society,' after all," she said, her
eyes glittering green in the mirror as she carefully outlined
them. I was drinking coffee and eating toast in bed.
"Want a slice?" I asked. "You'll need energy, to fight the
good fight for all us parasites who'll be staying in bed today"
"They serve bacon and eggs," she said, "and strong tea in
glasses. Very good schnapps, too. Anyway, I argue better when
I'm hungry. I'll eat after I win." I watched her pull on some
intricate new underwear, pour herself into one of her little
power suits, zip up formidable high boots. A reverse striptease: She began to look tall-amazing that she can pull off
that illusion-and I felt myself getting hard again. She glanced
at me and smiled.
"I'll send somebody for early afternoon," she murmured,
tossing a fur-lined raincoat over her shoulders and shutting
the door behind her.
I didn't ask whom she'd send over. She was traveling
with an entourage-her three personal slaves and a trainer
to attend to them, for those times when she was attending
meetings, or coping with me. Fine with me, whichever one
she chose. Surprise me, I thought. They were all pretty spectacular.
It was the boy, Randy. Good choice, I thought, as dusk
gathered, late that day. He'd been very accommodating, all in
all, though there had been a point, midafternoon, where he'd
needed a spanking with my slipper. Right now he was kneeling at my feet, energetically polishing my shoes, his bare
hands buffed shiny black as he rubbed the cakey polish into
the leather. He used his tongue from time to time, too, neatly,
like a cat. He was very decorative, curved over my feet like
that. And it was a lot better shine than I would have gotten in
the hotel lobby.
I was sitting in the armchair, across from the full-length
mirror, so that I could also see his butt. Nice. But he was
finishing up now, I realized, because he was getting a little
hypnotized by his reflection in the toes of my shoes.
"Hey," I said, smacking him lightly on the shoulder,
"kneel up, Narcissus. You're done."
I wouldn't discipline him for it. He'd put in a good
afternoon, amusing me and keeping boredom at bay, and if
he liked to look at himself once in a while-well, he really
was awfully pretty. He raised his head, big amber eyes veiled
under long black lashes, shy smile on his face.
"Let me see your hands," I said. Mmmm, a few little
blisters on the fleshy part of the palm, under the black shoe
polish.
"How will you clean them?" I asked.
"Steve's got some kind of solvent, Jonathan," he said.
Steve was Kate's lead trainer. "It works very well, but it kind
of hurts the blisters."
I bent and kissed him. "Yeah, but you need clean hands,
after all."
"Oh, yes, Jonathan," he agreed.
Narcissus. Kate's boy slaves always looked a little like
I had, in my late teens. I wondered if Randy knew that.
Probably not-probably he wouldn't be able to discern a trace
of resemblance between his perfect little self and a guy in his
late thirties. Which gave it a touch of elegant melancholy, for
me. It's a long rainy afternoon play with your pretty former
self, sweetheart. Your unconscious former self. Although of
course I'd never been anywhere near as unconscious as he
seemed to be. And certainly not as eager to please.
I looked down at him, kneeling easily at attention.
Polishing my shoes had aroused him-his cock was stiffening under my gaze. I lifted it with my foot, rubbing my instep
against the bottom side, nudging the base of his balls with
a shiny polished toe. His face remained impassive, but his
breathing became just a little ragged.
I stroked his cheekbone, and then the graceful sweep of
his eyelid-lightly, with one of my fingers-while I continued to probe him, below, with the toe of my shoe.
"You've been a good boy today," I said softly, "even with
your one little lapse. But now it looks like you're in some danger of blowing the whole thing, doesn't it? I mean, it would be
pretty
eyes glittering green in the mirror as she carefully outlined
them. I was drinking coffee and eating toast in bed.
"Want a slice?" I asked. "You'll need energy, to fight the
good fight for all us parasites who'll be staying in bed today"
"They serve bacon and eggs," she said, "and strong tea in
glasses. Very good schnapps, too. Anyway, I argue better when
I'm hungry. I'll eat after I win." I watched her pull on some
intricate new underwear, pour herself into one of her little
power suits, zip up formidable high boots. A reverse striptease: She began to look tall-amazing that she can pull off
that illusion-and I felt myself getting hard again. She glanced
at me and smiled.
"I'll send somebody for early afternoon," she murmured,
tossing a fur-lined raincoat over her shoulders and shutting
the door behind her.
I didn't ask whom she'd send over. She was traveling
with an entourage-her three personal slaves and a trainer
to attend to them, for those times when she was attending
meetings, or coping with me. Fine with me, whichever one
she chose. Surprise me, I thought. They were all pretty spectacular.
It was the boy, Randy. Good choice, I thought, as dusk
gathered, late that day. He'd been very accommodating, all in
all, though there had been a point, midafternoon, where he'd
needed a spanking with my slipper. Right now he was kneeling at my feet, energetically polishing my shoes, his bare
hands buffed shiny black as he rubbed the cakey polish into
the leather. He used his tongue from time to time, too, neatly,
like a cat. He was very decorative, curved over my feet like
that. And it was a lot better shine than I would have gotten in
the hotel lobby.
I was sitting in the armchair, across from the full-length
mirror, so that I could also see his butt. Nice. But he was
finishing up now, I realized, because he was getting a little
hypnotized by his reflection in the toes of my shoes.
"Hey," I said, smacking him lightly on the shoulder,
"kneel up, Narcissus. You're done."
I wouldn't discipline him for it. He'd put in a good
afternoon, amusing me and keeping boredom at bay, and if
he liked to look at himself once in a while-well, he really
was awfully pretty. He raised his head, big amber eyes veiled
under long black lashes, shy smile on his face.
"Let me see your hands," I said. Mmmm, a few little
blisters on the fleshy part of the palm, under the black shoe
polish.
"How will you clean them?" I asked.
"Steve's got some kind of solvent, Jonathan," he said.
Steve was Kate's lead trainer. "It works very well, but it kind
of hurts the blisters."
I bent and kissed him. "Yeah, but you need clean hands,
after all."
"Oh, yes, Jonathan," he agreed.
Narcissus. Kate's boy slaves always looked a little like
I had, in my late teens. I wondered if Randy knew that.
Probably not-probably he wouldn't be able to discern a trace
of resemblance between his perfect little self and a guy in his
late thirties. Which gave it a touch of elegant melancholy, for
me. It's a long rainy afternoon play with your pretty former
self, sweetheart. Your unconscious former self. Although of
course I'd never been anywhere near as unconscious as he
seemed to be. And certainly not as eager to please.
I looked down at him, kneeling easily at attention.
Polishing my shoes had aroused him-his cock was stiffening under my gaze. I lifted it with my foot, rubbing my instep
against the bottom side, nudging the base of his balls with
a shiny polished toe. His face remained impassive, but his
breathing became just a little ragged.
I stroked his cheekbone, and then the graceful sweep of
his eyelid-lightly, with one of my fingers-while I continued to probe him, below, with the toe of my shoe.
"You've been a good boy today," I said softly, "even with
your one little lapse. But now it looks like you're in some danger of blowing the whole thing, doesn't it? I mean, it would be
pretty
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