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Mastering Submission Ch. 01

By: sdbnnc



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.

*

I was embarrassed to be crying whilst riding along on a city bus, but the tears were impossible to contain or stop. I had, however, collected myself enough to realize that my fellow riders were pointedly ignoring my distress, just as a vaguely familiar looking gentleman moved to sit next to me, offering his handkerchief. "I know you," he said. "We met at that party Bob had a couple of weeks ago. You're a professor or teacher, and your name is --"

"Rebecca," I said, remembering him now that the connection had been explained.

As I used his linen handkerchief to mop up my face, he said, "Any friend of Bob is a friend of mine, and no friend of mine should be crying alone on a lovely October afternoon."

All the riders who had managed to overlook my tears were avidly watching the two of us, so it took little persuasion on his part to convince me to get off the bus with him so that we could have a coffee at a small café near the bus stop. I am a very curious person, and expected others to be curious as well, so I was sure he was wondering what had set me off so publicly. I felt he had earned the right to hear my sorry story by his chivalrous response to my distress. When he asked me to tell him what was wrong, although I knew he could not really help, I decided that outlining the problem aloud to a disinterested person might help me wrap my mind around the terrible situation in which I found myself.

"My name is Rebecca Parsons. I lecture at one of the city's many universities, the one from which I graduated, and then did my Master's degree work. Strange as it may seem, since my field is English literature, I am caught up in the cultural background of the Shakespearean era. I believe the physical and social environment influenced his writing, and I am researching documentation of that period to support that belief." "Of course, as a lecturer, I worry about the students I am teaching. Some of them have such a difficult time getting to grips with their subject, but all of them are so vulnerable to drugs, depression, or just the daunting prospect of trying to find jobs after graduating with degrees in the arts!"

It was pleasant to just to air out all these feelings and concerns that had been brewing inside me like a toxic stew. I was relieved to see that my mentioning of my work and my interest in English literature had not caused that glazed-eyed look men so often assumed once they discovered I was not an air-headed wage worker who lived for Friday and Saturday nights at the local club. In fact, he seemed to be listening to me with fierce concentration, coaxing me to open up more and more. After running through all the usual introductory information one typically shares to give context to one's conversation with strangers, I was down to the kernel of trouble that was making me cry. His concern, and the fact that he essentially was a stranger, led me to continue.

"It all seems so serious now, but I barely noticed it while it was happening. The night before I was due to defend my thesis, my fiancé at the time said he just had to speak with me about a great opportunity he had discovered. Although I appeared to be listening as he laid out the situation, I didn't really understand a lot of what he was saying, and I was not paying a lot of attention to the things I actually understood. The upshot of his conversation was that he needed me to sign something that would make me rich because I'd be a partner in the enterprise. I wasn't really interested, but I knew he wouldn't leave until he got what he wanted; I signed it to shut him up."

"Without reading it?" he asked.

I nodded, "I just wanted to get rid of him so I could get back to work. And then we sort of drifted apart. He had to go back home to set everything into place. I'd get letters from time to time, telling me how well everything was going, and then the letters changed; you could tell he was worried. And then I got another letter, from a lawyer, saying he had killed himself. It was all so horrible, and so sad. Apparently, the venture capitalists he was working with were very nasty, and not at all understanding about his failure to deliver on his promises of high financial returns."

I was surprised that he then reached out and covered my hand with his before prompting, "And then you got another letter --"

"Yes -- from a loan company. I'd guaranteed the original loan that had set my fiancé's plan in action. I talked it over with my bank, and it's hopeless. No matter how they work the figures, I can't afford to live and pay off the loan." 

"I don't earn all that much," I went on. "Higher education is being starved of cash. There's no tenure anymore. The country's best minds are scattered all over the universities of the world. I'm lucky to have a job at all. If I hadn't signed that bit of paper --" I broke off, feeling ridiculous for being poor, and for making excuses for it to a man dressed in a Paul Smith jacket, Calvin Klein shirt, wearing a Tag Heuer watch. Anyone who looks at this man closely could see that he isn't poor -- far from it. 

"I'm going to be homeless," I wailed, lost in my returning embarrassment and shame. "The finance company will hound me for every penny I earn for the rest of my life. I expect you think I've been an idiot." "No, I don't think you have been or are an idiot -- naïve perhaps," he kindly replied. "Have you ever thought," he said, "I don't know how to put this without offending you, but you're an attractive woman -- "

"I know the economy is a lot tougher than the politicians pretend. And I know women can make money through sex. One of my students is a table dancer. Another works as a prostitute's maid, giving prices of all sorts of disgusting perversions over the phone," I interrupted.

"We all have to do what we can when we run out of money," he said. "I've seen 'The Full Monty.' I'd be a stripper if it was a matter of survival."

"I don't have that choice," I said. "It would be bound to get out. Think of the headlines: 'Student Stripper' would be bad enough, but they'd call me 'The Stripping Professor.' No university would ever touch me. No parent would entrust me with the welfare of a vulnerable teenager if they found out I was a sex worker." 

"They wouldn't like you being bankrupt, either," he pointed out. "How much would it cost to clear your debt?" he asked.

"Nearly thirty thousand dollars," I replied, surprised to hear him let out a small sigh and look relieved. "It's impossible," I went on. "I suppose thirty thousand dollars is nothing to a man like you, but -- "

"On the contrary," he corrected. "It takes me a long time to earn thirty thousand dollars after tax, and I can do a lot of things with that sort of money. On the other hand, life's about more than business. If I see something I really want, I don't expect to get it for nothing." He paused, and watched as my curiosity was reflected in my eyes. 

"I'm prepared to pay your debts," he said, "and let you work the money off." I know my jaw actually dropped: I could feel it almost locked into place, but finally regained myself enough to speak. "Let me get this straight," I said, blushing. "You're offering to pay me thirty thousand dollars to go to bed with you."

"Not quite," he replied. "I'm offering you thirty thousand dollars, but only if you do exactly what I tell you for as long as I want you to. It's a bit like being a stripper or a prostitute, but without the risk of publicity. Or disease for that matter."

"So I'd have to have sex with you often?" I asked.

He nodded, saying, "Lots of sex, over a long time, and very intense."

"Intense?" I have degrees in English literature, and a healthy respect and regard for words and their meaning. I needed to know what he meant by "intense."

Far from being put off, he seemed happy to explain himself. "For years," he said, "there has been a fashion for protecting people from any kind of sensation: tasteless lagers instead of stout or bitter; pale, flavorless whiskies; air conditioning; puffy jackets made of space-age materials to keep your body temperature constant on chilly days. But now the pendulum is swinging the other way. People are pushing themselves to the limits: white water rafting, bungee jumping, snowboarding, body piercing, and sadomasochism."

"Sadomasochism?" I asked, knowing that rafting and other sports were not on our agenda.

He nodded.

"Spanking each other?" I questioned.

He grinned, "Not bloody likely -- me spanking you: Me, Master; you, submissive."

"How long would I have to -- to be your submissive?" I could not believe I was asking that question, that I had not leapt up from the table, resigned to bankruptcy, when the word "sadomasochism" first was uttered.

He seemed a bit surprised that I was still there as well, but responded, "How long for thirty thousand dollars? A year sounds about right, don't you think?"

"And I could carry on lecturing?" I inquired.

"Of course, you will go on lecturing. I do not need a full-time submissive. I have to work, and that work often involves travel. After all, the whole point of your submission is to protect your career," he responded.

"It seems a bit advanced for me," I finally said.

"What I do is a bit advanced for most people," he replied. "It all depends on what you can stand, and how much you want the money; on how much trouble you're in." He dipped a hand into a pocket, and brought out one of his business cards. "Tell you what, come to my flat next Thursday at seven."

I know I looked as helpless and confused as I felt. Everything seemed to me to be moving too fast.

"Don't say anything now," he urged. "Put the card somewhere safe, and make up your mind later. Just remember that if you decide to come, you are not to be late."

He paid our bill and walked out, leaving me staring into my coffee cup. I looked at the milky brown residue while I let my mind take stock. I knew I did not have to become a submissive, but I also knew that the alternatives -- the only choices I had before meeting him on the bus -- were more than unpleasant. 

I reminded myself that, stupid as I felt (and knew I had been) for having created this situation, lots of other people get into the same kind of trouble. But those people were not fortunate enough to find a wealthy person to bail them out, and it seemed that I had. Even though I had no real idea of what submissive service would entail, even though I never had considered such a lifestyle before, I kept coming back to the idea that one year of submission could dispel the financial cloud darkening my life, and threatening to obliterate my existence as I knew it. That I would discover my true submissive nature, and my need to offer submission to a Master never crossed my mind. 

I could not know that, of course, the gentleman offering me a way out was, and for some time had been, a Master. His experience and intelligence were used to consider whether I likely could submit to being tortured, beaten, fucked, and abused for a year. He also knew to trust his instinctive response to my unrealized submissive personality. And he knew that the year of service to repay the thirty thousand dollars would only be a prelude. Once he got me into his clutches, he was going to teach me to love submission, and to love him, not for saving me from a disastrous financial situation, but for the opportunity to realize my submissive self, and for his dominant personality that was exactly what that submissive part of me needed to feel complete.

Mastering Submission Ch. 02



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

The following Thursday evening, almost against my will, I drove my aging yellow Renault 5 into the neighborhood where the address on the business card was located. Approaching from the east, I drove past the building, noticing the butcher's shop and dry cleaner's on either side of a nondescript doorway. Just past the building, I turned left to go around the block before parking my car just across the street from the door, in front of a second hand shop.

Nerves were making me shake so that checking the time on my watch was more difficult than it should have been. I had parked at ten minutes to seven, the hour at which I was to arrive. After a bit of deep breathing, and sternly reminding myself of the financial circumstances that brought me to this point, I got out of the car. I straightened my skirt, and then squared my shoulders for the short walk across the street. I got as far as the threshold of the door, looking up to confirm that this was the correct address. At that point, my nerve failed me, and I went back to sit in the car again. The minutes ticked past, my mind counting them off by repeating, "You're not to be late." 

I screwed my courage back up, exited the car, and crossed the street, knowing that there was no way not to be late, but determined to make this effort to save myself. Standing there in my dark suit, freshly washed hair shining, and face lightly made-up, I hardly had time to catch my breath from dashing across the road before the door opened in response to my timid knock. He opened the door wearing faded black 501s, a black T-shirt, and combat boots, making my fears of being met by a stranger in black leathers seem absurd.

"Hi there," I said, with a shy smile.

"You're late," he barked.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I - "

"I don't want to hear your excuses," he interrupted. "Get inside, take off all your clothes and prepare to be beaten."

I felt the fear flooding through me, and the colour leaving my face, and asked, "Can we talk for a few minutes? There's a pub on the corner. Can I buy you a drink?"

Without another word, he stepped out, closed the door behind him, and walked swiftly to the pub. As we reached the bar, he said, over his shoulder, "I expect you want a white wine spritzer."

"How clever of you to know that," I replied.

"You won't get it though," he rejoined, turning to the bar. "Barman, a double Scotch and a mineral water; she's paying." 

Whilst I fumbled with my purse to get the money for the drink, I watched him find a quiet corner and sit down. I carried his drink to the table, and put the whisky in front of him. He ignored it.

"Thanks for agreeing to just talk," I said.

"Relax," he replied. "There's no pressure. You're a beautiful, intelligent woman, and it's a privilege to be sitting in the same pub with you, whether this leads anywhere or not."

Given the way things had started off, I was pleasantly surprised by this speech. "That's nice," I said, smiling. "This whole thing is a bit daunting for me. Would it be all right if we just had straight sex - at least in the beginning?"

"Absolutely not," he quietly replied.

"Is that because you can't?" I asked. "I mean, I've heard some men are impotent if there aren't whips all over the place, or rubber boots or something."

"No," he said with a smile. "I like ordinary sex now and again. Foreplay. Missionary position. All that stuff. But I'm definitely a master: I know from bitter experience that if I'm with a woman who only likes it straight, then sooner or later I'm going to start fantasizing about whips and gags, and before long I'm making love to one woman and thinking about someone else, which is bad for both of us. Besides, if you enjoy straight sex you'll get more actual bonking out of me if you let me spank you. There's nothing like the sight of whip marks to make a tired tummy truncheon stand too attention. So it's the full treatment, I'm afraid."

"How about if we take things slowly," I asked. "We could just talk now, and arrange to have another date in a week's time."

"If you think you won't get cold feet again, you're fooling yourself," he replied. "You're not a virgin, at least I assume you're not - "

"No," I said.

"Then it's time to grow up or go home," he said.

"I don't want to go home," I quietly replied. "I want to earn the money to get myself out of the financial hole I'm in. If that means being beaten, then I want to be beaten. But I want it to happen at my own pace."

"You can set your own pace, within reason," he responded. "We'll talk here and now, in this pub, but you must make up your mind before closing time. That gives you more than three hours to think things through, but if you turn me down tonight then it's 'No' forever -- fair enough?"

"That seems reasonable," I said in relief. "What happens if I don't like it, if your demands are too much for me to take?"

"That's what tonight is about," he replied. "You sample a little slavery, and decide if you can stand a year of it."

"And then you'll give me thirty thousand dollars?" I wanted to be absolutely clear about the money, since that was my motivation in this extraordinary transaction.

"After a year, yes," he replied.

"What do I get for just tonight? If I don't want to go any further I mean," I asked, feeling petty and grasping, but needing to know.

"Whatever you think is fair," he said.

"I don't want anything at all," I said after a bit of thought. The fact that he was willing to negotiate with me about this seemed to settle me somehow.

"Having my debts settled is one thing, but I don't want to make a couple of hundred pounds from an evening's prostitution," I explained.

He just nodded, but I felt his approving gaze, and was surprised at how good it felt to know he was pleased with my decision and analysis.

"All this is a bit hard for me to take in all at once," I said. "I've always thought of myself as strong. I tend to be in control of the situations I find myself in."

"Most sex slaves are," he replied. "Ask any professional dominatrix. Her clients are likely to be politicians, judges, even bishops. The more consistent and controlling you have to be during the working day, the more likely it is that you'll want to explore your softer side after hours."

"That's an interesting point of view," I said thoughtfully.

He went on, "It works the other way, too: people who live hard lives need pampering at the evenings and weekends. At the height of the siege, the starving citizens of Stalingrad set aside land that could have been used to grow cabbages or potatoes for flowers. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes; lots of them," I said, frowning in concentration. Then I said, "I can't actually think of any questions right at the moment, not as such."

"I've got a few," he said, which surprised me a bit. "What about your history? Have you ever been hit by a lover?"

Anxiously, I replied, "A boyfriend punched me in the face once, and gave me a black eye."

"You're a brave woman," he said.

"Brave?" I replied.

"And intelligent," he went on. "Smart enough to realize there's a difference between a brute who punches women, and a master who knows how to kiss a slave with a whip or a paddle." 

I was trying to take all that in when he took both my hands in his, and assured me, "I'll never hit you in anger, never without your permission, and always with respect."

"I believe you," I said, being perfectly honest.

"Have you ever fantasized about being beaten?" he asked.

"I've been, well, curious," I admitted. "Over the last few days it's been hard to think about anything else."

"If you decide to come home with me," he asked, "how far will you be prepared to go tonight? Are you prepared to have penetrative sex?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose so. As long as it's with a condom. I'm a great believer in safe sex," I replied, thinking about the facts of what I was doing rather than the emotions that were churning inside me.

"Masters and slaves are never careless about things like that," he said. "How about blow jobs?"

"That would have to be with a condom too, but I don't think I could stand the taste of rubber," I responded.

"Have you ever used a flavoured condom? Mint or strawberry?" he asked.

"No," I said, bewildered that such things existed.

"You should. Not tonight, though," he said with a grin. "How about spanking?"

"I'm a bit nervous about that," I said with a nervous giggle. "Is there some way for me to control the, well, the intensity?"

"Absolutely; I will hit you as hard as you can stand, and no harder," he said. "What's more, you will be able to stop any time you like."

"How does that work, exactly?" I inquired.

"At the moment, I'm asking the questions," he went on. "How about anal?"

"Anal?" I was completely bewildered now.

"Buggery; sodomy-- my spitting sausage in your tradesman's entrance," he rejoined.

Blushing, I asked yet another question, "You enjoy being vulgar, don't you?"

"You're an English language scholar - you know language is a powerful tool. That power is even greater when its vulgar language used on someone who hates it," he replied with utter seriousness. "Come on, answer my question."

"I've never actually made love that way. Is that what you like? Is it important to you?" I managed to ask.

"I can live without it," he said. "But I had a girlfriend once who loved to take it up the bum, and that made it wonderful. I'm prepared to put that on hold for the time being. How about bondage?"

"I don't think I could let you do that. I hardly know you," I replied.

"You don't trust me, you mean," he said. "Good for you."

"You don't mind?" I asked with surprise.

He shook his head, saying "Shows you're smart. Sex is dangerous, and here are a lot of loonies about. That reminds me, does anyone know where you are tonight?"

"No," I said, feeling things were getting past me again. "Should they?"

"I think so," he responded. "If things go well between us, you're going to trust me more than you've ever trusted a man before; right now, I'm just an acquaintance, a friend of Bob's. I'm sure there's a phone right in your bag; call someone and give her my address. You don't have to mention that you're going to get your arse whipped, just say you're going to the flat of a man you don't know very well and you want to be extra careful."

"I'll seem silly," I said.

"You'll seem and will be being sensible. Do it," he insisted.

I could feel him watching me as I got up to walk to outside the bar, standing just outside, in front of the window. I could see that he was watching me closely as I used my mobile to ring up a friend with whom I made plans for breakfast the next day. Of course, I made the whole thing sound like a typical online dating situation, and described him generally, as well as giving out his address, making sure my friend had my mobile number.

When I rejoined him at the table, I thought it was time to pose some questions of my own. I started by asking, "What is it like from your point of view, being the one doing the hitting."

"It's easy to hit people," he replied. "What's hard is making it delightful, and absolutely safe. For instance, you have to know what time of day is best for a spanking."

Whatever I had anticipated hearing, this was not it. "The time of day," I asked. "What has that got to do with it?"

He began by saying, "Pain is more intense in the morning. It is vital that I know where to land my strokes. A careless blow can damage an internal organ or break the skin where it stretches over a bone."

"Now you're scaring me," I declared.

"Scared is good," he surprised me by saying. "What you're deciding on, sitting here in this pub, is whether or not to start one of the most exciting journeys a human being can take. They say the world has been explored and there are no great adventures anymore, but the pilgrimage to the edge of your own endurance will always be there, if you're brave enough to take it. However, you've got to be careful. It's like getting into the car you normally use for shopping, and driving it out into the wilderness. You're going to need snow tyres, a shovel, a blanket, a mobile phone, a torch and a bottle of fresh water, but you'll be having an experience that's infinitely more exciting than a trip to the supermarket. It also helps to have a guide. Fortunately, I know my way around the territory; you'll only have to remember one thing."

"And that is," I asked.

"A word," he replied.

"What word," I asked.

"One is essential, three more for fun," he explained. "The main one is called your 'safe word,' and it's something every submissive has to decide for herself. If I know your safe word, you can beg for mercy, and I'll know you don't mean it, but when you really do want it to stop then it stops, bang, just like that."

"Brilliant," I said. "How do I choose which word to use?"

He explained, "It has to be something you'll never forget, but which you'll normally never mention aloud, maybe the name of a place you've been to and didn't like very much or a type of food you don't like."

"Parsnips," I said. "I think parsnips are revolting."

"Parsnips it is," he said with a smile.

"What are the other words?" I asked, trying to take it all in.

"They're for fine tuning," he said. "I prefer the colours of traffic lights: green means go; yellow means OK, but not any harder; and red means don't stop altogether, but lighten up a bit. On the other hand, 'parsnips' means stop at once, get my clothes, call me a taxi, this is too much, I no longer need thirty thousand dollars."

"And you've tried this system with other - " I began.

"Slaves," he said, finishing my sentence before I could form the word. "Yes, I've had several slaves." 

"I didn't realize this sort of thing could be so complicated," I said.

"It only seems complicated because it's new to you," he insisted reassuringly. "After a few times it will seem as natural as breathing. What else do you want to know?"

"Tell me about yourself," I asked. "You already know I'm a lecturer. What do you do for a living?"

"There's not much to tell," he began. "I have no special talents or qualifications, but I'm smart. I own a design studio. I have a small independent record label, and I have shares in a commercial radio station. You have a career; what I have is a string of different ways of making money, to fund my life's work."

I looked at him, surprised, and asked, "What's your life's work?"

"Looking for a woman like you and beating the crap out of her," he flatly stated. "It's my calling, and I'm good at it."

"You sound ruthless," I replied.

"I am totally ruthless in real life," he agreed. "I've taken competitors to court; I can beat down the other guy's price and drive my own price sky high."

"But if I accept your contract, and then something went wrong and I decided to leave you, how ruthless would you be then?" I asked.

He laughed. "I'm totally harmless to my lovers and ex-lovers," he said. "Business is a game where breaking the rules is half the fun, but adventurous sex has strict rules, and love is sacred. If you become my slave, you can walk out at a second's notice; all I ask is that you tell me why you want to go. When a slave breaks off a relationship, or even just puts a stop to a scene on one particular evening, she has to give reasons. That way a master becomes better, for her or for the next slave. That's why you're in such good hands tonight. In the private world of sex, I have learned how to be truly dominant, even if you're my superior in the real world."

"I am not your superior," I began.

"Yes, you are," he insisted. "By the end of our year together, I'll have taught you everything I know about sadomasochism. How long would it take you to teach me everything you know about Shakespearean poetry?"

"That's different," I said.

"No, it's not," he replied. "Knowledge is knowledge."

"And practical lessons are best," I said without thinking.

He pounced, "You greedy slut, you're gagging for it, aren't you? You drag me over to this boozer, pretending to be the blushing maiden, when deep down you just can't wait to taste the lash. I bet you're getting wet just sitting there thinking about what it will be like to take a beating from me. Choosing to wear that dark skirt was smart -- there'll be a damp stain on the back when you stand up."

I looked round anxiously, and whispered, "Don't talk like that." But even as I said the words, I had to acknowledge to myself that he was right about how sexually excited I was becoming, how wet my panties were, and how I hadn't even given a thought to what a wet stain on the back of my skirt would tell anyone walking behind me.

Undeterred, if not encouraged, he went on, "I shall talk to you any way I like. I shall call you bitch, slag, worthless little slut, sex object, boy toy or brain-dead whore, and you will accept my words as compliments and thank me for saying them."

My eyes and voice were pleading now, "Please. Not in public."

"Then I'll have to take you to a place where I can tell you exactly what you are at the top of my voice," he responded.

Pulling myself together, I glanced at my watch and said, "Not yet. Not until I've made up my mind. It's a strange experience discussing wild, intimate things in such a calm manner in a pub full of people." I shook my head slowly, as if trying to jostle all this new information into place so I could evaluate it.

"Information is crucial: some slaves only like humiliation, others only want to be hurt. Some slaves like a lot of pain, others can only stand a little," he explained. "A master has to know in advance, not leave things to spoil the atmosphere when it really matters. It's a slave's right to choose how far to go, but if you want your thirty grand, you'll have the whole experience. Besides, anything less is like going to a famous restaurant and only eating pudding."

I understood the basic premise he was putting forward, but I still couldn't jump into everything at once. I asked, "For tonight, can we stick to a little gentle spanking, followed by vaginal penetration with you wearing a condom?"

"And humiliation? Tender humiliation?" he asked.

"I suppose so," I replied. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this, that I'm hearing myself say these words out loud." I paused, and once again sought his reassurance, "And if I do all this, you'll really pay me all that money?"

He nodded, and then said, "If you're obedient and respectful, and if you can stand the treatment I dish out, then I'll pay your installments every month for a year; at the end of that time I'll pay the balance of your debt to a maximum of thirty thousand dollars."

I looked down at my hands for a long, long time, and then said very softly, "I accept."

"That's settled then," he briskly replied. "You can get me to lighten up any time by saying 'red;' you can go home at any time, just by saying the word 'parsnips.' But if you come to my flat you will be forced to grovel, you will be gently insulted and hit. You will have sex: it will be safe sex, but sex will definitely take place. There's no point pretending that you're dropping by to admire my etchings."

It was a reflection of the amount of trust I already had in him that I actually could chuckle in response, and ask, "Have you actually got any etchings?"




Mastering Submission Ch. 02



"Funnily enough I have," he surprised me by saying. "I picked up some classic Victorian erotica from a dealer in Brighton. Perhaps I should rephrase my invitation."

As I arched my eyebrows in response, he went on, "Rebecca, dear Rebecca, please come up to my flat and view my etchings, take a light spanking and allow me to fuck you."

"I shall be honoured to accept," I answered.

"Then follow me," he said, standing up to leave.

"You haven't touched your drink," I pointed out.

"I agreed to let you buy me one," he replied coldly. "I didn't say I'd taste it."

It was the opening lesson in the year-long course I'd agreed to undertake. Later, he would explain that a master never drinks or eats with a slave unless they go out to dinner together like any other couple. When things get sexual, as he had just promised me they were about to do, eating and drinking are done by turn, and the master always goes first.



Mastering Submission Ch. 03



I didn't realize it at the time, but following him, moving forward almost blindly, but always behind him, would be the norm when we were out together during the next year. When he reached his door, he unlocked it. 

As a matter of course, I stepped around him, moving forward. Before I could put a foot over the threshold, he grabbed a hank of hair and dragged me back into the street. "Not so fast," he told me through gritted teeth. "Wait for orders."

"Sorry," I said, truly meaning it - but whether I was sorry I wasn't behaving as he wished or sorry I was in this situation altogether, I really couldn't say. I stood motionless, eyes on the pavement.

"That's better," he said. "Let's see you showing a little respect. Kiss my boots and ask permission to go inside."

"Do I have to?" I asked.

"Do it," he said harshly. "Or stop wasting my time and fuck off."

I looked round anxiously. The front door was set a couple of feet in from the pavement, but it still was clearly visible from the road. A man was walking a bull terrier towards us down the sidewalk.

"Can I wait till he's gone past?" I asked.

"I suppose so," he grudgingly responded.

The man with the dog glanced at us curiously as he passed us, no doubt wondering why we were standing motionless by an open door. He said, so only I could hear, "Smart man; cleverer than me, anyway."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Keeps his bitch on a leash," he responded. "Get down on your knees."

I dropped down quickly, hoping to do what I must to get inside before anyone else passed our way. Calling on some vague concept of slave relationships, I kissed each of his boots in turn, and asked: "Please, Sir, may I enter your flat?"

"You may, slut," he replied. "But stay on your hands and knees."

I was so anxious to get behind closed doors that I immediately crawled inside and up the stairs that were adjacent to the door. If I'd stopped to think about it, I would have been self-conscious, moving my ass awkwardly up the stairs. When I reached the landing, he came up behind me, and grabbed my hair again. Sliding his open hand across my skull, capturing tufts of hair between each of his fingers, he used my hair like a leash, pulling me up and back until I rested my ass on my heels, still on my knees. 

He slapped my face lightly, saying, "There's a bathroom behind that door. Piss. Shit. Make yourself presentable. When you're ready, I'll be behind that door." Then he let go of my head, opened the door he had indicated, went inside, and closed it.

I was at a loss - I had been offered a bathroom, but despite my fear and anxiety, I did not feel the need to eliminate anything - even though I was thinking far enough ahead by now to wonder if that decision would come back to haunt me. "Press on," I told myself quietly, using the sound of my own whisper to ground me in the here and now.

I crawled to the door, reached up to turn the knob, and then I entered the room on my knees. Just inside the door, I stood up, taking in the scene. It was a big room; obviously two flats had been knocked into one large, open space. He sprawled across a huge leather sofa, with an open box of Havana cigars, a bowl of fruit, and a glass of lager beside him. He opened a large pocketknife, and began to peel an apple taken from the fruit bowl.

"Let's try that again, shall we?" he said softly. "Go outside, knock and wait. The moment I tell you to come in, you're to step inside, close the door behind you, turn and face me, curtsey and wait for further instructions. Understood?"

It seemed as though my mind was scrambling over treacherous terrain, and any minute could fall into an abyss. I could feel my shoulders drooping at the thought of behaving as ordered, especially with the ever-present knowledge that this was just the beginning of a year of service. That thought stiffened my spine - I was doing this to help myself, so I agreed with a soft murmur.

He barked in response, "Speak up! Every time you address me, you will refer to me as 'Master'. You may call me 'Sir,' 'Lord' or 'Supreme One,' but I like 'Master' best."

"You're not serious," I said in disbelief.

"You're not serious, Master," he rejoined.

"I can't," I insisted.

"I can't, Master," was his only reply.

"But it sounds ridiculous," I explained.

"It sounds ridiculous, Master. I won't tell you again."

My raging inner conflict was showing all over my face: the adult in me, the lecturer in me, and the respected literary scholar in me all were being shoved out of the way as the slave in me rose to the surface.

Taking a calming breath, I said, "Sorry, Master," and left the room, closing the door behind me. I then immediately knocked on it.

Obviously not feeling any sense of urgency about this business, he did not respond for some time. I imagined him slicing and beginning to eat the peeled apple, drinking some lager, and perhaps even lighting up a cigar. Before I could follow the thought of fire in the hands of a Master to any terrifying conclusions, I heard him say, "Enter."

I opened the door, turned to close it securely behind me, and then faced him to curtsey. I felt silly, inexperienced, and embarrassed, but he almost immediately began issuing orders that required my full attention, and moved me past the emotions of the moment.

"Stand over there," he ordered. "Eyes down. A slave is only allowed to look a Master in the eye on one occasion."

"When is that, Master?" I asked.

"I'll let you know when it happens," he said, not interested in satisfying my curiosity or letting it deflect him from his own purposes. He went on, "Keep still, hands behind your back, feet apart."

I knew my knees and the toes of my shoes were scuffed from climbing the stairs, but I was relieved that there were no runs or holes in my tights. With my eyes down, my hands clasped behind my back, I found just standing there, being watched by a man, disconcerting. It occurred to me that men hardly ever stare at or even closely watch women on the streets and in public places. It occurred to me that men have learned not to be seen checking out women in public so as to avoid triggering jealousy in an escort or terror in the mind of a woman out on her own. 

As his visual inventory seemed to go on interminably, I began to blush. "Master?" I asked.

"Yes?" he replied.

"I don't know what to do," I asked.

"All you have to do is obey," he explained. "I'll be making all the decisions this evening; you will stay absolutely passive. You're going to be beaten. You're going to be fucked. But before any of that happens, you're going to do some waiting. Now, step over to that bookcase, face it and stand absolutely still."

I complied with his instructions, grateful to be facing away from him so I was less conscious of his searching gaze and quiet regard. After a few minutes in that position, I heard him say, "Walk over to that picture, slowly, then turn and walk back." 

