad – which I didn’t let on – but I wanted to hit him. Well, attack him at least, and preferably fuck his brains out.
By this time my head was swimming, so I was being very careful about what I did or said. I removed my hands from my lap and started to wipe them on my napkin.
“I didn’t say you could move your hands,” he said sharply, still not looking at me.
Reluctantly, I put my hands back in my lap, but not back in my cunt. My head was spinning.
He finished his grappa, did not insist I drank my Amaro, then called for the check. It arrived so promptly that I suspect the Maître d’ was concerned about the attitudes of the other guests. Hans could care less, but paid promptly, tipped very generously, then got out of the booth, put his hand under my arm and almost bodily lifted me.
Being drunk by now, I was careless about my dress, but it fell naturally back to my knees, and I was finally decent again. Hans put my arm through is, and we walked through the restaurant, were effusively thanked by the Maître d’, and walked out into the nighttime air.
It was a lovely evening, I remember that. And the slightly cool air after the heat of the restaurant helped me clear my head. “Let’s stroll, shall we?” Master said. I nodded.
Now that I was out in the open air, I started the slow, deep breathing exercises my yoga master had taught me. It helped, but I was still highly aware both of Hans’ overwhelming masculinity, and of my incredible horniness. I was sure he would do something to push me over the edge, to try to force me to disobey him.
But instead of edging me further, or going back to the hotel to fuck, we strolled.
I had never been to Berlin before, so he took me on a walking tour of the area around the Brandenburg Gate. We ambled slowly and casually, chatting about nothing and everything, just enjoying each other’s company. I was keenly aware that he was my Master, yet he was very relaxed about it, and I found that I appreciated just talking with him.
And I was getting a growing sense that he enjoyed my company, too. Yes, he had been brutal towards me this afternoon, but I thought then, and remain convinced, it was as he’d said: he had wanted to do me since we’d first met. That might be one reason why he had agreed to do my final exam – he wanted to fuck me.
Well, as far as I was concerned, he could have me any time, and any way he wanted. And it was in that state of mind that we finally made it back to the hotel, by which time my feet were starting to get sore, my pussy was dripping honey down my legs, and my head was starting to clear.
He walked me to my door, smirked, leaned over and kissed my cheek, patted my ass, then said good night and left for his suite, leaving me shocked and wanting.
I shook my head, then meekly said good night, went slowly into my room – then closed the door, quickly stripped everything off, dumping it on the floor. I raced into the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, rinsed my mouth, ran a brush through my hair, then sprinted to the adjoining door. If he thought I was going to quit now…
I took a deep breath, then quietly pulled the door open, and padded into his room, naked.
His back was to me, he had his shoes and socks off, and he was just taking off his shirt. I pushed him onto the bed from behind. He twisted around onto his back, smiling and expectant. I leapt up onto the bed, grabbed his head and fastened my mouth onto his, kissing him with complete abandon. At that moment, I wanted just one thing: for this gorgeous, brutal, domineering man to fuck me!
“I didn’t think you could stay away. I could order you to stop, you know.” He was smirking at me, sure in the knowledge that I was absolutely dying to fuck him.
“And I would obey.” I sat up on my knees, smiling back at him, then said, “Do you want me to leave… Master?”
His smirk softened. He reached up and stroked my face. “No, Nika. Please stay.”
I immediately moved down, tore open his belt and slacks in a frenzy, yanked his trousers and shorts down his legs, kneeled down, and had him help me shake them off. Then I kneeled up, grabbed his hard, dripping cock, and buried it in my mouth, pulling his ass towards me to get him deeper. I urgently needed this man inside me, any way I could.
I deep throated him hard and fast, but just when as he was getting close, he pushed me off, grabbed my hand, and pulled me up, crab-crawling backwards towards the top of the bed. I pushed him urgently onto his back, positioned myself over his throbbing, glistening cock, with its slight bend to his left, then straddled him, and pushed myself hard down onto his length in cowgirl.
I started to bounce up and down, but he grabbed my upper arm, smiled at me, and said, “Slowly, now. We have all night.”
I took a deep, shuddering breath, leaned forward, put my hands on his chest, then moved slowly, sensuously, up and down. I was deliberately going too slowly, exaggerating my obedience. Being a brat.
At the same time, I was flexing my pelvic muscles, squeezing and releasing his cock, massaging it inside me.
