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Of Canes and Men
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The Travellers
by Amanda Earl © 2005



Carleton folded his white Oxford shirt into the brown leather carry on bag, smoothed down his suit and left the apartment.

Michael spread Philadelphia cream cheese on Ritz crackers. It had to be Philadelphia. It had to be Ritz.

Richard called a taxi.

Marthe lay naked and star-shaped, her arms and legs chained to the bedposts. She lifted her head. It was 6:15 pm. Carleton would soon arrive.

Carleton Caruthers, age 46, plain brown hair, average height, found his seat on the Dash 8 plane. There was no one seated beside him, but if there had been, his neighbor would have described him as nondescript. His fellow passengers barely gave him a glance. He cracked his knuckles and waited for the plane to take off. Making a quick call, he verified that all was ready.

"She's in position? Good. And you have the crackers. I expect Richard to be waiting at the gate. He's on his way? Good. Please check on Marthe; make sure she isn't feeling any tingling in her fingers or toes. You remember the last time. Yes, you can put the bit gag in her mouth in about half an hour, undo her restraints and have her do some stretching for ten minutes minutes, then bind her once more. And have my cane resting at the foot of the bed, won't you, boy?"

He flagged down the flight attendant as she went by.

"Blanket, please," he said and watched her quickly move her eyes away from the obvious bulge in his pants.

"Yes, sir," she said as she reached up to the overhead compartment above him.

He admired her breasts straining against the blouse of the airline uniform. The buttons were, of course, done up all the way to the top. Tendrils of hair escaped from her chignon. He imagined she was quite a strumpet behind closed doors. He noted dark circles beneath smoky grey eyes as she gave him the blanket, pausing and looking down once more at his erection, but not looking away quickly this time. He did nothing to hide it. In another circumstance, he would have discovered the reasons for her troubled sleep and released all that internal turmoil on a hotel bed near the airport, with an improvised flogger and a towel in her mouth, to muffle her screams of ecstasy.

In whispered tones, she told him to fasten his seatbelt and shortly afterward the plane took off. Carleton removed the fat file in his bag and read for the entire journey. This was the dossier of his slaves' activities for the past two weeks, since the last time he'd visited. Yes, they'd obeyed the no sex for forty-eight hours before his arrival rule. Yes, they'd gone to the gym regularly, except Richard. Richard would have to be punished.

He glanced at the photos of the naked Marthe, her long black ponytail coiled above her head. Richard and Michael were flogging her regularly as he had ordered. Another photo showed bruises and red marks on her posterior. There was a note saying that she was no longer accepting nipple clamps. Something would have to be done about that. He thought of the ten wooden clothes pegs in his bag and imagined commanding Richard to place five on each breast, so that the nipples stood out for him, waiting to be flogged.

His cock was as hard as rock now. He breathed in sharply, enjoying the sensation of his cockhead poking through the tight white cotton of his briefs. If that stewardess were free and they were alone, he'd have her kneeling by now, taking the whole of it in her mouth, her hands bound together with a seatbelt.

The plane started its descent. He counted slowly, willing his erection to soften, and of course, it did. The stewardess came by to make sure seats were in an upright position and the table trays were closed. Her nostrils flared a bit as she looked down at him and then she patted him on the shoulder as women always did when they wanted what he, the small, non descript man unnoticed except by fellow journeyers, could provide. Yes, she was his for the taking, she was a traveller like the others, someone who needed to pass from the numb ordinary world into the realm of sensation, but he'd have to pass for now. Perhaps she'd be on duty on his return flight.

He thought of Marthe, waiting patiently in her bonds. Richard at the gate, Michael with his plate. Three travelers and he, their guide. Once again he would make them soar and sore. He laughed at the thought as he walked off the plane and into the gate.

*              *               *


The tall blond stood at the very front of the line to the gate, near the security checkpoint. It wouldn't do to keep Carleton waiting and he knew it. The limousine driver had been told to keep the engine running and the car warm. Richard waited to perform the ritual he knew Carleton would demand, even in public. He was nervous as he always was when he had to provide a demonstration of his servitude out in the open. His hands shook as he took a deep breath. He straightened his shoulders, which were hunched, as was his habit. He knew Carleton wouldn't like the fact that he wasn't going to the gym. He just wasn't as disciplined as the others. He knew he'd be punished. His cock stirred in his underwear-free slacks and he willed it down. Carleton would not want to be greeted with an erection that he, himself, hadn't directly had a hand in.

