A short Story

By

Sir Marc Wyld

Copyright 2010 by Sir Marc Wyld

All Rights reserved

Serve and Protect

At precisely nine o’clock she arrives at the restaurant and waits patiently for her turn to speak with the hostess and delivers her line flawlessly.  I can only see her in profile.  The hostess, whose demeanor is initially sour at seeing a lone woman approach, immediately perks up when the woman makes her request. Taking a menu, the hostess bids the woman to follow and blocks her from my view.

They walk toward my table very slowly.  The hostess is not adept at walking in those shoes she thinks makes her look worldly.  They make her look like a short, skinny girl on stilts.  If she were my daughter, I would surely educate her on women’s shoes, buying as well as wearing and this girl is sorely in need of an education. Once the hostess realizes where she is heading, she makes eye contact with me and visibly straightens her posture and quickly looks me over closely.  She cocks her head slightly and visibly curls the right side of her lips in a small upward tilt.  One eye brow unconsciously arches up a bit, telegraphing she is interested.  Thank you, I think, now move your skinny cow on stilts ass out of my way and show me who is behind you.  Instead, she stops dead in the narrow aisle and fills my field of vision completely.

“Sir, your guest has arrived,” she says pleasantly yet seductively.

I rise, walk around the table and nearly have to forcibly move the hostess who has at some point in her life has made the fashion decision that club clothes are the epitome of elegance.  Standing so near this young girl, a thought suddenly invades my brain and I consciously worry that I may need to physically stifle laughing out loud. 

The girl is impossibly thin; a size zero and instantly she is incredibly sexy to me.  Her Ethiopian poster girl figure suddenly wracks me with the urge to grasp her by the nape of her neck and force her face onto the tabletop and bunch her miniskirt at the waist.  I know in my military mind that beneath her skirt she is wearing a string thong and nothing else.  I have an almost unconquerable desire to force my flaccid cock into what surely would be a hairless, tight pussy just to hear the sound of her bones shattering from the sheer force of my expanding cock.  As this wild thought bounces around in my head, I purposely do not look at the figure standing behind her and actually turn my back to my guest as I pull out a chair for her to sit.  She edges around the hostess, sits and adjusts.  Dismissed, the hostess totters away oblivious to the knowledge that she had been only scant milliseconds from never walking again. 

  I return to my place to face my guest across the table for the first time.  She is holding a single white rose reverently in both hands, chin high, seemingly illuminating her face.  She is radiant; blond and pink and though her smile is shy, it goes all the way to her eyes. It is a moment before she speaks.  “The fucktoy is proud to present herself,” she says in a sweet, normal tone of voice and hands me the rose.  I remove a dark red bud from my lapel and replace it with her white bloom after deftly trimming the stem with my pocket knife and I hand my boutonniere to her.  I did not see what she did with it but years later I would find a perfectly dried American Beauty bud hidden in a small wooden box in her closet.

We eat, we talk, we sip a sweet white, a ’57 Laffite, I think, while eating chocolate.  She speaks with candor and wit, always polite almost to the point of adoration.  She is dressed in her first real little black dress.  It is short enough to allow the lacy tops of her dark hose to peek out and long enough to hide the patch of white between lace and prize.  Her shoes are 4” closed toe black stilettos with a dainty ankle strap.  The only jewelry she wears is a pair of small diamond earrings and a string of 10 mm pearls and there is supposed to be nothing beneath the dress. 

After dinner, once ensconced behind the tinted windows of my automobile, the facts of her underwear are revealed when my knife is again put to good use severing the spaghetti straps of her first little black dress.  I remove the sting of pearls and replace them with a thick leather collar that has a lock and hasp instead of a buckle and I put a silk blindfold on her that almost covers her nose.  In silence, as we ride, I study her carefully.

She is trim and taut; she exercises and watches her weight.  Her tits are quite firm and ride high on her torso and I am glad that I have the opportunity to see them this way, young, before they fall and sag like the poor native dugs in a National Geographic magazine.  Years from now, she will ask for surgery and I will say no and I will be right; she will not need them corrected, fixed or firmed. 

