Alison's Wonderland

“Yes, Madame,” he said breathlessly, and lowered his face back to her sex.

Belle cried out as she came for a second time, and a third. Only then did she let him enact the ritual of cleaning her boots, from top to toe to spike heel, before he removed them. And then, with her appetite whetted, Madame Belle took her servant to bed.

As it turned out, she did let Andrew’s cock inside her—and a mammoth thing it was, sliding into her at a variety of angles as she instructed him to raise and lower himself for her exact satisfaction based not on his desires, or his pleasure or even his physical capacity—she pushed his thigh muscles almost to the breaking point, multiple times—but on the angle at which Madame most eagerly wished to enjoy Andrew’s cock.

Good Lord, she discovered, she really did have a G-spot! And Andrew’s cock hit it perfectly, provided he stood at the edge of the four-poster bed with one foot on the mattress and one on the floor, and Belle reclined with one leg over his shoulder. She used him that way, commanding him not to come, until his face went red and his thigh muscles rubbery. Only then, when she’d exhausted both herself and her slave, did Madame Belle relax alongside her servant, relishing the feel of his naked body against her and the hardness of his cock, still moist from her, in her hand. She stroked it rhythmically and caressed it with her long, slender fingers.

Perhaps it was the very late hour and the long journey and her own physical satisfaction that made her feel so drunk with excitement.

Or perhaps it was the pleasure of power over her servant that made Madame Belle say to Andrew: “I could let you come.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, his voice thick with hunger and weak with submission. “If you wished to do so.”

She stroked her fingers up and down his wet cock, alternately caressing and gripping it, showing the extensive skills at manual pleasuring she had gained from her long, long time on her knees. So many times she’d been engaged to pleasure a man with her hands, and she knew Andrew was very, very close. Her habit was, unquestionably, to satisfy the man immediately, per her role in life. But now she felt differently. It would have taken a few firm strokes of her hand, or the permission for Andrew to mount her again and fuck her for his pleasure, or a few quick slurps of her mouth—which was even now watering. She could even just issue a dismissive word that would allow Andrew to satisfy himself: “Stroke,” or “Jerk,” or “Finish” or, most simply, “Come.”

But she did not say any of these words, or pump Andrew’s cock with her hand, or order him back into her or go down to suck him, though she very badly wanted to. It was the first time she had ever been with a man without going down on him. It would be the first time, she decided, that she had ever been with a man when he did not come.

Belle sighed and laughed musically. She removed her hand from Andrew’s cock and stretched her naked body out across the great expanse of the bed. She’d like it all to herself, she decided, and as delicious as Andrew was, she was finished with him.

“I don’t think so,” she told him. “Go now. Wake me in the morning.”

“Yes, Madame,” said Andrew. “May I kiss you goodbye?”

She looked at him pleasantly.

“No,” she said.

“Yes, Madame.” He got out of her bed and stood beside her, his cock erect and pink with effort, still glistening with her. Belle yawned and closed her eyes.

“May I ask a question?”

“What is it?” said Belle flatly, without opening her eyes.

“Did Madame enjoy herself?”

Belle’s eyes popped open; she looked Andrew up and down.

She had enjoyed herself very much; she was almost terrified by the pleasure. She’d had more orgasms than she’d ever been allowed during any other tryst throughout her long life as a submissive, or before, when she’d gone to bed with men on equal footing, when she’d had, in fact, very few orgasms. But the vast physical pleasure she’d experienced was as nothing compared to the overwhelming intoxication of power. She felt ecstatic over the fact that she was being asked—and could answer as she wished, something she’d never been able to do the dozens of times she’d been asked before she became kinky, when she’d always said yes out of politeness, often elaborating with great vigor despite being vaguely dissatisfied.

Now, her body soft and relaxed with many orgasms, her satisfaction overpowering, she could answer as it pleased her to do so, and she realized she did not know how best to use this new tool for her amusement.

“Not nearly enough,” said Belle coldly. “You’ll have to try harder next time.” She felt a surge of excitement at the look of deep submission on Andrew’s face. His cock remained hard. She closed her eyes.

“Madame, am I allowed to masturbate?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to ask, “Is that my decision to make?” but stopped herself before she uttered the question.

Instead, she looked at him pleasantly, so she could feel the hot wave of his submission when she told him:

“No. You may not masturbate. And have my clothes sent up.”

“They’ve been confiscated,” said Andrew.

Belle frowned.

“Then clean my boots,” she said. “For real this time.”

“Thank you, Madame. I shall wake you in the morning.”

“Just try.” Belle laughed, and went to sleep.

Belle slept deep and long, and refused to be roused when Andrew came to wake her in the morning.

“The Master wishes to lunch with you, Madame,” said Andrew.

Belle sighed, yawned and cast aside the blankets. She slipped her legs over the edge of the bed, spread her legs and crooked a finger at Andrew.

“Madame, he’s waiting.”

“Let him wait,” she said, and grabbed Andrew’s hair. She pulled him onto her, then threw him on his back, riding him with excruciating slowness. Each time he bit his lip and struggled not to come, it made Belle’s excitement sore higher.

Three hours later, she still had not granted Andrew leave, and she laughed as she bade the poor man lace her boots up, seeing his trembling from head to toe as his desperate sexual need pulsed through him.

“Just a stroke or two of my hand, wouldn’t it?”

“Madame?”

“That’s all it would take.” She sighed. “Just a soft little stroke, and I could give you everything you ever wanted. Or maybe—” she bent down low and ran her fingers over the back of Andrew’s neck “—I could use my mouth. Would you like to come in my mouth, Andrew?”

The servant let out a faint, desperate squealing noise before he finally managed to rasp, “As…Madame…wishes.”

Belle laughed.

When she finally let Andrew lead her into the banquet hall, it was very late in the day. Sitting at the head of the table was the man whom submissives from France to Russia called the Beast, his face red with anger.

Entering the room ahead of Belle, Andrew announced her. Then he said, “I’m sorry for the delay, sir, Madame Belle—”

The Beast cut him off with a savage wordless growl and slammed his fist down on the table. Andrew paled and stood stock-still. But then Beast rose as Belle entered the room, and his face was transformed into an expression of gentleness.

He hurried to greet Belle, going down on one knee and kissing her hand as she extended it. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame Belle,” said the man they called the Beast. He was not a bad-looking man, though Belle had always preferred those without the long bushy beard the Beast favored. Her own Master was clean-shaven. In just the last twelve hours, she’d come to very much appreciate the long hair of Andrew—it provided quite a useful handhold when she wished to direct the location of his mouth. Beast had the same long hair, though he was not nearly as blond—gray shot through his hair even more than through his beard.

Belle took a long moment to savor the Beast on his knees; were she to remain here, it would be the last time she saw it for quite a while. She did not withdraw her hand or respond for a time, and the Beast remained on one knee looking up at her in growing irritation.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Master. Your servant has been showing me quite evident hospitality.”

She saw the color come quickly to Beast’s face, and felt a sudden charge. She took her seat and the Beast returned to his, his eyes shifting nervously back and forth, as if he were stealing glances at Belle’s naked body. Certainly a Master like him had to be quite accustomed to taking his pleasure with a slave, both visually and otherwise. But here, before the final negotiation had taken place, the Beast was like a sneaky schoolboy, stealing clandestine looks at Belle’s perfect tits. Not a week before she was nothing more than a slave whose breasts were on display whenever her Master wished them to be; now, this Beast seemed almost ashamed to look at them.

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