He watched Carleton stride down the hallway and took another deep breath to steady his heartbeat. In a few minutes, he'd have to do it. He looked around. No one was looking. It was time. He moved to one knee, hoping others would think he was just tying his shoe. He paused, taking a deep breath, his head down. The tile floor of the airport was hard on his hands as he spread his fingers wide.

Carleton's brown loafers and neat cuffs swayed into view. He felt a hand on his head and then the command, "Rise." He steadied himself and stood.

"At least you have that down, boy," Carleton said, as he tossed his bag to Richard. "I think you know there will be punishment tonight."

"Yes, sir," Richard said, his legs trembling as he escorted Carleton to the waiting limousine. He knew what was coming, but he wasn't so sure he could handle it. Carleton would not be lenient. His cock head pulsed at the thought.

*              *               *


In the limo, Carleton picked up the telephone and spoke with Michael while Richard took his position on the floor of the car, kneeling in front of Carleton. As Carleton spoke to Michael, he pulled down his zipper, took his cock out and pulled Richard's head onto it. This was routine, nothing more, nothing less. A slave's mouth should never be empty; a master's cock should never be without a home when a slave was around.

"Yes, Michael, insert the butt plug into your ass now. That's right, the five incher, the metal one. Make sure you put it in right up to the flange. I want that ass open and ready to take my cock. How is Marthe? Good. I want you lying beside her with your butt in the air when I get there, understood?"

Carleton hung up before hearing any answer, knowing it would be in the affirmative. He turned his attention to the expert ministrations of Richard on his cock. The slave was really a good cock sucker. He'd had to train him though. When he'd acquired Richard, the boy was simply a deep throater; he didn't understand the ritual of worshipping a master's cock. It wasn't just about being able to take it down the throat without gagging, it was about adulation: lightly grasping the shaft, stroking the inner thigh, mouthing the rim of the cockhead, nuzzling it against your cheek and nose, letting your saliva drip down onto it, making it wet and sloppy so that when you started to jerk it off into your mouth, it would be slippery and moist. A slave had to turn his mouth and hand into a cunt. And Richard was one good cunt.

But Carleton didn't feel like rewarding Richard with his cum, so he pushed him off as the limo pulled up to the apartment building. Richard hadn't been expecting the ultimate reward of his master's cum, but he'd tried to bring him off anyway, hoping to steal at least more than the sweet precum from his master's slit, but that was all he got. His own cock was so hard and sticky that it rubbed raw against the fly of his pants.

The first thing Carleton did when he entered the Penthouse was to walk over to the kitchen, and eat one of the crackers. He chewed thoughtfully as he went through the mail beside the plate. Richard walked through to the main bedroom and removed his clothes, put on his collar and leash and then attached it to a nearby hook in the wall.

All was ready.

Carleton finished eating his snack. It was silly perhaps, a dominant's affectation, but he enjoyed the idea that Michael's hands had made this snack. It was a child's snack really. Something his mother had prepared for him to make him feel special when the other kids were eating chocolate or potato chips. She said Philly on Ritz was classy. It still made him feel that way, kind of sophisticated, superior. Did a man like Carleton need to feel superior? Wasn't he already superior? Not really. He knew he was just a simple, unassuming man with a need to release his slaves, with a need to control something in a life where he had no control otherwise.

He spent his days as a clerk in a bank. His supervisor had referred to him as mouse-like, timid. In this apartment, not one person would consider him to be timid. They didn't know about his job. All they ever knew was that this man had the power to make them travel, and they wanted that, needed that.

He walked to the bathroom, put his clothes on top of the hamper and showered with the soap and shampoo he specifically required, then dried off with the towel that was the exact colour and style he enjoyed most. Breathing a sigh of satisfaction, he donned his leather vest and slacks, the black boots and the mask that covered his eyes. He looked in the mirror. To his eyes, he looked taller than his 5'8 stature. He was a dominant and the master of three slaves. His plane trip had only taken an hour, but in that time he travelled from oblivion to adulation. He was a traveller too.

He entered the room and transported his slaves to ecstasy. Not bad for a mediocre man.

_______
© 2005 Amanda Earl.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Amanda Earl is a Canadian love anarchist in a triumvirate of super friends. Her erotic fiction appears on line, and her poetry is both in print and on line. She's the same age as Demi Moore, Johnny Dep, and Sheryl Crow and thinks they should all hang out with her.


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