How had I ended up here? The thought flickered briefly before the whip cracked again, the sharp sound slicing through the tension like a blade. Two more strikes followed, rhythmic and deliberate, before intrusive thoughts began to creep in. Adam whimpered softly, and a fleeting urge to check on him stirred within me. But something darker, deeper, held me captive—a force I didn’t fully understand.
The rain outside was relentless, a fitting backdrop to this electric scene.
“Perhaps you should stop, Master Liz?” The voice came from the leather sofa a few steps away, soft yet daring. Alice. Her silhouette barely shifted as she spoke.
I exhaled through my mouth, my breath heavy, deliberate. My hands throbbed, already promising bruises for tomorrow, but I welcomed the ache. Adam knelt before me, arms outstretched like a penitent offering, wrists bound to the bookshelf behind him. His head hung low, his back a masterpiece of crimson lines—a canvas of my making.
I had met Adam through a mutual friend. His beauty was mesmerizing, a juxtaposition of delicate femininity and raw masculinity, as though carved by an artist who had fallen in love with both. He reminded me of Dorian Gray, a thought we had bonded over during a gathering of Nous. The memory of that night lingered: my offer to paint his portrait, his eager acceptance, and the invitation to his family’s brownstone—a sanctuary of books and decadence on the Upper West Side.
Adam was young but carried the confidence of success, his achievements understated yet undeniable. Our connection was intoxicating, and as we discovered, mutually dangerous. Adam was a masochist, unapologetically aware of his desires. I, on the other hand, had stumbled into the revelation of my own sadistic inclinations. Together, we had decided to explore the edges of our limits, slowly, deliberately.
He was barely six feet tall, with the kind of jawline that made me weak for younger men—those untouched by time’s rough hand. Twenty-six: the age I had come to favor, where men stood at the precipice of maturity yet still craved the nurturing and discipline I relished in giving. I wanted to protect, to refine, to punish—and in return, I wanted to be worshipped. A mother is God in the eyes of her child, after all. Or the devil. I aimed to be the kind of mother men loved—and hated to love.
“Alice,” I said, my tone sharp as a blade. “Last I checked, you weren’t supposed to speak. You’re an observer.”
She lowered her head, a flicker of submission in her posture. “Yes, Master Liz.”
I turned my attention back to Adam. The sight of his pale skin, slick with sweat, against the deep red welts I had left was intoxicating. His body was a symphony of contrasts—delicate veins visible beneath porcelain skin, a stark counterpoint to my own tanned complexion. I savored the way we looked together, predator and prey, his scent stirring something primal in me.
The sound of my leather boots against the hardwood floor reverberated through the room as I approached him, each step deliberate, each echo a reminder of my power. He lifted his face at my command, his green eyes searching mine.
“What’s your safe word, darling?” I asked, gripping his chin, my voice dripping with authority.
“Prusia,” he murmured, his lips trembling with the effort to contain his arousal.
“Do you want to use it?” My tone was a mix of taunting and care, my smile a devilish promise.
He shook his head, tightening his lips into a smirk that could have belonged to a fallen prince. His defiance was delicious.
I glanced at Alice, her eyes downcast. “I hope that puts you at ease.” Without waiting for a reply, I stretched languidly, the whip falling from my hand to the floor. My finger beckoned her forward.
“Crawl.”
She obeyed, her movements slow, deliberate. Kneeling behind Adam, she waited for my next command.
“Lick his wounds. Slowly.”
Her smile widened, and like the obedient kitten she was, her tongue traced the marks on his back. Adam hissed, his pleasure unmistakable. I stood before him, reveling in his reaction, in the dynamic we had built—a balance of power and vulnerability that left us both exposed in the best possible way.
“Leave us,” I commanded Alice, and she slipped away without a word, the door closing softly behind her.
I untied Adam with care, helping him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and I guided him to the sofa. The collar around his neck bore no leash, but the unspoken connection between us rendered it unnecessary.
“Clean my sweat,” I said, handing him the shirt he had removed earlier in the session.
