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The Dinner Service
This is a bit complicated, because it was written by two people, in stages and as responses to the others input, so you need to read it carefully.

"I received your orders for dinner, Sir. Formal setting, dinner for one, Madame away. Service at seven. Mahler's Ninth and I am to stand service for the evening. I also received my new uniform this morning. The alterations you have had made to it are quite uncomfortable and very embarrassing for me, as I have told you in the past to no avail. And the directive concerning the application of lipstick is humiliating at the least. I know you will come to the kitchen to see if I have followed instructions but I beg you, please do not ask me to do it. I fear it will inflame an already difficult situation for me here with you. I have nowhere else to go and you know I need my job right now. My fiancé would ask me to return his ring if he thought I was not a virgin. I am so inexperienced that your advances have frightened me.

Please do not force the situation this evening.



And so I prepared at home, dinner cooked and ready to serve (of course I'm not cooking it myself---it has to be edible) except for some deliberate omissions on the hors'oeurve tray so that I would have some kitchen work before I could serve for you to "discover." The house darkly flickering with candles, shadows everywhere, Mahler rumbling through the room and the sharp, pungent smell of furniture polish everywhere.

I feel you before I actually hear you coming into the kitchen. This particular "Master" perfectly in place for our game. Arrogant, perhaps cruel, elitist and convinced he is entitled to whatever he wishes. The air of menace, mystery and power crackling in the air around you and I feel my cunt slick up at the prospect. I am cutting up a a last carrot or two for the vegetable tray, my back to the doorway as you enter and stand a few feet away, watching me. It comes so naturally, my fear and desperation balanced on Occams's Razor, cunt wet and nipples standing, dreading your eyes on my new "outfit."

"Turn around, Rebecca, I want to check your lipstick before you begin." My hands tremble and I choke back a dry sob.

"Please, Sir, I..."

"Turn around." Evenly, in a voice that brooks no refusal.

And I turn. That muscle twitches in your jaw at the photo made flesh. But the differences are enough to quicken your cock a little in your trousers. All as in the picture except for the fact that I have shortened the skirt and stiff slip. It is more like a tu-tu, the hems high enough that my ass and pussy are easy to see now, a gap between my stocking tops and the skirt and slip, tanned flesh flashing slightly as I turn. And my nipples are not just a shadow under the neckline. The demi-bra has presented them, the rosy tips peeking a little, noticeably hard, breasts plumped together. But I can see it in your face. The wet, red lipstick, shiny and rich on my mouth, echoed in the layer of paint over my nipples, aureoles and surprisingly...my swelling cunt, the flashes of colour bizarre. I drop my chin and attempt to turn away, cheeks burning, biting my lower lip.

You are across the few feet between us in seconds and I feel your iron grip on my jaw, forcing me to meet your eyes, letting you read what your miserable, humiliated, aroused virgin feels there, a grip so hard it'll leave marks on me for a while as I serve. "Cross your wrists behind your back, cunt," the word making me flinch and sob a little.

"Please, Sir..."

The force of your hand on my face forces me to the counter, sliding around my neck and lays me back flat in one massive movement, you sliding me so hard that you're pinning me to the stone of the surface like a butterfly on a board. And totally exposing my lipsticked cunt. Desperate to hide my pussy I attempt to close my legs and struggle. Still holding my throat you freeze me with a look so dark it paralyses my will to resist, the cobra and the mouse, and I lie there, heaving as you run your hands over my body possessively and roughly, testing and kneading but not before you thrust three fingers in my sopping cunt and, holding my eyes, slap me back and forth across the face, feeling my convulsions of shame and confusion. It wrenches sobs and gasps out of me and my back arches, legs reflexively opening...cheeks fiery red, eyes filling.

Watching the shock waves ripple through me, you suddenly back away.

"Compose yourself and reapply the lipstick to your pussy. And start the dinner service.

*   *   *

I watch you, nervously tugging at the uniform, trying to cover what dignity you have left - what dignity I have left you - as you move around the table, almost desperately trying to keep just out of my reach.

"I'm toying with you my little slut. If I wanted to, I'd touch you, don't think for one moment I wouldn't. I'd take you, as my right as your employer, your keeper, your MASTER. Do you understand me?"

The faintest of confirmations escapes your lips.

