The Story of Emma - Part 2 by Sean O

The Story of Emma - Part 2

(Sean O'Kane)

Emma's Story 2

Chapter One

The Arrival of the Bitch.


I won’t say I cut a forlorn figure standing outside Leeds and Bradford airport with all my worldly goods cluttered around my feet on a freezing November evening. I was free for the first time in over two years after all and I was feeling pretty happy about it. I had been bought by a French couple after my disastrous attempts at mixing an SM lifestyle with big business and had worked off my obligations to them at long last. They had been perfectly fair and my previous masters had too. They might have – and indeed did – beat me mercilessly at all opportunities, but financially they had been scrupulous. My flat in London had been sold and the proceeds were happily racking up interest, I had been paid pocket money in France, but in England I had been paid well and my current account was perfectly healthy. So no, I wasn’t forlorn just a bit anxious at finding myself back in England where I had got into such trouble before. I had no friends left but even that was an opportunity to meet new ones.

And I had sworn off SM.

The previous few weeks in France had been a nightmare. Although they held that I had fulfilled my contract to them, I had been allowed to stay in the flat over the barn where Monsieur and Madame kept their slaves while I sorted out a job back home and packed. Every night from below me came the sounds of the sub they had purchased to replace me being used. At first I envied Annalise every lash I heard tear into her and every thrust of Monsieur into her after the flogging. And the nights when Madame got out the needles….I masturbated frantically! But gradually a perspective of normality took over and I pitied her and them. Then I despised them. Quite suddenly I was out of love with SM. What had seemed so thrilling and had given me such indescribable pleasure and suffering in equal parts, I now just couldn’t understand.

So there I was, a job with a county council magazine as a reporter – alright a bit of a comedown from the heady days of national broadsheet journalism but I was rebuilding a whole life and had to start somewhere.

In the next few weeks I stayed at a B and B, put an offer in on a house, moved into my office and before I knew it the winter had passed and I was planning a series of spring interviews with unusual people in the more rural parts of the county. All of this and not one thought about SM had entered my head. I swear it! Some men had entered my life and entered the usual places in the course of so doing but not once had I missed being restrained or punished. The very idea of allowing myself to be punished seemed ridiculous and abhorrent. And in any case I wasn’t in the mood for long term relationships, so the men moved on.

In April I bought a little car which I charged my employers to run when on business and on only its second long journey I took it up into the dales to interview a freelance designer and illustrator. He lived in an unremarkable little house about a quarter of a mile outside a lovely village. 

I parked outside and clip clopped in my business-like court shoes to the wooden front door and knocked. It was opened by a tall man with dark, rather unfashionably curly hair. He was casually dressed in an open necked shirt which hung outside his jeans and his feet were bare.

“Hi, I’m Geoff Shotton,” he said in a deep and friendly voice, holding out his hand. The voice sent icy chills down my spine. They hit the bottom and rocketed back up to my heart, which immediately began to pound.

“Emma Stewart,” I managed to reply, grasping his hand and shaking it. His skin was dry and warm, his grip firm. He squeezed my hand for what I thought was a fraction of a second longer than was strictly called for and I was straightaway plunged into a dilemma. Did Geoff Shotton fancy me as much as I fancied him? Had I imagined the prolonged handshake?

I looked him in the eye and plainly saw that he was studying me as intently as I was him. For the first time in a very long while I was hooked. And as I stepped over the threshold I knew that he would start trying to reel me in. If he didn’t I was going to stamp my feet and cry until he did!

Geoff was not only sex on a stick with that rich-as-treacle voice and lean, tall figure, he was a joy to interview – and somehow I managed to keep concentrating long enough to do that. He talked easily about himself and his work without sounding arrogant and self-absorbed. He gave me a smattering of amusing anecdotes as well and I loved the laughter lines around his dark eyes as he recounted adventures in the advertising world.

When I had all the material I needed I packed away, uncomfortable in the knowledge that if he didn’t make a move, I would have to. My smart business suit felt suddenly tight and constricting, the skirt stretched tight across my thighs, the jacket felt cumbersome over my sweater.

