Emilio's was the best Italian restaurant in the city. That didn't mean

it was a great restaurant, it wasn't that big a city. In the traditional

American expectation of an Italian restaurant, it had rough, bare brick

walls, dim lighting and candles on every table. We had a short wait in

the lobby before our table was ready. I saw the obvious and not so

obvious looks that my slave got from the other men who waited there with

us. I didn't blame them. She was a spectacular vision in iridescent

blue. The dress clung to every corset-exaggerated curve of her trim

body. The spike heels and side slits emphasized her lean legs. There was

a certain glow in her expression and a sway in her movements, probably

due in part to the labia clamps, that only brought more attention to her

desirability. I could only smile and think, "She's mine, guys. If you

only knew how much she's mine." It was macho pride, I know, but I

enjoyed every second of it. The maitre'd led us to a small corner table

far from the entrance. I had made it clear that we wanted privacy. He

held her chair and as she sat. I heard a barely perceptible clink of

muffled chain on wood. She tensed slightly, almost fully seated, then

dropped into the chair. The maitre'd gave no sign that he had noticed

anything out of the ordinary. He handed us menus and retreated to the

lobby. "Did you hear that, Master?"

"Yes," I smiled, trying hard to keep from laughing. "Do you think . . .

?" "No. If he heard it, he had no idea what he heard." I shook my head.

"It looked like you felt something too." "When the chain hit the chair,

well . .

it startled me." "I could see that."

"You're diabolical. Even with the corset and the heels, I could almost

pretend to myself that everything was normal. But those damned clamps on

my pussy and the chain make it impossible. The clamps hurt. I guess you

know that." "Yes. I know."

"And they . . . they excite me. They make me wet and it's not going to

get any better. "Perfect," I said gleefully as our waiter arrived. I

ordered a bottle of Chianti Classico and two antipasto salads, asking

him to return for our dinner orders. "Perfect, huh," she continued when

he had gone. "You don't know how perfect." "What do you want to eat?" I

interrupted.

"Eat? Oh. Yes." She quickly scanned the menu. "Linguine with red clam

sauce." "That sounds good," I said. "I think I'll have the veal piccata."

I set my menu on the corner of the table and looked straight into her

eyes. "Just for a few minutes, let's forget this Master and slave thing.

I want to talk as husband and wife. Seriously." I put my hand over hers

as it rested on the table top. "No, Master."

"No?" I was startled. "You mean with the clamps and all you can't think

seriously?" "No, Master. I mean I don't want to forget being your slave.

Not for a moment." "We have to start doing some planning," I said.

"You're about to graduate. My job is going really well. They just hired

me for the one project, but looks like I'll have it permanently if I

want it. We need to decide what to do this fall." "You decide, Master.

I'll follow where you go." "I don't want to decide this for you. Your

career will be as important as mine." "But I have decided," she insisted.

"You've decided what?" "I've decided to be your slave." "It's not that

simple." "It is that simple. Look, Master . . . " "Will you stop calling

me that for a few minutes?" "No, I won't. And that's the only thing I'll

refuse you. I refuse to not be your slave." I could only shake my head.

Our waiter returned, but stopped at a slight distance from the table,

reluctant to interrupt what appeared to be a marital argument. I guess

it was a marital argument of sorts. I looked up and waived him over. He

took our dinner order, placed our salads on the table, poured us each a

glass of Chianti and vanished. I still didn't completely comprehend what

she was telling me. "Okay. Go ahead," I said. "My work is pretty

portable. I should be able to find a job in just about any city. You

have to establish a practice. And you seem to have a decent start at it.

Therefore, I'll go where you need me to go." "I'll accept that. All

right. That makes some sense. But . . . " "No buts, Master. I'll find a

job. I'll go out into the working world every day, just like everybody

else."

I nodded. "But I belong to you, Master. Mind, body and soul, I belong to

you and I don't want anything else." "Do you know what you're saying?"