I walked up to the picture indicated, which showed a pretty brunette in a kneeling position, tied to eyebolts set into a hard wooden floor. She had a gag in her mouth, and her breasts were roped round a dildo. I shuddered, briefly imagining myself in that position. Before I had time to wonder at the lubrication I was beginning to feel, I turned slowly, and then walked back towards him to stand in silence.

Time passed.

"What are you doing, Master?" I asked.

"Wondering what to do first - flog you or fuck you," he said. "Lift up your skirt, nice and slow. Higher. Dammit! You stupid bitch!"

"Master? Is there something wrong?" I said, afraid, for it was obvious that something was very wrong indeed.

"Tights!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe it! Tights! Take them off and throw them in that waste paper basket. And those ridiculous pink panties."

"Yes, Master. Sorry, Master," I replied, my relief at the easy remedy for the problem overwhelming my natural embarrassment at stripping in front of a strange man.

"And hurry," he said, not appreciating my prompt actions. He went on, "A few ground rules. I prefer skirts to trousers. I don't like panties. I will not tolerate tights under any circumstances. Agreed?"

"Yes, Master. Sorry, Master," I apologized again.

"That's all right. You weren't to know. Now, what were we doing?"

"I had my back to you, Master. I was showing you my bottom." "Arse is the word you're looking for. You were showing me your fat arse in the hope that I would spank it. But the moment's over now; the magic's lost. Well, Fuckhole, it's time to see you naked." When I involuntarily winced, he nearly shouted, "What's the matter, Fuckhole? Don't you like your new name?"

"No, Master."

"Well, to tell you the truth, Fuckhole, neither do I," he went on. "But a bitch like you needs a proper slave name, and as tonight you're only offering me one hole to fuck, then Fuckhole seems appropriate. Don't you think so, Fuckhole?"

"If you say so, Master," I said with resignation.

"That's agreed, then, Fuckhole," he said cheerily. "So let's see you strip, Fuckhole. Stand over there and take off your jacket. Well done. Now, throw it on the floor."

"But, Master!" I couldn't help giving him a pleading look. "It's a Donna Karan!"

Shaking his head, completely unmoved, he said, "And you looked very pretty wearing it, but you came here to do as you're told. Bring it over here."

Even more apprehensive when I saw him pick up his knife, still open on the table, I nevertheless obeyed, and handed him my jacket.

"Thank you, Fuckhole," he said. "Now go back and stand very still."

He let the light play on the very sharp blade of the pocketknife before slashing it across the back of my jacket and halving the length of the right sleeve. 

I felt and looked horrified. "Master - "I began, but had no words to finish the sentence. Already awash in debt, remembering what that now worthless piece of apparel had cost made me sick at heart.

"What's the matter, Fuckhole?" he sneered. "Are you thinking I'm too poor to buy you another jacket?"

"No, Master," I replied.

"Or perhaps you're thinking I'm too mean to buy a replacement?" he persisted.

"No, Master," I repeated.

"Are you thinking that perhaps you should have obeyed me?" he quietly said.

"Yes, Master," I responded, the light dawning, however slowly.

"Then take your blouse and bra off. Quickly," he ordered.

I did as told, and threw them on the floor - I was learning.

I tried to shore up my confidence by remembering that my breasts were firm, if a little on the small side. 

He stood up and said, "Well, Fuckhole, everything looks OK so far. Walk over to the fireplace then turn and walk back towards me quickly. I want to see those funbags jiggle."

"Yes, Master. At once, Master," I said before marching the full length of the room, then turned and walked back. Although firm, my breasts did, indeed, jiggle. Looking back on that evening, I am grateful that I was too ignorant of what was to come during the next year to realize that one day my breasts would be crisscrossed with whip marks, and my nipples would be long and ever at attention, having been trained by the judicious and regular application of clamps and clothespins. 

I stopped in front of him, and he said, "Give me your hands."

He took my hands in his, raising them to shoulder level. "Push against me," he ordered. With my arms and chest straining, the breast flesh jumped off the muscles, something I never would have imagined happening - almost as surprising as seeing his cock begin straining against his jeans.

"Hands behind your back!" he commanded, gripping my left breast in the circle made by his forefingers and thumbs, squeezing hard enough to make the flesh pop towards him. For a moment, I thought he might bite or suckle my bulging nipple, but instead he released my breast. Then he took both my nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, pulling them towards him, stretching the flesh until I winced. Then he shook them, making them quiver, and let them go.

"The tits seem OK," he mused in the manner of someone taking an inventory. "The dining room is next door. Get yourself round there and lie down on the table, legs wide apart. It's time to examine the cunt."

Once again, my face took on a pained expression before I said, "Please, Master."

"Got something to say, Fuckhole?" he responded.

"Please, Master," I began, "I don't like that word."

"What word?" he said, as I bit my lip.

"Oh," he said, seeming to suddenly understand. "The word 'cunt,' you mean?"

I nodded unhappily already sure this conversation was not going in a good direction.

"How very refined of you," he sneered. "And how woefully ignorant. 'Cunt' is a noble word given to us by the Dutch and Norwegians, but perhaps you're not yet ready to embrace European unity. It's related to the Latin word 'cunnuso,' but I guess you have no respect for our cultural heritage. You've lived in the States, so you know that American women use it, even lesbian feminists, but you're too British. The great writers use it: not just D. H. Lawrence, Henry Miller and James Joyce, but even Robert Burns used the word 'cunt' where it was fitting. But you're too genteel. If you're going to be a slave, you've got to use a slave's language. A slave doesn't say 'take me' or 'let's make love.' A slave asks to be fucked. A slave doesn't go down on her Master. She doesn't give head. She sucks cock. A slave doesn't ask her lover to put a finger inside her. She says: 'Please, Master, shove your fist up my cunt.' Above all, a good slave follows her Master's wishes in everything, but you're too arrogant to be a good slave - "

"No, Master," I said with resignation.

He was stopped in mid-rant. "'No,' what?" he asked.

"No, Master," I replied. "I am not too arrogant to be a good slave. I will let you examine my cunt."

"That's better," he said with a smile. "You've got a lovely voice," he told me. "I want to hear lots of filthy language from you from now on."

I laid myself down on the big oak table with my skirt pulled up and my feet on two chairs, feeling as uncomfortable and exposed as I do when in GYN exam stirrups. He sat between my legs in the carver, and inspected me before saying, "That wet cunt of yours deserves to be looked at. That wet cunt brought you here, not the educated brain that wanted to spend this evening reading some esoteric literature. Open it up for me: peel back those passion flaps."

Although I could not resist a sigh, I also obeyed.

I did not try to deny even to myself that I was wet - a good thing since I immediately felt him picking up moisture from my vagina, then smoothing it over the tip of my clitoris. He began to build up a rhythm, and I heard myself whimper, and my breathing began to change.

He gave my whole vulva a hearty slap saying, "None of that. Can't have you coming before I do." Standing between my legs, he reached forward, grasped both my nipples, and pulled me to my feet. Then he turned, and led me back to the main room. "See that case leaning against the wall?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"Put it on the coffee table and open it," he instructed.

The case was an oversized attaché case in ochre leather by Louis Vuitton, not too heavy or too large for me to easily lift and lay it out on the table. I flicked open its catches, swung back the lid and gasped.

Inside the case was a terrifying collection of whips, floggers, nipple clamps, restraints and gags. These alone were enough to make me shiver, but then I saw some obviously homemade implements: a cat o' nine tails, each strand tipped with a fishhook; two thigh-sized hoops of barbed wire joined by a padlock; and a leather collar lined with broken glass. It took a moment to recover my voice and squeak in shock, "Master? You can't want to use these on me?"

"Not all of them," he replied. "But remember that while I can make your wildest dreams come true, I am also your darkest nightmare. Those special items are for pushy slaves who think they can take a lot of pain, a reminder that no matter how much you think you can endure, I can deal out more. Would you like to choose an instrument, or will you accept my recommendation?"

"You choose, Master," I replied, fear apparent in my tone.

"The black flogger with the red handle is suitable for a beginner," he explained. "That's the one with two parallel strips of leather. Bring it over here, on your knees if you please. Hand it over. Now, kiss it."

Hopeful that quick and silent compliance with these instructions would mitigate the strokes I knew were on their way, I immediately kissed the flogger, and then scrambled quickly to my feet as he tugged on a nipple.

"A slave who is being beaten on the arse or shoulders clasps her hands in front of her body till it's over," he told me. "A slave who is having her breasts whipped holds her hands behind her back. A slave having a cunt whipping clasps her hands behind her neck."

"Oh, Master," I sighed. "I didn't realise breasts got whipped."

"Breasts get beaten well and often," he replied. "Cunt whippings are rare. Both are too advanced for a novice like you. Take off your skirt." 

Once again, in the hope that demonstrating my grasp of my new behavior would lighten the blows to come, I threw my skirt on the floor immediately after removing it, and bowed my head.

Standing there naked, I felt the creeping flush of embarrassment beginning again. He took a long, considering look at me, as if assessing everything, making me wait. 

Finally, I could no longer keep silent. I asked, "Master? Is something wrong? Is my bum too big?"

"Speaking as a Master," he replied, "I would say that you have a long nose, bad posture, a broad arse and the cheek to ask questions without getting permission first. If you want my opinion as a man, you'll have to ask me the same questions tomorrow. You are naked for inspection," he continued. 

"After tonight I never want to see you completely naked again. The perfect look for a slave is somewhere between wearing clothes and wearing nothing. Not a naked, natural creature or a fully-dressed lady, but a half-dressed whore," he explained.

"Yes, Master," I said in confusion.

He went on, "You must always wear something: a hat, stockings and suspenders, a peephole bra, even nothing but a pair of earrings or a ring on one of your toes. But never naked."

"Whatever you say, Master," I replied, my head spinning, thoughts and feelings completely out of control.

He stepped closer and kissed me, forcing his tongue between my teeth, raping my mouth. I hoped my response was what he wanted: I held myself completely passive, but even I could smell my arousal. He turned me to face a mirror, and then kicked my ankles apart, spreading my legs a little wider. At first dismayed at being kicked at, I realized that I would need a wide stance to hold myself steady when the strokes were being applied.

"Tell me to beat you," he said harshly.

"Have I been bad?" I asked, getting into the role I was to play for a year.

"You were late," he began. "You appeared before me in tights. You were reluctant to call me 'Master.' If I gave you the proper punishment for all that misbehaviour you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week. For now, I shall beat you because it is my right as a Master and because, as a slave, it is all you can expect. You are a piece of shit, a sniveling excuse for a woman, a toy to play with and punish any way I wish. Tell me what to do. Beg me to do it."

"Please," I whispered.

"Louder," he said. "And be more specific."

"Please, Master," I said quietly. "Beat me. Beat my arse."

"Remember to count the blows," he said, "and thank me after each one."

"It seems silly," I heard myself saying with dismay.

He stepped up and shouted in my ear, spitting the words out fast and harsh: "Permission to speak, Master? Permission granted, Bitch. Counting seems silly, Master. Did anybody ask for your opinion, Bitch? No, Master. Sorry, Master. Sorry for asking stupid questions."




Mastering Submission Ch. 03



"Sorry, Master," I said.

"That's all right," he replied, the slobbering shouting reduced to a calm, patient tone. "You're new to all this. Try to learn." I looked over my shoulder at the flogger in his hand.

"Keep facing forward," he told me. "There's no need for you to watch what's being done to you."

"No, Master," I said, uncertainly.

"You see," he explained, "you're going to accept what's coming to you anyway, so it's best to keep your eyes to the front and be patient."

"Yes, Master," I replied, turning back to the front, casting my eyes downward.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"Ready to be hit?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"Ready to feel the sting of leather across that fat arse of yours?" he persisted.

"Yes, Master," I replied.

"Then brace yourself," he said. "If it starts to hurt, think about the money."

I could hear him step back, and the swish of the flogger being swung before he hit me lightly, low down where my buttocks folded into my thighs.

"One," I remembered to count. "Thank you, Master," hearing the surprise in my voice; I had not expected the blow to be so gentle.

"Two," counting again, "Thank you, Master. Three. Thank you, Master. Four -" The fourth one stung enough to make me squeal and do a little dance.

"Keep still, dammit," he said.

"Sorry, Master," I apologized, and resumed counting. "Four. Thank you, Master."

He dealt out the strokes carefully, building up a rhythm with four or five evenly spaced blows and then breaking it by striking twice in quick succession, or making the next one extra soft, or extra hard. I could feel the heat rising in stripes on my skin.

"Thirty-seven. Thank you, Master," I said, feeling and hearing a faint sob in my voice.

He struck out again, harder.

"Thirty-seven. Thank you, Master," I said again; overwhelmed by sensations never experienced before, I had lost count. Some brilliant literary scholar I was - I no longer could count up to forty!

He strode over to the case, tossed the flogger inside, clicked the clasps shut, and locked the case.

"Amber, Master?" I questioned. I had taken my punishment, and was ready for just a little more - almost as if I felt I could get it all out of the way at once and be done with it.

Of course, that was not to be. "No," he told me. "That's it. You have been beaten. Now you know what it's like."

I rubbed my bottom gingerly as he walked over and sat down on the sofa again. "Come here," he ordered. "Assume the position: hands behind your back, legs apart."

The beating had left me dripping with excitement; my right leg was shiny to my knee. He picked up some moisture with a finger and flicked the tip of my clitoris. I could not help moaning as he flicked again and again, building up a rhythm, sliding his fingers between the flaps.

I felt my eyes closing, my nipples hardening to jut forward. When it was too late, he said: "Don't come until I tell you to."

My knees buckled and he caught me as I lurched to one side, shaking with orgasm. He pulled me across his lap and put his fingers to my lips. "Girl juice," he explained. "Lick it up. It's good for you."

In the calm aftermath of my orgasm, I cleaned his fingers dutifully, then started to talk. "I . . . " I began, then corrected myself. "Permission to speak, Master?"

"Permission granted, my brave and beautiful slave," he said.

Already the slightest praise from him lit me up with pride. I said softly, "Thank you for spanking me, Master, but I can take more. You can beat me again, harder if you want to."

"I know," he said, and kissed my forehead. "And I will. After all, I have to punish you for coming without permission. But you have had enough for your first time." When I frowned, he went on, "Don't be disappointed. We've got a whole year to do it again and again, over and over, laying new bruises onto old ones. You shall have many more beatings. Much longer. Much harder."

I had been taken on a journey into a previously unknown land. I had learned that pain, applied as carefully and thoughtfully as it had been tonight, could bring pleasure unmatched in my prior experience. Overcome with excitement at the discoveries I was beginning to believe lay ahead, I reached up and kissed his mouth. That quickly, he tangled his left hand in my hair, yanked back my head, and gently slapped my face three times.

"You cheeky bitch!" he said. "Your duties for the evening are not over yet. You have been beaten, but you haven't been fucked." He rolled me off his lap onto the carpet, and pulled my head down towards his feet. "Take my boots off," he growled. "Undo the laces with your teeth." 

It took ages, but he was very patient. Once the boots were off, he said, "Now the socks. Kiss each of my toes in turn." Much less self-conscious than when I had first saluted his feet with a kiss, I followed his orders.

He stood up saying, "Now, take off all my clothes. Fold them neatly over that chair."

"You have a beautiful body, Master," I felt compelled to say.

His only response was to slowly turn and ask, "Do you see my arse?"

"Yes, Master. So small and firm," I complimented.

"Have you ever done any rimming?" he asked.

"Rimming?" I asked, completely at a loss.

"Feuille de Rose. Kissing the khaki buttonhole," he offered in explanation.

Once again, the sensation of being pulled down into a bottomless whirlpool of emotions and experience overtook me. Pulling myself back to the present with an effort of will, I took a slight intake of breath before saying, "No, Master, I haven't."

"One day you will be allowed to kiss my arse," he said, surprising me. "But not tonight. You are not yet worthy. You'll find a condom in the jar on the mantelpiece. Get it, put it on my cock and then bend over the back of that chair."

"Yes, Master. At once, Master," I said, suiting my actions to the words.

"And be sure to thank me afterwards," he said. And, of course, I did.



Mastering Submission Ch. 04



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.

*

I woke up and left the next morning before he woke, leaving my little slave bed at the foot of his big four poser empty - well, not quite empty. I left behind a note comprised solely of the word "green" pinned to the pillow.

When I woke that first morning in that little bed, I began to understand that balancing a submissive life with one's professional life can be demanding. I had not thought to tell Master that I was scheduled to go to Sweden for a professional meeting the next day, and I did not want to leave a long, drawn-out itinerary. Hoping that, by leaving the word on the pillow, Master would know I meant to play by the rules he'd set out, I went off to Sweden, focusing on one of the more esoteric Shakespearean sonnets. 

Once the conference concluded for the day, I went to my hotel room, and placed a call to Master's number.

"Hello," he said. "Martin."

"Good evening, Master," I began.

"You bitch," he said. "Where are you?"

"Stockholm," I replied. "I am attending a conference of Shakespearean scholars. This is the first chance I've had to call you."

"And what do you have to say?" he queried.

"That I'm very impressed, Master," I truthfully replied. "Last night was amazing. I'd also like to ask you a question, if I may."

"Go ahead," he responded.

"Master, when was the last time you had sex? Before last night, I mean."

"Not for a long time," he said sadly. "What business is it of yours, anyway?"

"I want you to have an AIDS test. I haven't had sex for a long time either, so we've both had time to form antibodies if there's anything wrong. Anyway, I'm certain I'm free of infection, and I'm pretty sure you are too," I explained.

"Yes, I'm sure," he said.

"Well, there's this clinic run by a girl I used to share digs with when I was a student," I went on. "They're good, quick and discreet. I went myself this morning. If you could go tomorrow the results would be in next week, and on Saturday I'll be back in London;" now the words were tumbling out, and I paused for breath.

"Hang on a moment," he said. "All this is a good idea, obviously. But what's the hurry? We used condoms last night, and it seemed pretty fantastic to me."

"It was, Master," I replied. "But you see," another deep breath, "Master, I want to suck your cock, and I don't want to use a condom, even a flavoured one. I want to taste your semen."

"I'll give your suggestion some consideration," he said. Just before he broke the connection, he said, "You will meet me at the lingerie department at Harvey Nichols on the day you are back in London."

As long as I was engaged in the many debates amongst the conference attendees, or closely following the remarks and speeches that purported to provide a new perspective on the Bard, the Stockholm conference was the same as the many others I had attended since getting my advanced degree. What was new was that there always was lurking in the back of my brain the memory of the first night I spent with Master, complete with sexual excitement that kept me so wet that staying in my seat became somewhat difficult. Despite the distractions of my thoughts about my new life of submissive service, I managed to get through the conference, picking up some interesting information, and renewing ties with colleagues.

I made it a point to be at the store early, which turned out to be a wasted effort, since Master arrived five minutes late. Absolutely at a loss as to why we were meeting in the lingerie department, but happy and excited to be seeing Master again, I was wearing a polo-necked jersey and skirt in pale green, and stood at the entrance of the department, watching for Master's arrival. 

"Good morning, Master," I said brightly, as Master arrived.

"Good morning, Fuckhole," he replied cheerily, and kissed her cheek.

"I don't think that's fair, Master," I complained, with a quick glance to see if anyone was near enough to have overheard. I went on, "Especially as I'm going to suck your cock this evening."

"Well," he answers, "Go and buy an espresso for me and a glass of water for yourself while I sit down and think about it."

A few minutes later I put a cup down in front of him.

"Thank you," he said. "Now curtsey; a small one will be sufficient. Then sit down."

I immediately complied, having realised that giving myself too much time to think about what I was being instructed to do just made it more difficult.

"Read this," he said, handing me a piece of paper. "You don't get to suck my cock until you sign."

Taken aback, and wondering again just how much experience Master had in the training and ownership of submissives if he had gone so far as to develop forms, I sat down to read what turned out to be a contract. The contract was personalised, and more than a little intimidating to me. Its contents were as follows:

I, Rebecca Susan Parsons, Ph.D., do hereby agree to serve as slave to Martin Sharpe for a period of one year.

I agree to trust him with my mind, body and spirit.

I will keep my mouth and cunt clean and ready for him to use any time he wishes.

I will allow him to beat me and tie me up.

I will recite the Prick Prayer in front of him every evening we are together.

I will obey his orders in all things, sexual and non-sexual, at a moment's notice.

I will allow him to give me severe punishments whenever I fail to obey his orders to his satisfaction, or whenever he feels it will be good for me, or at any time purely for his entertainment.

I will show gratitude for any attention he gives me, no matter how trivial, painful, or humiliating.

Unless otherwise ordered, I will keep my arms folded high behind my back in case he wishes to hurt my breasts.

Unless otherwise ordered, I will keep my mouth open at all times in case he wants to fuck it.

I will allow him to sodomize me and fuck my throat at least once during the next 365 days.

During that time I will have sex only with Master Martin and any of his friends and acquaintances he wishes me to serve.

I will think of his comfort and happiness at all times.

I will not question his orders or opinions.

I will perform all the household cleaning and maintenance duties required of me.

I will not offer my views or opinions on any subject unless asked.

I will refer to him only as "Master" even in my thoughts.

I will be totally honest with him.

In exchange, Martin Sharpe will take over the installments on my debt each month. At the end of one year, he will pay the remainder of my debt, a sum not exceeding $30,000 in total.

I can break this agreement at any time by saying the word "parsnips." By saying this word, I forfeit the right to any money not already handed over to me.

Signed this ___ day of _________________________, 2009.

"What's the Prick Prayer?" I inquired.

"You'll find out," Master replied.

"And how did you know my second name is Susan?" I wanted to know.

"None of your business," he replied.

Once again, I dropped my head to run my eyes down the contract terms. Then I said, anxiety colouring my voice, "You're asking for quite a lot."

"Thirty thousand dollars is a lot of money," he rejoined.

I winced, saying, "I know, Master. I'm sorry about that."

"By the way," he said. "I've managed to come up with a slave name that might suit you; how about 'Meat'?"

"Meat?" I queried, completely at a loss.

"It seems fitting," Master explained. "You've got a wonderfully meaty bum. Besides, sooner or later I'm going to have to take you up to the turret of my flat, hang you up like a piece of meat and beat you."

Picking up the gold pen Master had placed on top of the contract I leaned forward and signed my name.

As I returned both pen and contract to Master, I quietly replied, "I shall look forward to that. Yes, 'Meat' it is."

"Are you wearing tights?" Master asked.

"Of course not, Master," I happily replied. "I'm wearing holdups, with no panties."

He immediately reached under the table, sliding his hand between my thighs to pull my pubic hair. I yelped, and then blushed.

"My turn to be impressed," he said. He sniffed his fingertips, and then held them to my nose. 

"Smell that," he commanded. "It's the scent of cunt that's been open to the air, and there's nothing like it. Now, tell me what you were doing in Sweden."

Still feeling the tug of his fingers in my pubic hair, aware that fluids were beginning to seem past my pussy lips, this command required a head-snapping change of course in my thinking. The terms of the contract so fresh in my mind, and relieved that I was receiving an order that did not require anything sexual in public, I began describing my activities over the last week. If I had given myself an opportunity to think about what had just happened, and what it augured for my upcoming year of service, I would have been in a panic. Master knew what he was about - by instructing me to discuss an intellectual subject, detailing the recent conference, enabled me to resume the confidence and quick-wittedness that were hallmarks of my professional life.

It did not occur to me that Master did not share the intensity of my interest in my subject, and he listened quite intently as I summarized the events of the week-long conference.

As I talked, Master finished his coffee, motioned for me to stand with him, and then led me to the hat department.

"And then," I was saying, "Just as Barrington's point about the 'Dark Lady' was completely exploded - "

"Meat?" Master interrupted.

I snapped back into the present. "Yes, Master?"

"Shut the fuck up," Master said. "I'm trying to think."

"Yes, Master," I replied, feeling a resurgence of the anxiety that had assailed me before Master let me distract myself, talking about my literary interests.

Master picked up a beige felt pillbox hat with a small veil. "Put this on!" he ordered. I obeyed, turning to look in one of the mirrors. "Not so fast!" he barked. "Who will be paying for this?" Master asked with a glare.

"You, Master," I answered.

"And who will you be wearing it for?" Master continued.

"You, Master," I answered again.

"So whose opinion matters?" Master concluded.

"Yours, Master," I said. "Forgive me, Master."

"You can look in a mirror later, when you're doing something worth watching," Master said. "But for now, keep your eyes down and concentrate on looking pretty for me."

"I'm not pretty," I said.

"You're certainly arrogant," Master replied. "Try on that blue picture hat."

"Green will go better with my eyes, Master," I hazarded to suggest.

"Green it is, then," he replied with a smile.

We had a wonderful day. We did Harvey Nichols and Harrods, stopping off at Richoux for a light lunch. We ended up with four hats: the green picture hat, which had a light veil; a tiny yellow top hat with a huge bow; a purple crochet bonnet and a beige straw hat with its brim lifted and fastened to the crown with a scarlet hatpin. Master also bought a navy Donna Karan jacket to replace the one he had cut up, a long black evening dress by Thierry Mugler, a pair of black patent-leather shoes by J B Martin with impossibly high heels, and a slutty lilac mini-skirt covered in feathers, by Stella Cadenta. And yet, there still was more to purchase, apparently.

I had to ask, "Master, what on earth are we doing in Harrod's pet department?"

"Buying a collar and leash, of course, Meat," he replied. "Remember that man outside my flat who knew how to control his bitch? Try this on."

I looked round anxiously, "Must I, Master?" I asked.

"Are you questioning my orders?" Master quietly replied.

"No, Master," I responded. "Sorry, Master."

The collar he handed me to try on was black with silver studs. He made me stand with it round my neck for long enough to attract a few curious glances, then said, "It's perfect," and let me take it off. He then selected a couple of leashes: one matched my collar, so I had no trouble figuring out why that one was being bought, but then he also picked up an inexpensive leather one. When I asked why he was buying two leashes, Master explained that the second leash would be cut into short lengths to be used for beating my breasts. I did not need to look for a mirror to know that my face flooded with heat as I thought about his plans.

At the cosmetics counter, we bought a whole bag of makeup, centered round two bright red lipsticks, the most garish shade Master could find in Revlon's Colour Endure range and something equally slutty by Christian Dior, together with matching nail polish and a set of false nails.

"The lipsticks are the same colour, Master," I observed, puzzled once again. "Why would anyone want two lipsticks exactly the same colour?"

"To suck cock, of course," he quietly replied. "Whoever heard of anyone sucking a man's cock while wearing only one lipstick?"

Despite Master's quiet tone, the counter assistant must have overheard. She blushed. Then I noticed her blushes, and blushed yet again. Master grinned at the two of us.

Then we picked up a bottle of 1988 Dom Perignon and a single old-fashioned saucer champagne glass.

Finally, laden down with packages, we breezed into Butler & Wilson in the Fulham Road. Here we bought a plain silver ring and a matching bracelet. Then Master made me try on every tiara in the shop. He selected one, a glittering array of cubic zirconia that looked like a million pounds and cost several hundred; he added matching earrings, bracelet and necklace, then we gathered up all our packages and hailed a cab.

"I'm mystified," I said as the cab crawled down the King's Road. "Is all this for tonight?"

"Tonight and the future," Master replied. "There are actually two outfits here."

"Two?" My total confusion was evident in the tone of my question. "But there are four hats. Five if you count the tiara."

"Oh, yes," Master said. "I definitely count the tiara."

When we arrived at Master's house, he handed me some money to pay for the cab, and held the door open while I carried the shopping into his front hall.

"Do you want me to crawl up the stairs again?" I asked.

"No," Master replied. "Just take everything up and unpack it. Hang the skirt and dress in the wardrobe on the left; put the hats and tiara on the bed. Put the ring on your finger, and the jewelry in the top drawer of the dressing table along with the collar and leashes. The make-up goes on top of the dressing table. Then put the champagne in the fridge, make some tea and bring it to the main room, the one where you got your first beating."

"Yes, Master," I replied, hearing the tension beginning to ratchet up in my voice.

Master was reading the latest edition of a magazine when I came in.

"Here's your tea, Master," I said.

"You took your time," he snapped. "White and strong for me; you are permitted half a cup, with no milk or sugar."

"Thank you, Master," I said.

Master drank some tea, and then said, "Your new ring will be your symbol of submission for this evening. Some slaves have to wear collars all the time, but I think it ruins the line of a beautiful neck. This ring, the bracelet and the collar all mean you're a slave. When you wear any of them, it's a sign that you're being obedient."

"Permission to speak, Master?" I asked.

"Permission granted, Meat," he replied.

"You said we'd bought two outfits today, Master," I asked.

"Two outfits," Master explained, "both for cock sucking. And now we have to decide which one to use tonight."

"How do we do that, Master? Toss a coin?" I asked.

"Very nearly," Master replied. "We're going to play a game I invented called 'which tit.'"

"Sounds interesting," I said, trying to treat this as a game instead of the most intense and embarrassing encounter of my life to date.

Master took a pen and a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote two words on it in bold lettering, one above the other: Hats/Tiara

Master handed the paper to me, and turned his back, saying "Now, without letting me see, write 'left' by one word and 'right' by the other. Then fold the paper and put it on the mantelpiece."

I did as I was told, and asked, "Now what, Master?"

Master replied, "Open the case and bring me the riding crop with the silver handle." 

After I gave it to Master, he held it out for me to kiss, saying "Now take off your jersey and bra and put your hands behind your back." 

I did so quickly, throwing the clothes on the floor as a good slave should.

"Hold still," Master commanded, and brought the riding crop down viciously on my right nipple. I yelped and danced round the room, cradling my injured breast in my hands. 

"There's a lesson for you there," Master told me. "That's how much it hurts when I don't warm you up with a few lighter strokes. On the bright side, that's the last time I'm going to beat you today."

"Th -- thank you, Master," I said, still unable to focus on much beyond the lingering sting in my nipple.

Master strode over to the mantelpiece and unfolded the paper. "You chose hats for the right tit," he observed. "That's what you'll be wearing when you suck my cock."

"But I can't wear four hats," I began.

"Not all at once, you daft bitch," Master said impatiently. "Finish your tea; it's time to prepare you." Master got to his feet, and when I started to stand to walk behind him, he grabbed me by the hair and dragged me out of the room on my knees.



Mastering Submission Ch. 05



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

Once we were in the bathroom, Master turned on the taps and added a little bath foam. 

"Take off the rest of your clothes," he commanded, "and throw them in that bin. You can fish them out later, when I'm not looking. Now, stand to attention, Meat, and listen."

"Yes, Master," I said.

"This evening you're going to suck my penis and drink my semen," Master said. "This is an honour a worthless slave like you doesn't deserve." Master cuffed my left breast lightly, then said, "Don't look at me."

"No, Master," I replied. "Sorry, Master."

"In order to transform you into something a little more worthy, you're going to be bathed and made up and dressed to look like a good one," Master went on to say.

"A good what, Master?" I asked.

"What do you think, Meat," Master replied. "A good what? Say it."

