An anthology of short stories by Robin Roberts
I have become an advocate and spokesman for sparkling apple juice; even stronger than Karl Malden is for American Express. Apple juice is something close to paradise.
Today started like many other mornings at our home. Since Arryana usually sleeps blind-folded, we tend to take many, long, enjoyable minutes to make the transition from night to day. When we leave our bed, we take long showers together, dress and have late and leisurely breakfasts. This morning, we were to share our breakfast with another couple who also live in a Master/slave relationship so Arryana took special care to wear a cute little outfit with a short skirt and heels.
After breakfast, we returned home. Since we were in for the day, I had her change to an outfit that would enhance her already great looks and remind her of her collar.
A friend of mine wrote a book some years ago. In her book, she described me as someone who was no prize. Average height, bottle-bottom thick glasses, even a plastic protector in the pocket of his plaid shirt. A scruffy blue sweater hung looosely from his shoulder - the slight bulge at his middle probably made buttoning it uncomfortable. Truly, a nerd. But the women who attended him, through their unspoken words and actions, paid him honor as though he was a god. When I read that account, I had words with the author.
I told her that I never wore plaid shirts.
Arryana, on the other hand, is quite attractive. She has deliciously brown hair and a smile that would melt glaciers. Although we have lived together for over a year and a half, we have only been married about six months. I am twenty one years older than she, but we have not found that at all deliterious. We have been living in a Master/slave relationship from about the day that we met.
She now wore a white and lacey outfit. At twenty-nine years old, and fivefoot-six, dressed in heels and a baby-doll outfit, she was not what I would call street legal.
She had knelt at my feet, with a white bandanna rolled between her lips as a gag, massaging my feet as we watched a prerecorded video-tape together. I only half-watched the movie since I was much more interested in the sight of this beautiful women kneeling between my legs. After our afternoon movie, I moved to the floor beside her and I spent a long time getting to know her in the ways that a Master knows his lady.
We had spent a lot of time, and energy and we were both getting hungry. I tied her wrists together in front of her, placed a cape over her lingerie-clad body, and walked her to our car parked in front of our home. We drove to a local fast food chicken place and ordered our meals to go. The "friendly man" at the window took our money and told me that it would be a five minute wait. Arryana sat very still trying to keep her cape from opening and presenting him with a view that I could only call dessert. We chatted quietly, exchanging words that lovers often exchange. Many people walked very close to our car but they didn't notice her bonds, her white leather collar or the enticing outfit beneath her cape.
Arriving back at our home, she removed her cape and made ready to serve dinner. I busied myself returning the house to its normal state of orderliness; it seems as though someone had left a LOT of rope lying all over the living room. After a short time, I walked to our dining room to find a very pleasant surprise. She had replaced her earlier gag and she was kneeling on the floor next to my chair. I removed her gag, and fed her part of my dinner with my fingers. If you haven't fed your slave, or been fed, in this manner, you will NEVER understand the phrase "finger-licking good chicken".
As a side note, I might mention that on our first date, I had taken her to a Moroccan restaurant in San Jose. We sat on the floor beside each other and spent the evening feeding each other with our fingers. It has become something of a "family tradition" for us to find new Moroccan restaurants to re-experience that first evening together. We often take close friends to these unique places and spend an evening with them explaining why we live in the way we have chosen. If you ever wish to explore the Master/slave lifestyle, visit a Moroccan restaurant, sit on the floor, and have your slave eat from your hand. Have them lick your fingers clean. By the end of the evening, you will wonder why it took you so long to decide to become a Master. But I digress....
After a noticeably quiet dinner, she cleared the table, rinsed the dishes and we returned to the living room. We spent a short while discussing the days events and our feelings about Master/slave relationships. Her short white "dress" inspired me to repeat the afternoons floor exercise performance in true "Olympic Fashion". As we lay in each others arms, I suddenly noticed that I had developed a thirst unlike any I had ever known, even though I had lived in both the California and Nevada deserts. Arryana went to the kitchen and returned with a wine goblet filled with Martinelli Sparkling Apple Juice. She glided to a position on the floor in front of me. In one fluid movement, she delicately held the glass with both hands, knelt on the floor in front of her Master, bowed her head, and offered the glass and her body in a manner that leaves this writer with only the thought that apple juice is like paradise.
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