As I waited in the lobby on Friday evening for Master… or rather, Hans… I was unusually nervous. Before I’d left his room earlier that afternoon, he had used a hypnotic trigger that dropped me into an immediate, mind-blowing orgasm. He also warned me he could do it to me again, whenever and wherever he wanted. That worried me a bit, but I was more worried about who else knew how to control me in this way?
Meanwhile, I was waiting in the lobby for him to arrive at 17:00 hours. Actually, I had been waiting since 16:45 to make sure I didn’t keep him waiting. He was my Master for this weekend, and it had been drummed into me that I must never inconvenience my Mistress or Master, and that keeping them waiting was particularly disrespectful – a mistake not to be countenanced.
Yet, Hans was German, and therefore punctual to his core. I didn’t check, but I would bet long odds that a hypothetical clock would have just started chiming five when the lift doors opened, and Hans stepped into the lobby.
I was wearing a light, tan jacket, black midi top, and a loose grey skirt that fell to mid-calf. I also wore comfortable, black shoes, but no bra or panties as he had specified that he wanted easy access to my cunt and tits. I was under no illusion about what was going to happen this evening.
He was wearing khaki slacks that had a sharp, almost military crease, a crisp white shirt open at the neck, and a black sports coat that set off his blonde hair. He looked relaxed, casual, commanding – and yummy.
He smiled when he saw me waiting for him, and I gave him my sunniest smile, then stretched up on tip-toe to receive the kiss he placed on my cheek. He reached down and took my hand, and led me out the front door to the waiting limo.
I sank down into the deep leather seats and sighed. Hans looked at me, and said, “You look quite pretty tonight, Katja. Open your legs, please.”
I looked up at him, opened my knees wide, and said, “You look good enough to eat… Hans.” I smiled coquettishly at him.
He flipped my skirt up to my waist, revealing my naked pussy, then ran his fingers over it. I shivered deliberately.
“Freshly shaved,” he said, “You are thoughtful of your Master’s desires. Good!”
I tucked my hands slightly behind my back as if they were cuffed there, giving the impression I was helpless to stop him from doing anything he wanted.
He started stroking my thighs, moving his fingers slowly up and down inside my legs, in no hurry. He had all evening, even all night if he wanted, and intended to punish me for being a brat. Eventually, he started lightly running a finger along the outside of my already puffy labia, tracing the outlines of my pussy.
While he was stroking me, he kept up a steady stream of amusing, interesting banter, talking about flying, and some of the funny things that had happened to him in the military. I smiled, giggled, nodded, interjected at all the right points, while using my body and voice to indicate that I was being tortured by his edging.
He had just parted my inner lips, and was slowly breaching the entry to my vagina with his finger, when the car stopped at the restaurant. He had just found me wet and eager for more when he withdrew, then held his finger to my lips. I slowly and lasciviously licked it like candy, holding his eye the whole time.
He smiled. “You really are a slut, aren’t you?” then patted my pussy, and told me to pull my skirt down. I moaned more loudly than I needed to, and reluctantly complied.
“Only for the right people… Hans,” I lied.
Hans knocked on the window, and the chauffeur opened the door, and handed me out.
~~~~~
I knew it was going to be a long, trying, edgy night for me, and that I would need every trick I could muster to survive it. I needed not only to survive, but to triumph, both this evening, and throughout the weekend.
And I intended to triumph, cum hell or high water.
I had thought about the post-hypnotic suggestion he had triggered earlier in the afternoon. He had warned me not to be too bratty, and was using his ability to trigger me into a massive orgasm as a threat.
I decided it was an empty threat because it would embarrass him more than me. If he triggered me in public, people would probably call an ambulance, thinking I’d had some kind of seizure. He would have to explain what was going on, not me. So, I decided not to care that he could trigger me.
Moreover, I am a brat. It’s part of me, and a part that my Mistress seemed to find amusing. If it was something she appreciated, then I was not going to stop.
But finally, my sense was that both Miriam and Hans respected strength, not craven capitulation. If I meekly stopped being bratty, they would notice, and, I believed, I would lose at least some of their respect.
Accordingly, I decided was going to be who I was: completely submissive to my Mistress, and, for this weekend, to Hans, fulfilling their every desire as best I could – but a brat despite everything.
So, as he played with me in the limo on the way to supper, I smiled to myself. He thought he had dominated me. He was going to find out that although I was absolutely submissive to his will, he hadn’t moved me even a centimeter.
~~~~~
Hans apparently knew that I loved Italian food, and had picked a fine restaurant not far from our hotel. When we walked in, the Maître d’Hotel appeared as if by magic, and greeted Hans effusively. When they shook hands, I noticed that what looked like a €100 bill exchanged hands.
We were quickly seated side-by-side in a choicely located booth, per Hans’ request.
After we were settled, the waiter appeared at our side, put menus down in front of us, and asked if we would like an aperitif. I started to say no, but Hans interrupted me and said, “Please. I will have an Urquell Pilsner, and the fraulein will have a Tio Pepe sherry.” The waiter bowed and hurried away.
I had intended to avoid drinking because I needed to keep my wits about me, and maintain control. Moreover, drinking was especially dangerous for me as I was petite, had never had that much tolerance for alcohol, and it had been almost three months since I had had anything to drink.
But Hans clearly had other intentions.
Once the waiter left, Hans turned and smiled at me. “Lift your skirt at the back and sit your bare ass on the banquette, then pull it up around your waist in front, and spread your legs. It’s time for the fun to begin, ja?”
