Freedom is Slavery (2 page)

I started giving this attractive lady my spiel about needing to define her business objectives and writing an outline of all the things her site would need before we even proceeded. To my surprise she took a notebook out of her oversized purse and asked, "Like this?" She laid out an entire site map along with pages of copy that had been heavily edited. I was amazed. And I was more than a little baffled as I started to read what her site was about.

"Yes... something exactly like that."

"I’ve been working on this site my head for the last few months but haven’t taken the plunge to get it built. Would you be willing to help me? What are your rates?"

I usually work with clients whose product I like and try to work out a favorable agreement in trade. I told her that and added, "But I don’t know what you do, yet."

She gave a hearty belly laugh, doubling over and covering her mouth with her hands to try to stifle it. Finally, her laughter subsided and she wiped her eyes of tears. She opened her notebook to another page and told me to look it over and that she’d be back after getting some more coffee.

The page was filled with a lot of terms and acronyms I couldn’t get my head around. There were mentions of "Greek," "French," "Russian," and other things that didn’t seem like salad dressing though much of the page seemed like a menu. "GFE," "PSE," "BDSM" were listed in one column with numbers in another. Meanwhile, terms like "DATY," "DFK," and "MSOG," were listed in another area. It might as well have been written in Sanskrit for as much sense as I made out of it and, upon her return, I told her as much.

"I know you don’t know me yet but if you trust me, I can assure you that you’ll figure it all out and will love the way I pay you," she said with a large smile.

I don’t know why I did it but I shook her hand and introduced her to her new web developer.

Her name was Zoe. She had a lot of tattoos under those black clothes. I found that out the next day as she sat next to me in her living room. I tend to insist on having my clients work with me in order to have immediate answers and feedback. I found out about the tattoos from the photos on Zoe’s computer that she was sending to me via email. They were of her in various states of undress.

Things finally started to clear up for me when I began populating pages and came across this statement:

"Money exchanged is for companionship and modeling services only. Anything else that may occur is a matter of personal choice between two or more consenting adults of legal age, and is not contracted for, nor is it requested to be contracted for or compensated for in any manner. This is not an offer for prostitution."

I read those words and lifted my head to see Zoe already looking at me, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

"You’re...."

Seeing me struggling for words she finished my sentence, "An escort. No moral objections, I hope?"

"No, none at all. I find it rather admirable and, well, intriguing."

"Go ahead and ask me anything. I’m going to take notes and see if there’s anything I can use for my Frequently Asked Questions page," she chuckled.

I spent the next hour or more haranguing her with questions; everything from safe sex to protocol to troublesome clients. Zoe answered everything with candor. The last question I had for her was the toughest of them all.

"So, when you said that you were... how did you... we talked a bit about payment?" I asked, fumbling over the words, afraid of being gauche.

Zoe smiled. She took the gum out of her mouth and put it on the rim of her coffee cup. She stood up—looming over me, even without her heels on—and came over to my chair. She swiveled me to face her before dropping to her knees. She looked into my eyes as her hands worked my belt, pants button, and zipper. By the time she took my penis out of my underwear it was already completely hard. She kept her eyes locked with mine as she started to stroke me.

"Do you want the nice French or can you take more?"

Not exactly sure what she meant by that I volunteered a fact that I hadn’t shared with anyone else before, "I... I don’t mind some teeth."

Her eyebrows raised and she smiled widely. "Okay, you tell me if it gets too intense. And, before you ask, you’re allowed to cum in my mouth if you want."

She lowered her mouth to my cock and took it all into her mouth. She began getting it as wet as she could, taking it out and spitting on it before licking it up one side and down the other. I’d never been spit on but I found it vaguely erotic to watch as she lubricated me this way. Normally I felt self-conscious watching as I received oral sex but I knew that Zoe not only wanted me to watch but that she enjoyed being looked at as she worked my cock like a pro.