I knew I was getting to him when he closed his eyes, turned his head away, and started breathing hard. After all, he had been edging himself all evening, too, even as he tried to edge me, and I knew he wasn’t going to last long!
Sure enough, when I started riding him up and down at a steadily increasing pace, I felt his cock tense inside me. He started to groan, long deep, guttural moans, then, just at the end, he said, “Cum with me now, Nika!”
And I did. Finally released, after being teased all evening, a massive wave of emotion and pent up need swept over me. My whole body tingled, and it felt as if my head was exploding, my cunt was clenched, and I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. I threw my head back, clenched my fists and screamed, then bent forward, putting my forehead on his chest, and started crying, joyous, cleansing tears, wetting his chest even as my cunt wet his cock. It felt so good, both because I was finally allowed to cum, but also because I had held out against everything he had done to edge me!
I would submit to him, yes, absolutely. But I was still De Muis!
We both lay panting on the bed for what seemed like forever, but was probably just a few minutes. I was light-headed, the room seemed to be spinning, and the lesser part of it was the wine.
He rolled over on his side, facing me, put his left hand on my right breast, squeezing it lightly, and said, “You really are a fucking animal, you know that?” Then he leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips.
I put my left hand around his neck, and pulled him closer, kissing him harder back, then said, “And you really are fucking gorgeous, Master, Sir, boss man!”
He reached down and swatted my pussy, but playfully. “Brat.”
He sat up and said, “Okay, I need a shower… and so,” he sniffed at me, “… do you! Come on.” And he pulled me up.
On wobbly legs, I followed him into the bathroom. He let go of my hand, turned on the shower, waited while the water warmed up, then pulled me in after him. We spent I can’t guess how long cuddling, hugging, soaping, and playing with each other’s bodies, edging each other all over again.
Finally, when his dick was hard and high, I dropped to my knees, allowed the spray to wash the soap off of it, then, looking up at him with a mischievous grin, took him into my mouth again.
I know that some women don’t like sucking cock, but I have never been one of them. There’s always a bit of a power trip for me that goes straight to my pussy.
And with a beautiful hunk of manhood like Hans, well, it’s what men might call a wet dream cum true. So, as I worked my mouth slowly, teasingly, up and down his taut pole, I found myself moaning through my nose with each stroke, especially when I saw the eager, hungry look on his face. I knew I was rousing him as much as he was making me wet.
I closed my eyes, and, with my left hand holding his cock and stroking it in complement to the movement of my mouth, my right hand found my pussy, slicing my engorged lips apart, then found and worked my clit before diving into my cunt to rub my G-spot, then moving back again. I stayed on my clit, trying to bring us both to orgasm together.
I didn’t, but it was close. He gave a grunt, hunched forward, propping himself up with a hand against the wall as his cock tensed, then exploded in my mouth, pumping warm, syrupy cum into me. I savoured the flavor, and swallowed it hungrily.
Then the mental image of me swallowing his cum, of being his eager, cocksucking slut, pushed me over the edge, and I had to fight to keep him in my throat. I clamped my legs together around the hand furiously working my clit, and pulsed my thigh muscles, matching the waves of the orgasm slamming through me. My body wanted to fold forward and put my head down and chest on my knees. But if I did that, I’d have to let his cock go, and I desperately wanted it right where it was, so I fought back against my own climax.
Meanwhile, Hans was panting, head down, lodged against the wall. His knees had buckled, and he managed to stay upright purely because he was using both hands to brace himself.
It was an epic blowjob for both of us.
We were lying together in his bed, naked, with just the sheet pulled over us. I had my head on his shoulder, snuggled in close and feeling incredibly good, a solid feeling of being where I belonged.
“So, tell me about your life before you met Miriam, before you came to Amsterdam,” he asked.
Suddenly, I wasn’t as comfortable any more. “Well, I left home when I was almost eighteen because I was being abused, and came to Amsterdam…”
Hans interrupted. “No, I want to know what really happened to you, not the official story. Miriam’s told me some of it, but I want to hear it from you.”
I nodded slowly, and took a deep breath. “I was being abused, both by my step-father, and his older son. I took it as long as I could, then stole some money and ran away from home. This was almost a year before I came to Amsterdam, so I was going on seventeen.
“I lived on the streets, and got to know a number of other kids in similar situations…”
“Why did you leave home to live on the street? That has to be a hard life. Surely that was an extreme solution?”