You look away, blushing. Unwittingly, your very nervousness making my cock hard at the merest thought of deflowering you. I chose to torment you some more.

"Well?" I ask. "Am I perhaps wrong? Perhaps the fact that I house, feed, clothe and pay you is not enough? Perhaps you think that a penniless guttersnipe such as yourself has the right to deny her Master anything?"

Silence. You are shaking, confused, frightened. As I knew you would be.

"Now do the pitiful job I pay you to do girl, NOW!"

You visibly jump, and for a moment I think I see the slightest stream of urine slip from between your stockinged thighs. Nervously balancing on the heels, scared enough to think of running, but sensible enough to know otherwise, you disappear for a moment, presently returning with the first of the courses I'd ordered.

As you serve the entrée, I take your note out of my waistcoat pocket and read part of it aloud.

"I fear it will inflame an already difficult situation for me here with you. I have nowhere else to go and you know I need my job right now. My fiancé would ask me to return his ring if he thought I was not a virgin. I am so inexperienced that your advances have frightened me.

Please do not force the situation this evening."

You blush, a compliant shade of red.

"Please Sir, don't…."

"Huh, fiancé indeed. He doesn't deserve such a fine virgin cunt as yours. Nor will he ever have the satisfaction. After tonight, I'll send him the whore he deserves. I'll take you, Rebecca, I'll fuck you and use you like the downstairs toy you are. Empty my balls into every hole in you and then discard you into the hands of that worthless worm of a fiancé.

If he'll still have you..."

I can see the first tear form in your eye.

"And as for 'difficult situation?' What difficult situation? You were hired as a servant, you will be MY servant. Or you'll never work again. You think anyone will employ a slut like you by the time I've finished telling them about you? They won't even employ you as a whore. There are unwritten 'rules' my dear, and if you break them, you'll end up in the gutter where you belong. Do I make myself clear?"

You nod nervously, teetering between complete collapse and defiance. I laugh again. Don't you realise that it's that fire of defiance that makes you so tempting? That, above all, above your delicious thighs, your gorgeous tits, your slick cunt and sweet innocent face. Above all else, your defiance has doomed you to be mine?

The voyeur in me tolerates the entrée. It is adequate, but hardly what I'd arranged the evening around. But I enjoy the view as I watch you pace around the room (I've given you strict instructions that you must not leave the room unless I instruct you to.). The way you try to hide your cheeks as you walk, the way your cunt peeks out from below the hem and you nervously brush your dress down to try and hide it away again.

But most of all, I enjoy the way your nipples betray you.

Soon, it is time for the main course.

You serve the roast chicken and lean over slightly too far. As the sauce boat hovers over the plate, you look at me and ask if I'd care for some.

I make my move. It is not delicate, as befitting the lady of the house. It is brutal. It is hard. It is what you deserve. My hand wraps itself around your left breast, yanking it free from its flimsy bra.

"No lass, I'll have some of this."

You resist. Trying to draw yourself from me. But you'd have more luck trying to separate your breast from your body, my fingers dig so deep into the soft, giving flesh.

"Please, Sir," you wail.

I stand, kicking the chair back as I rise. Twisting your breast, I lead you with it like some leash, twisting and turning you until your back is towards the table. Then, pushing instead of twisting, I lay you harshly onto the table.

The plate of food bites into your back, the soft chicken, potatoes, and whatever accessories you had prepared (How was I supposed to have taken any notice of such trivialities?) mashed into your back.

You open your mouth, about to plead for mercy, but I scoop up a handful of the mush that oozed out from your back and slam it hard into the open orifice.

"Be quiet, you worthless cunt," I order you, slapping you hard across the face. "If I hear one more word from you, I'll throw you out into the street as you are."

As I watch you, lying on the table, a mouthful of some indistinguishable mush seeping from your face and a tear running from the corner of your eye, I decide that your cunt can wait a few moments longer before having the honour of my cock as your first.

I reach for the gravy boat. Still hot. Steam rising from the brown liquid. Not boiling. Not enough to burn - much. Certainly not enough to scar. Not enough so that your worthless fiancé would notice when he eventually got sloppy seconds.

I pull your blouse further down, exposing both your breasts, proud, firm, with their erect nipples straining.

I look into your scared eyes, watching the tears roll freely now.

