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from his pocket. It wasn’t until that
moment that I’d realized all we’d done was talk about the collar.
    “As I was saying, a permanent collar isn’t a physical thing,
though it can be. To be collared is to give up all control.”
    I opened my mouth to ask something, but remembered my orders
and pressed my lips together.
    “Very good, Leona, but I’m curious to hear what you were
about to say.” He slid the collar around my neck, buckling it in place. “You
may speak freely until I say otherwise.”
    The weight against my neck was unfamiliar and almost
frightening. “Thank you, Master Clay. The collar is when a sub becomes a
slave?”
    He tipped his head to the side, seeming to consider my
question. Rather than answer, he went to the cupboard. When he came back his
hands were empty, but his left pocket budged slightly.
    “Slavery as opposed to submission can mean many things. A
collared submissive is not necessarily a slave. While a submissive gives
herself to a Dom when she is collared she may have hard limits that her Dom
would not cross. I had a lovely sub named July who wore my collar for a few
years.
    “July enjoyed public spectacle and being shared pushed her
deep into sub space, though she did not necessarily enjoy it. Once she was
collared I shared her regularly. I knew it was not a hard limit for her, though
it was not something I would have done if we were merely playing. Do you
understand?”
    “But…did she like it?”
    “Like?” Master Clay raised one eyebrow. “I liked it, and she
was serving me.”
    The reprimand was clear in his words. I dropped my gaze,
embarrassment heating my cheeks.
    “A slave is often a woman who enjoys degradation play. I do
not. So often slave girls are a dirty mess. I don’t enjoy that aesthetic.”
    I was still pondering what he’d said when Master Clay took a
small white object from his pocket.
    “Do you know what this is, Leona?”
    I looked at it—the size and shape of a large egg with a wire
coming out of one end.
    “No, Master.”
    “This is an egg.”
    “A chicken egg?” The question popped out of my mouth before
I had time to censor it.
    Master Clay laughed—a short, barking sound. “No. It’s called
an egg due to its shape. This one vibrates.” He held up a little box connected
to the egg by a wire. When he flicked it on I heard the hum of vibration.
    “The egg goes in your vagina. The vibration will be enough
stimulation to keep and heighten your arousal, but not allow you to come.”
    My whole world had shrunk until it was nothing but his
words, his mastery.
    “I will spend some time inspecting your body. I may choose
to use you or I may choose to test some of your pain limits. The egg ensures
that you will not pull away. Arousal is a drug, perhaps the most dangerous one.
It inhibits the self-protective instincts, decreases inhibition and makes a sub
easier to control.”
    I wanted to push back on his words, wanted to say that he
was wrong, that I was more than that, that I wasn’t so easy to control. But I
was afraid he was right. Even now I was aware that if my body hadn’t been
pulsing with need I would have been disgusted by his casual arrogance and
dismissal of me and my self-possession.
    That part of me was gone. No, not gone. Lying dormant until
I’d satisfied my submissive.
    Master Clay rubbed the blunt tip of the egg over my lower
belly, then slid it down my pussy lips. I strained to lift my hips, to fuck
myself on the toy, but the restraints didn’t allow me to move.
    I moaned as he pressed the egg up into my body. The fullness
felt good—it was a tease of what I really wanted, which was to be fucked. I’d
never craved a man’s cock pounding into me. I craved kissing and fingers and
lips on my clit. Usually after foreplay I lost interest, but right now I knew
that if Master Clay fucked me I would feel something I never had before.
    “What a lovely reaction.” Master Clay flicked the vibration
on and deep inside me the egg