Summerslave 5

DINNER CONVERSATION

Emilio's was the best Italian restaurant in the city. That didn't mean it was a great restaurant, it wasn't that big a city. In the traditional American expectation of an Italian restaurant, it had rough, bare brick walls, dim lighting and candles on every table.

We had a short wait in the lobby before our table was ready. I saw the obvious and not so obvious looks that my slave got from the other men who waited there with us. I didn't blame them. She was a spectacular vision in iridescent blue. The dress clung to every corset-exaggerated curve of her trim body. The spike heels and side slits emphasized her lean legs. There was a certain glow in her expression and a sway in her movements, probably due in part to the labia clamps, that only brought more attention to her desirability.

I could only smile and think, "She's mine, guys. If you only knew how much she's mine." It was macho pride, I know, but I enjoyed every second of it.

The maitre'd led us to a small corner table far from the entrance. I had made it clear that we wanted privacy. He held her chair and as she sat. I heard a barely perceptible clink of muffled chain on wood. She tensed slightly, almost fully seated, then dropped into the chair. The maitre'd gave no sign that he had noticed anything out of the ordinary. He handed us menus and retreated to the lobby.

"Did you hear that, Master?"

"Yes," I smiled, trying hard to keep from laughing.

"Do you think . . .?"

"No. If he heard it, he had no idea what he heard." I shook my head. "It looked like you felt something too."

"When the chain hit the chair, well . . . it startled me."

"I could see that."

"You're diabolical. Even with the corset and the heels, I could almost pretend to myself that everything was normal. But those damned clamps on my pussy and the chain make it impossible. The clamps hurt. I guess you know that."

"Yes. I know."

"And they . . . they excite me. They make me wet and it's not going to get any better.

"Perfect," I said gleefully as our waiter arrived. I ordered a bottle of Chianti Classico and two antipasto salads, asking him to return for our dinner orders.

"Perfect, huh," she continued when he had gone. "You don't know how perfect."

"What do you want to eat?" I interrupted.

"Eat? Oh. Yes." She quickly scanned the menu. "Linguine with white clam sauce."

"That sounds good," I said. "I think I'll have the veal piccata."

I set my menu on the corner of the table and looked straight into her eyes. "Just for a few minutes, let's forget this Master and slave thing. I want to talk as husband and wife. Seriously." I put my hand over hers as it rested on the table top.

"No, Master."

"No?" I was startled. "You mean with the clamps and all you can't think seriously?"

"No, Master. I mean I don't want to forget being your slave. Not for a moment."

"We have to start doing some planning," I said. "You're about to graduate. My job is going really well. They just hired me for the one project, but looks like I'll have it permanently if I want it. We need to decide what to do this fall."

"You decide, Master. I'll follow where you go."

"I don't want to decide this for you. Your career will be as important as mine."

"But I have decided," she insisted.

"You've decided what?"

"I've decided to be your slave."

"It's not that simple."

"It is that simple. Look, Master . . . "

"Will you stop calling me that for a few minutes?"

"No, I won't. And that's the only thing I'll refuse you. I refuse to not be your slave."

I could only shake my head.

Our waiter returned, but stopped at a slight distance from the table, reluctant to interrupt what appeared to be a marital argument. I guess it was a marital argument of sorts. I looked up and waived him over. He took our dinner order, placed our salads on the table, poured us each a glass of Chianti and vanished.

I still didn't completely comprehend what she was telling me. "Okay. Go ahead," I said.

"My work is pretty portable. I should be able to find a job in just about any city. You have to establish a practice. And you seem to have a decent start at it. Therefore, I'll go where you need me to go."

"I'll accept that. All right. That makes some sense. But . . . "

"No buts, Master. I'll find a job. I'll go out into the working world every day, just like everybody else."

I nodded.

"But I belong to you, Master. Mind, body and soul, I belong to you and I don't want anything else."

"Do you know what you're saying?"

"I know exactly what I'm saying." She pursed her lips and I saw the muscles in her neck tighten. She was annoyed at my reluctance.

"You love me don't you?" she asked.

That question took me by surprise. "Yes. Of course I love you. I love you more than anyone or anything."

"Then ask yourself this: Do you love me enough to own me?"

I said nothing. I just looked in her eyes with what I'm sure was a blank, stupid stare.

