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A Civil War veteran makes a jouney seeking Justice.

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She had expected this, but still felt a momentary shudder of anticipation, desire, and a little fear. Always before, she had been the one in charge of how tight the clamps would be. Tonight, for the first time, Master would physically check. And if they weren't tight enough? She was sure he'd make them tighter.

She reached under the bra and almost dispassionately screwed the little squares of torment onto her tits. Once she released the brassiere, the extra pressure tore through her nipples like a wave of fire. Her pussy was already wet.

Prepare me a drink.

Easy. Crown Royal on the rocks. She'd dreamed of serving him with a tray, kneeling at his feet while he rubbed a single ice cube over her and sipped his drink.

Now get twelve white candles. Light ten.

Once again, he had been very exact. She set the candles down in two rows along the entryway.

Now wait by the door, facing away. Once you are in position you will blindfold yourself. I will arrive at eight-thirty precisely.

She went to the door. This is me, the slave; obeying my Master's commands . . . will he beat me? She wondered.

The red bit of silk went across her eyes. She never once thought of doing anything but Master's bidding. She would please him, no matter what.

Her heart was pounding. Suddenly she realised she had no idea what time it was. But she didn't dare peek. If he came in and found her unready, she would surely be punished. She had only been there minutes, it seemed. And yet it seemed like forever. Her breasts, her aching nipples, seemed to swing in the air, confined though they were under the constricting bra. Her ears, teased by the emerald earrings, buzzed dizzyingly. The candlelight wasn't strong enough to penetrate her blindfold.

She took a deep breath, and in the silence heard the tiniest noise of the mat at the front door being lifted. The key that she had left underneath it as per His instructions scraped in the lock, and the door swung open.

She couldn't breathe. She didn't even know who it was. Perhaps a neighbour had seen her stash the key and had come to look for his own amusement. She knelt, nearly naked in the centre of her hall, feeling the big man enter behind her.

Then her heart smiled inside of her as her nostrils detected Drakkar and . . . was it jasmine?

"Good evening slave," He said. Her racing heart jumped into her mouth. It was His voice! Shorn of the usual hiss and static of a telephone line it was smoother than she'd dreamed. It wasn't quite as deep. He seemed younger, more vital, in real life.

The slave heard a heavy bag drop on the floor. There was a jingling of chains. Two firm hands (O enormous hands!) grasped her shoulders. Hot breath on her neck. His fingers stroked down her body-she felt the heat building inside of her at his touch, the touch she'd so desperately wanted for so long. She moaned slightly.

"You may stand." He said. Phrased as permission, it was His first real-time order to His slave. Carefully, slightly dizzily, she stood up. The blindfold made it harder to stand on the high heels without staggering, but the slave was graceful, nevertheless.

His fingers explored her wet warmth, and then withdrew, tickling her clit on the way. The other hand slid down between her buttocks. She caught her breath as he gently, insistently forced his finger into her, tugging at her thong. He kissed her without any warning except the warmth of his breath on her lips. The heat coming from his body was radiant and searing to her. When the kiss ended, he pulled off the blindfold.

"You may look at me, slave."

Craggy face with bushy eyebrows. Grey in the hair and the neatly trimmed beard. Amused eyes, hazel, with little crow's feet that belied how stern they seemed. Tall, taller than her. Body slightly thickened through the middle, but well muscled for all that.

He released her.

"Now get your eyes back down. I said you could look, bitch. Not stare."

The slight chastisement of his voice made her even wetter.

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