He took it, reverently wiping my chest, my neck, and finally my forehead. His lips parted as he worked, his breath warm against my skin. “I want to taste you,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble.
“Go ahead.”
What he did next caught me off guard. He brought the damp shirt to his mouth, sucking on the fabric with an intensity that made my pulse race. Desire surged through me, hot and undeniable, but I forced myself to remain composed.
“Head on my lap, facing up.”
He obeyed, his golden hair a damp, silken halo. I stroked his head, savoring the contrast of my control and his surrender.
“Open your mouth,” I said, holding a bottle of water. He complied without hesitation. I let a few drops fall into his mouth before leaning forward and spitting gently, deliberately. His eyes gleamed with reverence, his gratitude almost palpable.
“More?” I asked, and he nodded eagerly.
We shared a smile, and for a moment, the dynamic between us softened. But only for a moment.
“You don’t have to be gentle with me, Master,” he whispered, his voice trembling with need.
I caressed his face, my fingers brushing his lips before slipping into his mouth. He moaned, the sound a symphony of submission that echoed in my soul.
I pushed my fingers in and out of his mouth, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his lips clung to me with each movement. His saliva built up, dripping down his chin, a visible testament to his surrender. My eyes flicked downward, catching the strain of his arousal pressing against his Tommy boxers, the sight both enticing and satisfying. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a high-end commercial—too perfect, too polished, yet utterly undone beneath my touch.
When I finally pulled my fingers from his mouth, a string of saliva followed, breaking as he gasped for air. “Thank you, Master,” he whispered, his voice raw and breathless. I allowed myself the barest nod of approval before rising gracefully, leaving him kneeling as I strode toward the wooden table where the charcuterie sat untouched.
My fingers danced over the offerings before selecting a few macarons, their delicate shells crumbling at the edges. Sweet indulgences—one of my favorite treats. I placed them on a small plate and returned to Adam, his eyes tracking me with a mixture of reverence and longing. I lowered myself onto his chest, feeling the warmth of his body beneath me, the hard lines of his torso a testament to a man who took care of himself without succumbing to vanity. He didn’t need to try; he was already perfect. Not that I would ever tell him, of course.
Crossing my legs with practiced elegance, I took a bite of the macaron, the sweetness melting on my tongue. I chewed slowly, deliberately, taking my time while Adam remained perfectly still beneath me, his breathing shallow but controlled. Minutes passed, a languid eternity, before I finally stood and gazed down at him.
“On your knees. Feed me,” I commanded, my voice cool and clipped.
Without hesitation, he obeyed, his movements fluid, almost reverent. As he held up another macaron, his hand trembled slightly, betraying his state of arousal. I leaned forward and took a deliberate bite, letting my teeth graze his fingers just enough to provoke a reaction. His sharp intake of breath was gratifying, his response immediate.
“You have such a pretty face,” I murmured, running a finger along his cheekbone. To my surprise, a faint blush spread across his cheeks, softening his sharp features.
“My mother thinks so,” he replied, his voice tinged with quiet humor.
I smiled, leaning closer, and he mirrored the expression—a rare moment of shared warmth in the midst of our game. “Well, I have an idea for the pretty boy with a silver platter,” I said, my voice laced with teasing promise.
Raising my skirt just enough to reveal my thighs encased in black nylons, I caught his attention, letting the absence of anything beneath the fabric speak volumes. With a simple motion of my hand, I beckoned him forward, guiding him with subtle gestures. He crawled toward me, obedient and eager, and I motioned for him to lay across my lap, his face pressed down, his body entirely at my mercy.
I moved slowly, savoring the power in the moment, as I slid his boxers down inch by inch, revealing his arousal. His length pressed against my nylon-clad thighs, the contrast of textures drawing a soft groan from him. I adjusted him slightly, trapping him between my legs, his desperation palpable.
“You will please yourself, Adam,” I said, my voice a velvet command. “Your body is speaking a language I know well. Use my thighs. Show me your devotion.”