Swallowing hard, I responded, "A good cock sucker, Master?"

"There," Master said, smiling. "That wasn't so hard was it?"

"No, Master," I agreed. "I'll try to be a good cock sucker, Master. I want to be a good cock sucker."

The bath was about ready. Master checked the temperature with his hand, added a little cold water and nodded. "Get in," he ordered.

I lay back in the water while Master worked over every inch of my body with a variety of soft brushes. I could understand that, especially for this first cock-sucking, Master wanted to ensure that I was clean enough to meet his exacting standards, but it was disconcerting to be bathed, and by the man whom I had so recently agreed -- in writing! -- to service, worship, and adore.

"Did you shave your legs this morning?" Master asked.

"Yes, Master," I replied.

"Don't do it again," Master said. "I've got an old electric epilator, one of the very first models. It's not particularly good at leaving your legs smooth, but it hurts like crazy."

Master ducked my head under the water and shampooed my hair before pulling me to my feet by the nipple. Once I was standing, Master rinsed me off using a handheld power shower, and had me step out of the tub onto the plush rug beside it. Then Master dried me, using three huge white towels. Master even unwrapped a new toothbrush and cleaned my teeth, an experience which, after a gurgle of surprise, I came to enjoy. 

"Can't have a dirty mouth on the end of my knob, can we?" Master asked cheerily. "Now, off we go to the bedroom."

In the bedroom, Master had me sit at a dressing table whilst he combed and dried my hair. I steadily gazed into the mirror, watching Master apply toner and moisturizer to my face, neck, and breasts. Master even covered over the mark he had made on my right breast with foundation. 

Master brushed light iridescent powder over my shoulders and chest, and applied the Colour Endure lipstick to my nipples. I watched in amazement as Master cut, filed, and fitted the false nails onto my fingers, and sat there dazed whilst Master painted them bright red. 

At that point, I had to return to myself enough to apply make-up to my face, according to Master's precise instructions ("Not slutty enough. More mascara"). As I applied the Colour Endure lipstick to my mouth, I noticed Master slipping the matching Dior lipstick into his trouser pocket, but had learned better than to ask why.

"Now put that miniskirt on," Master ordered. "If I'm not going to fuck your cunt I don't want to see it."

"How do I look?" I asked, posing.

"See for yourself," Master said, taking my wrist and twisting my arm behind my back before marching me over to the big mirror by the window. 

"Well," Master snarled, "What do you think?"

For a moment, all I could do was stare at the reflection in the mirror. I felt as though I were looking at a stranger, but on some level I was aware that the "stranger" was a part of myself that had been denied and disguised until I met Master.

I noticed Master's expectant look, and replied, "I look very pretty, Master," but there was surprise in my voice.

"And?" Master prompted.

"And sexy," I replied.

"You look like a whore!" Master said, almost shouting. "And that's what you are."

"Yes, Master," I agreed.

"Let's get on with it," Master said harshly. "Pick up those hats and bring them to the main room."

"Yes, Master," I said, gathering up hats, and following Master from the room.

On Master's instructions, I laid three of the hats on the coffee table in the main room, and put the green one on my head. As I walked toward Master, adjusting the veil, Master pointed out, "That hat will get in the way of any serious cock sucking. But it's ideal for wearing while you're telling me what you're going to do."

I was at a loss -- I thought we already had established what was going to happen, but responded, "I'm going to suck your cock."

"Yes," Master said. "And then?"

Realisation dawned, and the words began to pour out. "I'm going to kiss it all over," I told Master. "I'm going to kiss your big, beautiful prick and lick your balls. I'm going to make your cock all shiny with my saliva and then blow on it till it's dry. I'm going to take your cock deep in my mouth. I'm going to rub it against my cheeks. I'm going to sniff it, savoring your man smells."

I paused, wondering what more there was that I could say to please Master, rather hoping I had said enough, since I knew the hat's veil was not obscuring my blushes, especially since I could feel them moving down across my breasts.

"And then?" Master persisted.

"And then I'm going to swallow your semen," I added.

"And then?" Master asked again.

"And then I'm going to thank you," I replied.

"And then?" Master was pushing the limits of my understanding of my role as his slave here. I just was not sure what he wanted me to say that I had not already said, but I knew I had to keep trying.

"Then I shall wait patiently in case you want to slap my face," I said, smiling at having come up with another duty I could perform to serve Master.

"Not bad for a beginner," Master said grudgingly. He took the Dior lipstick from his pocket and picked up a small hand mirror, holding it steady while I applied the lipstick.

"I can't see where the new lipstick starts and the new one ends, Master," I complained.

"It doesn't matter," Master replied. "Just make sure you put it on thick. Can you suck your own nipples?"

"I don't think so, Master," I said, astounded at the idea of such a thing.

"Try," Master encouraged.

I lifted my left breast toward my mouth, managing to get a smear of lipstick just above the nipple.

"A reasonable effort," Master grumbled. "Now, go put the yellow hat on."

I perched the yellow hat with the big bow at a cheeky angle and held up my arms, posing for Master, and asked, "Do I look OK?"

"Shut your face, you vain bitch," Master snapped. "I'm thirsty. You'll find ice in the freezer and an ice bucket on the draining board. Get the champagne out of the fridge and the glass we bought, and bring it all in here."

When I returned, Master was naked, lounging on the sofa, his erection greatly in evidence, and commanding my attention. I was a bit surprised by Master's sexual excitement, given the non-erotic build-up to this point, but Master was teaching me that eroticism comes in many different flavours and shapes.

"Put the champagne on the table," Master commanded. "Open it carefully: if you spill a drop I shall change my plans for the evening and throw you out into the street."

"Yes, Master," I said, then held my breath as the bottle opened beautifully.

"Now, fill the glass and bring it to me -- on your knees," Master commanded.

I did as told, then handed Master the glass and kissed the end of his cock.

"Now, Meat," Master said, "I don't want to have to beat you, not tonight. When a slave's face is positioned close to a master's cock, she can open her mouth in readiness. She may even lick her lips. She may ask permission to suck, but she must not do anything more until given precise instructions. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Master," I replied, somewhat downcast. "Sorry, Master. It's just that I wanted to suck your cock so much. I've been thinking about it all day. I was thinking about it in Sweden while I was listening to those scholars, wondering what you would taste like."

"Then beg," Master said. "And spread your legs. I hate a whore who kneels with her knees together."

"Please, Master," I began, once again finding that words failed me. "Let me suck your cock. Let me put your big, hard cock in my mouth."

Master put his finger under my nose to tilt back my head. Then he grabbed his cock by its base and slapped my cheeks with it. He bounced it against my lips, but I knew better than to open my mouth without permission, so I merely smiled blissfully in response.

Master released his cock, and pushed my head toward his balls, ordering me to smell them, and kiss them, and lick them. Anticipating some serious cock-sucking in the near future, I nuzzled them, inhaling deeply, then began to give Master's whole scrotum what I hoped would be the tongue bath of its life.

Master picked up the mirror and held, giving a second view, watching almost clinically, especially given the tongue lashing his balls were enduring. I later realised that Master used the mirror to expand his knowledge and control. By observing me closely, he could judge if my mind began to wander or my knees began to hurt. Once again impressed by the difficulty experienced and the deliberation required of my Master, I licked my way up from Master's balls. 

As I licked, I could hear Master begin to call softly, "Do it, dick-licker. Lick that prick. Show me how talented that little pink tongue can be. Rub my cock on your face. Stroke it with those whore's nipples of yours. But don't put it in your mouth until you've earned the privilege."

"Anything you say, Master," I said, and continued my work, even whilst appreciating that nothing written by Shakespeare I ever had read had affected me quite so much as Master's quiet little exhortations.

"Stop for a moment, Meat," Master commanded. "Tilt your head back and part your lips." When I did as instructed, Master spat a little champagne into my mouth before tapping the side of my head with the base of his glass. 

"Meat?" Master queried.

"Yes, Master?" I responded.

"My glass is empty," Master said, "And you need to freshen your lipstick. Besides, while that hat is eminently suitable for kissing and licking, I'm not sure it will look exactly right when you've got a cock deep in your mouth. Off you go."

"At once, Master," I replied, putting my hands to the floor to help me rise.

"No need to get off your knees," Master interjected.

"No, Master," I said. "Sorry, Master."

Master watched me crawl away and pick up the bottle, and then said, "Don't spill a drop, now. This is not an occasion for spilling anything."

"I'll be careful, Master," I said, already apprehending that ambulation on one's knees was quite difficult to do gracefully and with coordination. I filled Master's glass, not quite to the top so as to help ensure nothing would slop over the sides as I crawled back to him. Then I followed the rest of Master's instruction -- off came the yellow hat, on went the purple crocheted bonnet.

I came back on my knees and handed Master his glass, then waited, lips parted in readiness for the cock that pulsed an inch from my face. 

"You may continue your task, Meat," Master told me. "And this time you can put it in your mouth."

"Thank you, Master," I said.

Before I could close my mouth, Master thrust his cock forward saying, "Thank me again with your mouth full."

I let out a muffled squeak, but kept his cock in my mouth.

"Speak up," Master commanded. "Don't worry if the cock going in gets in the way of the words coming out. I'll understand."

"Yes, Master," I said thickly. "Thank you, Master."

Master held the mirror close to my cheek; I worked out that it was so that he could watch my red lips sliding over his flesh and my scarlet-tipped fingers caressing his balls. As I built up a rhythm, I could feel the excitement growing inside Master as his cock began to twitch in my mouth. Almost as soon as I had that realisation, Master tapped the side of my head with the glass once more. 

"Stop that, Meat," Master commanded. "Time for more champagne, and a different hat." 

I reached up for the glass before withdrawing my mouth reluctantly, and shuffled off, still on my knees of course, to the table. I left the nearly full glass on the table whilst I removed the purple bonnet and replaced it with the straw hat with a turned-up brim. Once the fourth hat was secured to my heat with the large scarlet hatpin, I picked up Master's glass and returned it to him.

"The turned-up brim was selected so that you can get your face flat against my stomach," Master said. "Always assuming you can get the full length of my cock down your throat."

I handed the refilled glass to Master, and turned my attention to his cock. I actually had been looking forward to tasting Master, but I had no idea just how much of him there would be to taste. As it turned out, I was not able to manage the full length of his cock, but not for want of trying.

My efforts were rewarded by hearing Master croon, "Take it as deep as you can. Choke for me."

I obeyed, my gag reflex making its presence known to us both. To add emphasis to his words, Master grabbed my ears and forced me closer, impaling my face on his cock. Only when my coughing became desperate did Master release me, and even then I did my best to carry on sucking. 

Master picked up the mirror again, speaking with admiration of the tears on my cheeks and the spittle on my chin. As I regained my rhythm, Master continued to speak, saying "That's where you belong, on your knees, praying for spunk. Your mouth is soooo sexy. Fill your mouth with cock. Feel that cock in your mouth, cock sucker. Make me come, you little whore!" 

"Open your eyes!" Master commanded, tilting his hand mirror so that I could see myself. "See how lovely you look with a hat on your head and a cock in your mouth. Suck it, you brain-dead bitch! It's what your mouth is for. That mouth can discuss literature and philosophy with Pulitzer Prize winners and it can suck a cock. Which do you think is more important, slut?"

"Sucking cock, Master," I replied, gagging.

Master put down the mirror, but continued talking, exhorting me with louder and louder instructions. "Faster, you lazy bitch!" Master shouted. "Move that mouth! Faster!"

After two or three minutes of this, I was tiring, but I believed Master's orgasm wasn't far off. Just as I started to be afraid I would not be able to keep going until Master got off, Master spoke to me, quietly and calmly.

"Now, Meat," Master said, "Listen carefully. No, that doesn't mean you can break your rhythm. Keep your head bobbing up and down, but concentrate on what I have to say. I'm going to come pretty soon, Meat, and I don't want to do it in your mouth. I know that's what you were hoping for, but you'll have to wait until you're wearing the tiara. The first time I come in your mouth, I want you looking like a princess. Tonight I'm going to come in this glass," Master said as he drained the glass of the last of his champagne. 

"Your job," Master continued, waving the glass a bit for emphasis, "is to catch all my spunk in it. If you spill so much as a drop, I'll make you run round the block as you are: barefoot and topless."

Master then tapped the side of my head with the base of the glass; still sucking diligently, I reached a hand up and took it from him.

I knew instinctively when to make my move -- certainly, my actions were beyond the realm of thought and contemplation. There was a "plop" as Master's cock left my mouth, and then I cradled it with my right hand and held the glass steady in my left.

I gave a little cry of excitement and satisfaction as Master's cock started spurting, impressive in both volume and power. I was focused so completely on watching the glass filling, that it was almost a reflex to wipe the little bit of spunk that got onto my fingers off into the glass, once Master's orgasm was completed.

Master watched me closely, and said, "Now, stand up."

I obeyed, still holding the glass of semen in my hand.

"Well," Master asked, "Are you woman enough to drink it?"

"Yes, Master," I replied.

"Then ask permission," Master reminded.

"Please, Master," I begged. "May I drink your spunk? Please?"

"You may," Master said with a smile.

I raised the glass in salute, took a tentative sip, smiled, and gulped the whole lot down.

"What about the bit that's left?" Master asked. "Why do you think I bought a champagne coupe instead of a flute?"

"So I could get my tongue inside?" I replied.

"I think of everything, don't I?" Master said. "Go on. Lick up every last drop. And hold the glass close to me so I can watch you doing it."

I lapped like a kitten hungry for cream, smiling at Master over the rim of the glass.

"Don't dare look me in the eye," Master warned. "Remember, only with a cock in your mouth."

"Sorry, Master," I apologised as I knelt down in front of Master again. "I understand about the two lipsticks now, Master. This beautiful cock is resting. I made it big, I made it small, I put those lipstick marks on it, and thanks to the smudge-proof lipstick I still have the red lips of a whore. Thank you, Master."

Master cupped my chin in his left hand and tilted back my head. I closed my eyes and smiled blissfully as Master lightly slapped my cheeks over and over again. 

"Permission to speak, Master," I asked when Master had finished hitting me.

"Permission granted, slave," Master replied.

"Master, sucking your cock has made me very excited," I began.

"I'm glad to hear it," Master said.

"But, Master, I would like to come, too," I continued.

"Selfish little slut, aren't you?" Master said, rising to walk over to the equipment case. After Master opened it and took out a vibrator, he switched it on and tossed it over to me.

"But, Master, I can't use that," I protested. "Not in front of you."

"Then turn it off and stop complaining," Master said.

"But I want to come," I could hear a whining note underlying the words, and was a bit concerned that I was going to trigger an outburst.

"This is your second evening here," Master observed. "But you don't seem to have learned much. If you want an orgasm, then fuck yourself now, on the carpet. Use your right hand to shove that thing up your cunt, and your left hand to play with the bruise on your tit. Do it now."

"Yes, Master," I said. "Whatever you say, Master."

I pulled up my skirt and lay back on the carpet. Master stood over me, watching my face as the orgasm took me.

Before Master let me lie down on the little slave bed at the foot of his four-poster for my first night as a full-time slave, Master made me kneel in front of him and recite the Prick Prayer. It goes like this:

O magnificent prick,

I kneel before you to promise you unquestioned access to my cunt and my mouth any time you desire. I will deny you nothing. I promise to inhale the smell of you, to drink your semen and spread it all over my skin, to think about you all day, and dream about you all night.

Though I will fuck and suck any cock Master tells me to, this is the prick that is the centre of my life. Waking or sleeping, hard or soft, you are the core of my existence, the object that gives my life meaning. I was lost before I saw you, and sucked you.




Mastering Submission Ch. 05



You, O beautiful cock, are my lord, my love and my life.

Like me, you are the property of Martin Sharpe, and for this reason I grant him the right to beat and torture me in any way he pleases, because I know that the more I endure, the more aroused he will become and the more often you will fuck me.

This first time, Master handed me the prayer neatly typed on a card; I already knew enough to know that I would have to recite it from memory, as from tomorrow, or be punished. At least I finally knew what "The Prick Prayer" referred to in my contract with Master meant.

By the time I concluded The Prick Prayer for the first time, Master's cock was again standing to attention, and I had to suck it off all over again. But as they say, a woman's work is never done! 



Mastering Submission Ch. 06



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.

*

"Oh, no, Master, please, Master, no. Master, I'm freezing," I continued begging, the words becoming a chant on which I focused to try to escape the cold in the only way possible to me.

I was writhing helplessly, naked under an icy shower, chained by my wrists to a pipe above my head. At this point, I had been serving as Master's slave for three days, and I was being confronted yet again with a cold reality of life as a slave. Master was sitting on the edge of the bath, watching. 

"Please, Master," I moaned. "Let me down. It's too cold." Master let me babble on, waiting for my words to die down to whimpers, and my whimpers to be replaced by silence. I had begged Master to stop the moment he dragged me off to the shower, but I didn't say my safe word then or during the seemingly interminable frigid shower. I might even thank Master afterwards as my body dried in the air without the benefit of a towel, shivering. To me, being clean, even with cold water showers, was so much better than being dirty, that I might even manage to be contrite, pristine and penitent. In any case, I definitely would be ready to be hit and fucked and made dirty all over again.

Early on, Master explained to me that large quantities of icy water are all he needs to keep a slave clean. He does not bathe a slave in ass's milk. He does not soak a slave in a bubble bath. He does not buy her perfumed soap or shower gel. He comes all over her, and washes the semen off with cold water. To Master's way of thinking, this is yet another advantage of keeping a slave compared to living with a straight woman: they even save on fuel bills.

What Master had not explained, but that I had worked out on my own, was that the cold showers were more than just another excuse to make me uncomfortable: a slave needs tolerance to cold. A lot of time a master spends with his slave, she'll be naked and he'll be clothed, and it wouldn't do for him to be uncomfortably warm in her presence.

Master watches a slave all the time she's under an icy shower: not just because it is fun, but also because he knows it would not be safe to leave her alone. And, of course, even a slave does not tolerate the ill treatment if it does not come packaged with hours of attention from the Dominant she serves!

Strangely enough, Master's rough handling already was making my skin softer, more supple and glowing with health -- more so than when it was the skin of a woman who pampered herself with creams and lotions. Master had promised that, in a month or so, he would bathe me in a tub of hot water, with bubbles and oils, patting me dry with big fluffy towels. But, as Master made clear to me, even that wouldn't be for my pleasure: that would be to remind me that Master has the power to be kind as well as cruel.

Just as a master has to clean his slave, so a slave has to attend to bathing a master, at the master's discretion, of course. Master usually takes quick showers, but every few weeks, when he has an hour or two to spare, he indulges in a long, leisurely bath with a slave (me, in other words) in attendance. Master's bath employs a simple ritual, but its rules are very strict. When Master decides it is time to bathe, I have to drop whatever I am doing at once and run his bath. When Master get to the bathroom, I must be waiting, properly dressed in a French maid's outfit with the bodice pulled down to show off my breasts. I have to get the temperature exactly right: if it is half a degree too hot or too cold, I am beaten.

I undress Master respectfully, and fold away his clothes.

I shampoo Master's hair and wash Master from top to toe, scrubbing him down with a variety of sponges, loofahs, and soft brushes. Sometimes Master pulls me into the water on top of him and fucks me. Sometimes Master drags my head underwater to suck his cock. If Master's spunk ends up floating in the water, I have to dip my head and suck it up, not wasting a drop.

Then I pat Master down with towels, all except for between his toes, which I dry with my own hair.

From the start, Master gave me a series of rules. Most of the time I spent with Master, I stood upright, legs apart, hands behind my head or folded neatly behind my back so Master could finger my cunt and slap my face or breasts whenever the mood took him. When I was not standing, Master made me lie absolutely flat on the floor or crawl around with my head lower than Master's cock.

Whenever I crawl into a room, I have to stand and curtsey, then drop to my knees again. As time went by, Master trained me to curtsey deeper and deeper, and then introduced me to the Cunt Curtsey. To perform a cunt curtsey, I take my inner lips between finger and thumb of each hand and spread them as I dip my knees.

Sometimes Master allows me speak freely, and gives me the benefit of his lively mind. Some days I could say anything I liked, but only if I used the word "Master" in every sentence. Some days I was only allowed to thank Master. Some days I was not allowed to talk at all, or if Master was feeling particularly strict was not even allowed to moan, no matter what Master did to me.

One unexpected lesson from my service was the new understanding that rules are fine as far as they go, but they're just words; a slave must be obedient to the bone. During those early weeks Master had been vigilant, making sure that each new experience became part of my training. For instance, the first time Master came home after I moved in with him, I came running up for a kiss, the way women do when they are in the early stages of a love affair. I was happy to see Master, and I was in a loving, sexual relationship with him, so old habits just kicked in. Later, Master explained that this was a crucial moment: if he let a slave get above herself in small things, she would take advantage in the big ones, and he would no longer be the Dominant. As I reached Master, he held up his left hand, palm forward against my chest. I came to a stop, a questioning expression on my face, still in the early bliss of a homecoming lover. Master drew back his right hand and hit me gently across the cheek.

And even being slapped by Master was a learning opportunity. I had to be taught how a slave should react when her face is slapped. Does she draw back, startled? Or should she stand unblinking, eyes downcast, ready to be slapped again? Master taught me that the well-trained slave does both: she finches, because it is her duty to show appreciation for every attention a master pays her, no matter how harsh, then as quickly as possible she recovers her composure, lifts her chin, ready for him to strike her again. Then, when she is sure he has finished abusing her, she kneels and thanks him.

I wish I could say I did all that perfectly, without having to be told, but in a way I am glad I received the lesson, for it helped me not only behave as Master expected, but to understand why that was the behavior Master sought from me. Often throughout my service, understanding the "why" was infinitely more difficult for me than performing the act of service desired by Master.

Once I understood about the manner in which I properly should greet Master upon his arrival at home, I thought I could not fail to perform as Master wished. So, the next evening when Master came in the front door, I still ran up to him for a kiss (should Master deign to grant me one), but stopped at the last moment, steadying myself, expecting a slapped face. Of course, Master never gives a slave what she expects - Master does, however, try to (and usually does) give her what she needs.

Master placed his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to my knees. I inclined my head towards Master's fly, lips parted, waiting for precise instructions.

"Undo my zip," Master ordered. Then, "Take out my prick." Then, "Kiss it." Then, "Go ahead and suck." I went about the task with care and enthusiasm. When Master came, he did so in a series of flicks: onto my eyebrows, down the left side of my nose, into the corner of my mouth, down my chin, closely watching the slide of his fluids across and down the angles of my face. As I continued kneeling, Master took my hair firmly with his left hand whilst slapping me, forehand and backhand, over and over, and then pushed me to the ground.

As I lay on the floor, I was grateful to remain there for what seemed a long time. First, it gave me a chance to collect myself: I never had my face slapped repeatedly before, and it was a startling and disconcerting experience. Second, I began to understand why Master behaved as he did, and to appreciate the thought and care he took in choosing a course of action to advance my training in submission. Overcome with gratitude and love, I began to gently kiss the toe of Master's shoe whilst he stood silently, evaluating my reactions, and, of course, finding something else to teach me. As he zipped his fly, Master growled, "Next time, remember to thank me."

One of my favourite games is called "Bird on a Wire." Master stretches a length of clothes line across the Music Room, and I perch astride it on tiptoe, hands on head, as Master cranks a handle, forcing the wire higher and higher into my snatch; the higher the wire, the squeakier my voice becomes. When Master sees I am at the limit of my tolerance, Master orders me to sing: like a bird, like a woman in extreme discomfort.

I always start with Madonna's "Hanky Panky," slightly flat in spite of Master hitting my legs with a ruler to encourage me to keep in tune. I follow that with "Kiss of Fire" and "It Hurts So Good," but there aren't enough songs with an S&M flavour for a long session, so Master has rewritten the words of some classics. I sing, "And Then He Whipped Me," with lyrics that include, "A whipping was a thing that I'd never gone through before, but he whipped me in a way that I want to be whipped forevermore." I sing, "You Always Hurt the One You Love," and "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time" with the words only slightly changed. And I round the performance off with "Red is the colour of a slave girl's arse in the morning, when we rise. That's the time, that's the time it hurts the most."

Then, if I have put on a good show, Master whips my tits to turn me into a robin redbreast, lowers the wire, and fucks me.

Everything improves with practice. After a few sessions, I became surer of my balance on the dripping perch, and my voice became more confident. And, as my strength and skill increased, I got to love the game, sometimes reminding Master of it when I felt he was not paying me enough attention.

I treasure the quiet Saturday afternoon when, after a particularly long session, Master told me that Celine Dion, Kiri te Kanawa and Alison Moyet meant nothing to him now, and that he prefers the voice of Rebecca Parsons astride her wire, singing out of tune, to any other voice in the world.

I wore the tiara to suck Master's cock a week after our first "Bird on a Wire" game, a game that had made clearer to me the many differences that were showing up in my emotional life, brought into focus by all the changes in my day-to-day life as Master's slave. I was more confident as I knelt at Master's feet that unforgettable evening. At Master's instructions, I had my make-up done by the Dior Studio at Dickens and Jones, my hair was pulled up in a chignon, my crystal earrings sparkled, and the silk of my dress whispered against my stockings as I dropped to my knees in front of Master. Master moved slightly to one side, lining me up with the cheval mirror Master had brought down to the main room from his bedroom upstairs.

There was Debussy on the stereo, and Master had turned three lights on: perfectly positioned to display a slave sucking cock. This classic lighting set fire to the stones of the tiara, and made my chestnut hair glow with life. Master continued to stand, enjoying the sight of my face positioned in front of his pulsing erection, and paying special attention to my fuckable mouth half-open and ready.

I glanced up questioningly. "Would you like me to get you a drink, Master?" I asked.

"A cigar would be nice," Master replied. I rose, went over to the table, trimmed and lit a "Romeo y Julieta" and returned, kneeling once more and offering it up to Master. Master accepted the cigar, took a couple of puffs, and then blew some smoke in my face. I coughed a little, but stayed where I was, happy to be on my knees.

"Ask," Master commanded.

"Please, noble Master," I begged, "Grant this unworthy slave permission to suck your magnificent cock."

"Not yet," Master replied firmly. "Just kneel there for a few minutes, looking beautiful."

"I'm not beautiful, Master," I automatically protested.

Master stood, looking down at me for a moment - long enough for me to wonder if he was thinking of paying me a compliment or was angry at me for contradicting him. Master did not wait too long. One of the basic premises of Master's approach to S&M (in fact, as far as I knew, to ALL relationships) was that honesty is important.

"You're beautiful, Rebecca," Master said, using my real name, breaking all the rules (but then, they were HIS rules, after all).

I was silent for a while before quietly replying, "No, I'm not."

"Master," Master corrected.

"No, Master," I repeated, "I'm not beautiful. I know I'm not ugly, but -"

"But nobody has ever told you you're beautiful before?" Master asked.

"No, Master," I responded.

"Men have told you they love you?" Master asked.

"Once or twice," I replied.

"But they've never made you stand naked and enjoyed the fabulous shape of you, and told you how lovely you are?" Master said with a smile.

"No, Master," I said. "Men have kissed me and cuddled me. But you're the only one who ever stood back and stared."

"What about when you're wearing a swimming costume?" Master asked.

"Well," I admitted, "now and again men have whistled at me when I was on a beach or at a swimming pool."

"There you are," Master said triumphantly. "You've got a lovely face and a truly fabulous body. You look good in clothes, but you're gorgeous naked."

I thought for a moment, and then quietly asked, "Is that really true, Master?"

"Absolutely," Master replied.

I smiled. My head lifted and my shoulders went back. There was a new confidence in the way I held my head, my entire body.

"It's not entirely a compliment," Master pointed out. "You're so pretty I have to keep fucking you. It's going to be tiring spending a year with a woman as beautiful as you. Anyway, enough of this idle gossip. Start sucking as soon as the music ends: I want to hear all the slurping sounds you make." 

As the last chords died, I licked my lips. "Start," Master ordered. I leaned forward and gave Master's cock that crucial first kiss, the seal broken, a promise of more on the way.

I began to trail my gloved fingertips on either side of Master's scrotum where it joined his thighs. Master spread his legs a little wider, giving me access.

I kissed Master's balls -- a fully dressed woman looking like a fairy-tale princess in a long dress, gloves and jewels, kneeling in front of a hairy, sweaty, naked man. I started to kiss my way up to the tip of Master's cock, but Master pushed me down to bury my nose against his balls once more, savouring each moment, drawing things out. 

My hands sneaked down and toyed with my own nipples through the fabric of my dress. Master caressed my ears, then held them firmly to force my head higher; this time I didn't kiss the shaft of Master's cock: I licked it with tiny, hesitant movements of my tongue. When I reached the tip, I made a perfect "O" with my lips, not sure whether to move my head forward and suck, or hold myself still while Master took over, fucking my mouth.

It was neither. Master put one hand behind my neck, the other round my chin and I wrenched my head backwards and forwards, using me like some living sex toy, wanking himself off with my mouth. I began to moan, short, panting noises from arousal, or from shame at being so callously used, or from genuine discomfort.

Master did not seem to care. He released his grip, ready to give more instructions for his own pleasure and satisfaction, not out of consideration for me.

"Suck it," Master commanded. "Not too fast. And keep your head tilted back so I can watch my cock going in and out between your lips."

I followed Master's instructions for a minute or two, then broke off, turning my head sideways and sucking my own fingers obscenely, determined to drive Master out of his mind. When I resumed sucking it was with genuine enthusiasm, moving my head with blinding speed, breathing heavily through my nose, coughing a little when Master's cock went in too deep, the stones of the tiara scintillating with the movements of my head. And then, suddenly, I slowed down again.

I knew that Master had his cock sucked by experts, by humble slaves who know exactly how to worship a master's prick, but after a fortnight of Master's training, I felt hopeful that Master would think I could be one of the best. I could not get the whole shaft in my throat yet, but I hoped the enthusiastic way I impaled my mouth on Master's cock would let him know that moving to that stage would be just a matter of time. By now I was sweating, and there were trails of saliva running down my chin and onto my dress. My left hand had snaked under the hem of my skirt, and I was pleasuring myself without permission, making soft moans I could barely hear, moans that turned to gurgles whenever Master's cock touched the back of my throat. My lips still slithered up and down Master's prick, my head still moved backwards and forwards, but lids were closing over sleepy-looking eyes. Possessed by some angel of depravity, I nearly had forgotten Master was there.

Some women never suck a man's cock. Some do it with disgust. Some do it cynically, knowing men enjoy it but trying to get the revolting business over as soon as possible. Master told me that a true slave might enjoy performing a blowjob even more than being fucked, but that level of enthusiasm can have its own dangers. One of those dangers, Master had warned me, was that a willing cocksucker lost in lust can forget the whole thing is taking place for the master's benefit: she may even bite him.

When a slave loses her way like that, a master must put her back on the right track, Master had explained. Suiting the action to those words, Master touched my bare arm with the glowing tip of the cigar, and I winced. My hand slipped quickly from under my skirt, and I made a sound, something that sounded like, "Sorry Master," being spoken round a thick cock.