I sighed, “Let me put it this way, Master…”
“Hans. Over the course of about a year, I met dozens of kids more or less my age, for whom living on the street, sleeping rough, missing meals, living in dirt, and sometimes being beaten, was better than what they had to endure at home. I would do it again in a heartbeat.”
Hans was quiet for some time, then said, “Go on.”
I sighed again, “I developed relationships with a small group of kids, my pack, and we kind of looked out for each other. We also helped each other steal…”
“You were a thief?”
“It was a choice between going hungry, and stealing, so yes, I was a thief.”
Hans was quiet again for a time, then: “Were you any good?”
I nodded, then said, “Yes, I was. I was small and quick, so they would often send me into a store to take stuff because I could get away more easily than most of the rest of them.”
I sighed again, “I also learned how to pick pockets and locks. We didn’t burgle much because that could attract too much attention from the police, but there were some times I broke into houses where the owners were away.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Almost a year. Then I was caught.”
“How? By the police?”
I snorted, “We weren’t important enough for the police. No, I was caught by a shop owner. I had just nabbed something, I don’t even remember what it was, and was about to flit out of the shop when this guy appeared in front of me, grabbed my hand, and wouldn’t let go. He wasn’t that tall, and he was old, around seventy, I later found out, but he was tough.
“He spoke with an accent that I didn’t recognize, and when I stopped trying to wriggle free, told me I had a choice: I could either work for him honestly, or he’d call the police.
“I was suspicious. Most of my interactions with grown-up hadn’t turned out good…”
“Turned out well.”
“… turned out well, so I asked him what he had in mind, thinking he wanted to fuck me. But he was on the level. He told me I could sleep in a room at the back of the store, work for him during the day, and he would feed me and look after me. “Why would you do that for me?’ I asked him. “He just looked at me, then said, ‘I’m a widower, I live alone, and I had it rough as a kid. If you’re honest with me, I’ll help you. It’s that simple. Now choose.’
“It was by far the best offer I’d ever had, so I took it, although I kept expecting him to use me somehow, or perv on me. But he didn’t. He did look after me, far better than my so-called family had. He called me ‘Nimfa’, which is Russian for ‘nymph’. I kind of liked that. It was certainly a lot better than most of the names I’d been called.
“Gregor… that was his name… Gregor made me work, wouldn’t let me goof off, and required me to go back to school. He also taught me how to play chess, which he said he’d played in the camps to pass the time. ’What camps?’ I asked him. He didn’t like to talk about it, but over time I found out he had been in a gulag, was set free during Glasnot, and made his way to East Germany, then to the Netherlands when East and West Germany merged.
“He also warned off the pack I had been running with. They kept trying to sneak in to grab me. He finally told them he had underworld connections, and could cause real trouble for them if they kept it up, so they finally stopped.
“And he did the same thing with my former family. They somehow heard of what had happened to me, and where I was, but when my step-father tried to drag me back home, Gregor told him in no uncertain terms to stop. I’m not quite sure what Gregor did, but I never heard anything from them again.
“He also taught me how to take care of myself on the streets. ‘You’re a tiny thing,’ he told me once, ‘So you need to have claws.’ And he showed me how to use a razor as a weapon. He also taught me how to fight dirty. Not the systematic, stylized self-defence of Tae-Kwon-Do, but more along the lines of mauling someone, then running away.
“Eventually, he encouraged me to move to Amsterdam. ‘There are too many people here who know you for the wrong reasons,’ he told me. ‘You need a fresh start, and there is more opportunity there than there is in this backwater.’ And he gave me money to get started.
“It was hard leaving him. He was the closest thing I had to family. I don’t know, to this day, why he took a chance on me, but he saved me.”
I stopped and looked up at Hans, tears in my eyes, “As did Mistress. Between the two of them, they saved me from fucking up my life.”
I wiped my nose and sniffed. Hans reached over, and got me a tissue.
Then he put his arms around me, cradling me. “Do you truly like Miriam?” he asked, “Or is she just convenient?”
I thrashed around to look angrily at him, “I don’t like Mistress, I adore her, I worship her. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her!”
I turned back and put my head down. “She is everything I love and hold dear.”
And I started sobbing.
He stroked my hair, holding me, but said nothing, and I eventually fell asleep.
© Copyright, NikaS and JamesLLewellyn of avataransk.ru, April 2021.
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May not be duplicated in any medium without the express, written consent of the authors.
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