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Pecan Sandies: Zoë's First Collar

Part I
By: Doxy Wringer©

Author's Note: This story may not be duplicated or re-posted on another website or in any medium without the written consent of the author. 


On To Part II


The note had said that I was to go in without knocking, but it still felt a little naughty. I couldn't help thinking that I was a wicked twist on Alice, about to embark into a new, bizarre Wonderland I'd never before known existed. 

The silky white panties I had been instructed to wear were a little damp in the crotch. I wasn't certain if that was permitted or not, but the electric thrill pulsating in my belly had already spread to the warmth of my most tender places, and I was helpless to stop it. That flittering, fluttering vibration of desire had begun to swell the moment I'd agreed to this reckless encounter. 

"It's all about trust, my little one," he'd promised into the phone. "All about pleasing and sensation. You have to know I'd never lead you to harm." 

And I had truly believed he wouldn't lead me to harm. But how much could you really trust a man you'd never met in the flesh? Certainly the weekly conversations over the last two years had given me a basis to trust him - my tender-spoken, dirty old man who had instigated this strange relationship by replying to a post I'd made on an internet website. We'd worked our way from chat posts to phone calls over a casual courtship of double entendre and innuendo, and all of it had been leading to this moment. This moment when I would walk into his house without knocking, prickling and shivering, my white satin panties damp from the foreign intoxication of sexual anticipation. 


He had instructed me to dress in white from head to toe - had dictated the entire outfit, and I'd spent the better part of a fortnight obtaining the proper wardrobe. A pair of white, strapless high heels re-sculpted the arches of my feet, forcing me to walk with a deliberate sway that was brazenly wanton. The hardest items to find had been the white silk stockings, ("Not pantyhose or tights!" He had firmly growled into the phone). They had to be of the old-fashioned style, which were fastened to garters and a belt, their seams streamlining up the backs of my legs. The garters and the belt themselves were a combination of frilly white lace and satin - a paradox that was almost decadent against the sensitive flesh of my thighs and hips. Then, beneath the garter belt was my now damp white satin thong with ties on the sides like string bikini bottoms. I had never known such lingerie existed, until he'd told me where to find it. 

I shivered and rubbed my bare arms. The room was a little chilly for the white sundress, which barely covered me. Sleeveless and backless, it was the kind of skimpy scrap of cloth a girl only wore out in public over a bathing suit, with a short, tennis-like skirt and a pair of flimsy spaghetti-string straps to secure it behind my neck. No bra, and nothing in my hair. Those had also been inflexible commands. 

So, I treaded lightly into the tidy parlor, which served as a greeting room to this old southern house. A charm and gentility floated along the hallway, with clean, if somewhat scuffed, hardwood floors that made my high heels echo like gunshots as I stepped carefully and peeked around corners. The furniture was antique and solid, mostly of simple, Amish styles, and the Spartan décor was a blending of dark fabrics and rich woods. Masculine and yet tasteful, and a little intimidating. It was like being in a library, this place of safety, but quiet formality. 

"Don't turn around, pet," the familiarity of his voice permeated the alien silence of the room, sending goose bumps up my arms, and I stopped dead still at his command. 

He walked up leisurely behind me, the lazy pace of his footsteps sounding with authoritative claps on the hardwood floor. I felt his eyes on me, emanating a heat that bore into my bare back like an impish youth focusing a magnifying glass on a powerless ant. Coaxing it to burst in flame. 

"Don't I get to see you, Master?" I whispered hoarsely, my voice trembling girlishly. In any other situation, I'd have been disgusted with my own timidity. 

"I haven't decided that yet," he breathed huskily, and my body stiffened at the realization that he was mere inches from me. At any moment his hands could be touching my bare skin - the front of him could be sidling up against the back of me. "And you are to remain silent. Do not make another sound until I give you permission." 

I bit my bottom lip and nodded. I had forgotten that rule. I wondered if I would be pardoned for the oversight due to my novice status. I focused on the wall and watched our faint shadows enmesh together. 

"Nice," he whispered into the long curtain of my hair, and his large hands cupped my shoulders. 