"That's OK," Master murmured. "You can show me how well you masturbate in a moment. Tell me you love me."

I did so, indistinctly, without breaking rhythm.

"Remember I told you there was a time a slave must look at a master's eyes?" Master asked.

"Yes, Master," I said thickly, my mouth still full.

"Well," Master continued, "that time is when a master is coming onto a slave's tongue, and that means now. Look at me, bitch! Look at me, you little whore! Look in my eyes! Here it comes, you lucky slut!"

There was adoration in my expression as Master's sperm shot into my mouth: adoration, and peace, and pride. Master gave me permission to swallow, and then slapped my cheek so hard it sent the tiara spinning across the room. Then Master waited while I thanked him.




Mastering Submission Ch. 06



The AIDS tests we had taken made oral sex more fun, but we still used condoms for actual fucking. Master explained that condoms were more than a means of birth control, although he felt they were preferable to birth control pills, since he hated the idea of messing with the hormones of a fine woman.

Master explained that, because he is the master, condoms are fun. The fact that Master's explanation instantly made sense to me was yet another indication of the psychological and emotional commitment I already had made to my submissive service. The way Master explained it to me was this: A straight guy puts a condom on his own cock quickly and sneakily, trying not to destroy the romantic atmosphere or lose his erection. A master waits imperiously while his slave opens the packet, kisses his cock, rolls the condom over it and kisses it again, reserving the right to beat her if she's slow or clumsy. After the fucking is over, the straight man ties a knot in a used condom and flushes it down the toilet, or puts it in the rubbish, or throws it under a bush. A master relaxes while his slave takes the condom off his cock and hands it to him, and then she tilts her face back and waits while the Master empties the condom's contents onto her cheeks and nose or into her mouth. He then presents the empty condom to his slave to dispose of or to treasure forever. And she, of course, thanks him and kisses his feet.

Another service I performed for Master occurred when he watched football, something that happened pretty often. Master had not played football in years, but quite liked to watch a good game on TV. When Arsenal played badly, as they did that year, Master found it soothing to watch with his feet on the naked back of a beautiful woman. I did not like groveling at first, but after only a few sessions I understood that the safest place in the world is beneath the feet of a caring master, totally relaxed, totally fulfilled, all decisions taken away. Once I had that realization, when Master ordered me onto the floor, I flung myself at Master's feet eagerly, as if I were trying to become one with the carpet. 

When Master lost interest in football, he would instruct me to lie flat on the floor on my back, my breasts warm and comforting beneath Master's feet, moving his toes up to stroke my face as I gently licked the soles of his feet, my only wish to become the perfect footstool. The ritual was calming for each of us, interrupted from time to time as Master finished a beer and sent me crawling to the kitchen for another one.

Licking the soles of a master's feet isn't easy. Slaves must lick masters' feet gently and deliberately, with flattened tongues, cleaning and worshiping, but never, ever ticking. Masters tickle slaves, especially when they are in tight bondage, but never allow things the other way round. And although Master pretended to ignore me as I figured all this out, he was attentive as I -- watching my reactions, feeding me first one toe then another, praising me, calling me a whore.

It was something I learned to love. They might have been nothing more than a pair of ordinary male feet, size nine-and-a-half, but at moments like these, they were everything I wanted out of life.

Humbly, passionately, I kissed each toe and licked between them. Master ground a heel against my face, squashing my nose, crushing my lips against my teeth, bruising them. Master used his left foot to push me towards the right one, which I then duly kissed and licked. Then Master used his right foot push me back to the left one. Master slapped my cheek lightly with the balls of each foot, and I smiled contentedly. Master shoved as much of one foot as he could into my mouth and used the other to block my nostrils. I giggled at first, then spluttered, then gagged and coughed. Master took his foot out of my mouth and wiped it on my hair.

Master taught me that, unless he was using foot licking as a way to wind down after some good solid fucking, it is always a prelude to sex. And all this humiliation was beginning to arouse me; I ground my hips slowly from side to side; my hands crept up my chest and my fingers toyed with my nipples. Master could have ordered me to stop, or made me stick my fingers up my cunt, or slipped the foot I was not licking between my legs, or told me to kiss my way up Master's legs to his cock. Master glanced up at the game: one goal down and twenty minutes to go.

Master muted the TV and concentrated on enjoying the moment, drinking in the changing expressions on my face as I kissed and licked, watching the shadows of his feet as they moved across the planes of my face.

"Get that cunt of yours round here where I can reach it," Master ordered, lifting his feet off my face. "I want to finger-fuck you."

I shuffled round obediently and spread my knees. Master slapped my rump, and said, "Slow," as he slipped his fingers into my cunt.

"Sorry, Master," I replied.

With his fingers in my cunt, Master began to expound. "Finger-fucking a slave is entirely different from caressing a straight woman. Slaves get no warm-up: no soft stroking of the inner thighs, no running the palm slowly across the belly, gently disturbing the pubic hair. You can give your slave a few hard slaps if it amuses you, but I prefer to dive straight in."

Suiting the action to his words, Master stuck his thumb on the tip of my clit and plunged two fingers deep into my vagina, pulled them out, shoved them in again and then started to open them up like a pair of scissors.

I was starting to respond, my fingers clawing at Master's expensive carpet. When I moaned aloud, Master ordered, "Quiet." Master broke the rhythm by shoving a third finger deep into my cunt. 

Master's lecture continued, "Finger-fucking a slave isn't about giving her pleasure: it's about pushing the borders, giving her another challenge, reinforcing her position at the bottom of the heap, preparing her for abuse to come." Master did not have a whip handy, so he grabbed a hank of my hair and gave it a painful tug. It made me shift my hips, and Master took that opportunity to introduce a fourth finger, and I let out a squeal of protest: "Master, that hurts."

"Put up with it," Master growled. "By Christmas, I want to get my whole fist in there."

The idea was so exciting I came at once, my spasms squeezing Master's fingers together, massaging his hand. Seconds after my climax subsided, Master held up his dripping hand, and I quickly turned around, kneeling before him to clean my sexual juices off his fingers with my tongue and mouth. And, of course, once that cleaning was done, I used my mouth to thank Master for honouring me with his attention. Master's response was to order me to crawl off to get him another beer, but he issued the order with a smile.



Mastering Submission Ch. 07



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

It was a particularly rainy winter, but I soon learned a good master can find plenty of interesting things to do on wet afternoons - and I also counted my blessings that I would not have to be in the public eye for a least a while longer in my role as Master's slave.

The more the rain lashed the windows of Master's flat, the more his whips lashed my arse and shoulders. He would spend hours dressing me up in different clothes. I could not tell which of us was more surprised to see what I looked like in a sophisticated cocktail dress, or split-crotch panties and a peephole bra, or naked except for a man's tweed jacket and Wellington boots. The least I ever wore was four clip-on earrings, two on my ears and two more dangling from my "love lips," as Master referred to my labia.

We visited London's top theatrical costumiers, Master constantly looking for sexy outfits. On one occasion, Master rented the white helmet and gloves of the dress uniform of the Royal Marines. With black Karl Lagerfeld boots, Master felt they made a magnificent outfit.

"Private Parsons," Master shouted, one dark afternoon when I was dressed in boots, helmet, and gloves.

"Sir!" I immediately responded.

"Atten-shun!" Master ordered.

I stood rigid as Master grabbed my nipples saying, "These buttons need polishing."

"Yes, Sir," I responded. "Sorry, Sir."

Master tugged at my pubic hair. "And this bearskin is a disgrace," he said.

"Yes, Sir," I responded. "Sorry, Sir."

Master started up a CD of the Royal Marines Band on the stereo, and said, "OK. Let's see you parade." 

Although I never marched before, I tried to step evenly, up and down the length and breadth of the main room, in time to a series of different marches.

Master took the Royal Marines helmet off me, whilst I stood at attention. Then Master balanced a book on my head, and switched off the CD player. Master moved to the centre of the room, brandishing a long whip, and motioned for me to march in circles round Master in time to the clicking of a metronome. 

"Knees UP, you slack bitch!" Master shouted. "Higher! Keep your chin up!" 

It still amazed me how this sort of activity - so foreign to me before meeting Master - excited me sexually. I could feel that my nipples were beginning to swell; Master hit them, the long tongue of the whip uncoiling across my chest.

I bit my lip, concentrating on keeping time, doing very well at first. But as soon as I got the rhythm right, Master stopped me, and re-set the metronome a fraction faster. Even though I knew I was bound to fail in the end, I carried on, glad Master seemed to enjoy watching my tits jiggle.

Finally, the steps became so fast that the book fell from my head to the floor. Master lashed out with the whip, and I stumbled. I had put my hands out to break my fall, but before I could use them to get back into position, Master ordered me to stay where I was -- on my knees -- while Master fucked my wet cunt from behind.

Master thought up a similar game in which I wear an obscene variation on an eighteenth century naval uniform, and play the part of Midshipman Fellatio Hornblower, dancing the hornpipe for Master - and living up to my name as well. 

One afternoon I wore a Jean Muir dress, real silk. 

"Great outfit!" Master said warmly, and I curtsied with a shy smile.

"Thank you, Master," I replied. "I bought it with the clothing allowance you pay me."

"So it actually belongs to me?" Master asked with a smile.

"Of course, Master," I responded. "Everything I own belongs to you."

"Good," Master said, "Because it needs a little remodeling. You're not wearing any underwear, are you?"

"Of course not, Master," I replied, hurt that Master even asked.

"Then hold very still," Master cautioned.

He took his lock-back knife from a pocket and ran the point of it round the swell of my left breast. I closed my eyes, hating that the beautiful dress was being destroyed.

"Watch, bitch," Master ordered sharply, and I snapped open my eyes.

Master took a pinch of material in front of my right nipple and dragged it out into a sharp cone. Master slashed the material, and pulled away the fabric, leaving my naked breast poking through a jagged hole.

Despite having been around Master so often in much less than this dress, I felt shockingly exposed. Master started to do the same thing on the other side, except this time he took hold of my nipple as well as the material of the dress. 

When Master yanked my whole breast taut and raised the knife again, I reflexively screamed and pulled free, terror in my eyes.

Master burst out laughing. "You thought I'd do it!" he spluttered. "You really thought I was going to cut your tit off!"

When I spoke, there was a sob in my voice, reflecting my disappointment at the failure of my trust. "I'm sorry, Master. You've hurt me many times, but I should have known you wouldn't do me physical harm," I said. "I trust you. Forgive me. It was an automatic reaction."

"A good slave conquers her reflexes," Master replied.

"I know, Master," I agreed. "I'm sorry. I'll do better in future."

Master took my breasts in his hands, one bare and the other clothed, squeezing them both until once again I cried out. "I just might cut your tits off one day," Master mused quietly, watching to be sure he was keeping me unsettled. 

"If you ever actually belong to me," Master went on. "But I'm only renting you, aren't I?"

"I suppose so, Master," I replied.

"Suppose nothing," Master harshly said. "You're a rented whore."

"Yes, Master, I am a rented whore," I said automatically, having learned that blanket agreement with all of Master's pronouncements made my servitude easier.

Despite my experience and trepidation, I went on, "I don't think it's fair for you to say that to me, Master. Call me a whore if you want to. Call me a bitch or a slut. But I don't think you should throw my misfortune in my face."

"It's not an insult," Master protested. "It's a compliment. You allowed yourself to be hired, because you were smart enough to see how much trouble you were in, and clever enough to accept a way out when it was offered." 

Master touched the blade to my exposed right nipple, and I controlled my reaction to the cold steel and the implicit threat almost perfectly. 

"Better," Master said. "Much better. Let's go for a walk. I want the world to see you with a tit hanging out of the front of your dress."

"No, Master," I begged. "Please."

"Shut up, bitch," Master said, lightly slapping my face. "A good slave does not question a master's slightest whim." Then Master took hold of the dress again, and cut a jagged hole for my left breast to poke through, then a neat triangle to show off my cunt hair. 

"Turn," Master ordered. "That's far enough. Stop." Now that my back was turned to him, Master slashed a round hole that let my arse hang out of the back, crisscrossed with the marks of a whipping I'd gotten the day before. 

Reaching around my body, Master shoved his hand roughly through the torn fabric and tweaked my clit. I slumped, immediately responding to Master's sexual stimulation. He could have made me come there and then, but Master stopped a few seconds before the orgasm hit, removed his hand, and walked around to face me again.

Master put his fingers in my mouth for me to lick clean, then stood back to survey his handiwork. "Walk over to the window and back," Master ordered. "Excellent. That's what I call a good outfit for a rented whore. Better than Jean Muir could ever have dreamed," Master said with a smile. "Like I said, it just needed remodeling. Thank me."

"Thank you, Master," I replied.

"For?" Master sharply responded.

"For making my beautiful dress even more beautiful, Master," I said, making my thanks more specific and expansive. "Thank you for your care and attention."

Master put the knife away and smiled. I was glad to see the knife going back into Master's pocket, but knew I had revealed yet another weakness Master would exploit; he would find a way to use my fear against me, I knew.

It seemed that relief made me giddy, and forward, since I asked Master: "Do you have to leave the toilet seat up all the time?" Not only was I questioning Master, which was forbidden, but I was doing so without permission, yet another infraction.

"Goodness me," Master cheerily replied. "Do my ears deceive me, or is the staff whore complaining about her working conditions?"

I thought for a moment, then squared my shoulders and stuck out my chin; I really convinced myself that I had nothing more to lose by going on with this ill-planned conversation. 

"Yes," I said. "I am complaining. Other women don't have to put up with that."

"Other women aren't as lucky as you are, bitch," Master replied sweetly. "They wander through life without the guidance of a strict but fair master. I shall not beat you for this infringement, but I shall lay down some rules."

My eyes dropped, my relief apparent in the release of the tension that my unthinking complaint had generated. "Yes, Master," I said.

"When I go to the lavatory," Master said, "I shall expect the seat to be in the correct position: down if I'm going to have a crap, up if I only want to take a piss. It will be your job to make sure it's ready."

"But how will I know in advance?" I asked.

"A good slave learns to anticipate a master's every whim," Master replied. "In the meantime, you'll be punished every time you get it wrong." I could tell from Master's face that he was not angry with me or even disappointed that I had strayed from the behavior he demanded. In fact, I came to realize, that I once again had given him yet another extra reason for beating me.

Like any hard-working entrepreneur, Master brought his work home. As he played CDs of the groups he managed, as well as those in competition with them, he kept time by spanking me to the latest tunes. 

Whenever a new song topped the local "Top 20," Master would make me go out and buy it. Once I got it back to Master's flat, Master would play it over and over until he got to know it, spanking away, with an especially fierce attack whenever they added something interesting. For instance, I never hear the beat that comes in when Shania Twain sings, "That don't impress me much," without feeling a stroke on my arse. 

Whenever I got back with a new CD, Master would be sitting in the main room, holding a paddle or a quirt.

As instructed, I would knock on the door; Master always would make me wait a few minutes before telling me to come in. Early on, I thought Master delayed summoning me to demonstrate how even something as simple as opening a door was in his control. As my service progressed, I realized that, not only did the delay reinforce that Master was in charge, it gave me time to think about what was going to happen once the order came to open the door. I found that the pauses gave time for my imagination run wild, emphasing the inevitability of my submission: no matter what I think I want, I know I am going to give in to Master's demands.

When Master eventually allows me into the room, neither of us says anything. I execute a deep cunt curtsey, and throw my clothes onto the floor before putting the new disk in the CD player. Once the CD was set to play, I get down and move over to Master on my knees. Master picks up the remote control, motioning with it for me to stand. Once I was in position in front of Master, there was another wait for the music to begin. Before I began my submissive service, I preferred ballads, becoming involved in the stories being told. When music became associated with strokes from Master, up-tempo songs were preferable: they gave Master less time to bring his arm back and hit me harder.

A rainy winter led onto a rainy spring. Just when I was getting used to our informal fucking and dressing-up games, Master pulled out his "Spank-a-Rooney" box. "Spank-a-Rooney" looks like the kind of commercial board game they sell in your local high street, though it's deeply obscene. It grew out of a variety of games Master had played with other slaves in the past. 

In the long evenings when Master had no serving submissive, he sorted activities he liked best into a finished game. Master had laser-printed the board and covered it with clear plastic film. The mechanics were based on "Monopoly," with two pieces going round the outside edge of a board. One piece was a miniature whip, representing Master; the other was a tiny pair of handcuffs, representing me.

The pieces moved according to the throw of a pair of dice. Some squares make you miss a turn. Others move you forward. Others move you back. In one corner was a graphic scanned directly from the "Jail" square in "Monopoly": if either of us landed on that square, my next four turns were played with my wrists and ankles chained together.

Just like in "Monopoly," the most interesting squares were the ones to pick a card from one of the stacks in the middle of the board: not "Chance" or "Community Chest," but blue for the master and pink for the slave.

A master card might read, "Slap your slave's right breast" for instance or "Drag your slave round the room by the hair." A slave's card would say something like "Light a candle and drip hot wax on your belly" or "Shove a banana up your cunt and stand on one leg."

Sooner or later, I would turn up a card that said something like "Suck Master's cock and drink his sperm" or Master would get one reading "Come on your slave's tits," and the game would be over. Because Master always set out the game, he would place those final cards high or low in the packs, depending on how he felt and how much time he had to spare.

Master's home is two flats joined together, and is very spacious. One evening, Master instructed me to bathe and dress for dinner whilst a catering service came in and prepared a cordon bleu meal in the kitchen, laying the table and decorating the dining room with flowers.

When I joined Master in the dining room, I was dressed in an olive green Nicole Farhi dress and Patrick Cox stilettos. Master was dressed for this particular occasion in a Tommy Nutter tuxedo with maroon velvet reveres. 

Master told me how good I looked.

"Thank you, Master," I replied, moving forward into the room.

Master pulled my chair from underneath the tablecloth to reveal a lurid purple dildo jutting up towards me from the centre of the seat.

"Sit down," Master told me. "And I'll ring for the waiter."

"I can't sit there, Master," I said, scandalised, knowing the catering staff were nearby.

"You will," Master told me. "It'll fit you perfectly. That dildo is the same size as my cock."

Still I hesitated.

"What's the matter, bitch?" Master demanded. "Don't tell me you're wearing panties."

"No, Master," I replied.

"Then sit down," Master said. "Or should I say slither down?"

"But the waiter will notice," I protested. "He'll see the way my skirt looks at the back."

"He might," Master acknowledged. "But then, the news that you're a whore is bound to leak out sooner or later. Sit down, or I'll ring for the waiter and let him watch while that thing goes up your cunt." 

Master picked up a small silver bell, property of the catering firm, and held it up ready to ring.

I sighed, pulled my dress up to my waist and attempted to manoeuvre myself onto the purple spear.

"Hurry up," Master said testily. "I'm getting hungry."

"It's difficult, Master," I whimpered, "I'm dry."

"Your cunt is dry, you mean," Master corrected.

"Yes, Master," I agreed. "My cunt is dry, Master. Sorry, Master."

"Then make it wet," Master said. "You've got thirty seconds."

My hand snaked between my legs and I tugged and plunged desperately, but to no avail. 

"I'm sorry, Master," I explained. "This is making me anxious, not excited."

"Then wet the dildo," Master said. "Hurry," and then rang the bell.

In a complete panic, I knelt down and licked the dildo, spitting on it, rubbing my saliva over it with my fingers, trying to keep quiet the slight slurping noises my activity was generating. Master moved his chair closer to watch. 

In any other context, the bright purple dildo would have made the scene slightly ludicrous, but I knew to take things very seriously indeed. As I licked my way up the dildo's shaft, my fingers curled round it just as they did round Master's cock. Realising that, I glanced over at Master's lap, and saw his cock jerk to attention. For a moment, I lost myself, intent on licking as if the dildo really was Master's cock. And then I snapped into the present and began to hurry up with the job of sucking and spitting till the dildo glistened in the candlelight.

"Hurry up," Master warned. "The waiter will be here in a second."

As I lifted my skirt to sit down, Master rang the bell once more. I settled myself onto the chair, impaled by the purple dildo, and realised that Master had employed yet another deception. He must have told the waiter to enter the room only after the bell rang a second time, which Master timed to ensure I was in my chair before the waiter entered.

As the waiter served us vichyssoise, he showed no sign of noticing the way my skirt bunched up in the back and spread on either side of the chair, but as the meal progressed, he began to shoot curious glances at me. I tried to reassure myself that he was just curious about us in a general way -- people who do that sort of work like to speculate on the people they're serving each night; what else have they got to think about?

"How's the soup, bitch?" Master asked.

"Excellent, Master," I truthfully replied.

"And how's the dildo?" Master went on.

"Large, Master," I said, "Very large."

"And how's the cunt?" Master continued.

"Stretched, Master," I confirmed.

"Good," Master said happily. "We must do this in a proper restaurant some time. I'll take you to the Gavroche, or Simpsons in the Strand."

"But how will you arrange," I began, my curiosity once again prompting me to speak without permission.

"How will I manage to get big fat dildo up your cunt in a public place?" Master interrupted with a smile. "You'll wear one inside your panties, of course. In fact, I'm planning to make you a G-string out of chain just to hold vibrators up against your clit or dildos in your cunt while still letting the air get to your smelly bits. What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think, Master," I replied.

"Then I'll tell you what to think, bitch," Master said. "You're to think that you're a lucky slut to have such a considerate man spending all that time and energy thinking up new things to do to your cunt."

"Yes, Master," I said. "Thank you, Master."

Every time the waiter came in with a new course, I could feel my blushes fire up, even though Master had not done or said anything untoward when the waiter was serving us. Now and again Master would interrupt the flow of the conversation, asking me to pass the salt. Master knew doing so would make me stretch forward, lifting my hips, raising me to the tip of the dildo - giving him another opportunity to watch me settle back down again.

"Have you finished your main course?" Master asked.

"Yes," I replied. "Yes, thank you, Master."

"Then lift yourself up a little," Master said. "Now down. Now do it again. That's excellent, Meat. Fuck yourself for a bit while my digestion settles. You're the guest of honour, but you're also the evening's entertainment." 




Mastering Submission Ch. 07



I complied with Master's instructions, somewhat gingerly sliding up and down the purple dildo. The stretching and settling, as well as Master's conversation during dinner, had lubricated my cunt so that my cunt could move easily up and down on the dildo. 

"Harder," Master commanded. "Make some nice squelching noises." After three or four minutes of this, Master picked up the bell. "No, don't stop," Master ordered. "Keep fucking yourself till the moment the waiter comes in with the dessert."

The meal was over, the coffee cups were empty, and the catering staff was out in the kitchen waiting to be dismissed. Master of course had one last idea to round the evening off. "Lift yourself off the seat nice and slowly," Master ordered. "I want to see what kind of mess you've left."

I rose to my feet, the dildo making an audible "plop" as it left my body. Both Master and I caught the rank smell of sex, and saw that my seat was as messy as the plates in the dishwasher. My juices were a glistening, sticky pool where they had collected between my thighs.

Master drew his chair closer. "I can see you've been enjoying yourself," Master commented. "Well, do it. You know you want to."

"Want to what, Master?" I asked.

"Don't pretend, Meat," Master said harshly. "You're dying to slurp up those juices. You like the taste of fanny butter almost as much as you like to lap up sperm." Master stood, grabbed me by the hair, and pushed me to my knees, jamming my nose up against the dildo as he sat down. 

"Look at all that delicious cunt grunge," Master told me sternly, but with a twinkle in his eye. "Lick it up. It'll give me something to watch while I'm finishing my coffee."

"Yes, Master," I said, resignation in my voice.

As I began licking and sucking up the fluids on the chair, Master dropped to his knees behind me, and fucked my dripping cunt. My mouth was so full of the purple dildo that I was comforted to think that I did not make enough noise to provide entertainment for the catering staff behind the kitchen door.

I really did not want to be tied up at first. Master could have forced me, but that's not his way. He trains a slave with a light touch, playing with her, persuading her, tricking her until she finds herself helplessly begging for more.

"Permission to speak, Master?" I inquired.

Master looked down at me kneeling at his feet, wearing black evening gloves and a picture hat. "Permission granted, worthless bitch," Master said.

"Master, why do you never kiss me?" I asked. "I love being kissed."

"Because kissing implies equality," Master replied simply. "Mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, soul to soul."

"But I never claimed -" I began.

"Shut up, Meat," Master said. "I'm talking. I'm prepared to kiss you. I'm good at kissing. I enjoy it. But I only ever kiss a woman who's helpless."

"You mean I can't kiss you back, Master?" I asked.

"You may return my kisses, Meat, in a modest and docile fashion," Master explained. "But you will not hug me or touch me with your hands, because they will be fastened tightly behind your back."

I rose to my feet, turned, and put my wrists together behind me. "Do it, Master," I begged. "Do whatever you want with me, but please kiss me."

Master took off my hat, and kicked my ankles apart. "Wait there," Master told me, and went off for the ropes. This first time, Master used the very gentlest of bondage, fastening my ankles to a spreader bar and tying my wrists loosely. Even though I had been afraid of being restrained, without Master touching them, my nipples leapt to attention.

Master tied me using soft ropes originally designed as curtain pulls and piping for upholstery, comfortable but far too strong for me to break. It was fortunate for me that I had no idea that later, when I was used to restraints, Master would switch to wire ropes, coarse string, and steel chain.

Master taught me that there are many reasons to tie a woman up: it's calming, it lets her take levels of pain she wouldn't be able to stand unfettered, and it's a way for a slave to forget her troubles and reduce her to nothing more than two tits and a clit, helpless with pleasure.

Later, when my training was more advanced, Master got my elbows to touch behind my back, and eventually forced my arms into an "X" behind my back. As time went by, I would sample all Master's favourite bondage positions, including:

Tying me to a dining chair, facing backwards, with my ankles tied to the front legs of the chair. Sometimes Master tied my hands behind my back, sometimes Master lashed them to the back legs of the chair. Either way, my arse was left hanging out in space ready for thrashing.

Tying me to a dining chair, facing forwards, hands behind my back, ankles lashed to the front legs of the chair, usually with a dildo or vibrator up my cunt. Sometime Master would run great loops of rope around my body and the back of the chair, flattening my tits. Sometimes Master would use the tall carver chair that had a high back, and run loops around my head and the back of the chair to hold a gag in my mouth. And sometimes Master would even tilt the chair onto its back so I was lying on the floor with my knees in the air.

Tying me to the chest of drawers in the bedroom; Master would sling some ropes around the whole piece of furniture, and tie shorter lengths to the handles of the drawers.

Tying me, on my knees, to the banister with my arms behind my back, Master would practice tying different sorts of knots with short lengths of rope.

Handcuffing me to the bedpost, leaving me to sit comfortably for half an hour or more waiting for Master to come up and hurt me, my imagination and impatience both in overdrive by the time Master appeared.

Master even tried renting a cart from the local hire shop. He tied me to it, so he could wheel me from room to room.

Fixing my ankles wide apart to wooden stocks, lashing my hands behind my back, Master would sling a rope round my neck, and run it through a bolt on the floor. Master would shorten the rope every half an hour or more until I was bending over with my arse in the air, and my face down by my knees.

Tying me on my back on a table or a desk, Master would lash my ankles and wrists to the legs of the table, and sling a big loop of rope around my waist and the tabletop.

Tying me bending over a table face down, with my legs tightly bound to the legs of the table from ankle to knee, and then tying my wrists to the top of the table legs on the other side, Master would gag me, and then fuck me.

Tying me at attention with my arms by my sides, so Master could do whatever he liked with my tits.

Tying my ankles to my thighs, Master would secure the rope around my ankles, and then he would make big loops of rope right around the thighs, strapping me up like a frog.

All of this was ahead of me, had I but known it. Thankfully, the first time, Master was content to keep me comfortable, helpless under his kisses.

After kissing came tickling, for which Master laid me on my back on the thick carpet in his living room, and trailed a fingernail across the sole of my left foot. I pulled it away as best I could, but I was tied and Master was relentless. Master took a feather from his equipment case and lightly stroked my belly, making me collapse into giggles. I don't think I'd been tickled for fifteen or twenty years. As I giggled like a little girl, Master was learning where my most sensitive places were, and what my limits were. Ten minutes of non-stop giggling were beginning to affect my ability to breathe.

Master slowed down, brushing the feather gently across my pubic hair, making me gasp and strain against the ropes. Master traced a big circle above my left breast, not even touching the skin, as my eyes followed every movement. 

Master watched me with an air of absorption. He rubbed the feather, wet with my juices, under my nose. Master attacked me first from one direction, then another, learning my body, finding my most sensitive spots, treating me like a child, treating me like a woman, and then going on to treat me like a piece of meat.

Master picked up an ice cube in his left hand and rubbed it along the inside of my thigh while stroking the other thigh with the feather. Master covered my body with alternating strokes of ice and feather, with an occasional sharp pinch to remind me who was in charge, and making me wonder what would happen next.

By now, I was aroused, straining against the ropes, thrusting my hips, my eyes pleading. I begged, "Master--"

Interrupting me, Master said, "Got something to say, whore? It had better be important."

I thought for a moment and shook my head, smiling. "Nothing vital," I admitted. "I just wanted to ask you to fuck me."

"Can't have you giving orders," Master said. "I'd better bung up that mouth of yours. It'll save you the bother of thinking up things to say." Suiting his actions to his words, Master immediately put a ball gag between my teeth and fastened it at the back of my head, and then rolled me over.

Master traced down my back with the lightest touch of his fingertips for ten minutes or so before switching to trailing his fingernails up and down my spine, and then Master covered my buttocks with pinches, firm, but still reasonably gentle. Master stroked my body and feet, checking the ropes, and I sighed into my gag.

Master flipped me onto my back. The spread bar made my cunt embarrassingly available. Master turned on an anglepoise lamp, and aimed it between my thighs close enough for me to feel the heat from the bulb, and then spent several minutes just watching his fingers disappearing and reappearing again.

Master produced a tray of implements that I eyed with apprehension and curiosity: a ball-point pen; a brand-new toothbrush, still in its wrapping; a six-inch nail; a wire suede brush. I wasn't sure what to think about the things Master was showing me, but the ropes bound me too securely to do anything except lie there and wait.

Master picked up the pen, which apparently had run out of ink, and trailed it from one nipple to the other. Master drew invisible circles with it round each areola, and signed his name across my belly.

Master scratched me with the nail from throat to pubic hair, leaving a pale line that quickly faded, and then he picked up the wire brush. He began with light sweeps from the base of the breast to the tip of the nipple. And I moaned.

This is one of Master's special skills: to take a woman from one level of sensation to another, climbing from peak to peak, until she is experiencing agony and orgasm simultaneously, so that when she comes back to earth she's addicted to his whips, chains, clamps, and pins.

Master held my left breast in firm fingers and scrubbed the nipple vigorously back and forth as if he were cleaning mud off the toe of a boot. I yelped in protest.

