Though he remained clothed in the crisp white shirt and figure hugging black slacks she insisted would replace his habitual tee-shirt and 501’s when around the house, the position he adopted could hardly have been more… submissive.
With his hands clasped behind his back and the hair he used to wear fashionably long shaved almost to the scalp in the way she demanded, Harry felt that “delicious weakness” flowing through him once again and becoming even stronger and more excitingly debilitating as the smell of his “Master’s” arousal insinuated itself past his nostrils and into the very recesses of his mind and soul.
She had insisted he know and recognise her each intimate smell, be it her feet, arse, p***y or armpits, and it was not unusual for him to spend an hour at her feet each evening