“If you haven’t got to rush back, I’d like to buy you lunch down at the pub. They do quite good food.”

Thank God! He’d made the first move. It’s so much easier for a girl to encourage a man along if he’s moved first.

“I need to make a couple of calls to rearrange things but it’s nothing that’ll cause any problems.” There, that told him I was attracted enough to make my day fit his but I wasn’t throwing my knickers in the air just yet.


In fact I did need to make a couple of calls as we ambled into the village but the meal was good and talk flowed easily – work, personal history, where we both came from etc. etc. We sat at a small table by an inglenook and it was impossible to prevent our knees from making contact underneath it from time to time. I was bare legged and even the feel of his trousers against my skin had an almost electric shock type of effect on me.

We slept together for the first time a week later. He got a taxi into town and we met for dinner. I had taken a taxi to the restaurant as well so the wine and talk flowed until we went back to my place. That time there was no pretence about contact beneath the table. I am vain enough to believe that I have pretty good legs and had worn a skirt as short as I thought I could get away with without making him think he was taking a tart out to dinner. Again I was bare legged and as soon as I could I had shaken my high-heeled sandal off and was rubbing my foot languorously up and down his leg. He calmly got on with ordering the meal until the waiter had gone and then took me to task for being a forward hussy – as he put it.

He actually looked quite serious when he said it and suddenly I realised that it was so long since I had been in this position I would have to be careful not to be too blatant. I had been owned for so long that I had got used to being taken by men – and women – used and set aside. I had loved it at the time, but now I really wanted the whole seduction bit. I backed off and enjoyed the disappointment I saw on his face.

He rallied pretty soon and obviously decided that I was worth the work. That in itself is quite a turn on for a girl. He amused me with more stories, he sought my opinions on matters of everything from politics to the current state of the economy and even seemed genuinely interested in my mind.

It was clearly time to play footsie again, just in case he had forgotten my body.

I needn’t have worried. He waited till my foot was up by his knee and then reached under the table to grab it. I gave a stifled yelp and then giggled helplessly as he began to stroke and tickle it.

“You have gorgeous legs, Emma,” he whispered. “I’ll just have to play with this end until I can get close to the other end.”

It was as if someone had flicked a switch. I just went from flirty to deadly serious sex-hungry in an instant.

I looked into his eyes, feeling the heat smouldering in my belly. “I want you to do that as soon as possible,” I told him.

The bill was paid, the taxi called and taken and in the back we were necking like a couple of school kids. Tonsil hockey was the game of choice while our hands got down to finding out if the goods we had suspected were on offer were as enticing as we thought. Careless of the driver I parted my legs so Geoff’s could get between them, I put both my arms round his neck so I wouldn’t hinder his exploration of my breasts. At least I did until he breathed in my ear that they were exactly the size he liked and were beautifully soft. Then one arm immediately trailed down across his chest and I heard him laugh softly as he felt my hand discover the long, hard ridge in his trousers.

“Big, but definitely not soft,” I told him.

“Do you think it’ll fill you okay?”

“If you reach a bit further up under my skirt, you’ll be able to tell me.”

We both laughed as the driver coughed self-consciously.

“You’re a bad girl, Emma,” he whispered as we pulled apart a little.

“You have no idea,” I whispered back.

As it turned out, neither of us had the faintest idea.


We didn’t even bother with coffee. It was just straight into the bedroom, a tussle to get our own clothes off and undress the other and then there was that glorious moment when you’re both suddenly naked. All the preliminaries are done with and now you can get down to the main event. I remember panting fiercely from exertion, my breasts pressed against his chest, both hands folded firmly around his stiff cock. It was ages since I had held one – well it felt like ages. In fact it was probably only a matter of weeks since my last fuck but when you’ve been an owned sex slave and subject to almost constant use, a few weeks is a long time.

It was wonderful to have that soft-skinned hardness between my palms, to know that I was wet and open for it.

