We woke up in mid-afternoon. 

We hadn’t known each other very long. And yet the sense of rightness, with enthusiasm, couldn’t be ignored. So I looked at Monica, trying to stay serious, “I’d like to give you a collar. It means – “

“I know what it means. It’s like Change of Ownership Papers, for a car, or deeds for a house. I wear a collar to show I belong to you. And you can whop me if I forget to call you Master.” 

“I suppose I’ll have to work out the rules, for you. But yes, that’s one of them.” I looked her in the eye. 

“Master.”

“Better. Anyway, we have a shower, we go to Newtown, we eat and then I take you to meet a friend of mine.”

•

In Newtown, after tom yum soup, we climbed the steps to Silverworks. It wasn’t really a shop. It was Kaatia Sorenson’s workshop, where she made delicate, arty silver thong. She’s submissive herself – we’d once, long ago, played together, but she likes things that cut the skin more than I do, so we didn’t follow up on it – and so she knew what I meant when I said a day collar. 

The idea is that it has D/s meaning, but the only people who would correctly read it as announcing Monica’s enslaved status were also depraved enough to think that that was nice and they hoped her Master was good for her. 

So Kaatia told her she was obviously a good girl, and fortunate, and with my permission told her to kneel. There was no need for the kneeling, of course. That was purely to help Monica feel that something symbolic, solemn and out of the ordinary was happening. While she measured Monica’s neck she asked me, over Monica’s head, whether the girl should be able to remove it.

I said no, of course. Then we considered the options of solder (a bit risky, because the whole collar will heat up), or  a small lock. I chose the lock and stroked Monica’s ear. “Head down, little one. Look at your knees.”

Monica said her, “Yes, Master,” in her littlest voice. The ceremony was reaching her, psychologically. Kaatia winked at me, and we exchanged smiles.

I chose a simple, slender silver band, with an inscription very personal to Monica and me, to be on the side that touched Monica, and invisible to outsiders. So personal that although I’ve said a lot of things, I’m not going to reveal it here.

Some other things

Once Kaatia has a sketch that represented what I wanted, I signed a commitment to purchase.

Kaatia said, “It’ll take me about two weeks to get to it. There’s a lot of on. But I’ll call you when it’s ready. Congratulations to both of you.”

I helped Monica to her feet, and said we had to shop for a leather collar, for when we were alone together, and cuffs and some other things. 

I enjoyed showing her this world, of slightly formal bdsm. She was wide-eyed: it had been a fantasy, and then it was simply reality.

Then I took her to my house. Astonishingly, we’d been together for such a short time that she’d not yet seen it. But I let her in the front door, and once I’d turned some heaters on so Monica could be comfortably naked, we set about exploring and discussing our new life.

[The End]

Monica washed my cock, as instructed, and then took it in her mouth. I was in no condition to get hard, having come in her ass not so long ago. But then she teased my balls with her breasts, nipples and beautifully soft skin touching sensitive skin. The sensdation was new to me, and extremely nice. After that she had a hard cock to play with.

But no matter what she did with her mouth and tongue, she wasn’t likely to get any come from me. Not for another hour, at least. I didn’t mind that. I liked the sensations, and I enjoyed the service, the feeling that my slave was serving my pleasure.

But eventually I pulled her head off me by her hair, and rolloed us over.

I slipped down her body, and she spread and lifted her thighs, holding her legs by the backs of her knees, while I tongued her. 

We stayed together, soft thighs against my ears, her feet occasionally touching my back. My face wet, and buried in her, the horizontal mouth and the vertical mouth, slipping and sliding. Monica laughed sometimes. I took it that meant she was happy, and not that I was ridiculous, so I decided to enjoy the sound.

But in time the laughter stopped and we had gibbering instead, and her cunt pressing harder, faster and greedier against me, my nose and chin wet with her. Her hand held my shoulders as she gasped, and then my ears, and she froze suddenly and came, with no screaming, just a happy, comfortable sound.

I kissed her cunt and then her belly, and said she was a good girl. Orgasms are self-rewarding, but I’ve always had the urge to reward them with praise as well. I like the way women sound and the feel of them when they come. I suppose in some way it feels like surrender to my Domly power. Doms are, perhaps, slightly insane, or perhaps only this one is.

I was going to say it was time to get up and go shopping for collars, but I realised that she’d fallen asleep. So I cuddled up her her side, and closed my eyes too.

I’d just asked Monica if she knew what a collar was. There was a silence. 

“They have them in those fucking awful Gor books, don’t they. ‘I will put my collar on you. You are wearing my collar. It is good that you wear my collar, little kajillion, or some name like that.’ The slavegirl lowered her eyes. ‘I am collared,’ she said simply. ‘I wear your collar.’ And so forth like that?”

“Good parody. I take it that actually you’ve read a few of those?”

Monica snuggled in closer. “Yes. They were really, really beyond terrible, I know. But when you’re fifteen and you’d like to – well, surrender a bit, they were fantastically sexy. I bought maybe four of them, before I realised they’re all much the same.”

“I bet they all fell open at the whipping scenes.”

“Oh yes. Once I’d owned them for a bit.”

“Yes, well. But the collaring idea has sort of floated free from the Gor books. Most people who do bdsm probably don’t even know that’s where collars came from. Now they mean whatever the people want them to mean.” 

“What do you want it to mean, Master?” She jabbed her elbow into my stomach, to underline, or undermine, that ‘Master’. So I smacked her bottom eight times, before getting a “Sorry.” Then I held her down with my left hand, and applied for six more smacks, making them much harder. She squirmed and said, “Ow!” She didn’t mean it had hurt. 

“Possession, little one. That you’re my property. We can do a contract if you want, setting out what you give me, which is you, basically. And what I give you, which is love and care. And authority. Discipline. Then we sign.”

“In blood! Has to be in blood!” She looked very appealing when she bounced. 

“Oh, all right. Anyway, think of it as your ownership papers, like for a car.” 

She rolled onto her stomach, and looked down at my cock. It had recently been in her ass. If she wanted to suck me, I’d make her wash me first, with a warm, soapy cloth. She’d wash me, I knew, till I was hard, and do the rest with her mouth. It’d be another of those little acts of service, that weren’t really about service.

“Shall we go and get me a slave collar? Or are you busy this morning?” 

“I think we plan to be very busy this morning. Go get a warm, soapy cloth.” 

She said, “Hmmf.” I smacked her again, then reached for the wooden spoon. She scrambled up. “Yes, Master.”