Master and Slave

Desperation. My state of mind during the whole sorry incident by the club had been my downfall. I'd been so desperate to confront the Guardian Angel and make him pay for what he'd taken from me that I'd been convinced my plan couldn't fail. And I suppose, deep down, I was expecting him to appear and who knows what would have happened next?

 

I knew next to nothing about him. I didn't even really know what he was, who he was. Could he kill me? Would he kill me? There must be a reason that he'd seen fit to rob me of my soulmate – it's unlikely he would have done that if he didn't have some kind of vested interest in me. Unless he really was just a sick bastard taking pleasure in other people's pain. He's certainly a bastard, that's for sure.

 

My original plan hadn't worked. I believed I could lead him to me by being intimate with another man. But it seemed he was too clever, and he saw through that. He knew Tim was just a nobody, just someone I'd picked up for my own uses. Poor guy. Heaven knows what he thought when he woke up, his limp and bloody cock lying dormant in his pants, knowing how men treasure their "crown jewels" he'd probably be mortified. Just an innocent guy. And I'd used him. What the hell was the Guardian Angel reducing me to?

 

Since that night, he's continued to torture me. He's been sending the beautiful man to me.

 

I hadn't seen him since the morning of my birthday, an apparition in my bedroom. A temptation I couldn't touch, and he couldn't touch me. Though his gaze spoke volumes; he wanted me. He'd disappeared without me knowing who on Earth he was, and what he wanted. His only message to me had been the revelation of my quest – I didn't know his name, or even if he was real. Was he some kind of embodiment of what the Guardian Angel believed I thought was attractive? How would he know?

 

He looks nothing like Harry. Harry was cute, pure, and yet still sexy. The mysterious dream man is dark, brooding and dangerous. Somehow I feel that if I met him for real, I'd be on my knees in seconds, begging to serve him. I think this because of the dreams.

 

In my sleep he is my master. He arrives and I am immediately submissive, his slave. He speaks quietly but surely, and I do his bidding.

 

He gives me outfits to wear. I put them on wordlessly, eagerly, wanting to please him. His eyes drink me in, studying me carefully. His face is unreadable. I wear a variety of outfits for him. Sometimes leather, sometimes silk, satin… different every time. It's almost as if he's trying everything out on me to see what he likes best. Often we return to leather and PVC – he hands me short skirts, strapless tops, long boots. Fishnet stockings. I look like a slut. He treats me like one.

 

He cuffs my hands behind my back, rendering me helpless. I don't feel frightened or threatened. I feel aroused. When he takes control, I feel my juices start to dampen my inner thighs.

 

He demands I kneel on the floor in front of him and he makes me suck his cock. He removes it from the confines of his trousers and forces it into my mouth. I don't react. I take it willingly, all the way down my throat and worship him with my mouth. He throws his head back, revealing his long white throat. I long to kiss him, his lips, his neck, his chest. He never allows me to touch him in that way. Everything is sexual. Nothing is intimate or tender. He simply has me do his bidding, then leaves.

 

He never comes when I go down on him. Often he'll get close, then order me to bend over whilst he takes me from behind, stuffing himself into me, stretching me, hurting me. He loves to hear me scream, and tortures my ass cheeks with volleys of slaps, leaving me with red handprints over my skin. Then he pulls out and releases his load all over my hot, burning bottom, laughing as I wince at the sensation.

 

"Little slut," he says, "Wait until I take you up the ass. Then you'll know real pain."

 

Then he leaves. Leaves me in limbo, horny as hell, having not had an orgasm myself. He unlocks my wrists, kisses my hand, and is gone.

 

The times I've woken up with a throbbing pussy are countless. What is his purpose? Is he attempting to drive me mad by showing me what I'm missing? But why in that way? I know all people don't have sex like that. That the sex we have is a fetish that humans have, called by numerous names dependent on the severity of the punishments and the types of outfits. There are so many variations. But somehow he knows that being treated that way turns me on… but how could he know what would turn me on in real life? My dreams could be totally different to what I'd really like. I have no real idea of how I'd like a man to touch me, but I'm pretty sure I'd like to made love to, not fucked ruthlessly the way my Master does.

 

I've taken to calling him that now. He's beautiful, but he's also my Master. I still do not know his name or what he's doing in my dreams. All I know is that when he comes, I become his slave, and my pussy throbs and twitches for him. I hope one day I will please him enough so he will touch me, probe my most secret place with his fingers, his tongue. I long for him to bury his face between my thighs and I will grip his hair and gyrate against his face until he gives me a thundering orgasm.

 

If only he'd come to me for real. Because I want him, and yet all I get is a damp patch on my bedsheets when I wake up and a yearning feeling deep inside my soul. Could he be destined for me? Has he been handpicked for me by my Guardian Angel? If so, why?

 

I feel I should hate my Master because he's been sent by my Guardian Angel, but I can't. All I know is that when he is with me I am complete, and when he's not, I feel pain in my heart, and my waking moments are consumed by thoughts of him. I long to see him again, for him to look at me, and have me do his bidding. Perhaps one day he'll make love to me for real. I hope so. I long for him.