“I think,” I managed between panting breaths, “I think the bit you wanted to play with earlier…….is ready for you.”

He grinned and dived his own hand down between us. His fingers and palm slid hard across my throbbing clitoris and then he was under me. Another second and his fingers had claimed me. That’s how it always feels to me. Once a man has his hand inside me, it’s as if he’s staking a claim. This body belongs to me now. I’ve got inside her house, her bedroom and her knickers, now I’m inside her and she’s mine till I say otherwise.

It was heaven to feel once more how a man’s fingers clench and twist, how they rub against the walls of the vagina itself. I groaned in absolute delight and rolled onto my back, shamelessly pulling him onto me, guiding the thick pole of his cock into my pussy, his recently withdrawn fingers, still wet with my own juice began to massage my breasts as I steered him safely into dock and then reached behind him to grasp his tight, muscular buttocks.

That first fuck – and I know what I mean, it wasn’t making love, it was a good old fashioned fuck – was a hurried and nicely violent race for pleasure. Each of us was seeking release via the other’s body. Consideration could come later. We bucked and thrashed against each other. I slammed upwards with my hips to meet his every lunge. The rasps against my clit were so sharply exquisite they were almost pain as he thrust and thrust again, his shaft beginning to rub the G spot, making eruption a frustratingly distant certainty. Grimacing madly, I threw myself into pursuing it. Geoff did the same. Our eyes locked and we almost seemed to be trying to hurt each other with the strength of our coming together at each stroke. He got there first but didn’t stop pumping until I had shattered into a million pieces and was lying trembling and limp under him.

Much later we had coffee, naked in the lounge and cuddled together. Then we went back to bed and made love. Then we had some more coffee and this time we lay on the carpet and treated ourselves to a sixty-nine. Since my return from France I had reacquainted myself with the pleasures of being orally stimulated by a man and Geoff was good. He didn’t mind getting his tongue deep inside, his head right between my legs until his breath was tickling my anus. For my part I was getting acquainted with the cock which had just taken me to the stars and back; twice. It was a lovely one, quite thick and of a fair length and with that interesting curve back towards its owner’s stomach. I polished the helm lovingly with my tongue when I could concentrate in between bursts of bright ecstasy when he applied his tongue to my clit in long rasping licks and then teasing flicks.

Eventually he surfaced long enough to tell me that I was one of the juiciest girls he had ever tasted. It was time I tasted him properly and rolled him onto his back so I could hold his shaft upright and get some real good long sucks at him. I was quite smug when after only a few of them I heard him give a little gasp. In my mouth and between my fingers I felt the tell tale swelling and then he was bucking and roaring in delight as his sperm splashed out in thick, sour, salty gobbets. I rode his thrusts and swallowed with practised ease – if they aren’t holding your head down like dominants do when they mouthfuck you, it’s not too hard. Actually he didn’t taste half as bad as some I’ve had. But it’s not the taste that matters to me, it’s the fact that you’re letting him enjoy a bit of you that a cock isn’t really designed for.

I suppose that even in straight sex I manage to find some submissiveness in it!

Anyway, at last we slept and in the morning the sex was even better; slower, sleepy and very, very nice.


We took my car and went shopping once we had decided that he was staying for the weekend. I was blissfully happy and we ambled around the store arguing about what we would eat and stealing kisses like a couple of moonstruck kids – or so I thought.

In one aisle we had stopped to purchase breakfast things and discuss preferences when suddenly he put an arm round my shoulders, drew me to him and kissed me so hard I went dizzy and my knees went weak. When he released me I stared up at him puzzled at his sudden vehemence.

“Take your knickers off, Emma. Your cunt should be naked under your skirt.”

His eyes were steady and relentless, his manner suddenly, frighteningly intense. I was confused and could only think of the, “someone will see me,” excuse, rather than the, “who the fuck do you think you are, Buster!” type response. The truth was that it was the first time since I had been home that someone had given me an order and instinctively I had reverted to accepting that he could order me. For a second we locked gazes then a family with two small kids came round the corner.