Her face is fresh and if you didn’t know her you would think sweet Kansas farm girl when you saw her for the first time.  She is not only beautiful, she is pretty.  Willingly, she comes to me and I have a new pet in my jar. 

Months pass, she comes when she is bid and she serves as she is trained, giving everything to me as the one she has chosen to offer herself up to in complete adoration until she is told to leave and waits to be called again to serve.  When she is not here she goes to him.  She married him before she finished college, where she met him and then followed him out into the world.  They fell in love quickly, maybe too quickly and not very deeply since college is, for both, a new world and they are tying to be new people.  They were in love with the idea of being in love, or maybe, they just didn’t know how to love just yet.

What she didn’t count on was her old self calling her back from her old world.  As a girl of seventeen, quite by accident or, perhaps, by design, she learns to find joy in servitude to her uncle, the widower husband of her lone blood aunt.  Thinking she can have both worlds, she will meet her uncle when she is called and have her guilty pleasure in the shadows and then go to try to love the man from whom she hides her sin.  The dichotomy of being whore and Madonna is never absent from her mind both in guilt and glee. 

Life continues for some years until the uncle dies and she tries to live only one life before despair leads her to seek out me through an advertisement and we spend a year corresponding before the meeting that makes her mine.  Eleven months later, a suspicious cuckold of a husband decides to catch her in the act and watches her until finally he discerns she comes to me.  I answer my door and find a very nervous young man on my stoop.  “Yes?” I say and momentarily he just stands there before saying anything. “I’m J_’s husband…”and he trails off.  “Come in, please,” I say simply.

As soon as the door closes, I catch him off balance and slam him into a wall, slow enough that he has time to put his hands up before his face crashes into the wall.  “Easy, boy, stay easy,” I say.   Quietly and quickly I frisk the young man and am relieved that he is not carrying any weapons and let him free offering my apologies.

I offer him a seat on my couch and a drink from my bar.  I am happy when accepts the seat and concerned when he accepts the offer, asking for a scotch.  Strong liquor has the nasty habit of making otherwise sensible men brave.  I serve it on the rocks and am relieved when he places it on the coffee table untouched. 

“I-I, know she’s here,” he says.

Simply: “Yes.”

“I want to see her.”

Again: “Yes.”

I call to her and she enters wearing heels, hose and nothing else save my collar. She stands quietly next to my chair and looks at me not him.  He stares in awe.  “We have a visitor, make him feel welcome.”  She answers quietly, “Yes, Sir,” and turns toward her husband.  “Welcome to my Master’s home.  How may I be of service?” she says this looking just above his head, avoiding his eyes.  He is speechless. 

“Attend!” I bark and she kneels next to my chair and places her hands at the small of her back.  I begin to speak.

“You see how things are.  You now know the truth about your beloved.  She gave you chances, I know, I made her.”  He nods. “Cunt, you are about to be given a choice since that is the only reason why your cuckolded husband would come, to make you choose.  So, choose one of us, cunt, put one out of his misery.”  Without hesitation or falter: “I choose you, Sir, I serve you for all of my days.”

“There you are,” I say softly, never letting on for a moment that I had no idea how that answer would play out.  “Get dressed, cunt.”

He and I sit across from each other in silence.  He starts off giving me a cold stare but soon loses his bravado to my cool glance in return.  I offer another drink to replace the one he has not touched.  He declines and I speak:

“I am sending her home with you.  Use this time and use this time wisely.  Do not berate her and most certainly, do not hurt her.  If you do, I will hurt you twice for her every pain.  This, I swear.”  He can see in my eyes he has just heard one of life’s little truths.  “I will hunt you down and there is nowhere you can hide and, eventually, I will find you and I will hurt you before I end you.  If you are a coward and kill her and follow her in death, I will hunt down every person that has ever loved you and end them as well until I am caught.  If I am as good as I think I am, I can have my cold, sweet revenge undetected for years. When I am done with those that loved you, I will move on to those that liked you until I finally begin to end the people that barely know you.  From her own lips, in her own words, you heard her say she is mine and I do not take well to others playing poorly with my things.  Are we clear?”  He nods and simultaneously swallows very hard.

