Monica was lying between my legs, sucking my cock while I leaned against my wall, occasionally flicking her bottom with my belt. But even when you’re young and dumb, no one’s completely full of come, and I was not going to come in her mouth.

So I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up. She looked in my eyes for clues about what might happen next. Clues are always welcome. I said, “No. It’s your turn now. You have to tell me two truths and a lie. I need to know if you play saxophone.” 

“Ah. It’s trombone, actually. And skin flute.” I smacked the belt down on her arse again, a bit harder. “No! I haven’t started yet. But trombone was a lie. And I don’t make ‘bone’ jokes. So don’t you, either.” 

I kissed her. She tasted of me. I’m not actually my own favourite taste (where do male narcissists stand on that?), but I’ll put up with it if it means kissing Monica.

“I bet you don’t even play saxabone.” She pulled a disgusted face. She was not wrong. Then I smacked her arse again. I didn’t think I’d ever tire of that. “Two truths and a lie, Monica. Starting … NOW!”

Monica put on her frowning, thinking face. Then she said, “The only time a man ever spanked me, before today, he burst into tears about half way through and asked me to spank him. So I did, because I’m such a kind girl, but there was nothing in it for me. So I’ve always been a bit suspicious of male spankers.”

I thought about that, then said, “Yeah, OK, that’s reasonably believable.”

“The only woman Domme I’ve ever known, she rode me one night, with her on my back and silk ribbons in my cunt. If she pulled the right ribbon I had to turn right, or left if she pulled the left one. It was kind of hot, but she never followed through. I mean she never whacked me, and I kind of thought that might be … good. And I’m being rude about her, unfairly, because she was good at cunnilingus, and she liked to do me, and I liked being done.

She reached down and stroked my cock. “But, this is sort of uncool of me to say, but I really like cock. I mean live cock, not plastic.”

I said, “But you liked being ridden?”

“Hah! She was smaller than me. It was odd having a lover smaller than me. But you’re not, and no, Master, I’d prefer it if you didn’t try to ride me. Not in that sense, anyway.”

“Noted. Also plausible, and an interesting idea.”

“I’m not your horse, Master. It’d be like trying to ride a Labrador.”

That somehow caused a huge surge of affection in me, and I kissed her, looking in her eyes, with meaning. Eventually we broke off and I said, “And … “

“Right. And actually, my woman lover, she had the yummiest little arse. I used to spank her with my hand and make her lick me till I came. And I always had a hairbrush in my hand when she was serving me, in case I thought her attention had wandered or she wasn’t serving me hard enough.”

“So, she was a submissive, then. Not your Domme at all.”

“I think sometimes she slackened just because she wanted the hairbrush.”

“Interesting. And you don’t seem very Dom-y to me, but that’s also plausible.” 

Monica looked at me. “So, Master. Which one was the lie? And how will you punish me for lying to you?”

“Two truths and a lie,” Monica said. “Yeah, they’re all plausible. 

The three stories I’d told were:

1. I lost my virginity at 14, to a bikie chick in Parramatta;

2. A teacher got a poem by me into a book released by the UN, and became my Dom/sub-centred sex fantasy for at least a year; and

3. I first became a Master because a submissive girl felt bad because she’d tried to have sex with someone else, and thought we’d split up over it, but instead I took her under my wing (and thumb). 

“But,” she continued, “the lie is the first one.” 

“Oh? Why do you think that?”

“First, you’re a nerd. You’re Masterly and all that, but you’re all nerd, too. And nerds don’t get laid at fourteen, usually. I bet you first got your end away at sixteen.” 

“Interesting,” I said, noncommittally, though she was right about the age.

“But that’s not that strong, because you are very keen on fucking, and you might have got lucky. But the give-away is that you said, ‘Parramatta’.” 

“Why is that a give-away?”

“Because you’ve got a New Zealand accent when you get excited. You’re a kiwi, and I bet you haven’t been here all that long. So wherever you were when you were fourteen, it wasn’t Parramatta.” 

I grinned. “OK. You’re too damn clever, and exactly right.” 

“So when did you get your first fuck?”

“I was sixteen, clever girl. And the girl, Josie, she wasn’t a bikie gang moll, though her last boyfriend before me was in the Gypsy Jokers. And she was from Pakuranga, which is maybe equivalent to Parramatta. Though the first fuck was in my flat in Mount Eden.” 

“At sixteen, you weren’t living at home?” 

“No, I’d slammed the door and gone. Paid the rent with a bit of house painting and some marijuana dealing.”

“Ahhh. So you were a bit of a wild boy.” 

“In a very middle-class way. I was always far more careful than I pretended to be. I hid that, but I was.”

“Figures too. So what do I win?”

“You win … I think you get your bottom smacked while you suck my cock.”

“That sounds more like your reward.”

I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it, hard, to move her face over my cock. Then with the other hand I spanked her perfect little arse.

She opened her mouth, and touched my cock, teasingly, with her tongue. That mattered. I had to pretend not to care, but I’d have been mortified if she wasn’t happy. 

But I kept my voice rough. “It’s exactly what you want. And what’s good for you. Suck my cock. Now.” 