Struggling to be unobtrusive, I did as he ordered, with the result that my skirt drew a thick line across my waist, but covered nothing. The leather seat was cold at first, and I shivered, partly because of that. Fortunately, the tablecloth covered me.
Or so I thought.
Hans slid the tablecloth forward so it fell in front of my knees, keeping it away from my waist, leaving my spread legs and pussy visible to anyone who leaned over from the side to serve us. I swallowed hard. Hans was a highly-experienced Dom, and intended to make this as humiliating, as tantalizing, as agonizing as possible.
The waiter brought our drinks, set them down from the far side of the table, bowed, then moved off, noticing nothing.
Hans recommenced petting me, picking up where he left, off, inserting first one finger, then eventually two into my pussy, stroking my G-spot, then withdrawing to paint my labia, and trace around my clitoris using my own wetness, then back again. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his technique highly effective, and I was getting steadily wetter as time went on.
This continued through our aperitif, during which he ordered antipasti for himself, and I requested a Caprese salad. He selected osso buco for his entrée, while I ordered veal piccata. He also ordered a bottle of an off-dry, German Riesling to go with the antipasti, plus a Sangiovese rosé to go with the main courses.
He insisted that I keep pace with his drinking. Since he had at least twice my body mass, this meant that I was effectively drinking twice as much as he was, and it quickly went to my head.
Half way through the main course, I was definitely muzzy, probably drunk, and incredibly horny. But that was not where his fun ended.
I had a short respite while we ate our appetizers, but when the main courses arrived, he upped the game.
“Katja, put your hands in your lap,” he said as the waiter, who had gotten a real eyeful of my naked pussy, left. I did as he ordered.
“Now put two fingers inside yourself and massage your G-spot with one hand, and your clit with the other. Do not stop for anything or anyone until I give you permission.”
Reluctantly, I did as he ordered, trying to keep my touch as light as possible, and moving my hands as slowly as possible. He smirked at me, very much aware of what I was doing.
Then he began to cut up my food and feed me as if I were a small child, as well as feeding himself. He was in no hurry, so I had plenty of time to chew and swallow, and he made sure I got quite a lot of wine between bites, holding the glass to my lips, and forcing me to drink more than I would have on my own.
At first, this was embarrassing enough, but as the meal went on, other diners began to notice him feeding me, and clearly were wondering what we were doing. Then they started watching me more closely, and began to wonder if I was, indeed, playing with myself in public as it seemed – which, of course, I was.
I had thought myself immune to this kind of embarrassment, having been put on show in much more conspicuous and revealing ways. Yet, the combination of the wine, him feeding me as if I were helpless, my masturbating in public, the gathering attention of the people around us, and my complete inability to do anything about any of it, put me in a state of perpetual embarrassment – and arousal.
Hans clearly knew that I was an exhibitionist, and that I got off on precisely this kind of submission and humiliation. Worse, Hans had always held an incredible animal magnetism to me that would have put me in heat even if he was doing nothing.
As a result, I was being dragged ever closer to cumming, no matter how hard I tried avoid it. And so, naturally, Hans ordered dessert.
He took his time, deliberating and discussing the various choices available, all while the waiter tried gamely not to look at me masturbating, while I tried not to meet his eye.
I don’t even remember what Hans ordered – except he ordered a grappa for himself, and an Amaro for me – which I definitely did not need.
Desert was a typical Italian cream pastry, and was probably yummy. Cannoli, perhaps? But by that time, I couldn’t tell, and really didn’t want to drink the Amaro. However, I do remember that when the desert arrived, Hans said, in a casual tone, “You may stop now,” and began to eat his desert.
I almost collapsed, I was so relieved. He chuckled without looking at me. That made me mad – which I didn’t let on – but I wanted to hit him. Well, attack him at least, and preferably fuck his brains out.
By this time my head was swimming, so I was being very careful about what I did or said. I removed my hands from my lap and started to wipe them on my napkin.
“I didn’t say you could move your hands,” he said sharply, still not looking at me.
Reluctantly, I put my hands back in my lap, but not back in my cunt. My head was spinning.
He finished his grappa, did not insist I drank my Amaro, then called for the check. It arrived so promptly that I suspect the Maître d’ was concerned about the attitudes of the other guests. Hans could care less, but paid promptly, tipped very generously, then got out of the booth, put his hand under my arm and almost bodily lifted me.
Being drunk by now, I was careless about my dress, but it fell naturally back to my knees, and I was finally decent again. Hans put my arm through is, and we walked through the restaurant, were effusively thanked by the Maître d’, and walked out into the nighttime air.
It was a lovely evening, I remember that. And the slightly cool air after the heat of the restaurant helped me clear my head. “Let’s stroll, shall we?” Master said. I nodded.
Now that I was out in the open air, I started the slow, deep breathing exercises my yoga master had taught me. It helped, but I was still highly aware both of Hans’ overwhelming masculinity, and of my incredible horniness. I was sure he would do something to push me over the edge, to try to force me to disobey him.
But instead of edging me further, or going back to the hotel to fuck, we strolled.
I had never been to Berlin before, so he took me on a walking tour of the area around the Brandenburg Gate. We ambled slowly and casually, chatting about nothing and everything, just enjoying each other’s company. I was keenly aware that he was my Master, yet he was very relaxed about it, and I found that I appreciated just talking with him.
And I was getting a growing sense that he enjoyed my company, too. Yes, he had been brutal towards me this afternoon, but I thought then, and remain convinced, it was as he’d said: he had wanted to do me since we’d first met. That might be one reason why he had agreed to do my final exam – he wanted to fuck me.