I smile courteously as she returns now dressed in jeans, T shirt and flats.  I motion for her to sit beside her groom and they both sit facing me very rigidly, hands gently folded in their laps.  Almost seamlessly, I continue:

“You two will go and you will talk.  You,” I point at her, “will be back here before dark tomorrow, are we clear?”  “Yes, Sir.”  “You,” I point at him, “heard what I said?” He nods. “This is all that you two are to think about:  You must figure out a way to either live a reconciliatory life in peace or figure out how to disentangle your lives forever.  Get out, both of you.”  With that, they are gone.  There were no goodbyes.

The next evening, just before dark, a car pulls up in front of my house and drops her off.  It waits till she is safely in the door before driving away.  Two days later, she calls and tells him to park in the drive way and come inside.  We have a nice chat.   

He can keep her and care for her and she is to respect his loyalty.  It is clearly understood: She is mine and she is not to be touched.  If this rule were ever broken over the years, I will never know and would not care to know if I could but I never had any reason to suspect anything other than strict adherence to my words.

The final condition is offered to him in the form of an ultimatum.  It is a simple choice, at least, it sounded simple to me when I said it.  “You made a choice when you brought her back and another when came back.  Tonight, she can leave with you, if you wish.” He looks at her; she is still dressed as cunt. “Yes,” barely a whisper. 

“Good.  She is mine; you will bring her when I call.  I will not wait unreasonably and I will never listen to an excuse.  You will serve me by caring for and protecting her or you will say goodbye right now and walk out that door and you will never see her again as long as you live.  Are we clear?” Definitely and firmly: “Yes.” 

Behind me, cunt speaks directly to her husband and I have never heard her speak so freely before nor will I ever again.  “This is my Master and this is my life.  I must abide by any decision he makes and I will do as I am bid.  I will obey my Master’s direction and laws and the only way you can prevent me from being obedient to my Sir is to kill me.”  If he did not believe her words he was an idiot because I certainly did as I did not command her to give that speech. They left around midnight.

I suppose that here is as good of place as any in this tale to cut to the chase and just tell the rest of the story since I think, constant reader, that you might have better things to do than listen to the driveling memories of a sad old man’s common life long past.

For the next eleven years, I summons and he delivers her to me.  Sometimes, so I have been told, he spends hours picking out clothes that might impress by making his wife, my slave, beautiful for me.  She would stay here for a time, sometimes months on end.  Often, he would come and watch as I put my delightful three holed wonder slut fuck toy house pig worthy toilet cum dump through every illicit pleasure, legal or illegal I could imagine and sometimes hear him express delight in her debasement.  I will admit, sometimes I punished her solely for his benefit and punished her well. 

After half a score of years, his work carried them to Tuscany.  Still, I would summons and without reservation or hesitation he would bring her to me, safe and sound.  The final time I summoned, they drove south to Rome and flew on to London and then to Boston where they boarded a flight that would deliver them to serve me.

As I neared the southern edge of the Windy City, almost to the Tri-state Tollway, I was listening to a horror more terrible than anything I could ever imagine unfolding on the radio and I don’t know why but I began to speed toward O’Hare.  As I made my way onto the Kennedy Extension, my sweet pair, in field, to the east, in Pennsylvania, was bound together, forever, without me.

I, as has everyone else, heard the stories of bravery on that day on that airplane and as I fall sleep at night, alone, I think, I pray, I cry, and believe his last act was trying to save her, to keep her safe and well for me, just as I charged him to do, to serve and protect her for me for the rest of his life and I know in my heart of hearts that he did just that.