After we’d finished the sex that began in our last exciting episode, I lay beached between Monica’s thighs. Not beached like a whale; maybe a sea lion. Monica had made louder and more appreciative noises than she’d awarded my cunnilingus. So I was happy. She was playing with my hair again.

Eventually she said, “We’ve known each other for hours, now. I know you’re a PR hack. I know you’re a depraved bastard who’s come in my mouth, my arse and my cunt, and whipped my arse in a taxi. Not to mention, whipped my arse in my kitchen and in this bed. And you think that you own me. Master. And you’re probably right. Here I am, anyway. What don’t I know about you?”

I said, “I don’t know. What I know about you is that you’re clever and beautiful, with superior fellatio skills.” She smiled, smugly. “And a perfect arse and a yummy cunt. And you seem to like getting whipped, which is lucky because I can’t imagine stopping. Not now I’ve started. But I don’t know where you got your evil cat, or whether you can play saxophone, or…. I guess we’ll find out more as we go along.”

She squeezed me with her thighs. My cock, slowly softening in her, felt that. There was a pause in the softening, though I was spent. I figured I’d need at least an hour before my cock would be able to stagger upright again.

She saw something in my face and squeezed me again. “Yeah. But I want to know more now. I’m not a girl you can keep waiting. You’re in this bed because you didn’t. But I want top know more right now. And to test what I think I do know.” 

I said, “Ahem. The life story of Jaime. Well, I was born at a very young age … “

She put her hand on my mouth. “No, we’re playing a game. Master. You’re going to tell me three things about yourself. Two of them true, and one lie. I have to guess which one is the lie. Go.” 

I thought. I shouldn’t keep her waiting, so I’d need to answer quickly. I said, “First, I lost my virginity at fourteen, to a girl who was a moll for the Gypsy Rogues. That means I’m at one sexual remove from every bikie in Parramatta.”  

Then I said, “Scuse me,” and withdrew from her, holding the condom in place with one finger. Thinking makes cocks smaller. 

Monica said, “Supplementary question: was it good?”

“Amazing. I was very keen. And very grateful;.” I bit her nipple. Monica purred, which was knowledge too, of a kind.

“Second, when I was nine I wrote a poem about a dead koala, which my teacher liked so much she sent it to the UN, who published it in a book about threats to the world’s wildlife. That teacher was very hot, and I used to watch her arse whenever she wrote on the blackboard.

“She kissed me when I got published, and that was the basis of all my masturbation fantasies for the next year. I had to imagine what she looked like naked. But in my mind she was very, very beautiful. And she was, in my dreams every night, my first sex slave.”

Monica raised her head to kiss my shoulder, then let herself back so she could watch my face. She said, “Hmm. Both plausible so far.” 

“Third, the first time I became someone’s Master, we were already having lots of spanking and role-play commands and obedience in our sex, but only as sex. But Sue spent the night with a psycho because she thought he was sexy, but he turned out to be violent and impotent. When she got back she said she’d been at a friend’s place, but that friend had already called to ask to speak to Sue. So I told her I knew she was lying. She confessed, and thought we’d break up.

“II didn’t want to break up. So instead I took my belt off and told her to undress and bend over the kitchen table. I strapped her till she was crying, and her arse and thighs were very, very red and hot, and she was very, very sorry. The sex we had afterwards, still over the table, was mind-blowing. Hotter than anything we’d had before.

“So she became mine, under my command and discipline for real, not for games. So: Master Jaime, his birth.”

Monica compressed her lips, thinking. She said, “Yes, that sounds like you, too. Opportunist. Disgraceful. Three stories, one of them a lie. Hmm.”

[I think I’ll leave it there. The exciting solution is next week!]

Eventually Monica gave a sigh and a couple of squeaks. It wasn’t a big orgasm, just a comfortable one. Comfortable for Monica, at least.

I was pretty sure she’d drawn blood on my shoulders when she’d tighten her nails on me. But her thighs pressed against my ears, like cool, shapely silk, and that is one of my favourite things, way ahead on raindrops on noses and mittens on kittens. 

I looked up at her, past her belly and breasts, to see if she was smiling. She was. She looked down at me, and tried to pull me up her body by my hair. I smacked her flank for that, twice so she knew it was punishment, then came forward so my mouth was in kissing range of her nipples. pink and – I tested with my tongue – hard. My cock was between her upper thighs, not far from its natural home.

Monica smiled. “Master. I meet a man and call him Master. Must be all that patriarchal bullshit in The Magic Flute.” We’d met at the opera that evening, and we’d come a long way, fast.

I said, “This isn’t about patriarchy. It’s you, and me.” I thought about it, then smacked her flank again, simply because it was unfair.

“I think I know how your argument would go. And it’s right. But I’m still calling a man Master, the same evening I meet him.” 

So I was serious. “Monica, you know the politics of this. It’s choices that suit us, as people. And you can change your choice any time. I think it’s hot, you calling me Master, but you could stop.”

“Yes, Master. I could stop. Master.” Then she grinned. “Is this how you treat your slavegirls?” 

