[MF] Concubine

I’m property of the man who bought me.  

No, you stupid piece of shit. I’m not a slave. But he is my Master. A Master I adore, now. 

That man made me what I am. That man molded me into the gorgeous woman writing these words.  That man makes sure I eat, exercise, study and sleep. That man puts a roof over my head.  That man dresses me in his finest. 

That man is one I give my body to whenever he wants, however he wants. Even though he is free to take what he possesses. 

He owns me but I’m something more. I’m a concubine, a consort. His favourite plaything among his others. 

Someone he is proud to have on his arm in public when he needs it. Someone he can engage with. 

This isn’t some hapless little girl’s fantasy about being on your knees on a velvet cushion waiting for him to walk through the door.  

No, I live the life I want when he isn’t here. I recline in a silk robe, my own perch he has given me.

The moment he enters, after telling me he is in town so I can prepare, I become a tool to service him. To worship him.

Mornings are often the same routine. 

He returns from the gym before the sun even rises, sweaty and gasping. I’m often jealous I’m not the reason for his short breath.

I strip him, perfunctorily. I pull his tight t-shirt over his head to reveal a sculputed body I adore. He kicks off his shoes and I help him pull off his shorts.

I’m no maid, he has someone else for those menial tasks. I told you, I’m more.

No, I take him into my mouth. His own exercise is rewarded with exercise of my own. I taste the tang of his sweat as he stands, barely in the doorway, holding my head in his hands.

Lifting weights seems to turn him on. Drive his testosterone and adrenaline. Those days, he’s more aggressive. Other times, he lets me set the pace. 

Either way, as my lips descend his shaft and the head of his cock hits the back of my throat, I smell his musk. I grip his toned legs as I gag, being careful not to mark his skin.

With a pavlovian response, my body gets tense and I get wet the same time daily, matching his routine. When he finally releases into the back of my throat after an increasingly loud set of groans, I’m turned on beyond belief and dying to feel him inside me.

But it isn’t about me. No, it’s his needs and pleasure. 

He barely checks my mouth anymore to make sure I swallow down his thick loads. Now, he pads naked into the bathroom.

I set it up each morning the way he likes it. The windows are clear and uncovered, the outside is still dark. He’s bathed in candlelight as he submerges himself into the steaming water of the deep copper bathtub, sitting on a shelf in it.

For a moment, his attention is focused on me. Always at the time I pull apart the robe, the very same silk robe I have on now. 

I expose my full breasts, flat stomach, and tanned skin. I always coyly pull back a stray strande of blonde hair and smile, running my hands down my body.

His gaze is intense when he inspects me. Making sure I’m just the way he wants me. He’s always looking regal, sitting on a seeming copper throne in the water, lording over his subject.

Master.

The imperceptible nod he gives me before he allows me to enter the bathtub is the praise and validation I need, that I crave.

I slink into the water, gasping at the warmth that envelops me.

I feel his gaze, watching me intently, as I soften the sponge and run it, soapy, over his skin. Each crease and groove of muscle, tired and tight, gets my attention. His body relaxes as I massage and clean his arms, chest, back, legs. It’s never hurried. I take measured time to ensure I do a thorough job. I worship him, crouching in the water in front of him, my own wet breasts pressing against him as I work.

I straddle him when it comes time to wash his hair. His eyes finally close as his head tilts back, my fingers massaging his scalp. That is often the first audible sigh I get out of him. 

The attention, the intimacy, in the flickering candlelight is incredible. His body glistens with soap and water, as does mine.

His broad shoulders, dark skin and curly black hair are the polar opposite to mine. He’s exotic, silent and intense.

When I feel him grow hard between my legs as I lather shaving cream on his face, I feel pride. Knowing that even though he bought me, I can elicit this reaction in him.

I grind against him softly and he allows it, his cock pressing between my labia and against my clit.

I have to take care. At this point, the single bladed straight razor is at his throat. It slowly scrapes along his skin and I often bite my lip; I can hear it shearing his stubble away.

He doesn’t move, not because he doesn’t trust me but precisely because he does. I was scared the first the time I ran it over his arteries. It’s been a long time since I’ve cut him with it. The rush never gets old for me.

His cheeks and lips are not the only things I focus on. When they are smooth, I pull the plug on the bathtub, draining the cooling water away.

As we are exposed, I brush my hardening nipples down his fragrant body as I kiss down his chest. I’m not done with the razor. I sculpt around his hardened shaft, delicate and diligent.

His bath isn’t finished. My favourite part finally arrives. After teasing myself by preparing him, I finally get to have him.

I turn, facing away from him, and rest my hands on his knees as I lower myself on to his hard cock. By that point, I’m needy beyond belief.

He slides in to the hilt, spreading my walls. I want to gasp but I know better. He might want me as a plaything, but he wants me silent.

I grind against him in a way he loves, pulling his cock back and feeling it swell inside me.

I know when his pleasure builds because his hands wrap around my slim waist, rising up to cup my breasts and pull my nipples. 

By the time he’s done exploring my body, I’m ready. I often lean back in to him, into his embrace as I grind on his shaft.

He has to know when I need release. Every day he feeds me a finger of his as I cum silently on his thick cock. 

I don’t stop, I can’t. I’m his toy, my pleasure is incidental. I’m blessed to cum. He allows it, he’s not a sadist in denying me.

His pulls on my necklace when he is ready to finish for the second time that morning. Yes it’s a necklace. I told you this isn’t the fantasy of a young girl with a choker. 

He stands in the tub, water beading and dripping off him, as a glorious toned and groomed god. And I, at his feet, willingly swallow him down again, his concubine. The sun often rises by then, bathing us in a morning glow.

We step out and I towel him dry before dressing him in a soft, thick, robe. 

I’m allowed a respite as he attends to himself, dressing in a robe of my own.

I wait for him in his dressing room, picking out his suit for the day. One of my favourite ways to leave my mark on him is to dress him. He has never denied my choice.

He stands in front of me, a different kind of musk from his cologne this time, as I pull the cotton and wool over his frame, buttoning his shirt for him. His eyes meet mine throughout in a way that makes me squirm.

His kiss on my forehead, and a whispered, “Good” is his praise  and he finally departs. And that’s more than enough for me, for the morning. 

Night brings something else, something I eagerly look forward to.

I told you, I’m not a slave. I’m more.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/96imn7/mf_concubine