The Hunger…
He is awake again.
He turns towards the clock – it’s 4.50. Has he slept at all? If so, it has only been to dream of what has interrupted his sleep for so many nights. The Hunger. He tries to ignore it, but it is insatiable, welling up from deep in his being, flooding every corner of his mind, and sensitising every inch of his body. He yearns for it – that thing she did to him.
It’s a warm night and he pushes the duvet to the side of the bed in the hope that the pale dawn air might cool his skin and bring some respite. But it only increases his awareness of his nakedness, and reminds him of how, standing in front of her, she had looked at his body. He feels the blood surging in response and the uncontrollable, throbbing tumescence. He can’t help but touch himself, but it just inflames his longing and he knows that for yet another night sleep is lost to him.
It has only been a week since she cast her spell.
He had marvelled at the skill of her touch, her instinctive understanding of his body’s sensitivities and tensions and needs. It had taken him a month to summon up the courage to call her, but when he did she had listened closely, then asked some questions, and at once he had felt at ease.
It had been a long time since he had been touched, and his body was like an arid desert, thirsting for a woman’s caress. The prospect of a sensual massage was like the promise of a monsoon shower ending a long and debilitating drought, revitalising his spirit.
He had been surprised when, against his expectations, she had asked him to undress in front of her. She had been wearing lace panties and stockings, and a basque which exposed her stomach and lifted her breasts but barely covered her nipples. Standing before her he had felt doubly naked, divested not only of his clothes but also, he became aware, of his inhibitions, and he may made no attempt, nor felt any need, to conceal his arousal.
Her gaze alone had felt like a caress, her eyes moving unabashed over his body as she had walked slowly around him, a hand trailing casually over his quivering skin. Her eyes had looked hard into his before dropping down and resting, tantalisingly, on his swelling, jerking cock.
On the massage table she had blind-folded him, before drizzling warm oil over his back. Her hands had worked their magic, one minute teasing his skin with the most delicate of touches, the next probing hard into the muscles of his neck and shoulders and spine, relieving his tensions, and causing him at times to groan out loud at the pain and the pleasure. Then she had worked on his legs, moving up from his feet to his calves to his thighs.
At times she had put the whole weight of her body behind the massage, and he would feel her long golden hair brushing softly over him. Sometime it seemed that her whole body was pressing down on him, his skin covered by hers, sliding smoothly over him like silk.
Carefully, she had parted his thighs, and he had felt her delicate fingers trace a line down between his buttocks. He had gasped when she touched him there, one finger circling him, acclimatising him to a previously unknown intimacy, before gently pressing in, just an inch, then withdrawing, then in again and out, until his muscles relaxed and offered no resistance to her.
She had turned him over, and worked with equal skill on his front. In a state of both deep relaxation and mounting arousal, he had found he was excited not only by her touch, which gravitated inexorably towards his groin, but also by the knowledge that his most private desires were exposed so intimately to her. He had sensed her leaning closely over him, her face just inches above his body, her breathe on his skin the most delicate of caresses, and her hair brushing softly over his genitals.
He felt one hand moving slowly down over his stomach, the other moving up and, again, easing his thighs apart, and his internal voice had cried out for her to take his cock in her hands. But she didn’t need to be told, and her long delicate fingers had closed around his shaft, and very slowly pulled back the skin pressing hard and tight down to his balls. With her other hand she had encircled and caressed his swollen glans, slick with an emulsion of oil and oozing pre-cum.
She had gripped him tight and pumped with long slow strokes, and as he had thrust himself into her hand he felt her reach down again behind him and gently ease a finger deep into the hidden heat of his body, finding and pressing down on his prostate.
He was seconds from orgasm when she had stopped.
She had waited as his body settled, and his breathing slowed.
‘What do you want?” she had whispered in his ear.
‘Let me come. Please,’ he had begged.
‘Is that all? Just to come?’
‘All?’ he had thought. What more could he possibly desire? He didn’t know what to say.
‘Do you trust me?’
Lying there, naked and vulnerable and exposed in front of her, he had though it a little late now to start worrying if her trusted her. From his first call to her, the warmth of her voice had eased away his apprehensions.
‘Of course I trust you.’
‘Then would you let me tie you?’
Somewhere deep inside his body, and at the hidden core of his psyche, there was a flicker of recognition and desire, an ember reignited by the soft breath of her voice. He felt tendrils of heat and sensitivity spread out through him, subtle and indefinable but instantly recognisable, connected to the very root of his person and his identity, and of his sensuality and sexuality and longings.
It had caught his breath, and he had found himself unable to vocalise his reply, giving instead just the most imperceptible of nods.
The straps, as she had fastened them, had seemed unobtrusive, almost loose, and he had lost himself in the exquisite sensation of having his body controlled and positioned and restrained by such delicate hands. Only later, as she had set about her work on him, he had found just how tight and unyielding they actually were.
It has started with her raking her talon-like nails across his skin – his chest and stomach, shoulders and back, thighs and buttocks. And then she had smacked him, then lashed with a multi-stranded flogger. Always gentle at first, but with increasing force, and when at times he had cried out, she had stopped.
‘Feel the sensation,’ she had whispered, ‘not the fear.’
And when the whole surface of his body was aflame, she had repositioned him, attached a strapon and fucked him, pressing hard and deep into him, inflaming sensations he had never felt before, her body pressing close against him. Somewhere in the background of his consciousness he heard a voice, loud but incoherent, an animalistic groaning, and an urgent begging – ‘PLEASE FUCK ME, FUCK ME FUCK ME’, and he had realised it was his own.
It ended in an explosion of shuddering, ejaculatory release, his whole body climaxing in spasms of pleasure and pain and heat erupting from the core of his body. She had held him tightly until it was over.
Then dismissed him.
And now, in this sleepless dawn, the fire that she has lit continues to burn. An underground fire, unquenchable, immune even to relief by masturbation – for he has tried that, to no avail. For it is not a sexual longing, but something more primal and elemental, beyond the reach of his will. The need to submit, to surrender, to be taken and tied, dominated and used, punished and penetrated, to be her toy and her amusement – to let her have absolute control of his body and his being.
He rises and showers. He knows she will still be asleep, but sends a text message anyway, so that she will find it when she awakes.
‘Madame C, I need to see you’.
Later, when she reads it, she smiles. She has been expecting to hear from him.
‘What do you want me to do?’, she replies.
‘Anything you want. Absolutely anything’.
She is pleased.
‘Come now.’
Not an invitation. An instruction. 
By slave L.