The Path to Her

Chapter Fifteen

I was waiting on my pillow, kneeling. I was blindfolded with a silk scarf, snug enough to truly be unable to see. Otherwise, I was left unbound, in nothing but an open silk robe and a matching silk scarf. Dahlia had arranged it so that it didn't flatten my curls, which she had styled herself with great care earlier.

I did not know what I was waiting for. I just knew I was positioned on my pillow, which I could tell after being blindfolded had been moved away from the side of the bed to the middle of the room...in front of that damn mirror.

I knew my place, and I stayed in it. I had been taught well. Dahlia was hardly having to punish me now, and praised me more often than she had before. She was always the most gentle at night, but oddly, she had been gentle all day, readying me for something I was oblivious of.

The room had been cleaned and the bed turned down by the slaves my mistress had bought to serve me, and though I was curious, I knew better than to ask questions.

The door opened, and snicked closed. There was a presence in the room. Dahlia?

No. Dahlia's pace and step was different. And—the smell. I knew Dahla's scent. She wore the fragrance of her namesake flower—all Trainers did—but this new person smelled so different. This was a musky scent that perked my interest because I could sense her pheromones. It was a delicious and carnal scent that made me sniff the air with delight. The scent was heady and intoxicating.

Fingertips grazed my shoulder, and as this woman walked around me, she trailed her touch around my shoulders and to my collarbone, then to my throat and jaw line. She tilted up my chin, and stroked my cheek with the backs of her fingers. I leaned into her touch, needing that sweetness.

Her cradling was sweet. Her thumb brushed my cheek with an extra stroke or two. But it left, and I breathed in sharply with its exit.

Her touch returned as it tugged down my silk robe. It was pulled away, leaving me bare and vulnerable.

I felt her touch on my collar, tugging affectionately on the middle ring. Her fingertips strayed lower, and I felt her hands on my breasts, cradling them, weighing them. Again, I leaned into her touch. There was something about the way she touched me that was different than Dahlia—different than the Trainers entirely.

Her touch was possessive.

She pulled me into her, and I could tell she was also nude, for I was pinned against her soft belly and could feel the soft down of her sex against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tightly, breathing in her scent, rubbing my face into her belly. She laid a hand on my head and held me here for a moment.

I never heard her speak. She ran her hands across all of me, leaving no inch untouched. When she softly tapped my thigh, I spread my legs, knowing what she wanted. She stroked my inner thighs, then her fingertips met my clit. She massaged me here, and I gasped happily.

Her roving hand felt me over, and once she had gotten me slick and hot, she slid two fingers into me and, curiously, she touched me the same way Dahlia had so long ago, on that faraway first day I was here. She touched me to learn me, to know me.

I bucked my hips against her hand, showing her my eagerness, but I was careful not to cum without consent. I yearned to show that I was ready.

She allowed this for a time, rubbing me in that secret spot within. These little circles were heavenly. But it did not last long. Her hand gently slid free of me, and I heard the sound of slurping. She was tasting me.

I shuddered in pleasure, my nipples hard little points.

She held me to her, letting me pant against her belly. I wanted to pleasure her, too, but when I reached to touch her, she softly put my arms back by my sides, with the gentlest of touches. I felt her body seize up a bit, and she gasped. She brushed her hips against me, and cradled the back of my head. I understood immediately, knelt a little lower, wrapped my arms around her, and pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss around her clit.

She moaned in a way that made me work hard to build her pleasure. And she tasted divine. Like I was made for her. I loved nursing at her clit, it felt carnal and I attacked her sex with eagerness and glee. I slurped noisily at her, and she groaned in a guttural manner, her sounds growing more needy as I worked. She bucked her hips against me and I slid my hot tongue flat against her, lapping at her, and when she came, I licked up every last drop. I licked her clean, and she let me, sighing softly.

I hugged her, panting with effort, and she cradled the back of my head. I felt her move, and I released her. She pulled over a stool—I could her her dragging it over. She sat. I felt her stroke my curls, then her hand took my face and guided it. When her lips met mine, I kissed her back passionately, and our arms wrapped around each other, needful.

I felt her breasts pressed against me. Her weight was comforting. Her scent was intoxicating.

When she let go of me, I sighed, and she pressed one more kiss to my forehead. Then, I felt her stand. She laid a hand on the back of my head, and I reached for her. She let me hold her for a moment.

Then, she left. The door opened and shut. The moment was over.

I let out a long, shivering exhale. That was an incredible experience. I sat back against my heels, unable to stay kneeling. My head was reeling with what I had just felt.

I realized there was something wet on my chest. Curiously, I swiped it from my skin. It smelled and tasted familiar.

I knew immediately what it was. This was the milk of my mistress's breast.

I had just met my mistress and owner for the first time.