She stuffed so much of my cock into her mouth that she also put my balls inside. She breathed through her nose as I felt her tongue slipping under my balls and back over them. She slurped and gagged a bit before taking it out again. She looked up at me as she slipped just the head into her mouth. I felt the slight bite from her teeth. I nodded and she bit down harder. I nodded again and she slid her teeth down the length of my cock, scratching and biting all the way. It felt painful but, oddly pleasing at the same time.

Down at the base of my cock, Zoe bit hard and sucked harder, creating a vacuum around me that caused her cheeks to sink in. I never usually do this, but I put my hands in her dyed black hair and held her in that position. She began to gag and I loosened my grip. She reached up quickly and pushed one of my hands against her head, letting me know that it was okay to do this. I held her down as she gurgled and bit harder, I knew that she was telling me that she was still in charge of the scenario even though my cock was down her throat.

She nodded her head a bit and I let go of her hair as she came up for air. She winked at me and we did it all again; the only difference was that I held onto her hair tighter and pushed harder, getting even more of me down her throat.

I could feel myself getting closer to the brink of orgasm. I remembered her words about it being okay to cum in her mouth. I was so glad that she gave me this permission as it relieved the stress—not knowing, holding back, and wondering. I also knew that she didn’t expect reciprocation. I’d never had a blowjob that didn’t require some kind of "payback." This time, however, I knew that I was paying her back by building her website. With that, I leaned back and groaned, allowing myself to enjoy every sensation as she coaxed an orgasm out of me.

I held her down as I came inside of her mouth while she sucked every last drop of it out of my spent cock. She kept her head in my lap, licking at the oversensitive head of my cock for a few minutes, lapping up the last few drops. I stroked her hair and smiled.

She went to her bathroom and came back with a warm washcloth that she wiped me off with before saying, "That’s the kind of payment I’m willing to give. At least one of those per page of my site. Does that sound fair?"

"Was that just the homepage?"

"No, that was just to see how you reacted. We’ll talk about the homepage more tomorrow."

Working for Zoe ended up being the best job I ever had. She gave me a whole new perspective on freelancing. After her site was done, Zoe gave me a discount for her services for life and passed my contact information along to a number of her friends who were looking for a similar deal.

I always enjoyed my time with Sybarta. While I always knew my place (she would remind me constantly, having me refill her coffee, fetching her mail, standing whenever she entered the room, et cetera), we would have rather pleasant, open conversations to relax us both before the fun began.

However today, Sybarta was acting a bit out of sorts. As soon as I was allowed in to her cottage, in the rural outlands, she commanded me to fall and kiss her boots; the signal that our session was beginning. Prostrate, she then commanded me to remove my clothes and sit in her bondage chair.

The wood of the chair was a chilling shock to my bare bottom, as was the metal buckles of the cuffs she used to secure my wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the tall chair. Another, larger belt was then wrapped around my neck and secured to the back. Sybarta gave this one a bit of a tug, choking me slightly to remind me that my life was now in her hands.

While Sybarta may have been old enough to be my mother, she managed to maintain an impressive figure. Unlike the Dominatrices of popular myth, she didn’t prance about in fishnets and corset. Rather, she resembled a truck stop patron in her coarse denim shirt and flattering jeans. The only leather she wore were her boots which still carried a strong, heady scent.

Sybarta displayed a bit more of herself now as she stood in front of me, unbuttoning her shirt and exposing her bare breasts. She leaned in close to me and I could smell her clean scent of roses and peppermint. She allowed her breasts to get close to my open, wanting mouth. I longed to wrap my lips around her succulent nipples, knowing that I could provide her with pleasure and, perhaps, see her visibly shudder with excitement as I had witnessed in the past. She said not a word as she moved in closer, the nipple of her left breast just barely brushing my bottom lip. Finally, she moved in close enough for me to latch my mouth onto her nipple and suck.

When I first met Sybarta, I had barely done any "petting" in high school. I was always more than cautious when dealing with the female anatomy. I had never done anything more than kiss a girl’s nipples. It was Sybarta who taught me, commanded me, to do more than kiss and lick. I sucked, I bit, and it often felt like I was practically chewing her nipples. The harder I sucked and nibbled, the more she liked it. At first, her moans scared me. I thought they came from pain, not pleasure. Sybarta was the one who first taught me how interchangeable these notions of sensation could be.