I jolted and yelped at that first touch, unable to help myself. His extended, hardened fingers sparked off my lightly tanned flesh like flint and tinder striking. I had broken his direct order of silence again, and a fit of trembling assailed me. Slivers of qualms and misgivings sharpened an edge in my nerves. My head started to spin from the wild and reckless situation I had just willingly placed myself in. It was the type of rash decision that was usually documented years later by an episode of Forensics Detectives or some such show. I could almost compose the narration myself:

Zoë met with her online lover at the designated location, but did not live long enough to comprehend that she had surrendered her life into the hands of the most prolific serial killer US history had ever recorded, south of the Mason-Dixon Line. It was only through the tireless efforts of Forensics Detectives that the tiny particles of bone found at the site were able to be identified as hers… 

"Easy," his forehead was resting against the back of my head now, his calm hands stroking up and down my arms. "Easy, little one. Don't be afraid. We'll go slowly - as slowly as you like, and it all stops the moment you say. I think it's a little too early to expect obedient silence from you, so speak as you like for now, sweet pet." 

"I…I'm a little scared," I whispered, my eyes tightly closed in effort to not begin screaming out in terror like a child. His tender caresses down my arms were helping, but my mind and pulse still waged war against his efforts to soothe me. 

He responded by circling his arms around my waist and pulling my bare back tight against a hard male chest. I felt the crisp cotton of his shirt, and the muscular heat that radiated beneath. Rather than adding to my feeling of cornered danger, his embrace gave me back a little of my own gumption. 

"Tell me the words," he instructed softly. "Make them comfortable in your mouth." 

"Pecan sandies," I smiled after a moment's hesitation. And the simple act of smiling did wonders to ward off the fear that had been knifing through me. 

"And what do those words mean?" he asked gently. 

"They're my favorite cookies." 

His chuckle was genuine in my hair. That one sound - the timbre of his generous humor - dispelled the last of the panic from my soul. "Yes, they are your favorite cookies. What else?" 

"They mean the game between us of Master and pet will stop immediately." 

"And?" he pressed. 

"And…" I fumbled for a moment, nearly forgetting one of the most important lessons he'd been drilling into me over the course of our telephone conversations. Then, my memory kicked into gear, and I recited my next words like childhood times tables. "And they mean that I have all the real control in this game." 

"What will happen when you speak them?" he reiterated. 

"Everything will stop." 

"And who ultimately controls our game?" A light squeeze accompanied this question. That tiny hug did more for my heart that a thousand whispered endearments. 

"I do." 

"Good girl," he praised me, his face nuzzling in my hair. "And what is this game all about, my little one?" 

"Trust," I replied unwaveringly. "And pleasing, and sensation." 

He held me for another long moment, and I leaned back demurely, completely at ease now. And I felt him smiling with me. 

"Just another moment, my little one, and we'll begin again. It feels good to hold you for the first time in these arms." 

"It feels good to be held, Master." 

My answer pleased him and I felt his head give a curt, satisfied nod. Then his body withdrew from mine slowly, reluctantly, and I was once more slipped into the role of submissive pet, trembling before him on display. 

"Keep your eyes closed, and do not open them until I give permission. You may speak only to ask permission for something or to acknowledge my commands. Do you understand, pet?" 

"Yes, Master," I nodded, clenching my eyes as tightly shut, as he bade, though I ached for the sight of him. 

He circled me like a predator, pacing in a wide arch, his hungry eyes drinking me in. Subconsciously, I began to tremble again, though this new shaking had nothing to do with fear. His bold examination brought every doubt about my body to the forefront of my thoughts. And I knew a dark blush branded me like a full-body tattoo. 

Even with the two-inch heels I was less than five and a half feet tall. In bare feet I just cleared the five-foot mark, and there was only so much window dressing a girl could employ to give herself a sinuous, leggy illusion. My limbs were slender, but hinted at the tone of muscle that came from a daily regimen of running and swimming. Weights and aerobics were too disciplined for the chaos of my life. I'd always settled for a few blocks of well-paced running followed by a scattering of laps in the pool. It didn't give me the trendy, willowy sinews that the female cast of Ally McBeal boasted, but it kept me reasonably satisfied with the firm tone of my diminutive musculature. 