But your pupils are dilated, your breathing fast but not laboured. And those nipples are betraying you still.

"I always have gravy with my breasts," I say.

I fix your eyes, unblinking, rooted to mine, as the first stream of gravy splashes onto you.

*   *   *

On my back on the heavy oak table in the remnants of my dinner (literary license and all). The skin-tight uniform threatening to give as I fight for control. Control of the sobs, control of the food I can do nothing but swallow as I cry, control of my breasts, now swelling and flushed as I fight to hold still when all I want to do is fight and run, control to keep my legs together and hide my pussy, wet with the stink of urine and...something else. Looking down the length of my body, the table dressing gouging my back and legs forgotten, all I can see are the hard tips of my traitorous breasts heaving from side to side on my ribcage, belying my outrage and fear, a feeling I have no understanding of and that I fear more than the heat of the gravy.

But even more than that fear is what I see in your eyes for me. You will have what you want of me. Inevitable, unswerving, unstoppable. And it makes me want to open my legs and arch my back and smear the colour on my nipples, wild to scratch the molten itch in my..."cunt" I didn't even realise I was saying it aloud..."my cunt" another whisper...hopefully unintelligible, lost in the gale-force of your will on my body...it brings the tears dripping out of my eyes and running down the side of my face. And I fear my...cunt...must be crying also, the tears searing my pussy pressed between my legs and dripping a little, running down my ass cheeks and mixing with the mess below me.

But I can't look away from your eyes even for the steaming rivulet that is splattering onto my tits, travelling across both breasts, sticking to cook my skin with it's heat and slow-dripping over my chest. The pain is immense, driving thoughts of fear, arousal, my fiancé, your face, everything from me in harsh cries. And I buck and heave, trying to twist away, crying for mercy, trying to reach it with my hands but you are on me like the lion on the gazelle, pinning my arms above my head and spreading my legs with no effort at all, something hard and unyielding felt but not anything I knew against my thigh. Too close to my now-open pussy, the burst of feeling driving the pain from my tits, the nipples hotter than the sauce as I feel them brushed by your evening clothes. I want my hands free to...touch myself...to...

Spreading my arms high and wide you growl the order to be still and I freeze, tits hurting and pussy puckering and exposed. You guide my hands to the heavy silver candlesticks, massive and almost too broad for me to grip, the candles thick and creamy, running and melting with the wind and movement in the room. As I grip the first one the softened wax pooled on the silver is still hot enough to burn a little but nothing compared to the running wax, worse than the gravy, immediately encasing my hand.

"Hold them, cunt" the word filthy and heavy with condemnation for me. "Didn't you think I heard you call out your true name? Cunt. Your Master's Cunt now. Hold the candles as if they were your lifeline..." And I realise that if I am still, the wax runs more slowly, burns me less. But shaking and horrified, the flames dance and anoint my hands anew. Hobson's choice.

The agony trying to keep my arms anchored pales as you pour another layer on my flaming chest, the bursting nipples seared again, the pain making my pussy twitch and gurgle and my thigh muscles strain against yours. But this time the brush of the fabric stretched over the hard mass inches from my tortured pussy and I howl through my tears, the sobbing ending in an unfamiliar grunt that makes me want the pain in my nipples again. Baring my throat to you, my belly already under yours, I feel my resolve to fight for my honour, for my future, for my virtue slipping away. I beg and plead for you to...to..."No, No, Sir, Please don't... stop, please... don't... stop... please..." and your answer is to bring the gravy bowl, it's serving lip to...mine...the cold porcelain rigidly forcing my spread pussy open and the heavy stream flowing into and over my cunt, scalding me and my cries become screams as I fight the wave of pain and arousal, feeling the wax spilling and splattering on my hands, specks landing like sparks on my tits. And I feel something in my pussy harden up and...rise...like my mother had told me a man's "mastery" rises when it calls (she had her Master also, in her time). When you feel it rampant against your legs, your spread "cunt."

