The Final Story: Meeting Toppy

It must seem strange to you to hear at this point that I’ve never met Toppy in person nor have I actually seen him. When we skype, I’m the only one who shows their face or other body parts upon demand. I’ve heard his voice; it’s low, older sounding. I have a picture in  my head of a man who is in his late forties, early fifties, with a touch of silver in a full head of hair. A business man who wears suits. I guess I don’t have a particularly great imagination, that’s pretty much what all subs imagine when they think of being mastered. But that’s what I imagine when I get his texts and when I fuck myself.

He’s never offered to come to town to meet me nor has he suggested that I come there. So it comes as a surprise when he tells me he’s finally coming to my city. He’ll be here for a few days on business. I’m to be ready. He texts me the name of his hotel. I’m to wear nothing but the yellow collar he gave me and a trench coat on top, thigh-high, lace-up boots. I am to procure handcuffs, and nipple clamps for which he will reimburse me later. He will use his belt on me. No need for a flogger or other instrument of corporal punishment. My cunt is wet at the mere thought of finally meeting this man, who I have grown to think of as my master, my Master. Even though we’ve never used those words.

It’s early spring here. The crocuses and daffodils are just starting to poke their way out of the ground. The angle of the light has changed from white to a soft yellow. I leave the curtains open when I lie on my bed on my stomach and hump myself against the pillows while thinking of Toppy striping my ass red with his belt. A thick leather belt with a buckle that will give me welts. That will mark me as his.

Yes, he lets others use me, but only on his command and only of his choice. I’ve had to service men of all types from businessmen and artists to construction workers and bus drivers to lonely eccentrics who never wash.  

Christ, I have such a yearning for Toppy to take me, to use me in every degrading way he can think of. In front of those disgusting men or in private. I don’t give a fuck. It’s three days until he arrives. I count the hours. I fuck myself constantly. He hasn’t told me not to. But he hasn’t sent me to anyone else either.

I wonder if once he comes, he’ll take me back with him and make me his permanent slave. I wonder if he has other slaves. If this is something he does with other women.

On the day I’m to meet him, my hands are shaking when I put on the collar. It takes me ages to lace up my boots and button up the trench coat. It’s raining a hard rain when I leave my apartment. The last of the snow is drowned by puddles of cold rain. Everything is wet. The sidewalk glistens with rain. I feel alive, excited and nervous as shit. I forget my umbrella so my hair is drenched.

I arrive at the hotel, which isn’t far from my place, which I realize is probably on purpose. I get dirty looks from the concierge and other people in the elevator. Or maybe that is my imagination. My tits are stiff against the trench coat and poking out. My legs tremble and I can smell the stench of my arousal. I can see myself in the elevator mirror. My mascara is running and my hair is plastered to my head. I look bedraggled. I feel unworthy. I think of backing out, of leaving and returning home. I know that if I do, I’ll never have any contact with Toppy again and I can’t bear that. So when the elevator door opens at the fifteenth floor, I get off, follow the room numbers in order to Room 999. I take a deep breath and I knock.

My heart is pounding heavily in my chest. I can hear it. Despite the cold, I can feel sweat dripping down my spine to my lower back. My stomach clenches with anxiety. It feels like an eternity and then the door opens.

He is just as I imagined. I smile. He nods but his grey eyes look over me without expression. He seems cold. Of course that is a turn on too.

He tells me to go to the bathroom and fix myself up. I feel disappointed and ill at ease, but I do as he commands. I reapply my makeup and dry my hair with the towel.

When I return he takes my coat. We are in the living room of a suite.  I stand naked. He takes out a blindfold and covers my eyes. He tells me to stop fidgeting and to remain still, then I hear him walking away, a kind of shuffle on the smooth white carpet.

I listen to the sound of my own breathing. It is heavy. I try not to move, but I shift from foot to foot, a habit I have when I am nervous. I wipe a bead of sweat from my upper lip. I tremble from head to foot. Can’t seem to stop shaking.

After what seems like an eternity, a door further back into the suite opens. I hear the sound of footsteps walking down a hallway. I’m not sure how many people are walking down the hall but it feels like more than one.

Then I feel a touch of a hand, it isn’t rough, but soft, over my eyebrows. Is this Toppy’s hand? It can’t be. I’m nervous now. Confused. The hand brushes against my still hard nipples. I smell the scent of jasmine. That’s when I hear her voice, a woman.

“Hello, B,” says the voice with an accent I don’t recognize, possibly Dutch.

She removes my blindfold. Toppy stands beside a woman. I blush. I don’t know what to make of this situation.

“You might say that Toppy is my manager,” she tells me, while Toppy takes a seat on the couch. “Or perhaps a better term would be my finder.”

“Who are you?” I ask, but with a nervous stutter.

“Forgive my rudeness, B. Let’s sit down.”

She sits on a loveseat across from Toppy on the couch and pats the cushion beside her.

I feel like a pet who must learn to obey its owner. And I’m not sure how I feel about it. I look to Toppy for guidance, but he just stares gives me a quiet stare, revealing nothing.

“My name is Angele. But if we proceed, I would like you to address me as Madame A. Is that clear?”