I knew he could see the small dimple that puckered an inch of skin at the small of my back. Given time he would undoubtedly find the birthmark on my left hip that always reminded me of a Hershey's kiss. The long curtain of my brown hair would hide the freckles on my shoulders for a time yet. He had told me not to twist my tresses into a braid or any other fashion, but to keep them wild down around me. I could feel the sensual softness like a blanket now, providing me with a little shelter from his merciless scrutiny. But none of those nagging imperfections could force from my mind the greater culprit behind my shyness - the one order which had been the most difficult to comply with. 

No bra. 

Since puberty my bust had taken on more ample curves than the rest of my tomboyish lank. Short and stacked. Snickering references to Dolly Parton. Top heavy. Those teasing descriptions had plagued me since junior high school, and despite constant reassurance that it was a desired shape, I still retained that irritating tremble of self doubt. My only consolation was the knowledge that my breasts still sat high in their nakedness, the orbs dipping only slightly from the burden of their own voluptuousness. 

"You are lovely, pet," he extolled with sincere affection in his tone, and a shuddering sigh flowed from me. I had been holding my breath in anticipation of his approval. 

"Thank you, Master," I cooed shyly, as the last trace of doubt deserted me. No longer tense, warm bliss flooded my abdomen; I felt the feverish rush on my skin, and knew my complexion must be radiating a pink glow. 

Something cool and delicate slid up along my right arm and I was unable to hold in a giggle over the tickling sensation. He was behind me again, stroking a scrap of fabric along my shoulders and bare back. 

"This is a blindfold, little one," he informed me gently as he brushed the supple silk over my closed eyes. "Hold up your lovely hair for me." 

I complied, piling my brown hair atop my head in careless haste. He fastened the swatch of silk securely, and I heard tiny clicks, as though buttons were snapping into place. There was a great deal of flexibility in the material, making it comfortable, yet my eyes were effectively blinded. 

A few locks of my mane escaped my fingers as I felt the caress of his hands slide down my neck to my shoulder blades. His fingers were long and rough-textured, the hands of a man who had known hard work, and I was reminded of the differences in our ages. Here I was, not a month following my early graduation from Georgia Tech, excited about the prospect of being the youngest architect ever hired by the most prestigious contractors in Atlanta, standing blindfolded with my hair in my hands as a man more than twenty years my senior had his wicked way with my body. 

His touch drifted along the arch of my back and then around my waist to my flat tummy. Slow and deliberate, he claimed me with gentle hands, stroking up the thin cotton of my sundress, until finally lifting and cupping both my ripe and lusty breasts. I moaned and thrust my chest out to rub against his palms, the sensitivity of my hardened nipples injecting currents of electricity through my blood. I stifled a whimper, but a soft rush of breath managed to issue through my quivering lips. 

"A lovely and succulent little pet you are," his breathing was flustered, and the feel of his hot praise on the back of my neck was as luxurious as heavily perfumed oil melting into my skin. All those sessions on the phone he had been so calm, so controlled. My gentle, but unyielding Master. That the consummation of our passion here in the flesh could shake his discipline so, excited me almost beyond endurance. Unable to help myself I pushed my hips backward until my firm, scantily clad bottom ground into the stark erection brewing in his jeans. 

"No!" he growled curtly, reminding me of my role with a rough pinching of my large nipples. I cried out, and he pinched harder. "No, I did not give you permission to move like that, now, did I, pet?" 

I shook my head and felt more tendrils of brown curls fall from my grasp. Each of his hands curled a forefinger and thumb, lightly crushing my nipples between them and I realized I had overestimated my effects on his authority. 

"Say it aloud!" he barked into my ear. "Admit your disobedience." 

"No, you did not give me permission to move like that, Master," I whimpered softly. 

A long silence lapsed between us as he continued to maul my tits and consider my punishment. I kept my hair held high, though my arms were beginning to strain and shake. Finally, he removed his hands and stepped away from me. 

"You may let your hair down, pet," He remarked casually. "Then I want you to turn a little to your left and walk forward until I tell you to stop. You will keep your arms at your sides." 