Master grinned at me, "A bit too hard?"

I nodded gratefully.

"Too bad," Master said casually, and scrubbed until I screamed. Then Master switched to the other nipple, and had me screaming again. "Exfoliated nipples are very important in a slave," Master explained. "I like to get the dead skin off so the nerves are close to the surface, and she can appreciate what I'm doing to her."

Master stopped, and I let out a long, whimpering sigh around the edges of the gag. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them once more, Master had unwrapped the toothbrush, and held it in front of my face. I was puzzled, and after the wire brush a little bit scared, but I was consenting.

I tried to ask what Master was going to do with the toothbrush, but the gag was too big for my mouth to form the words. Master pulled back the hood of my clit and brushed it, the first touch so gentle the bristles hardly swept the skin. I whimpered. Master began to stroke harder, dipping the head of the brush into my cunt from time to time to pick up the evidence of my arousal, then painting that thick fluid onto the tip of my clit. I began to writhe about, and shout into my gag.

I was pushing against my bonds, now, trying to spread my legs wider for Master. Only bondage let me be this abandoned. Master clenched his fist in my cunt hair, holding me steady while he moved the toothbrush in slow circles. I felt my juices dripping to the carpet, and the smell of my sex was filling both our nostrils. 

Master popped the toothbrush into my cunt, and rubbed my clit with his naked thumb. Master pulled the toothbrush out and applied it to my clit again, harder. I was beyond orgasm now, somewhere between pleasure and pain.

Master slipped the tiny brush back into my vagina, and removed my gag. When Master got the toothbrush good and wet, he popped it into my mouth, saying "Clean your juices off that brush!"

I licked and sucked with vigor, whilst Master attended to my nipples with twists of fuse wire, just tight enough. Master had the right one decorated, and was still working on the left nipple when the phone rang.

"Who do you think that could be?" Master asked. I looked at him mutely from above the gag that had replaced the toothbrush again by then. "No suggestions? Perhaps it's someone to rescue you. Then again, probably not," Master said, with a chuckle as he clicked the phone onto speaker mode and said "Hello?"

"Hi, Martin," said the voice at the other end of the line. It's Wendy."

"Fuckpuppet!" Master exclaimed. "How are you? What can I do for you?"

"This is an invitation, Martin," Fuckpuppet said. "I know you're still grieving for your lovely Red Cow, but you mustn't be obsessive."

"Hang on a minute - " Master began.

"No, you hang on, Martin," Fuckpuppet interrupted. "I've got something to say, and I want to finish. We all know how much you loved her, but life has to go on. You haven't been to one of our parties for ages, and we miss you. All of us. Besides, I've got a sweet little blonde girl I want you to meet. All I ask is that you give her a chance. We want you to be happy again."

"I'm already happy again," Master said, smiling.

Fuckpuppet was silent for a moment, and then said, "You mean you've got a new girl?"

"Yes," Master replied.

"A slave?" Fuckpuppet asked.

"Of course," Master answered.

"That's marvelous, Martin," Fuckpuppet gushed. "I'm so happy for you. Dave will be delighted too. The next party is fancy dress, on Saturday week. Bring her along."

"I'm not sure," Master replied. "This is all very new to her."

"A novice!" said Fuckpuppet. "You're a lucky bastard, Martin. Is she there?"

Master looked at me, squirming on the floor. "Well, yes," Master replied. "She's right in front of me."

"Then let me have a word with her," Fuckpuppet demanded. "We slaves must stick together."

Master smiled. "I'm afraid she's tied up at the moment."

"Literally?" Fuckpuppet said with a laugh.

"Yes," Master said.

"And gagged?" Fuckpuppet persisted.

"Yes," answered Master again.

"You're spoiling her," Fuckpuppet inexplicably stated. "Let me talk to her anyway. What's her name?"

"Meat," Master said.

"Good choice," Fuckpuppet approved. "Now, Martin, take the phone off speaker, and put the receiver to her ear.

Master knelt down beside me, holding the receiver so that I could hear. Master could not hear much of the conversation (since all the talking was being done by Fuckpuppet), but he seemed to be having fun watching. Fuckpuppet would say something, and I would reply as best I could, making noises like, "Nnnnngh!" or "Mmmmmf!"

When Master could tell from my eyes that Fuckpuppet had finished, he picked up the receiver, and put it to his own ear.

"Well," Master prompted.

"Martin, she sounds lovely," said Fuckpuppet. "I can't wait to meet her."

"You talked her into it?" Master asked. I nodded vigorously.

"See you at the party, Fuckpuppet," Martin said happily and hung up. Master turned back to me. "Where were we?" Master asked. "Oh, yes, I was about to pull a few of your cunt hairs out by the root."



Mastering Submission Ch. 08



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.

*

"She sounds very nice, Master," I said when at last Master took the gag out of my mouth. "But who exactly is Fuckpuppet?"

"She's wonderful," Master replied. "She's a bit younger than you are, but much more experienced; she can take an awful lot of pain. It will do you good to talk to another slave. She's the property of a master named Dave, who owns a chain of fish and chip shops. They're important figures in the South London S&M scene."

I looked and sounded surprised as I asked, "You mean there are enough people like us for a whole social group?" However, it did not occur to me to be surprised that the phrase "people like us" indicated my allegiance to Master and our lifestyle together. 

Master smiled and nodded. "There are parties. Clubs. It's a whole subculture involving thousands of people. I'll take you to the 'Torture Garden' some time; you'll be able to see hundreds of perverts dancing together. Real freaks. You'll be amazed." 

"And this party?" I asked.

"They hold it every second Saturday of the month. It's a bit of an institution. I haven't been to one for a while. This will be a fancy dress affair, so it'll be a good first outing. You'll be able to get your feet wet without being whipped raw in front of a lot of strangers. Sometimes the accent of a party is on heavy pain, which can be quite daunting for a beginner."

My apprehensions showed in my face and in my voice as I asked, "Does fancy dress mean I will have to wear something erotic?"

"Slutty is the word you're looking for," Master responded. "You'll dress like a whore, and a slave."

"But that is just as bad as if I had become a stripper, Master," I argued. "Word will get around, and I will lose my job."

"There isn't the slightest risk of that," Master said reassuringly. "These people are all on the same side. Besides, nobody would be crazy enough to betray a group of people who own literally thousands of whips, handcuffs, and gags."

Since I still looked worried, Master added, "If you have the slightest doubts, you can hide your face."

"You mean wear dark glasses or something?" I sought clarification and reassurance. "I would only show off my body?"

Master grinned and replied, "Exactly. Unless you've been more promiscuous than I think you have, nobody's going to recognize your tits."

"What sort of outfit do you have in mind?" I inquired, not noticing that my curiosity was so immediately engaged that I did not even register the incongruity of calmly discussing my first, and very revealing, public appearance in my role as Master's slave.

"I'll have to think about that," Master said.

On the evening of the party, I waited, as instructed, in front of the dressing table in the main bedroom. Other than the gold Hard Candy nail polish Master had me apply to my nails earlier that day, I was naked.

When Master entered the bedroom, I of course gave him a deep cunt curtsey, and said, "I cannot wait to see what you have prepared for me, Master."

Master frowned and asked, "Did someone give you permission to speak?"

"No, Master," I said. "Sorry, Master."

"That's all right," Master said. "As this is a special night, you can talk if you want to."

"Thank you, Master," I said. "Are you going to make my face up for me?"

"What would be the point of that," Master scornfully replied. "Nobody's going to see it. I shall, however, be putting make-up on your tits." Master then applied blusher to my breasts, giving them a healthy glow, and then performed the same service for my buttocks. Then Master applied a little beige lipstick to my nipples, and added a little golden glitter to my pubic hair. 

Next, Master presented two tiny wooden beehives (no bigger than his thumb) that dangled from yellow silk ribbons with yellow plastic clips at the ends. I was taken aback by the clips, staring at them in fascination whilst Master attached them to my nipples, but they really were quite gentle. "They do not hurt at all, Master," I said with gratitude.

"They will by the end of the evening," Master replied. "That's why you're going to need something on your hands, so you're not tempted to ease the pain by taking them off."

I watched in disbelief as Master plunged each of my hands into an empty honey jar with a brass ring around its neck. Attached to the rings were golden half-handcuffs, which Master quickly locked into place around each wrist.

"What are you going to use to hide my face, Master," I asked.

"That's the focal point of the whole ensemble," Master happily replied. He opened a hatbox, and took out a straw beekeeper's hat. He settled it on my head, and draped the heavy veil around my shoulders. "Looks good," Master said. "Although it's a shame people won't be able to see your bee-stung lips. You may look in the mirror."

"Thank you, Master," I said, turning to behold Master's work. I know I stood there, absorbed in my own reflection, for at least two minutes before I was able to say, "Oh, Master, it is lovely." I turned to one side, and then to the other, laughing with delight. I ran my glass-gloved hands down the front of my body, watching in the mirror as my hands traveled, separated by glass, down my naked form.

"I never saw anyone so naked in my life," I exclaimed. "I cannot wait to show it off." Then a moment of insecurity and indecision occurred, prompting me to ask, "What do you think, Master? Do I look wonderful?"

"Your arse looks wonderful," Master replied. "But then, it always does."

When I could pry my thoughts away from my own reflection at last, I asked, "May I ask what happened to the honey, Master?"

Master took the hat off my head, and placed it on the bed. "Wait here," he ordered, and left the room. When Master returned, he was naked, except for a dollop of honey on the end of his cock. He stood where the cheval mirror would give him the best view of the action about to begin. I watched as the drop of honey began to fall from the tip of Master's cock, and immediately knelt down, hoping to catch it.

Master swung his hips, his cock swaying from side to side, making catching the honey even more difficult. I knew that, if I let any honey fall on Master's carpet, it would only provide him another excuse - as if Master needed one - for beating me, so I made sure to be quick.

I caught every drop of honey on my tongue before Master plunged his cock into my waiting mouth. I boldly ran my glass-covered hands up the backs of Master's thighs, pulling his cock deeper into my throat. I licked it like a lollipop. I nibbled it like a stick of celery. I sucked it greedily, feeling it swell as it lost its coating of honey.

"This must be really bad for my teeth," I murmured happily.

"Shut up and suck," Master crooned.

I was excited, so focused on service that I did not even think to try to rub my own body with my glass gloves. In fact, I did not need any external manipulation to increase my excitement at giving pleasure to Master, releasing all concerns and thoughts in order to focus solely and completely on turning my mouth into Master's warm, wet, perfect fuckhole.

Master can take hours of oral service - cock sucking, ball nuzzling, pubic hair licking - but perhaps he wanted to get on to the party, for his cock soon provided a bit of spunk to wash down the honey. Then Master helped me to my feet. I could feel a blob of honey on the tip of my nose, and a trail of semen running from the corner of my mouth, but Master did not bother cleaning me up. He wrapped me into a light mac for the journey, picked up the hat and veil, and led me out the door.

"Thank you, Master," I said, "for the delicious honey, and the sperm. That was even more delicious."

We arrived at Dave and Fuckpuppet's house shortly after nine, joining another couple dressed in raincoats on the doorstep. They seemed to be strangers to Master, as of course they were to me, so Master introduced us by our S&M names - Master Martin and Meat. The woman introduced herself as Queen Cheryl, and her companion as Worm. I took a long look at Queen Cheryl. She was a short, dumpy, rather plain teenager with a strong Cockney accent, and thick makeup that failed to cover all the acne on her cheeks.

Worm was a distinguished looking man in his mid-forties. He stood erect, but with downcast eyes, his folded, manicured hands contrasted sharply with Queen Cheryl's bitten nails. In a voice with the quiet, cultured tones of the professional classes, Worm said, "How do you do."

"Shut the fuck up, Worm," Queen Cheryl told him sharply. "Nobody listens to you here." Queen Cheryl turned her attention to me, saying, "Pretty," before slipping her grubby hand inside the front of my coat. "Good tits," she said. "And nipple clips - wicked! Does she suck cock?"

"Sure," Master replied.

"So does mine," Queen Cheryl boasted. "He hates doing it too, which makes it fun. Let me know if you fancy a really interesting blow job. Oh, fuck, what have I trodden in? Can't go in like that, now, can I? See to it, Worm." Worm dropped to his knees with a sigh.

We went inside, but I glanced back to see that educated, middle-aged man groveling on the doorstep, licking the soles of his young mistress's shoes. A uniformed policeman was on duty just inside the door. "Good evening, Ben," Master greeted him. "Are there many people here?"

Ben replied, "Quite a crowd, Sir," as he showed us into a small room to the left of the hall. The room was empty, but all its chairs were piled high with macs, and there were empty boxes and carrier bags stacked against the walls.

"Was that fancy dress, too?" I asked, inclining my head toward Ben's retreating back.

"Sort of," Master replied. "It's what he always wears. Dave makes him stand at the door to discourage undesirables."

"I am still thinking about Cheryl," I went on as Master fitted the beekeeper's hat to my head, and arranged the veil. "She is younger than my students. Are you sure she's above the age of consent?"

"Oh, yes," Master replied. "Fuckpuppet's very careful about that sort of thing. These parties even have a doctor in attendance. Besides, even if Queen Cheryl is as young as she looks, no law would be broken. They don't serve alcohol, and a strict Mistress like her would never allow herself to be fucked by a mere slave. I'm soft; I like to watch you when you're coming, but a really nasty topwoman like that has no interest in giving her slave sexual pleasure. I bet poor old Worm hasn't had an orgasm in months."

As I trembled when we walked out into the hall, Master slapped my buttocks lightly, saying "Now, Meat, I want to be proud of you tonight, and I want you to be proud of yourself. Stand tall, happy to be naked in the presence of all these skilled masters and slaves. Speak only when you're spoken to. Cooperate if someone wants to fondle your tits or stick a finger up your cunt. If things get out of hand, don't complain to anyone but me. Understand?"

"Understood, Master," I replied.

"Off we go then," Master exclaimed. "Good luck."

I stepped forward, and then stopped as if I had walked into a wall, observing the living tableau of perversion before me. Light, unobtrusive music played in the background, and all the rooms were brilliantly lit, showing off the beauty of the slaves' bodies, and the inventiveness of their outfits. Instead of conventional paintings and objets d'art, Dave and Fuckpuppet's home was decorated with a gang bang scene from a pornographic version of "Snow White," and there was an obviously classical urn decorated with a picture of a man urinating onto a woman's face. Nothing, however, could distract me long from the other people in the room.

One slender woman glided by, wearing only an Australian bush hat, from the brim of which dangled tiny penises. A handsome male slave stood by a wall wearing frilly panties, an apron and rubber gloves. There was a stunningly beautiful Indian girl adorned only in pliers - hanging from her nipples, her labia, her buttocks, her breasts, and even the lobes of her ears. Another young lady was wearing a classic elasticised fifties corset. Three slaves had outfits made almost entirely from paint. One outfit was a striped prisoner's uniform, and the slave had a ball and chain attacked to one leg. Another wore a transparent polythene dress over painted underwear. And a girl covered in spots like a Dalmatian crawled around the floor, her collar attached to a master's bootlaces.

Over in the corner, two men were engrossed in conversation, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were seated on slave girls dressed as chairs in matching chintz fitted covers. A strapping brunette wore an outfit made from chains: chains draped in graceful curves across her huge breasts, chains wrapped around her narrow waist like a corset, chains hung from the rings that pierced her nose, nipples and labia. Finally, I looked up to see two girls suspended from a beam running across the ceiling. One girl was chained by rings in her nipples so that she had to stand on tiptoe. She was gagged, and her wrists were tied behind her back. The other girl's wrists and ankles had been secured by broad leather straps and joined together behind her back, then she had been hauled up on a winch bolted to the ceiling, hanging belly down. Neither girl was expected to do anything at the party other than provide decoration.

Master nudged me, pointing out a pretty brunette strapped into an extraordinarily complicated arrangement of cogs and gears, fastened to a broad steel belt and ankle chains, the whole contraption centered around a glass rod that disappeared between her legs, allowing her to fuck herself as she walked. 

There were tables laden with snacks and non-alcoholic drinks Master had explained that slaves were not allowed to touch. Master instructed me that, if a slave got hungry or thirsty, the slave had to crawl on hands and knees to one of the dog bowls set out in each of the rooms, filled either with dirty water or stale bread. Although the contents of these bowls looked disgusting, they were prepared by Fuckpuppet (herself a slave), who later told me that the "dirty water" actually was weak soup with some kitchen scraps, such as bacon rinds, thrown in for effect. 

Master stood near me, but did not speak, letting me look from behind the anonymity of my beekeeper's veil, taking in all the new sights, and a few sounds. There was no screaming, which was somewhat of a surprise. Master later explained that Dave and Fuckpuppet often hosted parties at which screaming was plentiful and loud, but that those smaller, more intimate affairs were held in their basement, which had been fitted out as a dungeon.

Finally, Master asked, "So, what do you think?"

"It is comforting," I replied, after a bit more reflection. "I would do anything you asked me because I signed that contract, but it is nice to know that all these other people are into the same kind of thing too."

Master responded by slipping his hand between my legs, and asking, "And which of these good people is making you wet, you little whore?"

I replied, "You, Master. Always you."

I watched a young woman whose arms were tightly cinched behind her back crossing the room toward Master and me. When she stood before us, Master gave her face a quick, light slap, and introduced her to me. This was Fuckpuppet.

"Pleased to meet you, bitch," Fuckpuppet said.

"Pleased to meet you, slut," I responded.

Fuckpuppet and I moved to a corner of the room together, quietly conversing. In fact, I was struck how very much this was like any party I had attended where people with similar interests grouped together, exercising their imaginations and intellect in the service of their passions. Having made this mental comparison, I relaxed as Fuckpuppet and I got to know each other. Fuckpuppet, a statuesque blond beauty, was intelligent, charming, and well-read. 

After I helped Fuckpuppet, whose hands were out of service due to the binding of her arms behind her back, by taking a tray of dirty glasses into the kitchen (feeling quite proud of the fact that my glass gloves did not prevent this service), I returned to stand by Master again.

"I am so glad you brought me, Master," I said. "It is fun to see all these marvelous people doing all these disgusting things. There is a naked woman washing glasses in the kitchen. She is gagged, and chained to a tap by one of her nipple rings." 

"That's Melanie," Master explained. "Tom over there often makes her do that when she's been disobedient. Pity. When he lets her enter the competitions, her outfits are spectacular."

At eleven o'clock, all the masters and mistresses lined up to parade their costumed slaves around the room. Master and I found ourselves behind the couple we had met at the door. Master said, "Mistresses don't usually wear fancy dress, but Queen Cheryl has come as a schoolgirl."

"That does not look like a costume to me, Master," I replied.

"Perhaps she didn't have time to change," Master shrugged.

Worm wore an exquisitely cut pin-striped suit with the back of the trousers cut away to show buttocks marked with livid purple bruises, and his gait was awkward because a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times was stuck up his arse.

Fuckpuppet, as Mistress of Ceremonies, announced, "A lot of you are wondering who our lovely beekeeper is," and I gasped in surprise and apprehension.

Master said, "Nobody wants to know your name, stupid," as Fuckpuppet continued, saying, "Allow me to introduce Master Martin's slave, Meat."

Master marched me around the room, my steps keeping time to the sound of applause all around us. After one circuit of the space, Master had me stop to stand next to Fuckpuppet and Dave, and then he turned me to face the crowd.

"Are you ready to be stung for these good people," Master asked.

I replied, "Yes, Master."

Master addressed the crowd, "Esteemed Masters, Noble Mistresses, worthless slaves: my beautiful apiarist has agreed to be stung for your delight." Master then pulled a toy bee from his pocket, and said, "This little fellow is tipped with a surgical steel hook." Master removed the cork from the hook, and held the bee up for all to see.

"Hold steady, Meat," Master said, and applied the bee's "stinger" to my right buttock, sinking it deeply enough to remain after Master removed his hand. I let out a cry, and the partygoers again burst into applause.

Master once again paraded me around the room, giving everyone a close look at the tiny bee, its body having darkened by the light flow of blood that followed its insertion. Once we completed our circuit, we stepped aside to allow the next contestant to go through her paces.

At midnight, Dave turned off the music, and we all heard a repeated slapping sound. Looking around, I saw that Dave was striking Fuckpuppet's buttocks with a table tennis bat whilst she supported herself with her palms flat on the table, jutting out her buttocks for the strokes. "Pay attention," Dave said, "It's time to announce the prizewinners!"

The main prize went to the blonde in chains - it was a beautiful leather harness made by Dave himself. After the applause for the blonde died down, Fuckpuppet asked for our silence by raising her hand. Once the room again was quiet, Fuckpuppet announced, "There's another prize tonight. Best Newcomer goes to a woman who looks as good to eat as she does to beat: our honey-sweet beekeeper, Meat, property of Master Martin."




Mastering Submission Ch. 08



As the room erupted again into applause, Dave handed me a beautiful white leather whip, saying, "Ask Master Martin to use it on you often."



Mastering Submission Ch. 09



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

As my period of service to Master continued, I learned that, although Master was unfailingly honest and trustworthy when it mattered, he was perfectly comfortable with lying to me shamelessly about things he felt unimportant.

For instance, Master once told me we'd been invited to a party -- not an S&M gathering, but an important event in the rock music calendar. Master painted an elaborate word-picture that held me spell-bound. The party, Master said, would be held in a huge house near Woking that had once belonged to Ringo Starr. Barbarellas were going to sing for us, and there was to be a sumptuous barbecue, followed by fireworks and a display of synchronised swimming in the pool. The glittering guest list included Robert Carlyle, John Terry, Toni Poole, and Nelly Furtado. Master had so many contacts in the industry, I had no trouble believing he knew which famous people were in town and who was hot, filling in the details of a world I only knew through TV and the pages of the newspapers.

I was a bit embarrassed at how excited the idea of the party made me. Academics can sometimes be a bit unworldly, and most of my heroes were poets and authors. However, being on the periphery of Master's life in the music and entertainment industries had encouraged me to develop an interest in the music scene. In the week that led up to the party, I boasted about it to everyone in my department.

"Will we actually meet Eric Clapton?" I asked.

"Sure," Master replied. "Eric and I go back a long way, to when I was a roadie."

I spent the afternoon of the party at a hairdresser, and took hours on my make-up. I even bought myself a new dress.

At seven o'clock, Master came into the bedroom whilst I was putting the finishing touches to my make-up.

"Wondering what Van Morrison will think of you?" Master asked with a smile.

"No, Master," I automatically replied. "Well, yes," I added more truthfully, "I suppose so."

"You little whore," Master responded. "You can't wait to flaunt that sexy mouth of yours. You can just imagine being taken into the bushes and gang-banged by a rock group, can't you?"

"No, Master," I said, aghast.

"You can just picture it, can't you?" Master persisted.

"No, Master," I insisted, beginning to be afraid of what Master had planned for the party's entertainment.

"Can't you?" Master again asked.

I sighed, and responded as trained: "Whatever pleases you, Master."

At eight o'clock, Master and I were in the main room, Master sitting quietly reading a book, but I couldn't settle. I would stalk about, and then flop down into a chair, only to get up to walk around some more. My excitement and nerves had me squirming like a little girl waiting to be taken to a pantomime.

"When are we going, Master?" I asked.

"Be patient," Master quietly replied. "One doesn't arrive early at a do like this."

"I suppose not, Master," I agreed, and back to pacing around.

At twenty past eight, Master glanced at his watch. "I think it's about time," Master said casually. "Come on, let's take a last look at you."

The black Versace dress clung to me perfectly. My make-up was subtle yet attractive. My hair shone, and my eyes gleamed with excitement and anticipation. And then Master frowned.

"If you think I'm going to let you anywhere near Robert Carlyle when you're looking as sexy as that," Master said, "you're crazy. Go over to the window."

"Yes, Master," I said, my tone apprehensive.

"What do you see?" Master asked.

"You mean the car, Master?" I replied.

"Right," Master said. "That big white limousine. That was to take us to the party, wait in the drive and bring us home." Master picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Sorry, Hal," Master said. "I won't be needing you tonight."

Still at the window, I watched the car drive away, stunned. If I had any doubts that we were going to miss a real showbiz party, they vanished down the road with that limo.

"Come over here," Master said harshly. "And take off all your clothes."

"Master?" I asked, my head spinning and my disappointment obvious.

"Do as you're told, bitch," Master said sharply. "You're not going anywhere."

"But, Master," I protested, "What will I tell my friends when they ask about the party?"

"You can tell them you're such a whore you can't be trusted to behave yourself in public!" Master shouted.

My face fell, but I began to unzip my dress. "Can we go to the party later?" I asked as my stockings slipped to the floor.

"Perhaps," Master replied. "It depends on how much pain you can take."

We didn't go anywhere, of course. Master spent the whole evening tying and untying me in various complicated ways, fucking me in a range of positions, and beating me with a selection of paddles and whips. As the evening progressed, my efforts to make myself beautiful became unwound - mascara running down my face with my tears, my lipstick chewed off as I struggled not to scream, and my hair mussed and tangled. I only found out later that, as much as Master loved seeing me dressed up and ready to decorate his arm at a party, Master preferred my appearance after hours of his painful and frustrating attentions.

Master eventually took me to some glittering showbiz parties after that, twice in that big white limousine, but it was the one I never went to that lived in both our memories.

Despite the focus of our relationship, in fact, we went out as an ordinary couple fairly often. We saw "Blackbird" at The Rose Theatre, "A Moon for the Misbegotten" at the Old Vic, and "Wicked" at the Apollo Victoria. Master also took me to see "Romance" at an erotic film retrospective at the ABC Panton Street. It was amazing to me to sit in an audience of strangers, watching a woman who looked a little bit like me having her ankles strapped to a spreader bar, larger than life, knowing exactly what that felt like. No matter where I went with Master, we played our games.

Master made me sew a band of heavy canvas under my widest skirts, which forced me to make small, submissive steps. And I always wore patterned clothes when we were out together, so nobody could see the strands of invisible thread that bound my wrists to my belt, though I'd sometimes catch surprised looks on the faces of people around us as Master hand-fed me popcorn or held a glass of wine up to my lips.

All the time we were out, Master made sure I was constantly thinking about sex, and about my role as his slave. Master made me flash my nipples at him on Underground trains, and even forced me to kneel and give his cock a quick suck in the long passageway between the Picadilly and District lines at South Kensington Station. Master made me take off all my clothes and quickly put them on again in that quiet room full of Rothkos in the Tate Gallery. And Master would talk dirty to me, quietly saying things like, "I love to watch you eat. Want to know why?"

"Yes, Master, I want to know," I said dutifully, after chewing the last bite of crab salad. "Why do you like to watch me eat?"

"Because all that protein helps to build you up for your next beating," Master said cheerfully. "And besides, I like to see those cock sucking muscles packing away a good meal. Have a sip of wine so I can watch you swallow."

When we went for walks in the country, Master would fuck me among the trees and under hedges. Master made me carry a small knife so I could cut birches from living trees, then Master would hitch up my skirt to expose my buttocks and thighs so he could beat me as I marched along. Master was justly proud of his collection of whips and paddles, but he quietly confided to me, between switches, that he felt nothing quite compared with a springy switch, full of sap, freshly cut by the slave herself and presented to the Master for her punishment and delight.

A towpath just over four miles long runs the full length of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race. On golden summer evenings it's surprisingly quiet, particularly towards the Barnes end.

"This is beautiful," said I, as Master and I strolled along arm in arm. A cyclist went past.

"And peaceful," I added.

"More peaceful than I like," Master retorted, grabbing me by the hair and bending me over. "Let's make a little noise." Master hitched up my skirt and gave my backside a few cheery slaps.

"No, Master. Please," I cried, but Master slapped me some more, hard enough to get a few shouts of pain out of me.

Master let me go, and I staggered back, dazed. "Don't you dare flinch away from me, bitch!" Master snarled. "Whenever we're alone together, you become my slave, ready to succumb to my every whim. Get on your knees and suck my cock."

"But, Master, this is so public!" I wailed. "People could come along any time!"

"True," Master agreed. "So the quicker you get started the better."

"But there are flats on the opposite bank!" I protested. "People can see!"

"Then you'd better put on a good show for them," Master replied. "Let the world see what an expert little whore you are!"

When Master had come in my mouth, and I had swallowed dutifully, he raised me to my feet by the hair, and marched me back to the car with one arm twisted up painfully behind my back.

Next time we trod that path, Master led me along by a chain attached to my pubic hair.

* * * *

Having tried, without success, to put aside an ongoing concern, I finally came, knelt down before Master with a worried look on my face, bowed to kiss Master's feet, and said: "Permission to speak, Master?"

"Permission granted," Master replied graciously.

"Master, my parents were asking about you," I began.

"What have you told them?" Master asked.

"They know I've got a boyfriend, Master, that's all." I took a deep breath. "I don't know how to put this, Master, but - "

"They want to meet me?" Master queried with a smile.

"Yes, Master," I said, grateful Master was taking this so calmly.

"That's understandable," Master said. "Call them. Set up a date."

"Will it be all right?" I asked, confused.

"Did your parents object to your other lovers?" Master asked.

"Of course not," I said.

"Then where's the problem?" Master asked. "What we do when we're alone is sex. Making love."

"I suppose so," I was not, and did not sound, convinced.

"What's the matter?" Master asked. "Do you think I'm going to whip your tits in front of your Mum and Dad?"

"No, Master. Sorry, Master. I wasn't thinking," I said.

* * * * *

"That seemed to go well," Master said as we drove home a week later.

"Yes," I agreed. "Dad really liked you."

"And why wouldn't he?" Master asked. "I'm a nice guy."

I squeezed Master's arm. "I guess you must be," I said. "It was sweet of you to take an interest in his record collection."

"I wasn't being nice," Master replied. "I've not seen that much good vinyl in years."

"Anyway, he really likes you." I sighed. "I wonder what he'd say if he knew you beat me." I was surprised at this reaction, playing with the idea of my own naughtiness, savouring the forbidden. 

Master seemed unsurprised by my question, but his response certainly came as a surprise to me: "Are you sure your father doesn't already know?" Master continued mischievously, "Parents can often see what's going on in their children's minds just by looking in their eyes."

I considered the point, my excitement piqued by the idea, but then I shook my head. "No," I said at last. "I'm professional educator. All the experiments in mind reading have proved to be frauds or outright failures."

"I'm not saying anything mystical is happening," Master responded. "All I'm saying is that it would do your dad's heart good to see the way his baby girl laps up semen. To know what a filthy little slut his daughter has become."

"You're horrible," I said, but I was smiling.

"And cruel," Master agreed. "And heartless. And exactly what you need." 

While I thought that over, Master took the thought a stage further. "Perhaps I should take some Polaroids of you in bondage and then show him. You look so pretty when you're tied up, it's a shame nobody else gets to see you."

"You wouldn't!" My thighs moved together; I was surprisingly aroused, delighting in my own shame.