Tossing the expensive china away to shatter forgotten on the hearth your eyes, still holding me, even in my screams, you tear open my dress, my tits lolling as you slap them side to side before tearing your trousers open. My burning tits, the sopping itch in my pussy, the fear of you, all pool into the sight of the first man's "mastery" I've ever seen. Angry, red, impossible large, throbbing and veined it plunged out of my sight, into my pussy, splitting me open, the burning gone in an instant, replaced by my tight privates violated and speared by you. The thrusting is deep and hard, each stroke a sob through clenched teeth, the pain even worse than the wax or the gravy. Or the humiliation of you slapping my face with a finger in my "cunt." Now it had meaning to me. My cunt. Your cunt. The tortured hole too small for you, the knowledge that my insides are being pulped by you as you spread my legs, hands on my breasts, working sore, hardened nipples...the feeling of your teeth on my tits making me want to fight you but the oddity of the feeling keeping me there, under you.

Until the pain reaches a crescendo and I begin to fall deep into a horrible swoon until...the deepest thrust yet...breaks something in me. Indescribable, rent forever. I feel the tearing, ripping feeling of tissue torn away and even with all the still-hot gravy in and on my pussy I can still feel the bloody issue riding in and out of my bruised cunt on your organ and dribbling between my legs. My little "mastery" slick and hard too, each stroke flooding me with new feelings. And it drives everything else away but that feeling and I grip you with my pussy and arch under your thrusts, the ball of fire exploding in my belly making me grunt like the whores I've heard in the alleys. And with each grunt you bury yourself deeper inside me.

Crying, unable to form a coherent thought, the rippling spasms from my cunt only becoming more intense as you start to shudder. I can feel something building in you, something I want now, but your muscles go rigid with the strain of...holding back and a wild moan spills out of you as you jerk me up by the hair, crushing my body to yours and buying your mouth on mine, the taste of the food smeared on me, the heavy lipstick, but most of all, the taste of you. The taste of what I now knew was the only true kiss I'd ever been given, everything else pale and scholarly beside it. And it made me wild to get closer and deeper into you and my tongue thrusting, gagging and hard. Sucking and releasing, soft and hard, teeth drawing a little blood, the hot metallic taste only driving the moment harder. The only kiss I'd every given to another as your "cock" (it had meaning for me now, also) throbbed in my pussy.

And as you tear your mouth off of mine you jerk your cock out of me as you slap me hard across the face, true rage in your eyes now. Jaw clenching, muscles and veins standing as you see my face, marked with the print, tits heaving and confused...lost innocence warring with abandonment. Hurting, humiliated and aroused.

"Get on your hands and knees, slut." The eyes cruel, cock still raging.

"But...Sir...please. I thought it was what you wanted...I want---" cut off by another slap, the other hand fisting my hair close to my neck, jerking my head back and forcing my tits out. The tears sliding down my already ravaged cheeks again as I try to understand. You grab one diamond-hard nipple and deliberately twist it hard and slow, wringing anguished cries again, fuelling your cock at my belly...Holding me like this, eyes on mine..."Get-on-your-hands-and-knees (the nipple so crushed on this word that my legs turn to jelly), Rebecca." And you release me, the sudden absence of support dropping me to the table. What I see in your eyes makes me scrabble to my hands and knees in front of you and freeze. Trembling and fighting the muscle spasms, trying to control the sobs that threaten to dissolve me in front of you I look up and see myself in your eyes. Disheveled, my cap gone, hair a mess, face marked with your handprints, tits dangling, the slightly raised marks of your teeth purpling up a little. The uniform hanging open. My stockings a mess but still gartered. The black skirt and impossible starched slip wilted a little, the edges in front and back bloodied and slimed with our juices, the inside of my thighs as red and swollen as my pussy lips, muscles jumping. And the most humiliating thing of all. My cunt, dripping and drooling as blood and cum drip down my legs and pool between my legs as your gaze sweeps me, leaving me no secrets, no dignity. Your whore, spread and used on the remnants of your dinner table.

You walk around me. And you spread my legs farther, slapping my ass and belly, fingers in me, smearing all over me, tits and nipples until you reach my face. "Grovel like my whore should and beg me to let you lick my fingers clean, cunt..."

Still aroused but repulsed at the prospect of tasting the mess on your fingers I drop my head, trying to shrink inside myself but you circle my throat and force my head up. "Beg me, whore..." another twist of my nipple with slippery fingers, holding it until you coerced the scream.