I paused before obeying. It was disorienting to be blindfolded in this strange room. And now I could feel my oversensitive nipples protruding and scratching along the fabric of my sundress. The dampness in my panties had also increased. As much as I had a sagged with relief when he'd stopped pinching, my body was now shuddering in craven hunger for the return of his hands. 

"Now!" he boomed, and I cried out as my body jumped in automatic response. Trembling, I turned to my left and began to take tentative steps forward, fighting the instinct to reach my arms out before me. "Good. Stop there." 

I halted at his bidding, and nibbled my bottom lip, it was unclear in my own mind if I was dreading or welcoming the consummation of my punishment. 

"Reach out your hands and you will find a table in front of you. Lean down until you are bent over it, then lift up your skirt." 

My fumbling hands found the smooth wood in front of me, and I slowly bent at the waist, flattening my chest and tummy to the hardness of the table. Reaching down, I slowly lifted up my skirts. The image of that pose flashed through my head and sent a ripple of naughty pleasure up my spine. There I was, willingly bent over, waiting for the penalty he would dole out, my feet aching in their high heels, while my stocking-clad legs led to my now exposed bottom. The thong panties would do nothing to hide the cheeks of my ass. 

His footfalls sounded through the room and I heard a drawer open, followed by a brief shuffling. He made his way toward me, and then several objects were placed on the table beside my head. I flinched at the proximity of sound, but nothing, not even his hands touched me. When next he spoke, there was a smile in his voice. 

"Like any new pet, you will be educated over time. Your transgressions will be fewer and fewer, but I will decide the severity of your punishment in these early stages by assigning which instrument to use." That very casually spoken remark sent more gooseflesh up and down my limbs. 

"First," he continued, "this is my hand." And with those words, he slapped his open palm hard against the cheeks of my ass. With a startled grunt, my body jolted forward, and the stinging sensation streaked heat over my bottom. His patient tone didn't alter. "My hand may often be used for smaller transgressions, and when I use it, you will thank me for it. Do you understand, pet?" 

"Y…yes, Master," I stuttered quietly. I had felt that slam of his hand on my fleshy rear vibrate through my senses all the way to my crotch. My clit had begun to thump with a quiet demanding in my panties. "Thank you for using your hand upon me." 

"Good, my little one," I could almost hear him nod his approval. 

One of the objects on the table was picked up and my stinging bottom was now being tickled with what felt like hair. "This is a horsehair flogger," He explained, stroking my ass with it. "You will also thank me when I use this instrument." He swatted me twice, swiftly, and I yelped, but didn't really jolt as I had at the use of his hand. The horsehair's stinging was more like a hundred tiny little ant bites. Sharp and brief and gone just as suddenly. 

"Thank you for using the horsehair, Master." 

He used each of his floggers on me. The ones with leather tendrils (these were called "blades" but were not made of metal, he assured me) delivered varying degrees of sting, depending on the softness of the type of hide. Suede was supple, but snapped with a bite when he cracked it over my rear, and the harder, tanned leather lace whips stung powerfully enough to make me bite back a scream. The braded leather cat of nine tails was something to give me pause as he described it. Its heavy blades and barbed tips possessed the power to inflict real torture. Still, he did nothing more than use it to bestow a playful swat. But, the realization behind some of these objects had begun to sink in. I was repulsed and excited and couldn't wait for what would be next. I didn't have to thank him for using the leather floggers or the cat, and I got the impression that he was restrained in using them - focusing more on the sensation of the blades on my bare skin than the infliction of my punishment. 

Paddles followed. Wood. Leather. Padded leather. Studded. The variety amazed me. Who knew there was such an array available? Flat and unyielding, I felt each slam my bottom and heard the loud claps. I bit harder into my bottom lip to fight both the moans and whimpers caused by his education. The leather paddles had more bite, but the solid hardness of the wood was brusque and domineering. I was flushed, I was shaking, I was hot and wicked and delighted. I wanted him to stop. I wanted more. I was both terrified and anxious for the next item to be introduced by him.

He picked up another object and seemed to hesitate. I heard him tapping something against his leg and my hands, still clutching my skirt, began to sweat. 


On To Part II


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