“I can’t. Not here!” I said, blushing and confused.

He smiled again and the tension went out of the situation, but we were both subdued. I couldn’t get it out of my head that for a split second I had really, really wanted to find the courage to obey him.

Once we had paid and loaded the car, I threw him the keys and slipped into the passenger seat. I had on a white cotton, peasant skirt, about knee length and it took some lifting so that I could get a grip on my thong and wrench it down off one hip, then the other and finally work it down my thighs, over my knees until at last, triumphantly, I could show it to him.

“Good girl,” he said, smiling again and putting his hand on my bare knee.

That hit me like a sledge hammer. The calm, deliberate patronisation of that phrase is guaranteed to have me squirming with subby pleasure. I love being a man’s ‘good girl’. I always loved it when my masters uttered the phrase, even if it was when I was hung up by my wrists and had been flogged raw. I had taken it well. I was a good girl!

And now, here in a supermarket car park I was suddenly pulsing and throbbing with heat in my naked loins as a man I had thought was simply a superb shag had uncannily known how to make me instantly wet.

Masochism was back in my life. Big time. 

“I think I’ll drive us back to my place and then we’ll have lunch out.”

“No,” I muttered. “Stuff frozen. It’ll spoil. Put it away first, then your place.” I clung to the mundane frantically while my world suddenly reorientated itself.

He helped me in with the bags and then leaned quietly against a work surface while I unloaded everything, crouching to pack the fridge and feeling my nakedness more and more keenly with every moment, until I was sure I was leaking onto my upper thighs. At last all was done and I turned to face him.

“Come here, Emma,” he said. I went to him, calmly expecting another order and in due course getting it.

“Open your legs and raise your skirt.”

I straddled my legs, knowing full well that he wanted to get his hand up into me and being determined to give him easy access. At my thighs, my fingers began to fumble the light, puffy fabric upwards. It was lovely to feel the caress of it as it slowly exposed the smooth skin of my thighs to whoever wanted to see them. It had been a long time since I had obeyed an order to expose myself and I loved it.

As soon as I had the skirt bunched around my hips, Geoff reached out to feel me and although I made no move to stop him and just breathed out in a long sigh of pleasure as I felt him enter me, I did manage to voice the thought that had been bothering me ever since the supermarket.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Little things. Plain enough if you know what you’re looking for.”

“And you do?”

“Oh yes. SM’s been my main pursuit in life for years. You know when you were on top of me last night?”

I could only nod, his fingers were working steadily and remorselessly inside me.

“You didn’t want me to stroke or caress your tits. You wanted me to hurt them, you leaned in harder the more I pinched and twisted your nipples. And you didn’t just give me a superb blow job, you made sure I could see you doing it. Someone had trained you to know what a master expects. Now go and bend over the table, I need to fuck you.”

He took his fingers out and still holding my skirt up I went over to the small breakfast table and bent forwards, still making sure I kept my bottom visibly naked as I laid my torso down and waited for him to penetrate me. He was pretty well straight in and thrusting before I’d fully adjusted to his size again. It was a breathless rush as he set about fucking me purely for his own pleasure. And even if I didn’t come before he had finished, I knew I would masochistically revel in the fact that he had used me. In the event we came pretty well simultaneously and without a shadow of a doubt I was back where I belonged; firmly under the control of a master.


After lunch, Geoff didn’t take me to his place, he took me to see a friend of his in a nearby town. He lived in an outwardly ordinary semi, but once Geoff had phoned ahead on his mobile, he was ready to show us his garden shed. He was a leather craftsman of a very high standard and the shed was lined with racks of tools and the benches were strewn with collars and straps in the process of being studded, whips in the process of having lashes plaited, wooden whip handles being carefully carved into phallic shapes. The whole place reeked of that wonderful new leather smell and after I had been there for a while, probably of my growing excitement as well. Geoff wanted me fitted with collar and cuffs.

“I’ve got pretty well all I need in the way of whips and so forth. But each sub should have her own collar and restraints.”