"What I said a few minutes ago: that I could almost pretend that everything was normal. Well, it would only be pretending. Nothing is normal. I knew it before, but yesterday and today made me certain. I want to belong to you, Master. Completely. With no reservations."

"Can I think about this for a little while?" Her insistence, her seemingly absolute commitment to become my slave, had taken me by surprise. I'll admit it. It frightened me. I was afraid of the power that she had thrust into my hands.

"No. You told me once that a submissive had only one decision to make: to submit or not. I've made that decision. And you can accept it or not. I'll ask again; do you love me enough to own me?"

I looked down at the table, stared at the candle in its center, looked at the wall beside me and up at the lights in the ceiling. I looked anywhere but at her. I took a long, slow swallow of wine and set the glass down hard, sloshing a little over the rim and onto the tablecloth. Of course I loved her. Intensely. Passionately. But to own her? She had offered me a wonderful gift, but with it would come tremendous responsibility. I hadn't considered this issue of ownership, in a real sense. Our Master and slave games had been just that, games. Now she offered herself to me completely.

"Yes," I said at last and relaxed. There. I'd said it. A large weight had lifted. "Yes I love you enough to own you, slave." I meant it.

She smiled that luminous smile and looked straight at me. Her grin twisted up mischievously at one corner, then she looked down.

"Thank you, Master. You do me a great honor."

I chuckled and shook my head slowly. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Absolutely, Master." She looked straight back into my eyes.

"You honor me, then. I'm not sure you know the power you have. I'm not sure you know all that you're giving me. You're so strong."

"I don't understand, Master."

"It takes strength and confidence and conviction to give yourself to another this way. You're probably stronger than I am."

She smiled and lowered her eyes. "I don't think so Master, but thank you. I give myself to you , then. I give my power to you."

"How could I refuse that gift?" I paused and again covered her hand with mine. "Yesterday and today have been pretty intense for you, haven't they?"

"Yes, Master. Wonderfully so."

Her smile was irresistible. It made me smile too, but I had a serious purpose in mind. "You know I have some things planned for you. For tonight and tomorrow."

"Yes, Master."

"You know enough to about them to say that some of it frightens you."

"Yes, Master."

"I had planned these things as part of a game. We've been playing at being Master and slave. That was the way I saw it anyway."

"Yes, Master. It has been less and less a game for me in the last few weeks. And today . . . today I decided that it simply wasn't a game anymore for me."

"You've made that clear." I took another long swallow of wine. "The things I have planned, your punishment tonight, our picnic tomorrow, they're no longer part of a game. They've become real, slave. I hope you understand that."

"I think I do, Master. I'm not quite sure what you mean." Now I was making her nervous. She squirmed just a little in her seat and took a slow sip from her glass. She fiddled with her fork, turning over pieces of lettuce on her plate one by one.

"Just this. We've always had a safeword. We've always given you a way out, a way to slow things down if you couldn't handle them."

"Yes, Master. A word that means "slow down" and a word that means "stop." You know I've never needed or wanted to use either."

"There will be no 'slow down' any longer." I grasped her hand tightly and pressed it against the table top. "I intend to test your resolve to be my slave. There will be no 'yellow.' And if you say 'red,' if you ask me to stop, I'll know that you're not as ready as you think. If you ask me to stop I'll know that your slavery is still just a game."

"Yes, Master."

"Do you understand? Do you agree?"

Our waiter had whisked away the salad plates and was setting the entrees on the table before I noticed his presence. I wondered how much he had heard. He refilled each of our glasses and vanished again.

"Yes, Master. I agree. I'm ready for any test. I trust you. Completely."

"I think you do." I smiled. "You'll need to."

"Yes, Master. I know you won't hurt me."

"That's where you're wrong, slave. I will hurt you. I won't injure you, but I will hurt you."

She looked straight down at her linguine. After a long silence, she said, "Okay. I accept that. I put myself completely at your mercy. You accept a responsibility to protect me . . . "

"Yes . . . "

". . . and I accept that you will make me suffer for you, Master."

"I think we understand each other."

"I think we do, Master."

We fell silent. We both savored our meal, its flavor improved by expectation and relief.

As I speared my last sliver of veal, I said, "One thing, slut. This isn't just a test. It's the rest of your life."

Her eyes darted up from her plate and caught my gaze. "Yes Master," she said, nodding slowly. "I know."