"We could always invite your parents round to stay at my flat for a weekend," Master suggested, "and wake them at midnight with your screams."

"Stop it, Master," I said, "Please." Although I was finding that parents and S&M go well together in fantasy, I had no doubt that they must be kept apart in real life.

* * * * *

My birthday was the sixth of May, which that particular year was an ordinary working Thursday. I woke to find Master bending over me with breakfast on a tray. There was coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice and toast with a circle of tiny candles stuck in it. It's the kind of charming gesture most women love, but I knew my face showed Master the truth - I hated being waited on, and seeing Master serving me was disconcerting at the least.

However, the gifts Master presented me with next put him back in charge. While I was drinking coffee, Master reached under the bed, and pulled out a giant carrier bag he apparently had made himself huge sheet of art paper. On one side was a blow-up of a black-and-white drawing by Bishop, the head and shoulders of a girl who looked a little like me, gagged, with her wrists tied to the back of her collar and her breasts tightly bound. On the other side were the words, "Do as you're told" in bold black lettering.

I dipped into the bag greedily. Inside were twenty-seven wrapped gifts, numbered so I didn't have to decide which to open first. I took them out of the bag, excited as a little girl, and laid them in a semi-circle across Master's big double bed, had I but known it, making an arc of pain to come.

"May I open them, Master?" I asked.

"You must open them," Master replied. "You have no choice."

I found that difficult. There was no knife or scissors in the bedroom, and Master had deliberately used too much sellotape, so I let out small exasperated sighs as I wrestled with the bindings.

When I had finally unwrapped the last gift, the bed had been transformed into a masochist's treasure trove of whips, clamps and restraints. Most wouldn't have looked out of place in a Victorian brothel, but there were also a couple of interesting electrical gadgets designed to bring pain kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. I ran my fingers over them: to a slave, these things are more exciting than the contents of Tiffany's. "Oh, Master, this is the best birthday I've had since I was - no, it's the best birthday I've ever had!" I exclaimed, my eyes shining with excitement. "I've never even seen stuff like this before! It's like being a child all over again."

"A perverted child," Master pointed out.

Here are some of the things Master bought:

Eight different pairs of nipple clamps Five whips Two paddles, one studded with steel bolts A pair of standard-issue American police handcuffs A dog bowl with the word "Bitch" lettered on it A gag that forced the jaws together A gag that held the jaws apart A gag with a tongue depressor shaped like a penis A T-shirt with lettering on the front reading "Arse-Fucked Whore" Another T-shirt with the lettering "I drink sperm" Another T-shirt with the lettering "Have some fun, Beat my bum" Another T-shirt with the lettering "No gain without pain" Another T-shirt emblazoned with this acrostic: Beautiful Intelligent Talented Charming Horny

I picked up a particularly vicious-looking pair of clamps, joined by a short chain. "You can't be thinking of using this on me, Master," I said.

"I'm going to use everything here on you," Master replied, taking the final gift out of my pocket: a gold Piaget watch with an onyx face.

"It's beautiful, Master," I said. "But how does it make me become a better slave?"

"By acting as a decoy, my darling," Master told me. "You wear it on your wrist, and show it to colleagues and friends when they ask what you got for your birthday." Master smiled. "Tonight I was going to take you out to dinner, and on to see 'Deception.' But I decided to hang you upside down from that beam in the Music Room and beat your cunt instead."

"Oh, yes, Master," I said. "That's a much better idea."

"We'll go see 'Deception' in a few days, of course," Master went on.

"Of course, Master," I replied. "Later, when my cunt's really sore."

* * * * *

A couple of weeks later, I could not get out of bed. When Master peered over the edge of his bed to the little slave bed where I shivered underneath the blanket, I whimpered, "I think I must have a cold. There's a virus running round the university."

"Don't worry," Master told me. "I'll beat it out of you."

The next morning the infection was in full swing. "Damn," Master told me, "I suppose you're going to be even less use than usual for the next few days."

I smiled, "I don't mind you fucking me when I'm feeling rotten, Master. Honest."

"Perhaps," Master said grudgingly. "You're only sick at the top end. But what I really fancied was a blowjob, and I don't want to get snot on my dick. Get well soon, or I'll go off to Submission and get a new slave in full working order." I lay back in the pillows, my nose red, my eyes running, blissfully happy.

For three days, I was cared for, kept warm, fed and given plenty to drink, but always with the worst possible grace. Master made a few concessions. Instead of icy showers, Master gave me hot baths and dried me with towels, the central heating turned on full. Master postponed most of his appointments so he could keep an eye on me, but he kept up the verbal abuse.

"Does your throat hurt?" Master asked.

"Yes, Master," I replied.

"Not as much as your nipples will the moment you're better," Master rejoined. "I might make you add a few days to the end of your year. For injury time."

"Whatever you say, Master," I said.

"Or I might just beat you extra hard for a week or two, to make up for all this slacking," Master went on.

"Or both, Master," I replied.

"As you say, Meat, I could do both. 'Speak roughly to your little slave,'" Master misquoted cheerily. "'And beat her when she sneezes.'"

"Yes, Master," I sniffed, dabbing my nose with a tissue.

Master's double flat gets cleaned once a week by a woman from down the road, who also handles his laundry, dropping off and picking up clothes at the cleaners, and washing, drying, folding and putting away his other clothes.

Master has told the cleaning lady not to go into the Music Room because it's full of sophisticated equipment (which is true). It also was true that Master had me lick the floor of the Music Room clean once a week.

As I began to feel better, I offered to do the washing and ironing of Master's clothes, as a sort of thanks for his care during my illness. I was surprised, but Master seemed quite pleased, and quickly accepted my offer.

It never occurred to me that doing laundry could have a sexual component, but I should have known that everything could be sexual to Master. Master made me sit on the washer/dryer during the spin cycle, and watched my face as the vibrations hit my clit. Then Master ordered me to do the ironing, naked but for a pair of high-heeled platform shoes.

"Take your time," Master told me. "I want those shirts to be perfect, and I want the whole business to last as long as possible." Master leaned back in a chair, listening to the hiss of the steam and the slight click of my heels as I changed position, his own body utterly relaxed.




Mastering Submission Ch. 09



I knew Master saw my hardening nipples, and that they told him I was enjoying the attention. When I finished, Master bent me over the ironing board and touched my buttocks with the cooling iron again and again, just long enough to make me cry out without actually marking me. After a few minutes of this, Master was so excited he just had to fuck me. Then Master crumpled the shirts up and watched while I ironed everything all over again - after moving his chair to the other side of the ironing board, to see the whole performance again from a different angle.



Mastering Submission Ch. 10



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.

*

One of the most normal things we did was hold a dinner party at Master's flat for the professor who ran my department and a record producer Master knew. I chose food for the party that was safe rather than sophisticated, but Master seemed to be satisfied with the menu, which of course he approved in advance. Of course, Master generally approved of any menu I offered to cook for him, since my cooking was done wearing nothing but a spatula tied to one nipple by a length of thread, and a pair of white platform sandals, my hair peeking out from beneath a chef's hat. According to Master, that's how a slave should dress for cooking. If hot fat splashes onto naked skin, it simply makes the experience more fun.

I would have happily done without the hat - it was difficult enough to manage the platform sandals without always having to worry about the hat dropping off into the food or onto the floor. Master told me the hat made me look tall and vulnerable at the same time; when Master complimented me on the curves of my arse, I decided my decidedly eccentric cooking costume was worth it.

Whilst I was busy preparing the food, Master made sure to be as involved in the process as possible, without actually doing any of the kitchen chores himself. He leaned against the edge of the kitchen table, holding a wooden spoon. 

"What's that for?" I asked.

"To make sure you attend to your kitchen duties, my girl," Master said, using it to smack a nipple lightly.

As I worked away, Master livened up the proceedings by gently insulting me, and touching up my cunt whenever I leaned forward to chop vegetables, or bent over to pick up the hat Master kept knocking off my head.

As soon as everything was safely in the oven, Master ordered me to bend over the kitchen table while Master fucked me from behind, pulling out at the last moment and coming on the tiled floor.

"I'll clear it up, Master," I offered.

"You'll lick it up," Master replied. "It'll be the perfect appetizer for the meal ahead."

I dropped to my knees at once, desperate for the taste of Master's sperm. As my tongue lapped at the kitchen tiles, I admitted to myself what I was sure Master had realised for quite some time: I was no longer an unwilling woman paying off a debt: I had transformed into a natural slave performing an act of worship and love. Master untied the spatula from my nipple, pushed my shoulders to the floor, and balanced the chef's hat on my arse.

As he stood over me, Master began to speak to me softly, saying, "When you are groveling like this, Meat, showing off your long back, narrow waist, and fabulous bum, I feel like the King of the World!"

My blushes were hidden in this position, but flamed even brighter as Master continued, "If we weren't expecting guests, I would wipe my cock in your hair!"

Since guests were due to arrive soon, though, Master cleaned himself up with some kitchen paper, then beat my arse with the wooden spoon.

When I had slurped up all the semen, the doorbell rang. I looked up at Master, panic (as well as semen) all over my face. Master glanced at his watch. 

"It's later than I thought," Master said. "I'll keep them talking, you make yourself presentable, then I'll be Martin and you can be Rebecca, and we'll be as normal as you like till our guests have gone."

"Thank you, Master," I said, getting to my feet, ready to dash up the back stairs to get presentable.

Master smiled. "You obviously like it on the floor," Master said. "I'll have to think up some interesting things for you to do down there."

* * * * *

More rain and blustery winds, which meant long skirts and long sleeves: ideal for hiding bruises. That was all the incentive Master needed to prompt him to give me some bruises to hide.

"Tonight is going to be very special," Master told me one Friday as he fitted leather straps to my ankles and wrists. Master grabbed me by the tit and dragged me upstairs to give me the full Music Room experience for the first time.

Master explained, as we went slowly upstairs, that the Music Room is the hexagonal turret in the corner flat. When Master had the room fitted out, he told the contractor who did the soundproofing that it was the rehearsal room for a heavy metal group, which is how the room got its name, Master said. 

Then Master added, "The name is also because a woman's screams are music to my ears." 

When we got to the Music Room, I saw that the walls were thickly padded, and lined with huge mirrors. Master explained that, sometimes he found it soothing for a slave to see what is being done to her. The windows were triple-glazed, Master explained, because sometimes it is good for a slave to observe the real world outside, continuing oblivious of what is happening to her in her secret cave of pain. All the windows and mirrors had dark red velvet curtains; if necessary the room can be turned into a crimson grotto of suffering and humiliation, Master added

Just inside the Music Room, I stopped and asked, "Master, may I speak? Please?"

Master sighed. "Only if it's very important," Master snapped. "I've got an awful lot of things to do to you this evening, and I want to get started as soon as possible."

"It's just that I've remembered a dream I had as a child, Master," I began. "I must have had it more than once, I suppose. It must have been a sex dream, though I think I was too young to realise that at the time."

"Tell me," Master said, with interest.

"I was a prisoner. In a jail, I mean, like Cell Block H," I explained. "They took all my clothes away and made me wear this horrible uniform, and then pushed me through a huge door and locked it behind me. I found myself in one of those prisons you see in the movies or on TV, a big open space with stairs leading up to catwalks in front of cells. As I stepped forward I realised they 'd made a horrible mistake and put me in the men's prison, and all around me there were men laughing and calling me names."

"And then?" Master prompted.

"And then nothing," I responded. "As I told you, I was just a child when I had this dream - I couldn't have been more than nine or ten."

"But now you are a grown woman," Master insisted. "You know how to finish the story."

"I suppose so," I said, blushing and more than a little confused that I had chosen just this moment to confide all this to Master.

"Then finish it," Master said.

I paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts, and Master prompted, "You step forward -"

Taking a deep breath, I began finishing the story: "I step forward, and one of the prisoners grabs me by the tit. It hurts. But another convict, a big, ugly man with a squint, warns the first prisoner off; makes him go to the back of the queue. He tells me he's the toughest inmate in the prison, so what he says goes. He asks me what I'm in prison for. I say I don't know, that I must have stolen something."

"And what does he say?" Master asked.

"He says I'm not in prison for theft, Master," I replied. "I'm in prison for rape. Rape, and indecent assault, because that's all I'm going to get from now on." Once again, I paused. This level of honesty and self-revelation was difficult for me.

"And - " Master once again prompted, giving my nipple a sharp tug.

"And buggery," I said simply. "I'm here to be gang-fucked by any of the men who want me. And then the ugly prisoner laughs and tells me the jail has so many inmates I can expect to be fucked round the clock. He snaps his fingers and the men gather round. He explains that as he's the head convict, I have to suck his cock first, but after that all the other prisoners can do what they want to me, and they cheer. I drop my eyes and kneel down."

"Fast forward a bit," Master ordered. "It's three hours later. What's happening now?"

"It's mealtime," I said. "All the men are in one of those big dining halls you see in the movies, where they fight or bang their knives and forks in protest. Of course, this time they're quiet, thinking about me waiting for them."

"Where are you?" Master asked.

"In a toilet," I explained. "I'm naked, my cunt's sore, my arsehole hurts and my jaw's stiff, because the only way to catch up with the workload is to have a cock in my arse, one in my cunt and another in my mouth at the same time, while I'm jerking off two more men with my hands. Even then I'm bruised where one of the men lower down in the pecking order has punched me out of sheer frustration. My ankles hurt where strong calloused hands have yanked my legs open, and my tits hurt where men have dragged me around by the nipples, throwing me from side to side like a doll. I'm all sticky with sperm: it's all over my chest, on my face, streaked down the insides of my legs, drying and forming a crust. I realise that while I'm allowed to drink out of the toilet I'm not going to get any food, just sperm, so I'm trying to scrape as much as possible off my breasts and the insides of my legs and lick it up. There's protein in sperm and with 1,200 men in the prison I'm not going to go hungry."

"What about sleeping?" Master asked. "What's going to happen to you at night?" 

"Oh, they won't let me sleep," I confided. "I'm going to have to spend the long hours of the night kneeling outside cell after cell while men stick their cocks through the bars for me to suck."

Having heard myself tell this story aloud, I was stunned into silence - not only was I afraid at how Master would react to this fantasy, but I was not really sure how I was reacting to it myself, for I never had expressed this aspect of myself so clearly and openly before.

"You really are a slut, aren't you, Meat?" Master asked with a smile.

"Yes, Master," I said. "I suppose I must be."

"How long are you going to be in the prison for?" Master asked.

"A year, Master," I replied. "A year of being fucked, abused and buggered seems about right." By now, the sense of humiliation and embarrassment that consumed me during the telling of the story was receding, replaced by a happy appreciation that here was a man to whom I could tell something this revealing. Master noticed that my voice had changed, and I knew he could see that my eyes were twinkling where a moment before they had been dreamy.

"That's enough," Master said sharply, pushing me into the Music Room. "I don't want to hear a sound out of you for the rest of the evening. Except for screams, of course. Make all the noise you want. Nobody will hear you up here. You may beg for mercy all you like. But you won't get it."

"I understand, Master," I said. "You can do anything you want to me."

Master explained to me that a Music Room beating is done with just two implements: a five-tailed leather cat to warm the slave up, and a wicked quirt: a springy rod of hard rubber the length of Master's arm.

Master started by bending me over the bench in front of the window, shackling my wrists and ankles to carefully positioned eyelets, then crushing my nipples between the plates of two vises set into the bench. When I was in position and ready, I braced myself, sticking out my arse, ready to receive the pain Master would add to the agony of the restraints. The sun was setting in a blaze of crimson glory; in the street below people were strolling, dropping into the Red Cow for a drink. I noticed all of that as if in yet another dream - I was sure that, if they glanced up, all they'd see was the vague shape of a woman's face gazing out across the rooftops.

Master struck, the cat singing through the air, and I began making soft moans.

After fifty strokes, I could feel that the stretched skin of my arse and the backs of my thighs was glowing nicely, and I could distinguish a few blushing stripes where the tails of the cat had curled between my legs. Master opened a box of Godiva chocolates and rewarded me with a marron fondant. 

Then Master closed the curtains, unhitched my shackles, released my nipples and hung me up by the wrists from a hook on the ceiling. I held my arms up, co-operating all the way.

The beam creaked, and I noticed that Master suddenly looked a bit sad, as if lost in a bittersweet memory for a moment. Almost immediately, though, Master collected himself to padlock my ankles to a spreader bar and attended to the tits. My nipples were still out of shape, flattened horizontally by the vises. Master rubbed them between fingers and thumbs and began to swing me backwards and forwards by the tits. This was, Master explained to me, a nipple-stretching exercise, as well as mildly painful. Then Master crushed my nipples vertically with clothes pegs hung with lead fishing weights.

The pain was becoming a constant in my consciousness; although the pain was omnipresent and was becoming more and more overwhelming, I was amazed by the dawning realization that I loved the pain. It was astounding that, without pretending the pain was anything other than what it was, the feelings engendered by the pain - the freedom, the release, and the relinquishment of all control - were uppermost in my mind.

Master paused to give me another chocolate, and then pulled back a curtain to reveal one of the mirrors so I could see how I looked hanging by my arms. Master insisted that I looked beautiful, which I still could not quite believe, but I was happy for a chance to inspect Master's handiwork.

My buttocks were still cherry-red from the cat. Master switched to the quirt, making vertical cuts on the soft skin of my thighs and calves, far harder than Master ever had hit me before, flinging me forward with every blow. I knew Master could tell from the noises I was making that this was pain on a different scale to anything I had experienced before. 

Almost without realizing it, I began to beg, "Please, Master. It's too much! I can't stand it!" Master's response was to strike harder, turning my words to screams. 

"Stop!" I was shrieking. "For God's sake, stop!" The sound was pitiful, but Master drove on, knowing that if I really wanted mercy I had only to say "Parsnips" or even just "Red". Instead, Master stepped up the pressure, laying blow after blow, ruthless, relentless.

Master paused to feed a milk chocolate truffle into my mouth, and then ran his fingertips down a livid bruise, as if to reassure me of his love and respect. When I had calmed down, Master explained, "There's a limit to how quick I want to go with a Music Room beating - I savour each scream like sips of fine wine. Standing bondage and a heavy whip combine to produce one of the most beautiful sights a master ever gets to see: a slave's buttocks, no longer stretched from bending over, jump and twitch. As the blows became heavier I can actually see the shock waves moving through the flesh, showing up the muscles beneath the skin."

Master said, "I'm prejudiced, obviously, but I don't think you can claim to know a woman until you've beaten her with something with a bit of weight to it."

The beating Master inflicted was every toothache, every headache, every graze and bruise I had experienced in my life, compressed into one incredible hour of agony. By now I was howling like a dog, like the bitch I was, the pain taking me to a place Master couldn't follow, somewhere only slaves can go.

Slowly my screams died down to whimpers, the only sound the thwack of rubber on skin. Master paused for breath, then said, "This is hard work. Hang on for a minute while I go downstairs to get myself a drink."

"And for me," I groaned. "Please."

Master shook his head. "I've earned a drink," he said. "I've been working. You've just been hanging there."

Master came back with a glass of lager and stood before me drinking it. Master wiped the tears from my cheeks and kissed me. "I'm going to beat your tits now," Master said. "Do you understand?" 

I nodded. 

"Do you give me permission?" Master asked.

I nodded again. 

Master put the glass down and picked up the quirt. Master struck out viciously, knocking the pegs clean off my nipples with two powerful strokes, and then slashing across the full breasts, making them bounce. Then Master went back to the nipples, hitting them with the tip of the quirt till they stood out bigger and harder than I'd ever seen before, filling my mind with love and pain, making me sing out my agony until the whole room was a sea of screams.

Master stopped again, and kissed my lips, twisting my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, squeezing so ferociously I screamed into his mouth. Then Master went back to the cat-of-nine-tails for a cunt whipping, whirling the leather strands round and round like the blades of a helicopter and bringing them slowly up between my legs, listening carefully so as to judge how much to inflict by the sound of my cries and the agony distorting my face.

As Master unhooked me and unlocked the spreader bar, he spoke quietly, saying, "Few people ever get to experience pain on this level." I was sobbing hysterically as Master flung me onto the vaulting horse, on my back, with my wrists and ankles chained together and fastened with a huge brass padlock.

Later, Master told me that Dave made that horse, using a blueprint he worked out for torturing Fuckpuppet. I certainly could attest to the fact that it's a marvel of workmanship. Master can unfold it like a magic Black & Decker Workmate to spread a woman's arms and legs out wide, or tilt it, as he did after securing me to it for the first time, putting my feet higher than my head.

I believe that I once read that no pain compares with having the soles of one's feet whipped. When the first blow landed, supporting that statement, I thrashed from side to side. 

"Steady," Master commanded. "Hold your feet out flat. Make a proper target."

I refused to obey at first, still trying to process my surprise at the overwhelming pain rather. Master waited a minute or two, and then gave the order again.

This time, I nodded, and then held my feet steady for a second blow. Master struck, my toes curled up, and I rubbed the soles of my feet together. Then, slowly, accepting the inevitable, once again I spread out my feet, the soles flattened, ready for Master to strike again.

Left foot. Right foot. Over and over. By the sixth blow, the silent spell was broken and I was screaming again, even louder. After a dozen more blows, Master rubbed Ralgex into the soles to intensify the pain, and then beat me again. Master hit me a total of forty times on each foot, and though by the end I was bellowing like a child, I co-operated with Master with every blow, the final stroke bringing me to a shattering orgasm. 

Master released my bonds, and plunged his cock into my mouth. Master was more excited than I had ever seen before -- in moments, Master was ready. The semen that spattered across my face was thick and plentiful, striping my forehead, nose and chin, and hanging in globules in my hair. 

Master put his arms around me, and held me until my sobs subsided. My shoulders looked as if some kid had been scribbling on them with blue and purple crayons. The heaviest of these marks would be with me for weeks.

"Aren't you going to thank me?" Master asked sternly.

"Thank you, Master," I said. "That was amazing." My voice was soft, reflecting my awe at the experience we just shared. I had used up every bit of my strength, but I also had learned that it was much more considerable strength than I had ever known.




Mastering Submission Ch. 10



I moved my arms and legs cautiously as life returned to them. I tried to rub my shoulders, but winced at the pain. Master knew I couldn't walk on my beaten feet, so he picked me up and carried me.

Master took me into the bedroom, laid me gingerly against the pillows of the double bed, and cradled me against his body. To me, this is the best part of being beaten: being held by your Master afterwards, Master checking for damage, giving quiet and calm that lets the enormity of what you've been through sink in. 

No, I'm wrong -- the best part of all is going up to the Music Room with your Master the following day, drawing back the heavy curtains and looking in the mirrors, examining each bruise together and remembering the blows that caused them. I knew Master was very experienced, which meant he must have handed out many severe beatings in his time, but I believed he'd surpassed himself. There was nothing that wouldn't heal, but it hurt like hell.

But my face, I knew, was radiant; my inner woman unharmed. If anything, I had been strengthened by the ordeal I'd undergone.

We looked into one another's eyes with love and mutual respect. I was amazed that Master had inflicted so much pain; Master's eyes let me know that he could scarcely believe I'd endured it. 

Master was my torturer, but he was also my rescuer. Master was the one who dealt out the pain, but also the one who comforted me afterwards with creams and caresses. There's a convention in S&M circles that a slave cannot claim ownership. Master could refer to me as "my" slave, but he was "the" (not "my") Master. 

Although I knew this was the convention in S&M lifestyles, my tiny smile that crept onto my lips after this brutal beating expressed something both Master and I knew but never said aloud: I was not Master's slave at all, but the slave of my own desires; that Master belonged to me every bit as much as I belonged to him. Though the words we used together were chosen to emphasize how noble Master was and how unworthy I was, every scene ended with Master playing the part of servant. Not only was Master "my" Master, but Master was also my slave.

* * * * *

"Take a look at this," Master said as he removed with a flourish a cloth he had draped over the dining table. Master had divided the table by drawing a chalk line down the center. On the left side of the line was a high pile of a strange assortment of objects. There was:

An electric torch

A stick of seaside rock

A large paintbrush

A fountain pin

An assortment of crayons and pencils

A carrot

A cucumber

A pea pod

A single runner bean

A bicycle pump

A chopstick

A screwdriver

A spanner

A hammer

A bone

A candle

A cigar

A rolling pin

A wooden ruler

A telescope

A bishop from a chess set

A penny whistle

A standard-issue police truncheon

"Can you guess what's going to happen now?" Master asked, after giving me a few minutes to take in the items.

"You're going to move everything from one side of the table to the other," I suggested.

"Bright girl," Master said with a smile. "Now, what have all these things got in common?" Master picked up the cucumber, and prodded it rudely towards my mouth.

"They're all long and thin," I responded.

"Well done," Master said gleefully. "So what will I do with each of these things before I move it across that line?"

"You're going to fuck me with them," I said.

"Clever girl," Master said. "No wonder they gave you a Ph.D. There are a lot of different things there," Master said sympathetically. "Perhaps we can speed things up by shoving them in two at a time: the carrot and the cucumber, for instance." 

I didn't say anything. 

"Or perhaps you'd like to add a little something of your own? A lipstick perhaps? Or a can of hairspray?" 

I shook my head, feeling there were more than enough implements amassed already. 

"Very well, let's get on with it," Master said. "Hitch up your skirt."

I bent over the table and spread my legs, preparing myself for violation. Then I looked over my shoulder anxiously.

"Eyes front, Meat," Master said disapprovingly. "Now, I know you don't like making decisions while you're being a slave, but it's up to you which you get fucked by first."

I swallowed. "The - the spanner, Master," I said softly.

"Speak up," Master responded.

"The spanner, Master," I said. "Please fuck my cunt with the spanner first."

As Master picked up the spanner, the phone rang. Master stuck the spanner up me, and slapped my rump as he responded to the phone. "I won't be long, Meat," Master told me. "Stay where you are, and keep that inside where it belongs. I'll be back in a minute."



Mastering Submission Ch. 11



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

At the very start of our relationship, Master told me that he was going to sodomise me. A good master always keeps his promises, and Master was very good.

Long before the weekend when Master determined the time was right to fuck my arse for the first time, he took every occasion to prepare my mind for what he was going to do to my body. Master explained that, when a woman likes to be fucked in the arsehole, it's a window into her very soul.

Master explained, "There is only one way to find out whether or not you like to be fucked up the arse, and that is to grit your teeth and get someone to fuck you up the arse. You cannot tell just by taking a crap. You cannot tell from heavy petting. You have to be buggered, preferably by a skilled practitioner in the art, such as yours truly."

Not only the experience of being fucked up the arsehole was new to me -- I had never really thought about anal sex before beginning my submissive service to Master. One of my first thoughts about the process was how embarrassing it would be to be fucked up the arse when it was full of shit. When I finally screwed up my courage to ask about it, Master explained, "Although I'm very fond of anal sex, I don't actually like the shit. A lot of masters don't mind; some actually enjoy it, but the way I see it, why fuck a dirty arsehole when you can fuck one that's squeaky clean?"

When I nervously asked if that meant I was going to have to experience my very first enema, Master went on. "Some masters like to give their slaves enemas to prepare them for buggery, but I say why waste time and effort cleaning an arsehole yourself when you live in one of the world's great capital cities, one that provides colonic irrigation services (so they say) to movie stars, media celebrities and members of the Royal family?"

At that, Master presented me with an engraved appointment card for an expensive clinic, and I made sure to be at my appointment on time, although I was far from prepared for the experience.

When I rang Master's doorbell, I knew I was suffused with a pink glow -- whether of rude good health or deep embarrassment, I was at a loss to say. Still standing on the stoop in front of the door, I slipped my hands under my skirt, and gave Master a deep cunt curtsey.

"Well?" Master asked coldly, standing in the doorway with an imperious expression on his face.

"I kept the appointment, Master," I responded.

"Did you enjoy it?" Master asked, surprising me.

"Not exactly," I said, uncomfortable not only with the topic of our conversation, but also with the fact that we were having it in public.

"Never mind," Master said with a smile, still not moving to allow me into the flat. "You'll love the next bit. Were there many women undergoing the same treatment?"

"A few, Master, yes," I said, wondering where this conversation was tending, and when I would finally be allowed inside.

"So, a lot of sodomy is going to happen in London this afternoon," Master replied; "a lot of sweet female arseholes being fucked right now."

"They can't possibly all have been there for that, Master," I protested.

"Grow up, Meat," Master said. "That's what those clinics exist for. You have been in very good company. Just think of it, all those pretty dirt boxes being cleaned up for the cocks of their men and the dildos of their lesbian Mistresses. What a splendid way for a lady to spend a Saturday afternoon. So, is your arsehole clean?"

I hung my head, and replied, "Yes, Master. My arsehole is clean."

"Not full of shit?" Master persisted.

"Not full of shit, Master," I responded, blushing furiously, and glancing around to be sure the sidewalk still was empty except for me.

I knew Master was not mouthing obscenities just for fun -- from the very beginning of my submissive service Master had used language as preparation for new and sometimes difficult experiences he had planned for me. Once again, Master was making my mind ready for what was to come: making the experience more intense, making it filthier, and making it unforgettable. Master had arranged for me to be physically prepared, but Master saved for himself the task of putting me in the right mental state.

"Are you ready to be fucked?" Master asked sternly.

"Ready to be fucked, Master," I replied.

"Ready to be buggered?" Master queried.

"Yes, Master," I replied, my eyes wide with fear. I swallowed, and said "My arsehole is ready, Master. Ready to be sodomised by your big, beautiful cock. But please, Master, can we stop talking in the street, and go inside?"

"Cannot wait for it, can you?" Master said with a chuckle. "That pretty little bum hole of yours is itching, and only one thing in the world can scratch it. Well, come on. Let's get going before the next batch of turds come trundling down the shit-chute." My face took on a pained expression, but I followed Master inside and up the stairs, grateful to be indoors, with the entry door closed at last.

"Are you frightened?" Master asked.

"A little, Master," I replied. "I have butterflies in my tummy."

"Impossible," Master laughed. "They'd have been washed away."

I giggled with Master, but my giggle sounded scared even to me. 

"I'm worried I won't be big enough," I explained.

"Talk properly," Master ordered, quickly turning back to softly slap my face.

"I'm afraid my arsehole won't be big enough to take your cock, Master," I expanded.

Master took out a monstrous dildo, big as the business end of a baseball bat, and stuck it under my nose. "You'll be surprised how easily that slips inside you," Master reassured me. I would find out later that Master was lying about the dildo, but the shock on my face was real enough.

When I had stripped, Master tipped me onto my back on the coffee table of the main room, and bound my wrists to my ankles. As Master tightened the ropes, I could feel myself relaxing. One hallmark of my submissive training was my knowledge that having a situation utterly out of my control was very soothing to me. 

Master rolled me face down, rump in the air; feet splayed out, bent over like a Muslim at prayer, and thanked me for showing off the prettiest little virgin arsehole Master had ever had the pleasure of violating.