It was the first time I had ever been involved with choosing my own slave gear and I loved trying on a bewildering variety of collars; D rings, O rings, double stud rows, single stud row, no studs or a mixture of spikes and studs. Plain black leather, tooled leather, collars with laces and straps, high collars, thin ones like chokers; I tried one on after another while the men calmly and openly discussed how I looked and Geoff decided where he would want the rings as he determined how he was likely to want me restrained.

Bob, the leather maker, a genial bear of a man was accompanied by his wife who smiled and winked at me conspiratorially as the men discussed the pros and cons of a slave with her wrists clipped to the front of her collar as opposed to one with them raised and clipped to the back.

“I’ll definitely need a ring at the back,” Geoff said finally. “Their backs look wonderful with the arms drawn up, ready for the whip.” He ran a hand down my spine and made me shiver.

At last everyone – me included - settled on a fairly wide one which actually widened still more under the chin, where it had an O ring, and made me feel very controlled, with a single line of studs running around it and a D ring at the back. Wrist restraints were easy. Geoff wanted heavy duty ones with tough buckles.

“She’s got delicate wrists and thick leather looks best on that sort,” he said.

Eventually Geoff paid and with me clutching the bag of purchases we left the house.

“Now we need the pet shop,” he announced back in the car.

“What?” I squeaked. This was a new one on me.

Geoff just grinned and drove further into town before parking up again. Dragging me a little fearfully by one hand, he took me in and began searching through leashes.

“I want a good sturdy one with a leather loop,” he said as we stood before the rack, making no special effort to whisper. “That way I can whip you on the spot if you don’t obey me properly.”

I didn’t dare look to see if anyone had heard, just pressed closer to him until he chose one.

“Now your feeding bowl, my girl,” he said cheerfully and smacked my bottom affectionately. We made our way over to the section of the shop that had dog bowls and there I found my nightmare. The woman behind the counter was glaring at me, plainly having heard what Geoff had said. I tried a smile but she just sneered back. Strangely enough she didn’t seem to be bothered about Geoff, just me!

Back in the car with me nearly in tears of shame he explained that he liked his slaves to be pets when they weren’t serving him sexually or being disciplined.

Once I had got over my mortification I found that I quite liked the idea of being a pet – a sort of dog-girl – I supposed. It was something new, all my previous dominants had concentrated on using me as a submissive woman; the idea of playing at not even being a woman at all, had me quite damp between the legs by the time we got back to my place.

I had to wait till the next morning, a Sunday, before he collared me and introduced me to my lead. I learned the simple commands he expected me to obey and was fed chocolate when I displayed proper obedience and had to kneel up to have my nipples thrashed by the loop of the lead when I was bad.

I learned to ‘Heel’, which was to crawl beside him carefully, trying to anticipate when he would want to turn a corner and failing regularly! ‘Sit’ was okay – kneeling back on my heels - but I had to remember that it was the only position in which I was allowed to look at his face as from that position he might want me to stand or present myself as a human slave. Then there was ‘Stay’; easy enough – I had long since learned the patience of a slave! – ‘Kneel’ was my favourite though. That was when I was required to kneel at his feet with my legs folded to one side. That position that only a woman can adopt with any grace or comfort.

In the months that followed I learned that I was allowed to cuddle up to his leg in that position while he worked or talked on the phone and he would reach down to stroke my hair or breasts. On that Sunday, I also learned that when I was collared, I was to be tied to a leg of the table at meal times and fed scraps. Afterwards I would be fed human food but out of my bowl. Geoff turned out to be quite capable of cooking and I rather enjoyed being at the ‘Kneel’ position and watching my new master cook for us both. I even thought to whine a bit when he seemed to be ignoring me. He laughed at that, told me I was a good dog and played with my tits till I was shamelessly juicing and mutely begging with my legs spread wide open. He bent down and stroked me for a while before allowing me to stand. Then he had me over the table again. I was to find that the only times I got near a table when collared were to kneel beside a leg and wait, or to bend over the top of the table to be fucked or beaten.