She removed her left nipple from my mouth and replaced it with the right. Her hands gripped the top of the chair; one of her fingers absently caressed my right ear. She leaned in to the left and sent shivers down my spine by telling me that I was being, "a good boy."

She straddled my legs with hers, sitting down across from me, her weight on my legs. She stared at me with a look of self-satisfaction on her face. An evil glimmer soon came into her eye as she told me, "I’m going to slap you. I just want to hear the noise." She caressed my left cheek with her palm before pulling it back and striking a blow.

Somehow, knowing that it was coming, combined with the fact that I was taking the pain for Sybarta, helped keep the tears from my eyes, despite the stinging pain. She repeated the same thing on my right cheek and then gently kissed the red marks that came up.

Apparently, Sybarta was in the mood to cause some pain and I was going to try my best to take as much as she could dish out. She liked to push my limits, giving me more pain each time we were together. "It pleases me to hurt you," she would tell me as she watched the tears streaming from my eyes.

Bound as I was, I was powerless to do much more than whimper when she reached down and cruelly pinched my nipples. She looked deep into my eyes as the pain shot through me. She loved reading the fear that my eyes revealed. I was oddly quiet during these moments—while I wanted to scream, she didn’t want to hear it. If I was too noisy she would gag me, lowering the chances that I might have something better put in my mouth.

I kept as still and quiet as I could as she placed the first of many clothespins on me that day. Pulling down a bag from a nearby shelf, she fished them out, one by one, and clamped clothespin after clothespin on my flesh. Initially she put them on my nipples and earlobes. Then she began decorating my hard cock with them. She started at the base, going around and around my cock, attaching more and more clothespins until my sex organ looked more like a porcupine than a penis. With each biting sensation, I would take in a bit more breath.

"Breathe," she would remind me.

Each clothespin felt like a tiny, sharp-toothed mouth on my flesh but the intense pain didn’t start until Sybarta began clipping more of the wooden torture devices to my scrotum. I tried to keep track of the number of them on my skin as I knew that the pain I felt now would be nothing compared to when they were removed. I lost count after she got about twenty attached to the tender skin of my ball sac.

Sybarta ran out of clothespins before she ran out of bare skin to pinch. When she was done, she took stock of her handiwork and began to play me like an instrument— touching, turning, and slapping various clothespins. Each one provided a different sensation, all based in pain. Still my cock did not falter. Serving Sybarta kept me incredibly aroused, despite the screaming fire of my flesh.

I tried to maintain some modicum of silence but the pain at times was too great. When I cried out, Sybarta would shush me and carry on. I could tell that she was enjoying it greatly. She got her greatest pleasure when she began plucking the clothespins from my skin. The rush of blood to each little area caused an incredible amount of pain. She plucked them off, one after another, quickly and then slower before going fast again, judging my reaction and enjoying taking me to the edge.

Once they were all removed I was allowed to catch by breath. Sybarta told me that I did a good job for her and that she would give me a reward. Little did I know it would be one of the best she had ever given.

She slid her left hand into her jeans and withdrew it a moment later. She held her hand out to my nose and allowed me to smell her scent. It was only the second time I had been allowed to take in the scent of a woman and, this time, she allowed me to taste her as well. She rubbed her fingers over my closed lips before telling me to open wide and take her fingers in my mouth.

It was my first time tasting a woman. I had tried performing cunnilingus on my high school girlfriend but didn’t get too far before her Catholic guilt forced us to stop. But she was merely a girl. Sybarta was a mature woman and one who had me bound and at her mercy. I relished her heady smell and taste. I couldn’t believe that I was finally getting to taste the thing I had dreamed about for years. And, as fast as it began, it ended as she withdrew her fingers. The scent and taste remained on my lips a bit longer and I savored it as long as I could.