Mysterious Skin

Master took my ass on Friday.

He came home from work, bent me over the bed and ran his hand down my back. He paused at my ass, at the flared base of the butt plug, and made a surprised noise—as if he was expecting me to forget about wearing it. But I didn’t. I wore it all day: while I was sweeping and mopping his floors, while I washing his dishes, while I was grocery shopping and cooking his dinner, and even when I was doing “me-things” like sitting down to study.

He pulled my underwear down, pulled the plug out. Then, I felt a different hardness press into the newly freed hole; not cold silicone, but something organic and warm. He held my hips and pressed his cock into me slowly, until I could feel his pubic bone against the flesh of my bum. He was inside of me and it happened with warning, or build-up, or drama. Then he pulled my hair back and fucked me hard. He dragged me to the table and although he put his hands under my face, so that his palms cupped my cheek and caught my tears, he did not relent with the force of each thrust.

There was no pain, just nausea, a sensation of uncomfortable fullness and the accompanying need to have a bowel movement. But I was not crying because of the discomfort, I cried because I had now lost so much of my body to him. I wept because now all my holes—my mouth, my cunt, my ass—holes that had never before been used by a man, were now all his. I cried, not because I was upset, but out of disbelief that it had all happened this way. Out of joy that I belonged him.

After expelling a last heavy breath, after his last shudder of pleasure, he took me and my wet, cum-filled asshole to the bathroom. He filled the bathtub and climbed in, so that his back was nestled into the curve at the foot of the tub and his legs were open. I was still crying. He gestured for me to climb it too, and, feeling shy and ashamed, I knelt between his legs with my knees pressed together. I know I’m not supposed to present to him with my legs closed, but I was embarrassed about the tampon I was wearing, about being on my period, about having just been stripped of any semblance of dignity. He commented on my pose but allowed me to stay that way. I stared at his chest because I was too afraid to look up and see what expression he was wearing on his face.

He kept asking me questions in soft and tender tones—if I was okay, why I was crying—and I answered with head nods when I could, and silence when I could not find the words. I tend to talk a lot when I feel safe and comfortable, but in moments weakness I am mute. In moments of great vulnerability, I grow silent even in thought, because emotion floods all other reflection.

So, we sat in silence for a little while, before Master told me to wash him. I was glad to have something to do, so I massaged his stomach and chest with the soap and his scalp with shampoo.

At length I spoke, “I’m really okay, Master.”What I meant was I’m more than okay: I’m happy. I’m yours--all yours--and I’m so lucky to belong to you.

He put my head to his chest and hugged me.