Bitter Ashes--Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

By Slave Eric

I should know better by now. I've seen Mistress Sayako several times, and I know the drill. Maybe it's my shyness or modesty, or the last vestiges of pride asserting themselves or maybe it's just my secret desire to be punished. But for some reason I'd neglected to strip. Yes, I really should know better than to try to play juvenile games or engage in battles of the will I lose every time.

Mistress Sayako strode into the room, glanced at me in my street clothes.

"Why aren't you exposed for your mistress? Are you daft? How dare you!"

I began to stammer a lame excuse, but she stopped me in my tracks.

"You have exactly 30 seconds to strip and make yourself presentable for your mistress."

She turned her back on me and stormed over to her chair.

I quickly undressed, and trotted over to her side. I knew I had to atone for this transgression, and dropped immediately to my hands and knees. I stared at the ground, waiting for permission to gaze upon my divine mistress.

"That's better. At least you know not to cast your eyes upon me without my express command. And you know too that once you see me, you're not to remove your eyes from my form for even a second."

I knelt, practically vibrating with anticipation.

"Eyes up."

She wore that latex, Oriental-inspired mini-dress I adore. (you guys know the one I'm talking about!) and black thigh high boots. She uncrossed her long, sculpted legs, crossed them again. The shiny latex glimmered in the soft light of the dungeon. She sat in icy silence while I continued to kneel in mute adoration. Each time she moved the latex squeaked and rustled. Is it possible to eroticize the sensation of sound? I know that with each faint sound of the latex, my cock grew harder and harder. The anticipation was unbearable.

She reached over to the table by her side, picked up a brand new pack of Long and thin Virgina Slim 120. She tore the cellophane from the box, and the crumpling sound reminded me of the swish of her latex. She tossed it to her side, and removed the slender cigarette. She placed it so disdainfully to her lips, then glared down at me in bitter impatience.

"Well?"

I was struck with the realization of my incompetence. Muttering apologies, I practically fell over myself racing over to my trousers.

I returned to my place and offered my vintage lighter. I love the decisive click as the lid snaps open, the flick of the mechanism as it ignites the flame, and the sudden smell of butane that lingers in the air a moment. I held the blue flame up for her.

As though in slo-mo I watched her red lips part to accept the cigarette. She dragged deeply, practically destroying the cigarette with her arrogantly curled lips. I watched the smoke curl and plume to the ceiling, then trail off into nothingness just like her memories of me would vanish into oblivion after our session.

"Head up!"

I stretched my back, knelt at attention while she slapped a heavy leather collar around my neck,. She clamped down hard on the cigarette, freeing her hands, and yanked decisively on the leash to pull my face close to hers.

I coughed and choked as the first blast of smoke hit my nostrils. I gathered my composure and prepared myself for another. I wanted to be able to greedily inhale the waste from her cigarette the next time it issued from her mouth.

We were frozen in silence for long minutes as she smoked contentedly. In the dim light of the dungeon, the ember of the cigarette flared and vanished, flared and vanish. Whenever she removed the cigarette I noticed a trace of lipstick on the butt. I was utterly absorbed in the ritual of this act.

A long ash formed on the end of the cigarette. I knew what would come next.

Another hard jerk on my chain and I was back at attention. Mistress Sayako distractedly placed the Virgina in the "V" of her talon-like fingers, removed it from her mouth. She raised an eyebrow. It was all the instruction I needed, and she knew it. I spread my lips, extended my tongue, and the ash fell heavily, bitterly, between my lips.

She casually resumed smoking as I withdrew my now filthy tongue, swallowed. I wondered how I'd explain the taste to my wife. But then the thought vanished. It's hard for the mind to wander when you're in the presence of divinity.

Between each slow and careful puff, Mistress Sayako began to speak. She never raised her voice, never became hysterical. She was composed, confident that I'd linger on each word.

"Now, what are we going to do about the woeful progress of your training?"

She took a deep drag. I replied that we'd do whatever she saw fit.

"Were you intentionally trying to provoke my wrath by appearing clothed before me?"

She exhaled and blew a cloud of smoke into my face. I apologized profusely for my behavior, and said that I'd deserve whatever I got.

"I've been very patient with you until now. But I see that that was a mistake. You apparently require a much firmer hand."

She inhaled the smoke into her lungs, and I asked her to do with me as she saw fit.

"You're damn right I will!"

She pulled hard on the leash, causing my entire body to tumble forward. She stretched her arm and placed the butt above my mouth. I swallowed the last traces of ash.

She uncrossed those marvelous legs and without another word strode across the room with me in tow.

Unfastening the leash, she deftly bound me in cotton rope. How quickly one can lose their freedom at the hands of Mistress Sayako! I felt like a mummy, completely encased in a treacherous network of knots and bindings. Absolutely immobile, I was shoved to the ground by the sharp point of her heel.

Believe me, I will never, ever make the mistake of leaving my clothes on in front of Mistress Sayako. The welts raised on my ass that day insure that. Days later, sitting at my chair in my office, I can barely concentrate on the papers in front of me as my behind still burns from the lesson I was given.

I've felt the wrath of her paddle, her whip, and her hand. But that day her instrument of torture was a riding crop. It allowed her to work close to her target, to concentrate on the object at hand.

By the time it was over, I'd begged, I'd cried, I'd impotently tried to squirm out of the prison of the ropes. To no avail.

As I lay gasping for breath, she rose, and stood before me, a cigarette held insolently between her lips.

"You may now display your contrition by cleaning my boots with your tongue."

I flicked my tongue over the shiny surface of the boots, licked and kissed until my tongue was dry as the bitter ashes of her cigarette.

End