The Cottage

“I’m not going to lay down a list of rules. You are an experienced slave, so you know what is acceptable. You know how to behave in private and in public,” he said quietly. “I do, however, want you to count how many times my hand meets your bottom. Not out loud. Count to yourself and when I ask, you tell me how many.”

“And if I’m wrong?” she asked.

“I‘ll correct you and give you another hundred. Are you ready?”

“Yes, please.”

“Did you attend a school of slavery?” he asked.

“I did.”

“Which one?”

“The Kaltman school in Hanton.”

Sir Phares nodded to himself. He knew of it. “And how did that school teach you to address the one to whom you submit?”

“As Sir, or by whatever form of address preferred by said dominant,” she said.

“Sir will do. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Still he did not bring his hand down on her bottom. Instead, he cupped and traced her buttocks, trailing a fingertip down the ridge of her closed thighs and up again to tease. With a nudge of his fingers, her thighs parted slightly and he could reach her pubic hair to tug.

“I like to tease my slave, keeping her in need at all times. I will arouse you before you sit to work, but not so terribly that you cannot type.”

“That helps me work, actually,” she smiled. “I go faster to be done for the day.”

“You work a set number of hours?” he asked, tracing the sensitive curve of her underarm.

“A set number of pages typed, unless it’s going very well. Or a whole chapter, depending on the length of the chapter.”

“I’m looking forward to watching you work.”

“I’m looking forward to this spanking. When you gonna get to it?” she quipped.

The hand closest to her head slipped under her shoulder and up the front of her throat until her jaw was cupped in his hand. He lifted her from her arms, lifted her so that her neck was stretched high and her head tilted backwards. Her breasts hung free, inviting a caress. He was tempted, but did not release her. He felt the short, hard exhale of the slave disciplined by unexpected action.

He brought her up farther, leaned in to be closer to her ear. He whispered. “In my own good time, slave.”

Keeping her as she was, he continued the teasing of her backside with light fingertips and gentle squeezes. 

“Others may hurry to the spanking but I do not. I prefer my slave be partially aroused before my hand comes down. Nothing I do is only to deliver pain. The female form is a delight unto itself, perfect no matter its shape or size. I will touch you at my leisure and you will let me. I will spank or flog you when I am ready and you will not ever prompt me again. Feel free to beg, however.”

Another moment and he told her to brace herself on her hands to hold position. She obeyed, insides quieted. She was almost ready to call him Master. He made her feel the slave within herself, made it come to the surface.

“Keep your head back,” he said, removing his hand from her jaw to slide down her throat and over her shoulder. 

It followed the curve of her ribcage to find her heavy breasts, to trace their curves and cup their weight. With a single caress to them, her nipples burst to erection. He stroked gently, teasing and tracing, feeling them harden with his stimulation. At long last he rolled one between finger and thumb, drawing a low moan from her.

His other hand fell to the fleshy curve of her left buttock, hard enough to jolt her but not enough to create more than a mild sting. He alternated, keeping his pace quick and force even. Cayna moaned softly, his fingers still toying with her nipples. She counted, enjoying the increasing burn to her behind.

“How many?” he asked, pausing to knead her warm bottom.

“One hundred sixty three.’

“That was your warm up. Now the real spanking begins. Continue the count where I left off.”

His hand fell harder, twice as fast, alternating as before. The sting of one did not fade before his hand returned to strike again. She whimpered, face pinching when the sting was more intense. Eventually she began to cry out briefly. He kept on. Four hundred…

His hand stopped and he watched her suck in ragged breaths. “How many, slave?”

“Four hundred eighty six,” she replied, almost adding the word Master. Her arms shook, nearly ready to give out as the haze of the slave’s dream space enveloped her.

“Hold yourself up,” he said, again kneading her bright pink bottom. “I’m not done with you yet.”

After a moment, he continued. She lifted her buttocks to meet his hand, sobbing without tears and desperately trying to keep count. Six hundred and ten…oh, it hurt so …so… wonderfully.

His finger slipped between her soaked nether lips to find her clitoris. She seized in orgasm, arms failing. She lay gasping for air, her body heaving over his lap.

“How many, slave?”

“Seven hundred and two,” she gasped, so close to calling him Master. If she said the word, it would be verbal acceptance of him as her Master and she would be his to command from that moment on.

“Is that the most you’ve ever taken in one sitting?”

“It is not, Ma—“  She clamped her mouth shut. Not yet. Not after one spanking.

Sir Phares heard the syllable and smiled to himself. He could have pressed the matter and made her say it; but more important to him was that she call him Master because she truly wanted to and recognized him as her Master. She would say it tomorrow for certain. Perhaps even later in the evening tonight. For now, he rolled his hand through her wetness to coat it on all sides. He slid all four fingers deep into her, delighting in her deepening, throaty moan. He tucked his thumb against his palm and curled his fingers and pushed into her gently. With patience, he worked his fist past the tight barrier of her pelvic bones. She gave a gruff, groaning moan and was very still. She gasped and moaned with the fullness.

Some he knew would twist or withdraw and push in again to fuck the slave with a fist. Sir Phares did nothing. He let his fist lay inside her, unmoving for minute after minute, watching as she opened her legs wide and lifted her rump. She was very responsive to gentle touches and patient insistence. He raised his arm to test her reaction. She lifted slowly to her knees. He pulled downward and she lowered herself, resting her head on his thighs. Not wanting to overdo, he relaxed his hand.

“Push me out, slave.”

Her muscles contracted and expelled his hand. Her grunt was loud and relieved and she shook visibly with the power of his possession.

“When is the last time you were fisted?” he asked.

“A couple years,” she gasped, eyes closed as she rested. The burning sting in her buttocks returned in full. She allowed it to do as it pleased, to throb in her breasts and mons.

“Have you thought on what to write?”

She laughed. “How can I think of such things with your fist in my puss?”

He stroked from neck to thigh, liking the way she gasped when his palm grated over her pinked behind. “I knew from your writings that you were a passionate wench. I underestimated you, though. I had expected you to be one who plays at being the slave. One who goes to the schools for basic research but doesn’t get involved beyond observation and the most rudimentary lessons. I’m sorry for my assumptions.”

She smiled, saying nothing.

“Was this enough for you to decide to accept me as Master?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she sighed.

“Well, I have pledged to see that you eat well. Put on your dress and we’ll go into town for lunch.”


Excerpt from the short novel The Cottage



About the Author

TylerRose. is known as Dame Tyler in the NYC public SM/Fetish scene. She is an award-winning author who has written two “lifestyle”, four cartoon, and twentysomething fiction books.

Twitter — or @DameTyler
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Read her books on her Amazon page —

You can also find more of her OP/ED work in Fetlife:

She enjoys crocheting and baking, and will no doubt die with a thesaurus open on her thigh.



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