Once I was secured to the table, Master began talking calmly and quietly, "Buggery is easy, if you go about it in the right way: every grown woman drops turds bigger than the average cock. The problem is the muscles can react against something going the wrong way, and that's where the trouble starts."

Part of my anxiety about having Master fuck my arsehole was based on my experience of Master fucking my cunt. When Master fucks my cunt, he frequently is disrespectful. Master likes to throw me on the bed like a rag doll, roll me over, lift me onto all fours, telling me to take it like the bitch I am. Master likes to wield a long, flexible whip that will curl under my body and sting my nipples. Then Master likes to fling me onto my back again, and slap my face and call me filthy names. 

As if he sensed this part of my anxiety and fear, Master continued speaking to me quietly and calmly, "When I'm sodomising a woman I'm gentleness itself. I use lashings of lubricant, and only move to the penetration stage when she's well on the way to orgasm."

Intellectually, I realised that relaxation was going to be very important to keep me from being hurt or possibly even damaged, but emotional relaxation was not coming so easily. As though he were reading my emotional state, Master began by stroking my whole bum, ticking the hairs on either side of my cunt, and then trailing a finger across my puckered hole.

As much as anyone can who's trussed up like a turkey, I flinched when Master's finger slid over my arsehole -- it didn't hurt, but it made me face the reality of what was about to happen.

Master opened his special anal sex equipment case, unscrewed the lid of a jar of Vaseline, and smeared a generous helping over a thin black dildo. Master touched the tip of the greased dildo to my tradesman's entrance, applying gentle but insistent pressure. Whilst holding the dildo in place with one hand, Master's other hand went back to stroking me, tickling my clit until I relaxed and opened up. My anal ring accepted the inevitable, relaxing and welcoming its rigid intruder.

The dildo slid in an inch, paused, moved another inch and suddenly it was deeply imbedded, a black arrow filling my darkest hole and piercing my very being. Master rewarded me with a sharp slap on the rump.

More caresses. More tweaking of the clit. Master pumped the dildo in and out a few times, and then left it sticking out at an angle, while he greased up another, slightly larger, one. As he applied the lubricant, Master explained, "Unlike cunts, arseholes don't close the moment you pull something out of them." Suiting his actions to the words, Master slid out the black dildo, and as my arsehole gaped for a moment, slid the bigger pink one home. I moaned, beginning to appreciate this rod of pleasure and domination. Master shoved three fingers up my cunt, which was beginning to feel lonely. My cunt was getting a bit messy with all the lubricant sloshing about, but it did not seem to bother Master in the least -- to him, it was all part of the fun.

I was tensing up again, but Master applied a few sharp slaps to sort me out, keeping my attention diverted from his invasion of my arsehole by creating pain elsewhere.

Then Master applied more caresses, and more slaps. Master lubricated yet another dildo, this one even larger. Master pulled out the second dildo, and then slipped in the larger one, pumping it in and out, driving me harder. 

Master said that he could control my moans by the way he manipulated the dildo, like playing an erotic musical instrument. Master seemed to be loving every minute of this, and so was I, but we both knew it was nothing more than a build-up for the arse-fucking to come.

When I caught sight of the fourth dildo out of the corner of my eye, I was shocked -- it appeared to me to be wider than Master's cock. Grease was building up around its shaft as Master plunged it in and pulled it out faster and harder than I ever believed possible. Another thing that I never believed possible also was happening -- juice was trickling down over my clit, passion flaps weeping with excitement. 

I was making yet another discovery about my sexual nature. The stub of the dildo twitched slightly as my sexual excitement continued to build. Master stopped to grease up his prick and wipe his hands on a couple of tissues.

Master eased the dildo out, and slid his cock into my gaping arsehole.

Once Master's cock was buried in my arsehole, he was careful -- careful not to fuck me too hard, careful to listen to what my grunts and moans were telling him. I loved being fucked in the mouth and cunt, but this was a higher level of delight altogether. By now, I was moaning, berserk with pleasure. I was making the throaty sounds of a woman who'd forgotten her embarrassment, forgotten that her body was being crudely abused, a woman lost in excitement that was utterly new to her, her body taking her to places she hadn't known she wanted to go to, her whole being given over to the darkest of pleasures. 

I was so taken up by my feelings and reactions to being buggered, that I barely noticed when Master groped for his lock-back knife and cut my right hand free. As I realised that my hand was free, I responded immediately. Panting, whinnying with excitement, I shoved it under my belly and began to tweak the tip of my clitoris.

"This used to be illegal," Master told me cheerily.

"It still should be," I grunted, and Master laughed delightedly.

We came together, the powerful muscles of my anal ring intensifying Master's orgasm.

Ten minutes later, I brought Master a beer, humbly, on my knees. I was wearing one of the T-shirts Master gave me for my birthday, the one with the lettering, "Arse-Fucked Whore."

As Master sipped his beer, I knelt beside him. "May I have permission to speak, Master?"

"Permission granted, you dirty little bitch," Master said.

"Master, I'm beginning to get frightened," I began. "On some sessions when I'm playing the part of your slave I go so deep it seems I may never rise again. I feel as if I could go to work one day and find I no longer have the respect of my colleagues or my students. That my brain is only good for groveling at your feet."

"That's a perfectly natural worry," Master told me. "But the opposite is true. Every time you sink to the level of slave, you learn more about yourself, about the foundation of your own personality and intelligence. That way you can rise higher, with more confidence. Some of the most important people in the country are secretly slaves. You find out about it occasionally when a politician or TV personality gets into the papers because he's been caught with a girl the papers call Miss Whiplash. It's not co-incidence, it is cause and effect."

I nodded. "I can see the logic in that," I said. "But it still seems very strange to me. It's as if everything I've ever believed has been turned upside down."

"Almost anything can be turned upside down and still make sense," Master told me. "Democracy is a wonderful thing, but not when a majority vote is used as an excuse for persecuting a minority. Look at it this way. You see someone running a marathon, going through the pain barrier. Do you despise that person because he or she is too stupid to realise the same distance could be covered quicker on a motorbike?"

"No, Master," I said.

"You are what you are," Master told me. "Masters and slaves live more intense lives than people in the straight world. If you are lucky enough to be one or the other, you should be thankful. Knowing that you are a born slave and accepting it, takes courage and intelligence."

That night, when I knelt to recite the Prick Prayer, I amended it myself:

O magnificent prick.

I kneel before you to promise you unquestioned access to my cunt, my mouth, and my arsehole any time you desire. I will deny you nothing. 



Mastering Submission Ch. 12



Master typically vacationed in late spring before we met, but I could only get away in the university vacations. Making sure I appreciated his willingness to change his normal schedule, Master informed me that the Seychelles are lovely at any time of year, and, since he was prepared to sail out to the smaller islands, Master was confident that there were many secluded beaches where he could torture me to his heart's content.

In Master's opinion (which, of course, is the only opinion that mattered), the only swimming costume I had was awful, so Master bought me a black La Perla costume with a particularly high-cut leg.

"Put it on," Master ordered. "Don't be shy." Master assured me that I looked lovely, but I was embarrassed at what particularly appealed to Master -- the tufts of reddish pubic hair sticking out on either side at the tops of my thighs. On seeing me in the suit, Master's first words were, "The elegant swimsuit contrasts wonderfully with those wiry animal hairs."

"It's beautiful, Master," I agreed, adding with more hope than I expected to be realised, "I'll get a bikini wax at the salon before we go."

"You won't do anything of the kind," Master replied. "You'll look delicious showing off that fine pant moustache on a white coral beach. You'll be the talk of Mahé for years."

"You wouldn't dare!" I exclaimed - immediately regretting making a comment that Master could perceive as a dare.

"You should know by now that I'd dare almost anything," Master replied. "So long as it caused you pain or embarrassment."

"But you wouldn't want to be seen walking along in public with a woman showing her pubic hair," I protested.

"Who said I was going to walk along next to you?" Master asked. "I might fling myself down on one of those loungers, order a pina colada and make you march up and down, showing the world what a slut you are."

I knelt down in front of Master, and sincerely said, "I am a slut, Master, and a whore, and unworthy of you. But I have my pride."

Master, of course, pounced. "Exactly," Master cried triumphantly. "And that is precisely why I have to beat you and humiliate you all the time."

"But, Master -" I begged.

"Whose cunt is it?" Master snapped. "Yours, Master," I said in resignation. "Everything I own belongs to you." I dropped my head, but not before Master noticed that my eyes were brimming with tears.

"I don't claim your whole body," Master said. "Your liver is yours to enjoy. Your pancreas has no special interest for me. But your tits, your cunt, your arse, and that beautiful mouth are mine to enjoy and abuse any time I wish."

"Yes, Master," I replied.

"Step over here," Master ordered, and I obeyed. Master reached down and tugged a few hairs. I cried out, but did not draw back. Master tugged some more, arranging my muff, making as much hair as possible visible on both sides. "That's better," Master said. "More symmetrical."

I winced.

"You're a fine animal," Master said, "and you should be proud to look like one." Master grabbed the waist of the suit bottom, and pulled it up into my slit. "What do you think?" Master asked. "Even better?"

"Please, Master, no. I am not proud, Master. I will do anything you ask, but if people saw me looking like this I would be mortified. Please, Master, I'm begging," I could not resist making another plea.

"Hmmm. Walk up and down for a bit while I think things over," Master told me and sat back, enjoying the view. "I suppose you won't want those thighs of yours striped with bruises while you're lying in the sun?"

"No, Master," I responded. "If it pleases you."

"It doesn't please me," Master said. "I like to beat you all the time, and I like to see the results of my hard work on your skin. But I am a reasonable man. For the next two weeks I will not hit you with anything thin. Is that fair?"

"Very fair, Master," I replied.

"I don't want anybody else touching that cunt, mind," Master said. "I'll shave it myself."

"Yes, Master," I said in grateful relief. "Of course, Master."

"With my knife," Master went on.

I looked startled, but I was too well trained to say anything.

"In the meantime," Master added, "I'm going to punish you for arguing."

Two weeks later, we were ready to go. After an hour spent packing our cases in front of Master, I knelt at Master's feet.

"Permission to speak, Master?" I asked.

"Permission denied, bitch," Master curtly replied. I knew my face revealed my frustration and worry. I wondered whether I could ask again, but did not dare. Master let a minute hang in the air.

"It's all right, Meat," Master told me. "I know what's worrying you. You want me to shave your hairy minge, don't you?"

I nodded.

"OK," Master said. "You may ask me."

"Please, noble Master," I begged, "Please shave my unworthy cunt."

"With?" Master prompted. I did not want to say it. "With?" Master repeated sternly.

"With your razor-sharp knife, Master," I responded.

"Get upstairs and draw yourself a bath," Master ordered.

I stared at Master before asking, "A proper hot bath, Master?" I was scarcely able to believe my luck.

Master nodded. "That's right, Meat," Master told me. "With bath foam and everything. This is a very special occasion. You run yourself a bath, and I will sharpen my knife. Call me when it's ready."

Is it possible to be frightened to take a bath? I can affirm for you that it is; as I stepped into the warm water, I was trembling.

"Calm down, Meat," Master said. "Or I won't do it, and you'll be showing your pubic hair to the horrified citizens of Mahé."

Master made himself comfortable in the bathroom, cheerily confiding that he loved to watch a woman bathe. Contrary to my usual experience of cold-water showers, Master informed me, he loved to pour expensive lotions and perfumes in the warm bath water, while floating candles bob between islands of foam. Master further expounded on how he liked to make a woman clean her cunt, and then inspect it, asking, "Do you expect me to fuck that?" scornfully, and makes her wash it all over again. 

After gazing at me lying back in the suds, luxuriating, my breasts floating slightly in the water, Master glanced at his watch. "You've been in there for half an hour - don't get too comfortable," Master told me harshly. "You're only there to soften up your cunt hair for the touch of cold steel."

I looked up at Master anxiously. "Do you think its soft enough?" I asked.

"Impatient little bitch, aren't you?" Master asked scornfully. "Go on. Feel your cunt."

I did so, frowning thoughtfully. "It seems nice and soft," I said.

"Very well," Master snapped. "Let's get on with it."

Master opened his equipment case, and continued talking. "As you've seen at the S&M parties we've attended, there are a lot of shaven slaves: it's been the fashion for as long as I can remember. I do not actually like it all that much. Of course, even though I feel pubic hair can be exciting and beautiful in its own right, I love the act of shaving a woman, especially with a wicked-looking sliver of naked steel."

Master reached down to grasp a nipple, and urged me out of the tub. He gave me a few minutes to blot my body before leading me by the nipple to the dining room, where he made me lie on the bare surface of Master's big oak table. Master left me for a moment, returning with a flannel, and a bowl of warm water. 

Keeping up his instructional patter, Master said, "Shaving foam is only there to keep the hair wet, which is fair enough when I'm working on my chin in the morning before rushing off to work, but when I'm shaving a cunt I don't want anything to spoil the view. Shaving without foam is easy as long as you keep the hair wet and use a sharp blade. And there's no blade sharper than a Whitby lock-back knife, honed on an oilstone and stropped on fine vellum."

Despite Master's reassurances that shaving with a knife is actually an awful lot safer than it looks, no more dangerous than the cut-throat razor your great grandfather used, the knife looked terrifying - probably that was the effect Master wanted.

When I took in the sight of the glistening knife in Master's hand, my eyes narrowed in fear. Master swept the knife through the air so the light caught gleaming steel, remarking that it was a superb blade. I stared at Master wide-eyed. "Permission to speak, Master?" I asked softly.

"Permission granted, slut," Master said, "but only if it's important."

I gave a small smile. "I had a dream last night," I said. "I dreamed about that knife of yours, Master. Somebody was using it to cut up my cunt."

"Me?" Master asked.

"I'm not sure, Master," I replied. "You know how it is with dreams, sometimes you can't see the details."

Master smiled. "Well, my darling," Master said. "I'm about to make your dreams come true. Kiss the blade, bitch," Master ordered sharply. I did so, with quivering lips. "Keep very still," Master barked. "I'm not going to cut you. One day, if you are an obedient little slut and learn to trust me, I will use this beautiful knife to make you bleed. But not tonight."

I looked down anxiously, my eyes flickering between the blade and my own pubic hair. "Don't you dare look at me," Master warned. "This has nothing to do with you. This is my cunt, and I shall do as I like with it. Well, bitch, are you ready?"

I swallowed hard, and then nodded. "Yes, Master. I'm ready." 

Master came closer, knife at the ready, and explained that he wasn't going to shave me this way just for fun (although, Master added as an aside, he expected it to be immensely exciting and entertaining). Master said that this exercise would help him take me to a new level of trust and obedience that would make our life together immeasurably richer.

Master went on to say, "Another advantage of not using shaving foam is smell: instead of Gillette Gel, the rank scent of your sexual excitement is filling my nostrils, Meat."

As the damp hairs fell onto the table top, Master picked them up and tossed them into a pile on my belly button that grew higher and higher as he worked.

Master continued his narrative whilst he worked, "You can get just as good an effect by plucking the hair off a slave's muff as you can with a knife or razor. Of course," Master continued. "If you do, tweezers take forever. Pliers do the job much quicker, because they pull the hair out in tufts; I just have to remember to tie the slave up tightly and stick a gag in her mouth to stop her complaining."

"Master, can we stop for a moment?" I interrupted to beg. "Something wrong?" Master asked.

I shook my head. "It's just that my heart is beating so fast it's scaring me."

Master put the knife down, moved to the other end of the table, and kissed my mouth. "I will never, ever harm you," Master reassured me.

"I know, but - " I began.

Sensing that I was wound up like a spring, too tense for kind words to help, Master drew back his hand and slapped my face, hard enough to sting.

"Now, Meat," Master said. "Master knows best." By the time Master returned to the cunt end of my body I had calmed down, my breathing relaxed and regular, an expression of trust on my face. 

Master damped my minge with the flannel and worked his way down from the flat planes of my stomach to the intricate folds between my thighs, stretching the skin to get a close shave and giving my passion flaps an extra tweak for fun.

"Spread your legs wider," Master told me. "Don't you want me to see what I'm doing?"

"Yes, Master," I replied. "Sorry, Master."

Most people live their whole lives without razor-sharp knives coming anywhere near their genitals. Most people have never experienced true fear, or true excitement. Yet here I was in that very experience -- I quietened down, but I knew Master could still hear me breathe.

When the shaving was over, I wanted to look at Master's handiwork, but instead Master tossed a slip of paper into the air and cut it in half as it fell. Master tapped me on the nose with the flat of the knife's gleaming blade. "You held yourself still very well while I was shaving you," Master told me. "But now I want you to show even more control. Tonight you lose your virginity all over again. A woman who has never been fucked with a knife has never been fucked." Master trailed the tip of the blade down my throat, across the swell of my left breast and down my belly. 

I gasped, and I could feel that my cunt was open, welcoming, dripping. As Master's hand dipped out of sight between my thighs, I could feel it penetrating into my gaping cunt.

"Master, I'm scared." Although I could no longer see the knife, I could feel it in my cunt, although there was no way of knowing which end of the knife Master was using to penetrate me. Still, I had no reason not to believe Master's edict that the time had come for him to fuck me with that razor-sharp knife.

"I can see you're scared, but you're excited, too," Master said.

"Yes, Master," I replied. "Scared and excited."

"Don't speak," Master said. "Concentrate on keeping still. If this cuts you, no surgeon will ever be able to put all those complicated working bits back together again." Master pulled the knife out; the moment it left my body I started to shake. "When you're ready," Master told me, "I'll shove that blade up your cunt again."

I calmed down. "I'm ready," I said quietly, my eyes reflecting my wild excitement.

Master slipped the knife in again, then out, then in, building up to a good fucking rhythm, terrifying me. My fingernails began to claw the tabletop. Master paused for a moment, leaving the knife jutting out of my freshly-shaven folds, and slapped my tits about.

As consumed as I was by the heady excitement Master was building, my peripheral vision showed me that Master had a raging hard-on. 

"Listen, Meat," Master told me. "I'm going to fuck your mouth, now. But I am going to leave the knife where it is. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," I replied.

"It's very important that you control your desires. If your cunt starts twitching, you could cut yourself open," Master patiently explained. "Apart from anything else, that would ruin the blow-job."

"I'll be very still, Master," I said quietly.

And I was. As Master built up a rhythm, I lay motionless as a corpse, though a film of sweat began to glisten on my belly and tits.

Master came. I swallowed. And I thanked Master for the gift of his sperm.

Master went back to the knife in my cunt, turning it through 180 degrees. I yelped in fear.

The semen in my throat had compounded my excitement. As Master again built up the rhythm of thrusts, I began to approach my climax. "Please, Master," I was babbling now, incapable of telling Master what I wanted desperately Master to know.

"I understand, Meat," Master told me. "You're going to come, and you're afraid that will make you cut yourself. Well, you'll just have to control yourself, won't you?"

I tossed my head from side to side, whimpering. Master ignored me, plunging and thrusting with the knife, forcing it as deep as it would go.

Master said, "I like to watch you come, and I love to see your face when you are frightened. Now I am going to see both things simultaneously. There's nothing like sheer terror to make a woman concentrate on her cunt."

I did not want an orgasm. I was afraid to have an orgasm. I was doing everything I could to stop myself from having an orgasm. But a slut is a slut, and a delicious combination of fear and excitement was dragging me inexorably towards my inevitable climax.

I was saying, "Please, please, please" repeatedly, but not specifying whether I was asking Master to stop or to fuck me harder. Master plunged the knife in deeper and faster. I was beginning to lose control altogether.

"Master, I must come," I warned.

"The French call orgasm the little death," Master said. "If you come now, you'll experience a full-scale death. You'll slice yourself open like a melon."

"Please, Master," I begged. "Please."

"All right," Master said grudgingly. "You can come next time I take the knife out."

Master slid the handle from its velvet sheath, and called out, "Now!" My fear and excitement brought me to orgasm, making me howl.

As my breathing slowed, and my body began to relax, Master presented the knife, holding it just above my mouth, the razor-sharp blade gripped between his fingers, and the handle coated with and dripping my cunt juices. Master had fucked me with the handle, not the blade!



Mastering Submission Ch. 13



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

I am not going to describe the holiday itself because this is not that sort of story. If you want to know about the Seychelles, I recommend Beyond the Reefs by William Travis. 

However, you might like to know about the third evening of our holiday, when Master fucked my throat for the very first time.

Master had explained to me that he believed training a woman to let him fuck her throat could not be rushed and required gentleness, despite the fact that some masters rape their slaves' throats to open them up for fucking. 

Master had been completely open with me about wanting to fuck my throat, and utterly firm. From the very start of my submissive service, Master had told me he was going to fuck my throat. Whenever I sucked Master's cock, he would force me to take it deeper by tugging my hair or putting a hand on the back of my head and pushing. Master would criticise me for not being able to swallow his entire cock; Master would accuse me of being less than a woman, of being untrainable, of being a hopeless excuse for a cocksucker, constantly reminding me that he wanted my throat. 

"Take it deeper, inadequate whore!" Master would shout. "I don't just want you to swallow my sperm; I want to push it all the way down. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be able to deep-throat a donkey!" In addition, every time I failed to take Master's cock in far enough, Master gave me a whipping. It certainly helped me understand that every blowjob I gave Master was a step closer to his goal.

When we ate together, especially in restaurants, Master would remind me that he wanted to fuck the throat that was swallowing the food on my plate, making deep throating an obsession for both of us.

As well as the stick of scorn and whipping, Master had carrots to offer. When I asked if we could go to the opera, Master said he could get tickets easily, but only if I would let him fuck my throat.

Another way Master worked toward his goal of fucking my throat was to make his kisses deeper, fucking my mouth rhythmically, as deep as he could, keeping time with his cock pounding my cunt.

Master gave me a long dildo for practise, with a waterproof pen to mark off how deeply I managed to get it down my throat. Once a week, Master made me stand in front of him and push the dildo down as far as it would go, mark it and date it. Then we would examine it together.

"Not much progress, Meat," Master would say.

"No, Master," I would admit.

"What are you going to do about it?" Master asked.

"Apologise, Master," I said.

"And then?" Master prompted.

"Ask you to punish me, Master," I replied.

"And then?" Master prompted again.

I thought for a minute, and then replied, "And then I'm going to try harder, Master - an awful lot harder."

As the marks moved further and further along the dildo, the punishments became extreme, and the promised rewards grew more and more extravagant. The payoff for all of Master's care, training, and attention came on the third evening of that wonderful holiday, when I knelt at Master's feet and asked for permission to speak.

"Permission granted, worthless bitch," Master responded.

"Master, I believe I can take your cock in my throat now," I quietly said.

"Then lie down on the edge of the bed," Master commanded, "on your back, with your head hanging down."

I lay as instructed; watching Master strip off his clothes, and then seeing him kneel directly opposite my head. Master's cock stiffened as Master looked at me, then he touched the head of the cock to my lips, and I opened my mouth.

"Ready, whore?" Master asked.

"Yes, Master," I said.

Master moved forward slowing. As the tip touched my soft palate, I coughed. Master paused, and then pushed forward. My coughing stopped and my throat made a rich, gurgling sound.

Master pushed deeper, squashing my lips against my teeth with the base of his cock, and then he paused, focusing on my throat, pulsing around the rod of his cock. Infinitely slowly, Master began to fuck, watching the progress of his cock in my throat. As Master became more confident of my self-control, Master began to withdraw further until his cock actually left my mouth with each stroke. I could see the underside of the helmet of Master's cock, gleaming with my saliva, watch it disappear into my mouth and then have my vision blocked by the press of Master's body as he seated his cock to its full length inside my throat.

Later that evening, when I knelt on the warm tiles of our tropical hotel room floor and recited the Prick Prayer for Master, I remembered to bring it up to date:

O magnificent prick, I kneel before you to promise you unquestioned access to my cunt, my mouth, my throat, and my arsehole any time you desire. I will deny you nothing.

As my submissive service to Master continued, I began to appreciate that straight lovers have it easy compared to Masters: they do a bit of foreplay, in and out, a cigarette afterwards and it is off to the pub. Master's must be tolerant, responsive, and constantly inventive. Master would think up little playlets for the two of us to star in:. Master as the cruel intelligence officer, me as the spy; Master as a jealous husband, me as the unfaithful wife; Master the teacher, me the lazy pupil. Sometimes there would be heavy pain involved, sometimes insults, sometimes I would simply have to obey a long chain of instructions, hundreds of variations on the theme of my not being in charge. Master's ability to strike a balance between real-world man-on-woman violence and the clumsiness of our play-acting and costumes constantly impressed me: although our scenes were far from great drama, they were wholly engaging and kept me guessing, relying on Master to move things along.

Because I was a creative, intelligent, and focused slave, Master frequently complained about how difficult it was for him to ensure that I failed. Because of the fact that Master refused just to let me win, failure was always an option, and it was clear that our games were for adults, not children. Adults understand the importance of losing.

I was not an accomplished cook, but I was perfectly capable of following recipes to produce edible meals. Master made cooking an arena full of failure potential by making computer reprints of recipes with the ingredients or proportions altered to make things absolutely impossible.

"We'll have a soufflé Friday night," Master would say. "And God help your poor bottom if it doesn't rise perfectly."

Some people like to dominate others sexually. Some people like to be submissive. Some like to switch roles from time to time. The idea of switching was difficult for me - my submissive personality made it nearly impossible for me to imagine dominating anyone, and Master made it perfectly clear that he never could submit to anyone for even an instant. His talent for being a Master - being able to read the pain on my face, hearing the subtle messages encoded in each moan and scream. Master repeatedly demonstrated his creativity, inventing games, and finding amazing outfits and implements he could use in ways they never had been intended.

"Which nipple shall I hang it on," Master asked, standing in front of my naked chest, brandishing a clothes peg.

"I don't know, Master," I replied.

"Not true!" Master exclaimed. "Look down, you lying bitch. Which nipple is sticking out?"

"The left one, Master," I admitted.

"Which one is hard as a rock, jutting forward to meet its fate, eager for pain?" Master demanded.

I sighed, "The left one, Master."

"Not true!" Master shouted. "Her sister on the other side is just as stiff now. I think this calls for two pegs. Don't you agree, Meat?"

"Yes, Master," I sighed in resignation.

"Yes, Master, what?" Master prompted

"Yes, Master. Both my nipples want to be hurt. Please hang pegs on both of them."

As Master clamped both pegs on at once, I could not resist adding, "Ouch, Master, that's sore!"

"Of course it is, Meat," Master said with a smile. "And that's why you're so happy, isn't that so?"

"Yes, Master," I replied, "I am very happy."

Ideas for the session could come from anywhere at any time. One evening, we were watching a trash detective series on TV - British cops in London - and one of the villains threatened to give someone a good kicking.

"Why are we watching this rubbish," I asked. "There's no such thing as a good kicking."

"Oh, but there is," Master said, reaching for the remote control and turning off the television.

"I suppose I'm going to get a demonstration," I said.

"Since you asked me so nicely," Master replied, "I'll give you a good kicking here and now. Off with the clothes. Nice and slow. I want you to think about what's going to happen to you."

"But, Master," I protested, "I have no idea what's going to happen to me."

"Exactly," Master enigmatically replied.

I sighed and stripped, throwing my clothes in an untidy heap in the corner as Master had trained me I should. As I removed the last of my clothing, Master removed his shoes and socks.

"You'll need something to hang onto," Master instructed. "Put one hand on the mantelpiece and spread your legs."

My eyes widened as I said, "You can't be serious."

"Master," Master prompted.

"You can't be serious, Master," I said, but immediately added, "You are serious, aren't you?"

"Deadly serious," Master assured me. "Chin up. Eyes down. I said DOWN, not closed. I want you to see what is happening to you. And keep those hands away from your crotch, idiot. If I kick your hands, I could break a finger. Kicking your worthless cunt will do you no harm at all."

"I am sorry, Master. I wasn't thinking," I apologised.

"That's all right," Master said. "I like it when you don't think."

I was shaking, and Master waited a bit for me to calm down. "Do I have to go through with this, Master?" I asked.

"No," Master replied. "You don't have to let me do it. You do not even have to say your safe word. You can simply put your clothes back on."

"And you'll still pay me?" I asked.

"Possibly," Master said. "You have already put in a lot of work; but when you signed that contract, you agreed to obey every order I give you and savour every experience. Tonight would have been the night you got kicked in the cunt."

"This is more than you ever asked of me before," I pointed out.

"No, it is not," Master replied. "It will be different, but it won't be unbearable. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes, Master," I said. "But I can't help being frightened."

Master nodded, and said, "Everyone fears the unknown. I think we'd better get on with it. Spread your legs."

"I can't," I said, feeling my feet rooted to the floor.

"It's not like you to disobey me," Master said.

"I'd like to do what you say," I told Master. "But my legs don't seem to want to do what I tell them." Master stood there, watching me without speaking. Under his stare, my body began to relax, and I positioned myself, awaiting my fate.

Master swung back his leg and struck, feeling the wetness of my cunt on his toes. It was true that I was frightened, but it also was true that I was turned on as well.

Master kicked me again. I held myself steady, but my breasts rose and fell as the shockwave of the blow went through my body. Master kicked again. On the fourth kick, pain jolted into my face, and then faded away as I calmed myself down, spread my legs a bit more, and prepared myself for the next blow.

As the kicks grew stronger, different parts of my body reacted in different ways: my stomach muscles jumped, my breasts leapt up, and then surged back down as the muscles of my thighs rippled.

Master began to increase the force of his kicks until the room was filled with the sound of the slap of his foot on my skin, a squelching as his toes contacted my dripping cunt and my grunts as my breath was knocked out of me. Unbelievably, my grunts of pain were turning into cries of lust - the reddening between my legs was mirrored by a flush of arousal across my chest, and my nipples were jutting out.

The kicks had increased in momentum, and were lifting me up onto tiptoe, almost causing me to lose my balance, and I tightened my grip on the mantelpiece.

My tits bounced, my eyes went sleepy, and my tips thickened. When I was aroused enough to suit Master (which perhaps also was when he got tired of delivering kicks), Master ripped off his chinos and flung me onto the couch; I came as soon as Master entered me. And then Master continued fucking me, hard and fast - I begged Master to stop, and I wanted Master to stop, but I also kept coming, again and again, my cunt rhythmically squeezing Master's cock inside me, and my thighs nearly crushing Master's body to mine.

"Master, I'm sore," I finally groaned out.

"You'll live," Master growled, and carried on fucking. And I continued to come, a series of intense orgasms. The pain was over, and there was nothing left for me to do but enjoy (or endure) orgasm after orgasm, happening so fast they were overlapping. My conscious mind was losing contact with reality, and still Master would not stop, making me leap from peak to peak with no valleys in between until finally Master came, spurting into me, and collapsing onto me, although I was nearly comatose with lust. When I returned to Master, it was slowly - I was like a traveler who has been on a long journey that changed her forever, and I was a little regretful that I had taken the trip without Master.