I take a moment. She has long platinum blonde hair, is a few inches taller than me. She is wearing a black pencil skirt and a grey satin blouse that reveal a generous cleavage.  I nod.

“This is an audition, you might say. A chance to show me whether or not you can serve me as well as you’ve been serving all those men at Toppy’s command or rather on mine. Toppy has been doing what I have asked him to do. He’s been getting you prepared for me.

“Why didn’t he ask me to be with women, then?” I blurt out.

“When I want you to speak, I will ask you to, B. But you don’t fully know the rules yet, so I’ll indulge you this once. I didn’t want you to be with other women, but I didn’t care which men you were with. I will be the only woman who is allowed to use you. If we continue. But for now, you can either put your coat back on and walk out the door or we can see if you’re a good little slave for me. If you have what it takes. What do you say? Shall I have Toppy use his belt on you or do you want to leave?”

I look over at Toppy who is standing, and already unbuckling the thick leather belt at his waist. Confident asshole. But he’s right. I want to see where this will take me. I look at Madame Angele’s chest and imagine those huge tits beneath the blouse. I want to worship them.

“I’ll stay,” I say in a quiet voice.

“Bend over the ottoman,” Toppy tells me. “And be silent.”

I bend and feel the rough material of the ottoman against my breasts.  I spread my legs as Toppy commands. I feel Madame Angele’s hand on my ass, caressing softly. She tells Toppy to begin. She counts each strike of the belt against my ass. I cry out when he gets to ten. She tells me I will have to be punished for my outcry. She makes Toppy start again. He belts my ass. I hear her count in the background but I feel myself floating out of my body. My cunt gushes. Then all is still.

Toppy tells me to turn over. Madame Angele has her hand beneath her blouse, squeezing her nipples. I can see the bulge of Toppy’s erection. To my bemusement, Madame Angele walks away.

Time is moving slowly. I feel like I’m watching a movie instead of going through the experience. Toppy slaps my face. The pain and shock bring me back to Earth.

Toppy orders me to crawl down the hallway. My ass smarts from the welts forming on my ass as I crawl slowly down the hallway to the bedroom where Madame Angele waits.

She is naked, lying with her legs spread on the bed. I let my eyes linger on her golden hair, her beautiful breasts, the curve of her stomach, and the light covering of blonde hair on her cunt.

Toppy walks in behind me and orders me to show her my adulation. To lick her cunt. I pause. I’ve never done anything remotely like this before, never touched a woman sexually, haven’t even thought about it. Toppy stands behind me and grabs me around the throat.

“Do you want this or don’t you, bitch?”

My body responds to the his voice as it always does. He knows I’ll do anything he says. And he also knows that I want to.

I crawl over to the bed, lift up until I am on my knees between her legs.

“Get busy,” Toppy orders.

I lean down. I don’t know what to do. I panic for a moment. Then I think about how it feels when I am licked, what is the right thing to do. I put my tongue against her clit and lick downward into her cunt, then I add a finger to her clit and stroke lightly, as light as a feather, while I lick inside her cunt and along the lips. All around. She writhes against my face and moans as I press my lips against her cunt while my finger runs up and down her swollen clit, in tiny movements.

With my other hand, I place a finger inside her cunt and lick her inner lips as I gently thrust the finger and curl it upward until she takes a sharp intake of breath and her cunt begins to gush. I lap it all up while I continue to caress her clit, as gently as possible. No flicking, no sucking, just the slow, gentle and persistent rhythm of my finger moving against her, not stopping.

My neck is sore but I am on my knees and am used to servicing men for ages. I find satisfaction in giving her what she needs. She comes hard against my lips, against my fingers, all over my face.

She motions me to come up to her and she wraps her arms around me, brings my head down. She slides her tongue inside and tastes herself on me. We kiss deeply. She tells me she wants my mouth on her breasts. I lick at each one, gently squeezing the nipple as I circle the aureole with my tongue. I am so wet now myself I feel my juices sliding down my thighs.

Madame Angele laughs and tells Toppy it’s his turn. She moves over on the bed and Toppy tells me to get on my hands and knees. He wraps his hand around my throat as he enters my ass. For the first time I can feel his cock against me, inside me. I relax and take its thickness as deep as he can go.

Madame Angele slides beneath me and licks up my cunt juices as I hump against her face.

And this is how the saga ends, dear reader. Does B become Madame Angele’s slave? Does she take her to California? Does she leave her in her home city to obey men at Toppy’s command? I’ll leave it to your imagination.

Thank you for reading. I hope these stories have inspired a multitude of good fucks. I share these pervy tales as a reminder that a lot of people have dark fantasies and that these fantasies are not only ok, they are wonderful. The imagination is a chance to explore one’s unspoken taboos. The kind of thing you can’t think about out loud or tell anyone about because you are too ashamed to do so. I shared these stories because I think we are living in an era of puritanism that rivals the Mayflower days. And because I don’t believe in censorship of artistic expression.  So here I share stories about a character who eats shit and drinks piss and does whatever she’s told and loves every fucking minute of it.

What do you think about in your deepest, most secret fantasies? I celebrate those fantasies and encourage your perverted imagination.