“I don’t have slavegirls. If you commit yourself, then you’re my harem, all one of you.” I remembered what we were talking about. “But, when you said, ‘is this how I treat slavegirls’, did you mean the spanking? Or the oral sex?”

She frowned. “Was that a Holy Grail reference? ‘After the spanking … the oral sex!'” 

“Oh hell! It was accidental. But yeah, I guess it was.”

“Anyway, I meant the oral sex. The cunnilingus, Sir Jaime. And maybe the spanking too. Though I prefer you smacking my arse than my sides.”

“Then don’t misbehave when I can’t get at your arse.” I smacked her again, to show that she didn’t make those decisions.

“Ouch,” Monica said, with utter insincerity.

“And … we have to talk, before you really become mine. And even then, you can revoke my status as Master at any time.”

“I can’t imagine you getting a Court to uphold my slavery contract. So you’ll just have to keep me happy.”

“I’ll do my best. And yes, slavegirls get lots of oral sex.”

Monica reached down to hold my cock, and found it hard. “Good,” she said. “Though it’s not oral sex I’m after right -“

I edged further up my body so my cock., still held and hard in her hand, touched wet, soft cunt.

“Get your thighs up, girl. I want your toes pointing at the ceiling. Later you can rest them on my arse.” 

“Right masterly,” she murmured. And made me welcome. I pressed forward.

We lay together, Monica facedown on the bed and I facedown mostly on Monica. My cock was still in her ass, just. Eventually I had to withdraw while I was still hard enough to take the condom with me. 

Then, like tired little mammals, we rolled over and slept, with Monica partly snuggled against my chest. I don’t know how long we slept, or whether it was Monica’s stirring or hunger that woke me. But when I opened my eyes and took in the world properly I saw that Monica had lifted herself onto her elbow and was looking down at me.

I said, “Hello, you.”

Monica smiled. “You’ll have to work out what to call me, won’t you? Hello, sir.”

“Hah. Monica will do. Or would you like a slavename?”

“What’s that? And I don’t think I’m a slave. I haven’t said so, and I think it’s up to me.”

“If you become my slavegirl, I think I’ll name you after your cunt. So … maybe oyster. Or no, pipi. That’s a New Zealand bi-valve mollusc, isn’t that interesting? But very vulva-looking shell, and delicious soft centre.”

“Pipi.” She considered. With every passing moment, I could tell, the idea of being a slavegirl was becoming incrementally less strange. “Pipi might be nice.”

“And also ‘Monica’. See, that’s a good name for a slave too.”

“Ha! I saw what you just did.” But we kissed then, and that was at least partly her doing.

“Pipi Monica Jaimeslave.”

“Well, we’ll see.” She squirmed in my direction, so her leg was between mine and her breasts pressed onto my chest. She said, “We’ve been awake for hours.”

“No we haven’t.”

“Ages, then. And you still haven’t put your cock in … “

I pushed her onto her back, and settled down, my face between her legs. I kissed that cunt. “Pipi,” I said. “We haven’t done lots of things. And there’s plenty of time.”

“Hmm.”

The wooden spoon was sticking out from under a pillow, and I reached for it. I said, “I promised you a hundred with this, and you’ve only had sixty-five. So … ?”

“So you think I need another thirty-five.”

“You do. And you know it.”

“Umm” But she lay back. That was OK with her. I kissed her cunt again, this time with more tongue, and she stroked the back of my head. Then I lifted my head, and smacked her cunt firmly, hard enough, with the spoon.

Monica said, “Didn’t hurt!”

But that wasn’t the game I wanted to play. I said, “Say, ‘Thank you, sir.'”

She whispered it. “Thank you, sir.”

I spanked her again, and she was louder, but still grateful. Her cries of ‘Thank you, sir’ got louder and higher pitched as the spoon got wetter. She was a very squishy girl now. Something about this spanking was working very well.

Somewhere after the twentieth stroke, not that I was counting, I said, “‘Thank you, Master.”

“What?”

“You heard. Do as you’re told, Monica. ‘Thank you, Master.'” ” I brought the spoon down on squishy, wet and sensitive girl.

A girl who cried out, “Thank you, Master.” Lust is magic.

“That’s right, girl.” I gave her the last dozen spanks while she yowled, writhed, and proclaimed her gratitude and her acceptance of her owned status.

Eventually I put the spoon down, so she knew it was over for now. I kissed her cunt again, then licked, hard, with my tongue, slowly lapping up till I touched her clitoris. “Pipi Monica Jaimeslave.” 

“That isn’t fair.” 

“Are you my slavegirl?”

“I’ve said so. So there is that.”

“Lift you thighs, Pipi.”

“Yes, sir.” I bit her lightly, just as a warning. “Yes, Master!”

“Good girl.” My heart was full, then. I loved her. I loved my slavegirl. Not that she’d really become that: not yet. I slid my hands under her arse and lifted her a little. And licked her cunt exactly as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Monica settled back, thighs wide, and let my mouth and tongue do what it would. There were still things to talk about, but first I had to show her that losing her independence can have its compensations.