Strangled and hoarse. "Please, Sir, Master-Sir, please. Let me...suckle your fingers like the slut I am, Sir..." And you plunge them in deep, forcing me to gag a little, swabbing my mouth with the taste. Horrible, nauseating, compelling and my instincts surface and I...suckle them, learning the taste, feeling my...'your' cunt twitch and nipples harden. And as I suck on your fingers I see it rise in you again. You jerk out of my mouth and mount the table. One hand spanking my ass cheeks with hard and stinging blows then fingers in my pussy, making me grunt and spread, thinking you're going to enter me again until I feel your coarse inspection of my tender anus. Swabbing it now, with my messy cunt, finger beginning to probe my puckering hole and I realise you're going to put your cock in my ass. Fear takes me over and I try to bolt forward, crockery and silver skittering out of my way but you're on me hard and fast, one hand around my waist the other around my throat, choking the breath out of me, forcing me to the table on my tits, the burnt flesh and tender nipples scrapping the rough table but the sensation lost in my fight to breathe under your grip.

Just as I'm about to lose consciousness you release me a little and I sag into you, gasping and gulping. Your hand securely in my hair your hand slides off my throat, down my front, working my tits and nipples, feeling the tears dripping onto them as you claim me again, down my belly and fingers curling into my battered pussy, crushing me under your hand as you thrust deep into my ass, the violation much more painful than my cunt, tissue splitting and the sensation of you filling me completely, trapping me between hand and cock is complete.

And as you start to fuck me the pain of my nipples hardening under the burned, reddened flesh extreme but nothing compared to the feeling of your cock in me behind. Your grip on my pussy is stroking my pleasure centre there but it isn't enough and my sobs are timed with your thrusts until I feel you building again and the pain begins to spread and change, twisting me low in the belly, setting me on fire, my pussy spasming on your hand as I now know I'm cumming and I lose the last shreds of my fear as I wildly, inexpertly, crudely try to get down on my hands and knees. I mewl and grunt as I thrust into you. No thoughts of another life possible. My world telescoped to your fuck of me. My tits are swinging as I try to grind them on the table as I fuck you back, sopping wet and out of control. On the remnants of your dinner. On your table. On your cock...

*   *   *

And I watch you bucking like a cheap whore, forcing your ass onto my cock with the abandon I knew would be released in you. Your hands slithering on the mess of the table, fighting to keep balance so your primal nature can rut against my energy.

Freeing your cunt, I lift the candlestick, lifting it slowly and softy over your back. Watching the tapestry of light it paints on your back.

Then I run a long, easy rivulet of wax down your back.

You squeal, the pain curving your back, your head flying back as you draw a tortured breath and your eyes search skywards for - for what? Salvation? Protection? More wax?

But still your ass rides onto my cock, driving back onto me with every thrust.

The trail of the wax finds your coccyx, the last remnant of the tailed ape. I feel your cunt grip my cock desperately, like a locked vixen, grabbing with your internal muscles, seeking something so unspoken as to have been lost in time.

As I watch you writhe below me, squirming like the guttersnipe you are, I feel the coming explosion within my balls. Rising, warming my balls, tightening my local muscles, ready to expulse the seed from me. And then I feel it, as you must. That heat. That burning pain of the wax. Over your reddened, fucked, used ass and over my hardened cock. As it solidifies and makes rutting you more difficult, I feel the cum explode from me. Rifling you, pulling you harder and deeper onto my cock, I feel you tense then relax, fight then surrender against me and the pain.

"Be still whore," I command. "Let the wax do it's job."

As the last convulsive spasm flashes through me, I withdraw, quickly covering your ass with the hot, liquid wax. You are squirming, face down into the mush from the dinner, fingers clawing at the table. My free hand pushes up at your cunt, lifting you up higher so that the drops of wax can more easily hit their mark.

By the time I am finished sealing you, you are reduced to a low whimper, chest rising in time with your sobs.

"There, slut," I announce. "Plugged, as a good whore should be between tasks." I slap your ass cheeks hard, shattering some of the thinner layering of wax that dots your body and push you away. "Now, you will sleep on the table tonight, to remind you of your place of service in this house. You can eat what you find on the table, and you will not clean yourself till you rise at 6. I want you to remember the smell of a man on you. Oh, and you will not remove the plugs until I give you permission."

And with that, I get off the table, walk slowly towards the door, and close it behind me without a backwards glance.