"I know exactly what I'm saying." She pursed her lips and I saw the

muscles in her neck tighten. She was annoyed at my reluctance. "You love

me don't you?" she asked. That question took me by surprise. "Yes. Of

course I love you. I love you more than anyone or anything." "Then ask

yourself this: Do you love me enough to own me?" I said nothing. I just

looked in her eyes with what I'm sure was a blank, stupid stare. "What I

said a few minutes ago: that I could almost pretend that everything was

normal. Well, it would only be pretending. Nothing is normal. I knew it

before, but yesterday and today made me certain. I want to belong to

you, Master. Completely. With no reservations." "Can I think about this

for a little while?" Her insistence, her seemingly absolute commitment

to become my slave, had taken me by surprise. I'll admit it. It

frightened me. I was afraid of the power that she had thrust into my

hands. "No. You told me once that a submissive had only one decision to

make: to submit or not. I've made that decision. And you can accept it

or not. I'll ask again; do you love me enough to own me?" I looked down

at the table, stared at the candle in its center, looked at the wall

beside me and up at the lights in the ceiling. I looked anywhere but at

her. I took a long, slow swallow of wine and set the glass down hard,

sloshing a little over the rim and onto the tablecloth. Of course I

loved her. Intensely. Passionately. But to own her? She had offered me a

wonderful gift, but with it would come tremendous responsibility. I

hadn't considered this issue of ownership, in a real sense. Our Master

and slave games had been just that, games. Now she offered herself to me

completely.

"Yes," I said at last and relaxed. There. I'd said it. A large weight

had lifted. "Yes I love you enough to own you, slave." I meant it. She

smiled that luminous smile and looked straight at me. Her grin twisted

up mischievously at one corner, then she looked down. "Thank you,

Master. You do me a great honor." I chuckled and shook my head slowly.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" "Absolutely, Master." She

looked straight back into my eyes. "You honor me, then. I'm not sure you

know the power you have. I'm not sure you know all that you're giving

me. You're so strong." "I don't understand, Master." "It takes strength

and confidence and conviction to give yourself to another this way.

You're probably stronger than I am." She smiled and lowered her eyes. "I

don't think so Master, but thank you. I give myself to you , then. I

give my power to you." "How could I refuse that gift?" I paused and

again covered her hand with mine. "Yesterday and today have been pretty

intense for you, haven't they?" "Yes, Master. Wonderfully so." Her smile

was irresistible. It made me smile too, but I had a serious purpose in

mind. "You know I have some things planned for you. For tonight and

tomorrow." "Yes, Master."

"You know enough to about them to say that some of it frightens you."

"Yes, Master." "I had planned these things as part of a game. We've been

playing at being Master and slave. That was the way I saw it anyway."

"Yes, Master. It has been less and less a game for me in the last few

weeks. And today . . . today I decided that it simply wasn't a game

anymore for me." "You've made that clear." I took another long swallow

of wine. "The things I have planned, your punishment tonight, our picnic

tomorrow, they're no longer part of a game. They've become real, slave.

I hope you understand that." "I think I do, Master. I'm not quite sure

what you mean." Now I was making her nervous. She squirmed just a little

in her seat and took a slow sip from her glass. She fiddled with her

fork, turning over pieces of lettuce on her plate one by one. "Just

this. We've always had a safeword. We've always given you a way out, a

way to slow things down if you couldn't handle them." "Yes, Master. A

word that means "slow down" and a word that means "stop." You know I've

never needed or wanted to use either." "There will be no 'slow down' any

longer." I grasped her hand tightly and pressed it against the table

top. "I intend to test your resolve to be my slave. There will be no

'yellow.' And if you say 'red,' if you ask me to stop, I'll know that

you're not as ready as you think. If you ask me to stop I'll know that

your slavery is still just a game." "Yes, Master."

"Do you understand? Do you agree?" Our waiter had whisked away the salad

plates and was setting the entrees on the table before I noticed his

presence. I wondered how much he had heard. He refilled each of our

glasses and vanished again. "Yes, Master. I agree. I'm ready for any

test. I trust you. Completely." "I think you do." I smiled. "You'll need

to." "Yes, Master. I know you won't hurt me." "That's where you're

wrong, slave. I will hurt you. I won't injure you, but I will hurt you."

She looked straight down at her linguine. After a long silence, she

said, "Okay. I accept that. I put myself completely at your mercy. You

accept a responsibility to protect me . . . " "Yes . . . "

". . . and I accept that you will make me suffer for you, Master." "I

think we understand each other." "I think we do, Master." We fell

silent. We both savored our meal, its flavor improved by expectation and

relief. As I speared my last sliver of veal, I said, "One thing, slut.

This isn't just a test. It's the rest of your life." Her eyes darted up

from her plate and caught my gaze. "Yes Master," she said, nodding

slowly. "I know."