He obeyed without hesitation, his hips moving against me in a rhythm that grew more frantic with each passing moment. The fabric of my nylons didn’t seem to hinder him—it only added to the delicious friction.
Out of nowhere, I raised my hand and brought it down on his bare skin, the sharp sound of the slap punctuating the silence. He gasped, his body jolting with the impact.
“Faster, Adam,” I demanded, my voice sharp with authority. “We don’t have all day, you filthy little thing.”
The sound of his labored breathing filled the room as he obeyed, his body moving with increasing urgency, each motion a testament to his surrender. I smirked, knowing he was entirely mine—his pleasure, his pain, his will.
As Adam pressed himself against my nylon-clad thighs, his breath quickened, each movement a combination of need and reverence. His arousal was palpable, a visceral energy that seemed to ripple through the air. The soft friction of the fabric against his skin was a tantalizing melody, one I controlled entirely. I felt the heat of him, the tension in his body as he surrendered himself to the moment.
The sound of my palm connecting with his flesh echoed in the room, a sharp punctuation to his soft moan. His body jerked instinctively, but he didn’t falter, didn’t dare disobey. I smacked him again, harder this time, and a flush crept up his neck, his skin a canvas for my control.
“You like that, don’t you?” I asked, leaning forward to trace a finger along the curve of his back. “The sting, the humiliation, the way I can reduce you to nothing and everything in the same breath.”
“Yes, Master,” he choked out, his voice heavy with desperation and desire. His movements against my thighs grew more frantic, his need driving him past the point of reason. I could feel his frustration, the raw vulnerability of a man unraveling at my command.
I leaned in closer, my breath hot against his ear. “Don’t you dare finish without permission.”
The warning sent a visible tremor through him, and he slowed, forcing himself back under my control. I smiled, pleased with his restraint, and allowed my hands to roam, trailing over his back, his shoulders, his flushed cheeks. The contrast of his pale skin against the nylons thrilled me, a visual reminder of the power dynamic between us.
“Good boy,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. The tenderness was deliberate, a calculated contrast to the sting of my earlier strikes. I wanted him on edge, teetering between pleasure and pain, never quite certain what would come next.
His breathing hitched as I reached between my thighs, gripping him firmly to still his movements. He whimpered, the sound guttural and raw, and I tightened my hold, savoring the way his body responded to my touch. “You’re mine, Adam,” I said, my voice dripping with authority. “Every part of you belongs to me.”
“Yes, Master,” he murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of his submission.
I released him abruptly, standing and leaving him on his knees, trembling and undone. Walking to the table, I picked up a crystal glass of water and sipped it slowly, deliberately. Adam remained in place, his head bowed, his body tense with anticipation.
When I returned, I stood before him, tilting his chin up with a single finger. “Look at me.”
His green eyes met mine, and I saw the storm of emotions swirling within him—desire, devotion, desperation. I ran my thumb across his bottom lip, smirking as he opened his mouth instinctively.
“Do you think you’ve earned the privilege to finish?” I asked, my tone light but teasing, knowing the question would unravel him further.
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but didn’t answer. Instead, he simply stared up at me, his silence an answer in itself.
I crouched down, my face mere inches from his, and whispered, “Then prove it to me.”
A sly smile curved his lips, and I knew this game was far from over.
Do you want to read the rest and the uncensored version? Head over to Master Liz's Patreon page. @noustheclub #noustheclub #noussociety
Copyright © 2024 by Master Liz
All rights reserved. No part of the publications, both photography and writings, created by Master Liz may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address provided by Master Liz.
The content within these publications is provided by Master Liz as the author and photographer and is intended for personal use only. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from Master Liz is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Master Liz with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
This disclaimer, along with the content provided within the publications, does not transfer any form of licence or ownership to the receiver or reader but merely provides the right for the consumption of the content as intended and permitted by the copyright and permissions stated herein.
Please note that the content herein is a work of creative expression by Master Liz and is protected under copyright law. All names, characters, photographs, and incidents portrayed in the publications are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Comentarios