[ Find Part I here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/23/the-chalet-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/
Find Part II here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/28/the-chalet-part-ii-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/
Find Part III here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/07/30/the-chalet-part-iii-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ ]
There we were, sat around the mahogany table of her kitchen-living room, she and I, in silence.
I had been summoned later than usual, only a couple hours before sundown. There had been no clear indication of the why, but it seemed we were past the state of playing trivialities. Her game was in full motion, I, a mere pawn in her Queendom.
She dragged hard upon her cigarette. Toking deeply, slowly. She was timely in her intakes. They lay like punctuation within her sentences, suggestions of unseen commas. To the outsider, it could have seemed an all too familiar situation. The wordless stand-off between family members. One attentive son facing an indifferent elder, perhaps a step-mother of sort. An apparent absence of maternal love.
There was, of course, one key difference. I was shackled, by my ankles, to the chair. These cuffs were no cheap affair, one could assume a sort of chrome-nickel brand, someone meaning serious business.
The mahogany stand-off seemed to roll on. There was no reason to rush for Marina, she was a woman free of obligation or commitment. A woman who could command whatever or whomever she wished. She dressed herself in neutral clothes, loose fits and hair pulled back. There was no need to distract from the fact that she was a woman. No need to shine to attention. She had a pussy to die for and this was honor enough of her womanhood.
On finishing a final heavy draw, she looked through the window, taking note of the last moments of sunlight. She stubbed her cigarette and walked to the kitchen drawers. A shining pair of scissors were brought to the table. My pulse quickened.
She drew herself behind me and began cutting. Starting from the lower seam of my shorts, she cut all the way up the side of my leg, passing through any fabric unfortunate enough to lie in its wake. She followed on up the side of my t-shirt, grazing the upper side of the scissor upon my armpit, following on the neck.
She pulled off the butchered clothes and threw them in the sink, leaving me naked as the day. She was the first person to ever have seen my nakedness. To have ever pondered my sexual machinery. She walked around me, as if she were to tailor me a new suit in her mind’s eye.
She assessed my slim ankles, the whites of my thighs, the harshness of my pubic hair, the outwardness of my belly button, my fatless frame. I admit I blushed when she squared up to my penis. I searched deeply in her expression to find some evidence of validation, if it was okay. I’d wondered if she’d seen many in her life. If dozens of other unfortunate men had been cuffed in the very same way I was.
Without a word, she hoisted her leg up over my shoulder and placed it on the top ridge of the chair. With one well calculated push, she forced the chair to swing back on its hind legs and in doing so, sent me crashing backwards on the floor.
The hard floor punched the air from my chest and left me gasping. My dick began to harden, I was in full submission. There was no longer any need for questions, nor any need for reasoning. I pulled myself around onto my back and found her standing over me with a bucket in hand.
She began pouring a thick, caramel liquid over my stomach, my pelvis and my chest. It could have been caramel if it’s fumes hadn’t made my eyes water. She knelt over me, one knee either side of my ears. Her heavy heat making my watery eyes run wilder. She drew her hand up her skirt and fondled around in search of something.
She drew out, from her lace knickers, a rag. It must have been sat in waiting for hours at the table. Compressed between her and the chair. She pulled down my jaw, crumpled the infused rag and jammed it into my mouth.
“Buff the floor”
The first words uttered in the hours between us. She hoisted herself back to her feet, dragged a chair on its hind legs and threw it against the wall.
I turned, my body staining itself an ochre red, my mouth full of sex. I withdrew the rag, made a singular wiping motion across my body. Picking up as much liquid in one go and slopped it on to the floor. I pulled myself to my hands and knees to face away from her.
I began, pushing the resin into the floorboards, buffing with all my might. My hard penis swinging right and left as if a meter reading. I dared a glance over my shoulder, seeing, nothing less than Marina, legs a meter apart, two fingers deep into the delight of her own pussy, eyes fixated on me.
I would have given anything to have been granted a moment to savor my own pleasure. To have partaken in our mutual masturbation. Eying each other deeply, panting with glazed expression. But Marina would not have permitted me such a bliss. The rush that ran through her veins was the result of the denial she was granting me.
And so I polished on, erection and the point of no return, mentally savoring the grunting moans of Marina…
[Find the final part here – https://stinkies.blog/2020/08/05/the-chalet-part-v-domestic-slavery-in-a-mature-womans-world/ ]
The Queen's Court 