Slowly, I came more and more fully back to myself, feeling the sweaty weight of Master along my body. As my awareness reestablished itself, I began to feel the soreness beginning where the kicks had landed, and I was absolutely sure that none of my muscles could be relied upon for movement, despite the journey I had made back into my physical body. Still, I was able to smile up at Master, however weakly - a smile that broadened in response to Master's comment:

"That is what I call a good kicking."



Mastering Submission Ch. 14



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.

*

It was a Wednesday, and I always got home before Master on Wednesdays. I was in an outfit of my own choosing: a light, floaty cream cotton dress by Whistles, sleeveless, with a scoop neck. I was wearing strappy cream leather sandals with flat heels and my bare legs showed just a hint of bruising from a session we'd had five days earlier. Screwing up my courage, and taking a deep breath, I met Master just inside his front door.

"Don't say a word," I began, counting on Master' curiosity for his compliance with my request. I led Master into the centre of the room, knelt, undid his flies and sucked Master off. I did a good job of it too, with none of the clumsiness I'd shown at the start of our affair, and with lots of variety. When my mouth was full of cock, I said thickly, "I want you to know that I love you very much." Then I forced myself forward again and again, deep throating Master to a stunning orgasm, the muscular convulsions as I swallowed Master's sperm seeming to intensify Master's own spasms.

Then I settled back on my heels and smiled up at Master. "Sorry to be bossy," I said, "but I've got a big favour to ask, and I wanted you to have a clear head. If your mind is clouded by dirty thoughts, you might agree to something you'll regret later." 

"I'm more than satisfied for the time being," Master responded, "now, what do you want?"

"Sit down," I directed Master, a bit nervous about pushing my limits, but committed to follow through now that I'd started. "I'll get you a drink, and we can talk."

Master slumped into the sofa, but sat up with interest on his face when I returned with a glass of beer. "I don't know how to put this," I began awkwardly.

"I'm only your master when it comes to sex," Master told me. "You can say anything you like to me."

"Thank you," I said with feeling. I paused awkwardly. "The thing is, I've got no right to ask you this."

"Ask anyway," Master instructed. "Say what's on your mind."

"The thing is," I began again as Master took a sip of beer. "I want to talk to you about Sally. You're such a good man, I think you'll understand."

"Who's Sally?" Master asked.

"Sally Watson. I was at school with her, and we both went to the same university. After many of our contemporaries got married, we became even closer. Until I met you, Sally was my best friend in the whole world. We've never missed sending birthday and Christmas cards, even when Sally went out to Japan," I explained.

"What was Sally doing out there?" Master asked.

"Teaching English. Somehow, things worked out for her, though. The economy has made things rough for a lot of people; many arts students graduating when we did found they couldn't get decent work, and a few years later they found themselves competing with a new batch of graduates for a limited number of jobs." I frowned, realizing I was losing track of my goal in explaining all this to Master. "Anyway, after we left university, Sally knocked about doing silly temping jobs, and then Sally found out about this scheme for sending graduates out to Japan to teach English. Everything seemed to go all right there for a while, but, well, do you know what's been happening in Japan?"

Master nodded. It was part of his job to follow international markets. "You're saying they made Sally redundant?"

"Worse than that," replied I. "Somebody persuaded Sally that the Japanese stock market couldn't possibly fall any lower, and Sally invested all her savings, and then it fell again. Sally has lost everything. Sally is a good person -- pretty and intelligent. I like Sally a lot, and I hate what's happening to her; I hate to see Sally living like that."

"Does Sally need a ticket home?" Master asked, trying to get to the point where I told him what I - and Sally - needed from him.

I shook my head. "She's in London. However, she's staying in this horrible boarding house in Bayswater, and it still seems impossible for Sally to find decent work. Sally's got no family any more - only me, in fact. Could you, would you, let Sally stay here for a bit? Just a few months, until Sally gets settled?"

"I wouldn't let your best friend go homeless, Rebecca," Master reassured me. "But how could we have a house guest for more than a couple of days? How could I tie you up and fuck you when there was someone else in the flat? What would Sally think if she heard you screaming or saw tears in your eyes?"

"We've talked all that through," I replied. "We don't have secrets. Sally got very interested in what was happening to me. About us, I mean. At first, I thought Sally might tease me because I've always been more of a feminist than her, but Sally was intrigued. That's why I wanted your mind clear when you made your decision." I gave a little smile. "You see, Sally is quite happy for you to beat and fuck both of us."

Master took a deep breath. "Has Sally been beaten before?"

"No, but Sally is curious," I explained. "And I told her how caring you are. What a nice man you are."

"So what you're saying is, I get a second slave and I don't have to find another £200,000?" Master asked.

"All she's asking for is food and a place to stay," I insisted.

"Having two slaves sounds interesting," Master mused. "You'll be able to taste one another's tears. But what about infection? I know the AIDS rate in Japan is low, but ---"

"I've thought of that," I said. "I arranged for Sally to have a test at the same clinic you and I went to. You see, I wanted to offer you a complete deal."

I watched Master's face, and knew his mind was racing. From what I knew of Master's history, I knew he had managed a string of female slaves, and had been a married man. On the other hand, running two slaves at once would be a new experience for Master, and I wondered if the same pictures that were flashing through my mind were occurring to Master: two girls kneeling while Master fucked their mouths in turn; one girl licking Master's balls while another sucked his cock. Master bending both of them - both of us! -- over, and beating us side by side; or one girl whipping the other while Master sat and watched. 

It was my hope that this new offer would make Master feel that the £200,000 he had invested in me seem like even better value for the money. Master had to accept, didn't he? The one lesson I had absolutely mastered during my submissive service, however, was that I never could predict Master's reactions to anything, so I was anxiously waiting for his response.

"OK," Master said. "We'll start with a seventy."

"What's a seventy?" I asked.

"A seventy," Master told me, "is a sixty-nine. Plus another one, helping."

Master was reading a company report when Sally arrived, or at least pretending to read. I knew Master was listening to our whispered voices from the hall, and noticing the nervous way somebody giggled, but Master waited quietly.

As the door opened, Sally and I came through it side by side, Sally's cases in the hall, still with Japan Air Lines stickers on them. Sally extended her hand in greeting, and I said, "Master, I'd like you to meet my friend Sally."

Sally gave a little bow, a habit she'd picked up in Japan no doubt. However, Master required deeper obeisance than that.

"Shut up!" Master told Sally, "and freeze! You," Master turned to me, "if you have the impudence to come in here on your feet instead of on your knees, the least you could do is curtsey."

As Sally looked on in alarm, I dropped my eyes, hitched up my skirt and took my cunt flaps between finger and thumb, then dipped down in a deep curtsey. Master ignored me as he got to his feet and walked round Sally, who was doing her best to keep still. Sally was taller than I, with large breasts and prominent nipples bulging through her tee shirt. Sally wore black corduroy jeans over good hips. Sally's long, black hair was frizzy, her lips were full, and her eyes were dark brown. 

Master slapped his new slave's cheek. Before Sally had arrived, Master had given me some insights, preparing me for the changed dynamics once I no longer was the only slave serving him. As Master explained, having two slaves meant he was outnumbered, so he needed to establish superiority right away. 

Master told me that he had a friend who got himself two slaves, and it changed him forever. Master admitted that his friend experimented with switching before he took another woman into the household. The friend occasionally got his wife to pretend to catch him masturbating and spank him playfully, and that sort of thing really took off once there were two women. Master's friend told Master how wonderful he found it to lick one woman's pussy while another one fucked him up the arse with a dildo, something Master never fully believed. Master said the last time he saw that friend was at one of Dave and Fuckpuppet's parties, the friend's cock and balls tied tightly with a long coil of copper wire connected to the positive pole of a car battery that he carried around with him. Another wire was connected to the negative pole and from time to time, his wife or her friend would grab it and apply it to the tip of his prick, and he'd howl in pain. Master was willing to admit that perhaps his friend was happy that way, but it was clear that Master doubted it, and there never was any thought in my mind that Master ever would follow that friend's example.

That is why I was not surprised to see Master determined to get off on the right start, greeting Sally with a sharp blow to the face. Instinctively, Sally's hand went to her smarting cheek, so Master pulled it down and slapped her again. Master grabbed Sally by the hair and dragged her to the middle of the room. Although I had been braced for Master's initial "welcome" to Sally, I followed hesitantly, not sure what Master wanted me to do.

Master had told me in advance that what he wanted us both to do was forget our years of friendship, the giggled confidences we'd shared as schoolgirls, our intelligence and our sophistication, and concentrate on being the lowest kind of slaves. If Sally was going to stay, and her financial status meant Sally had to, Master would make sure she learned to be utterly obedient. I also was sure that Master intended to fully enjoy himself.

"Meat," Master ordered, "lie down and kiss my feet. You, cunt, shut up and wait for instructions. And don't look at me. Didn't Rebecca tell you never to look me in the eye?"

"No. I'm afraid Rebecca didn't," Sally answered in her lovely voice, husky, with the same slight Devonshire accent I had.

"No, Sir," Master corrected, putting a foot on the back of my head and grinding my face into the carpet. "Didn't you tell this slut to curtsey when she enters a room?"

"No, Master," came my muffled reply. "Sorry, Master."

"Did you tell Sally about safe words?" Master asked.

"No, Master," I replied.

Master turned to Sally, "Your safe word is 'Tokyo,' whore," Master told her. "This bitch will explain later." Master turned back to me, shouting, "You should have prepared Sally in advance! I'll beat your feet for that failure. Strip your friend, then take your own clothes off."

I scrambled to my feet, and immediately began pulling Sally's tee shirt over her head. After a few seconds of stunned disbelief, Sally helped me get rid of her clothes, then stood with her hands placed to try to cover her nakedness, watching me strip. When both of us were naked (except, of course, for our heels), I took Sally's arm, and led her over to the window, hoping to reassure Sally with our shared nakedness and closeness.

Master stared at us from across the room, then said, "That's more like it. Now, stand up straight, and keep your eyes down!"

Although my eyes were fixed on the floor, my mind was busy thinking about Master's inspection of us, side by side. My nipples were neat and symmetrical, Sally's were broader with wide areolas, her breasts were more conical, and they sagged a little more. Where my pubic hair was long and unruly, straying up my stomach and across the tops of my thighs, Sally had a neat, curly Brillo pad of a bush. Sally's legs were set further apart, too, with darker skin, a rounder stomach, and softer, larger thighs. 

Remembering the terror of my initial inspection, I thought to ease the tension, saying "Master - "

"Shut the fuck up, Meat," Master interrupted. "Go and fetch the equipment case. Then stand facing your friend."

When I returned, Master opened the case. "Look what I've got for you two lucky sluts," Master said, brandishing a double gag. My eyes opened wide; Sally looked stunned. This toy was new to me - apparently Master had specially bought it once he agreed to let Sally move in with us. It had two ball gags with sturdy leather straps, linked by a nine-inch wooden pole.

"Open wide," Master told me, running a strap round my head and then tightening it, holding my head sideways on so Sally would see what was expected of her. Still, when Master pushed Sally's face onto the other end of the double gag, Sally kept her teeth resolutely closed.

"Open up!" Master commanded. "What's the matter with you? Are you still jet-lagged?"

"No. No, Sir," Sally replied. Master forced the gag into Sally's mouth and she accepted it, resignation clear on Sally's face. Master tugged the strap tight, and then kissed Sally's lips round the edge of the gag. 

"Good afternoon, Sally," Master said. "I'm delighted to meet you. I hope your stay here will be a pleasant one." Since Master's tone was pleasant - almost formally polite - I was hoping that Sally was not as afraid as I felt she was, but Sally stared at me with eyes wide with fear that showed she knew it was too late to back out.

I didn't blame Sally for being scared. I face demanding crowds of undergraduates, eager to show up my knowledge of literature, but I trembled in front of Master. Master went back to the equipment case for even more newly made equipment. Master prepared two chains, each with a fierce clip on one end for my nipples and a gentler clip for Sally, who squeaked in surprise, though, when the first one bit home. 

Master cuffed both of our wrists behind our backs, and ordered, "Bend forward, the pair of you, and spread your legs."

The gag made that hard to do, but following my lead, Sally bowed and shuffled her feet. It was incredibly hard to stand this way: we tottered trying to keep our foothold, making plaintive mewing sounds and staggering like some strange animal in distress. The light chains linking our nipples jingled as we moved, and our heels made clicking sounds on the floorboards. I tried to distract myself from the terror in Sally's eyes by imagining the ungainly, four-footed beast we had become.

I kept looking at Sally with concern, trying somehow to signal to her with my eyes that everything was all right, that Sally would enjoy this experience in the end.

For some reason, our shuffling and teetering were turning us in a slow anti-clockwise dance, so Master pulled up a chair and sat down, to get a closer look at our wet and gaping cunts gleaming in the shaft of afternoon sunlight pouring through the window. My buttocks and thighs showed the signs of a beating Master had given me the day before. Sally's body was untouched by whip or cane since whatever punishments had been meted out to her as a child.

At last, the staggering and wheeling slowed and stopped as we got used to our bondage. Master stood up, and ran his hands over Sally's body, cupping her breasts, tugging at the clamps hanging from her nipples, stroking her ears, patting her rump and generally letting her know that Sally had surrendered everything to him. Sally gave a whinny of fright. 

"Shut the fuck up," Master told Sally fiercely. "Speak when you're spoken to. Moan when you're beaten. Otherwise keep absolutely quiet. Understand?"

Sally's eyes told Master that she did.

Master spat on Sally's face, his saliva matting the curls on the edge of her forehead, dripping over one eyebrow and soaking into the eyelashes. Then Master jabbed his thumb up Sally's cunt before walking round to stick his other thumb up me. Master jabbed his hands under our noses, "That's what your own cunts smell like," and then reversed his hands. "Now smell one another's. Get used to it. Pretty soon that's what you'll be licking." I know I looked alarmed, a reaction that did not abate as I saw Sally's eyes soften. Sally never had indicated that she preferred sex as a lesbian; perhaps it was a new development, or maybe Sally had learned to muff dive in Japan.

"Right," Master told us sharply. "Listen up. You're harnessed together because from now on you're a team, a stable of slaves. Round here, Rebecca is known as 'Meat,' and that's what you'll be calling her. You'll be referred to as 'Assistant Cunt,' understood?"

We girls tried to nod, something the double gag made amazingly difficult.

"Meat knows the rules of the house," Master continued. "Meat will be punished for anything you don't learn, so if you consider yourself Meat's friend you'd better get to know the ropes quickly." Master went back to the case and pulled out a twenty-tailed cat. "I shall now beat the pair of you," Master explained. "Meat knows this particular flogger; it's an old friend." Master trailed it across my shoulders, and I flinched. "Look into Meat's eyes, Assistant Cunt, and see how much it hurts."

After three soft strokes and three more medium ones to warm me up, Master started to lay into my buttocks as hard as he could. My eyes narrowed, and my face grimaced at the pain. Sally's eyes opened wide with apprehension.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Master asked gleefully. "I shall now whip Meat's cunt." Three sharp blows had me screaming into my gag. "That'll do for the time being," Master said. "Now, Assistant Cunt, it is time for you to taste pain."

Sally looked questioningly at me, then her eyes dropped and Sally settled down to the task of being hit. Master was gentle with her, strokes to Sally's buttocks building up carefully, looking at my eyes as I watched Sally with concern. However, I could tell that Sally was becoming tired, and I trusted Master would remember what a patient, long time he had employed in training me.

"You took that well for a beginner," Master said. "But I don't think you're ready for a cunt whipping yet." Master wandered back to the case, stripping off as he slowly walked across the room. When Master was naked, he stopped at the case and exclaimed, "What have we here? Matching blindfolds!"

Master turned, and I saw that he had sheathed his cock in a condom, and held a long riding whip in one hand, with the blindfolds in the other. Once the blindfolds were in place. I couldn't see a thing, but I felt the impact when Master stuck his cock in Sally's gaping cunt, and my head bobbed in sympathy when Master grabbed Sally's long, frizzy hair to hold her steady. I gasped around the ball gag when Master reached out over Sally's shoulder to whip my arse. After a few strokes Master pulled out of Sally, walked round and started fucking me, startling me with the whistle of the whip past my head as Master started whipping my friend. Then Master left me, walking round again to fuck Sally. In between fuckings, Master stood sideways on and beat our arses with the whip, first one, then the other, listening to the muffled moans we made into our gags. I had the higher voice, and Sally's cries were more like growls.




Mastering Submission Ch. 14



The strain on my shoulders, from having my wrists cuffed behind me, and the tension of being bent over, blindfolded, was beginning to tell on me, and I couldn't imagine how confused, frightened and exhausted Sally must be by now. I was beginning to be afraid that Master would want to carry on doing this all afternoon, but it soon became clear that Master was getting ready to come.

Master removed our double gag and forced us both to our knees. Master pushed our cheeks together, leaving us blindfolded, still handcuffed and joined at the nipples.

I heard Master drop the whip and walk around, I felt the juices from my cunt running down my legs, and could smell the sweeter, lighter scent coming from Sally, reassuring me that she was enjoying this too.

"You two bitches want to open your mouths?" Master asked quietly, and I obediently parted my lips, feeling the movement of Sally's cheek next to mine as Sally complied as well. Master fucked our faces: first Sally, then me, then Sally again until Master came, spurting onto our tongues, down our chins and onto our tits. Master has always said there's something about semen on a woman's face that defines its beauty in a way nothing else can. Liquid soaks into the down on an upper lip. Gravity tugs at the creamy fluid, forming trails across the curve of a cheek, and the cleft of a chin. Master pulled off the blindfolds and Sally and I blinked at the light.

"That was enjoyable, wasn't it?" Master asked cheerily, unclipping our nipples, watching us wince as blood returned to crushed flesh. Master unlocked our handcuffs and slumped onto the sofa.

"You," Master told Sally, "go and unpack, Meat will show you where. And you," Master nodded brusquely to me, "get into that kitchen and make lunch. I'm starving. And find a couple of hats. You know I don't like my whores walking around naked."

In our upside-down world, I was the most important slave because I took the hardest beatings, performed the most degrading tasks, drank the most semen and was penetrated more often: anally, orally and vaginally.

But Sally was useful, too. Sally took over most of the household duties, turning out to be a fine cook, in English, French and Japanese styles. Sally was also pretty and fresh-faced. Master often said that he found Sally decorative to have about the flat, particularly when Sally was wearing a maid's uniform, or had those large breasts in tight bondage.

We had our seventy on Sunday morning after breakfast. We were planning to drive out to Richmond Park for a picnic but it was raining again, so Master made us strip naked and laid me on the coffee table in the main room, with Sally on top of me. Then Master ordered us to lick one another's cunts.

Sally went at it with real enthusiasm, spreading her legs wider than I, extending her tongue further, and plunging it deep into me, attacking my cunt like a hungry dog with a bowl of fillet steak, as if Master wasn't in the room. I lay there, amazed and confused, wondering if Sally agreed to put up with the pain, with letting Master beat and fuck her, not just for free board and lodging, but also for the taste of my cunt? Why had I never known this about my friend Sally? Sally licked me like a gourmet-- like an expert. 

Master walked round to watch me performing the same act on my friend. Considering how much I reveled in sucking Master's cock, I was surprised at the distaste I felt in licking my friend's dripping pouch. When I saw Master looking at me, I wrinkled up my nose, extended my tongue obediently and touched the tip of Sally's clitoris. The salty liquid that covered Sally's clitoris prompted me to make a face, and to give Master a look of mute appeal, but Master was unmoved, stern in his determination to teach me all the arts of love and sex -- or at least, all the more degrading ones.

"Eyes down, Meat," Master ordered. "And get on with it."

I paused, screwing up my courage. Master stuck two fingers up Sally's cunt and wiped them on my face. "Have you never done this before?" Master asked.

"No, Master," I said.

"Not at school?" Master asked.

"No, Master," I replied.

"Not at university, after a few drinks?" Master persisted.

"No, Master," I confirmed.

"Not even in your dreams?" Master asked, and I hesitated. "Go on, then," Master ordered. "Make your dreams come true."

"I don't really want to," I insisted.

"Your wishes don't come into it," Master replied fiercely. "I want to see you do it, and Sally is desperate to feel your tongue inside her. Aren't you, Assistant Cunt?"

"Yes, Sir," Sally replied, licking my cunt even more thoroughly.

"Do it," Master ordered. "Lick, or I'll make Sally shit in your mouth."

A small sigh escaped my lips as I moved my head forward and began to suck the elaborate folds of Sally's love lips, polluting my mouth and my mind with the fragrant juices of another woman.

"That's better," Master crooned. "Get your tongue deep into that love hole. That's where the flavour is. That's where it's smelly. Press your nose right up against Assistant Cunt's arsehole. When Sally took her first trip down someone's tummy tunnel, she found her destiny, didn't you, Assistant Cunt?"

"Yes, Sir," Sally paused in her slurping to respond. "That's true."

By the time we both had come (Sally twice) all that slurping and nuzzling made Master excited, so he joined in, fucking the pair of us where we lay, Master's thighs butting against the top of my head, when he fucked Sally and Master's belly pushing Sally's face out of the way when he fucked me.

When Master came in my mouth, he shouted, "Don't swallow. I know how much you love it, but don't you dare swallow."

I held my lips tightly closed, but still managed a smile.

Master dragged Sally to her knees by her hair and forced me to my feet. I moved my mouth into position over Sally's as Master ordered, "Do it, Meat! Spit between this whore's sweet lips." I hooked my fingers round Sally's front teeth to hold her mouth open, as Sally started to shake her head in protest. There was a battle going on, and I knew Master was determined to win it. If Sally were going to live here, Sally would have to bend to Master's will. 

"If you don't hold steady," Master warned Sally, "I'll spend the afternoon watching Meat whip your tits."

A frothy mixture of sperm and saliva trickled over my knuckles and splashed into Sally's mouth, turning her muffled words of protest into a surprised gurgle. Master had taught me early in my service that a slave must learn to enjoy the taste of sperm: often it's the only thing she'll get to drink from one month to another, apart from tap water. A master gets beer, champagne, tea, and freshly brewed coffee. A slave gets water to drink if she's lucky, and sperm if she's been a good girl.

I held Sally's mouth closed and Master pinched her nose. "Gulp it down, bitch," Master ordered. "There's more to being a slave than licking cunt. Enjoy it. There's plenty where that came from."

"Nectar," I agreed. "Swallow, you lucky whore."

Then Sally's throat worked, and it was gone. Sally pulled a face.

"There," Master said. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"No, Sir," Sally answered, without conviction.

"Then thank me," Master prompted. Sally found that harder than swallowing Master's seed. "Thank me," Master insisted, crushing Sally's left nipple between finger and thumb.

"Thank you, Sir, for your delicious semen," Sally said. "And thank you, too, Meat, for spitting it into my mouth." Was there a hint of irony in Sally's voice? I decided Master thought so too, when he ordered, "Hit her, Meat. Teach the Assistant Cunt to be more obedient."

Sally looked up at me, and then at Master, defeat in her eyes. However, there was happiness there, too, the comfort a slave gets from knowing her place. Sally had just arrived, but her submission was improving all the time.

Rainy afternoon games with two slaves are similar to the ones Master played just with me, except that two slaves are competitive. For instance, Master would cane us alternately until one of us (usually Sally) called out "Red!" in an agonised voice. On other occasions, Master would stand us side by side with our legs wide apart. Then Master would hang ferocious clips to our love lips, and then attach weights, pulling down great flaps of skin until one of us (again usually Sally) screamed and the other girl was declared the winner. The reward was always the same: Master made the winner eat the loser's cunt.

There is a pony game Master recommends to anyone lucky enough to get himself two slaves. Lots of masters and mistresses sit on their slaves' backs and make them crawl around on all fours, but with two slaves Master could spread the weight. Master put bridles and harnesses on both Sally and me, and armed himself with a long whip. Master would position us on hands and knees side by side, and then (and this is important) climb onto a chair to step onto us horizontally rather than climbing up (to avoid damage to our spines). Then Master would stand with one foot on each slave, low down on their backs, near the hips, where the bone structure is strong, and ride us round the room or across the garden, laying into our shoulders and letting his whip curl underneath us to catch our bellies and tits.

This is how we won a prize at one of Dave and Fuckpuppet's fancy dress parties. Master wore a spangled Harlequin costume; Sally and I were dressed in harnesses with little saddles on our backs, steel bits pulled tightly into our mouths, and horse brasses hanging on strips of leather from our jaws and shoulders, our black and chestnut hair pulled back and splayed out into manes, proudly tossing plumed headdresses. Master hacked off hanks of each of our hair with his lockback knife and stuffed them up our arseholes to make tails.

Some of the audience even dropped to their knees to get a better view of our strutting arms and legs, and quivering tits. We set a jaunty pace, prancing round the room, whinnying with pain and excitement as the lash snaked down. It became difficult for Master to keep his balance as he whipped us round the room. We had to stop for a moment while I came shamelessly in front of everyone (it was that orgasm, Fuckpuppet told Master later, that pushed us ahead of a little Danish girl in breast stocks and won us our prize).

After we'd done our circuit in the fancy dress parade, Sally and I spent the whole evening on our hands and knees, close to Master's ankles, as he watched the other slaves being put through their paces.

Master loved taking both Sally and me out to dinner. Sally would book a table in a particular kind of restaurant, the sort that fill up on Saturday nights with couples holding hands and looking into one another's eyes. In places like that, our little ménage à trois stood out like a peacock in a yard full of chickens.

Sally and I would spend Saturday afternoon bathing one another, and dressing up in our most glamorous outfits.

As soon as we arrived at the restaurant, Master would make it clear to all the other diners, by the way we held his hands, brushed against Master's arms or shoulders, and kissed each other open-mouthed, that all three of us were lovers. We called one another "Darling" all the time.

"What do you want for your main course, Darling?" Master would say, eyes twinkling.

"I'm not sure, Darling," I would respond. "The salmon sounds nice. What do you think, Darling?" I would ask, turning my smile to Sally.

"I agree with you, Darling," Sally would chime in. "I'll have the salmon, too."

We would gaze into Master's eyes, laugh at his jokes, and keep filling his glass, while Master would look around the room at the other diners, his chest swelling with pride. How much more shocked they'd be if they could see what Sally and I were wearing under our expensive dresses. How excited they'd be if they could see the whip-marks on our beautiful buttocks.

Sometimes, if we were feeling wicked enough, Sally and I would go off to the toilet together and come back with our lipstick smudged and our hair untidy, as if we'd been snogging. While we truthfully assured Master that never would take place without his permission, we certainly got punished for it when we got home.

When we'd finished eating, Sally and I would pretend to argue about which of us was going to pay for the meal. Then we'd help Master into his coat and follow Master out of the restaurant with downcast eyes. We'd giggle about the stir we'd caused as we made our way home, but there'd be no laughter when we were back in the flat. Those Saturday night dinners were invariably the first course of a feast of brutal beating and buggery.

Another enjoyable way to spend Saturday night was for Master to put on his best suit and get Sally to dress up, and go out to a superb meal and a West End show while I spent the evening tied to a chair.

Another way Sally made herself useful was helping while I sucked Master's cock. Oral sex always has a flavour of S&M about it, because it involves lying back or kneeling, and receiving someone else's bodily fluids in the mouth, but a little pain adds an extra touch of spice. Before there was Sally, Master used to beat my buttocks with a long whip while I was sucking Master's cock, or Master would hang pegs on my nipples, attach them to lengths of cord, and jiggle them while I was sucking. However, with a second slave Master could concentrate on his own pleasure while Sally caned my arse to Master's precise instructions.

At other times, Sally would kneel beside me and slap my face as I sucked, or hold my head by the hair and move my mouth up and down Master's cock. Sometimes Sally would simply assist me by kissing up and down one side of Master's cock while I kissed the other side, or by licking Master's balls or arse while I sucked the head of Master's cock. Sometimes our Assistant Cunt would help just by talking. Sally would crouch down and order me to take Master's cock deep in my throat, or describe what was happening, caressing my ears, stroking my cheeks, and whispering obscenities into my ear, telling me what I already knew. 

"Master's fucking your mouth tonight, you little whore," Sally would say. "He's using your mouth like a cunt. He likes your cunt and your arse, but tonight he's fucking your mouth. You've got three fuck-holes for him to choose from, and this time he's fucking your mouth. You're dribbling, you filthy bitch. Close your teeth so he can fuck your cheek. Tonight you're having your face fucked. You love it, don't you? Now, open your teeth and hold still while Master fucks you in the throat. Your mouth was made to be fucked. It should have a cock in it twenty-four hours a day. Isn't that so, bitch?"

"Yes," I would agree round the thickness of Master's cock. "It's true. I'm just a cock-sucking bitch."

Sometimes Sally would talk like this with real venom, spitting on my face between sentences. At other times, Sally would use the same words more gently, speaking with love.

The last stage would always be the same: Sally would take up a position behind me, cradling my head as I smiled into the jets of sperm that spattered over my face, excited, beautiful, and proud.

Finally, according to Master's whim, our Assistant Cunt would push Master's sperm into my mouth with a silver spoon, or lick it off and swallow it herself.



Mastering Submission Ch. 15



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

I had been with Master for eight months of my twelve-month contract when Master informed me that it was time for him to give me an inspection. Master was positively gleeful when he added that having Sally present would make the whole thing more of an occasion.

My inspection took place in the Music Room, Master explaining that the location was chosen because he could not give a slave a proper inspection without a little screaming going on. Master put a silver ice bucket on the bench by the window. Then Master drew all the curtains, quietly stating that he did not want me getting distracted by the outside world or glancing at my own reflection in one of the mirrors. Master added, "What is to follow is for me alone to enjoy; Meat's role is to suffer; the Assistant Cunt's job is to help as instructed whilst keeping her eyes down." 

Soundproofed against the traffic in the street, the room was silent except for my breathing, shut away from the ordinary world, a focus of primeval sexual energy. Already the air smelled of cunt.

Sally was dressed as a candlestick: silver high-heeled sandals, glitter stockings clipped to a silver suspender belt, silver nail polish, and silver lipstick on her mouth and nipples. Silver bells on her passion flaps tinkled when she moved. She had a steel ball-gag between her teeth, held in place by a silver ribbon tied behind her head. And she was holding thick white candles in her bare hands. With her firm breasts and shapely haunches she looked like an Art Deco figurine.

Master had me posed there, standing before him completely naked for once, the expression on my face peaceful, reflecting my docility, my happiness to be used. Whenever I was in the Music Room, I knew what was expected of me, slipping into the familiar role like a comfortable gown.

"You're looking particularly good tonight, Meat," Master told me grudgingly.

"Thank you, Master," I quietly replied. Sally held the candles out for Master to light, and Master turned off the electric lights. The flames put a glow on my naked body, making huge shadows swirl across the curtained walls.

"Stand up straight, Meat," Master told me, "eyes forward; arms behind your back." I stood with each hand grasping the opposing elbow, Venus de Milo with no arms to defend herself, the pose of the true submissive. All that time Master had spent twisting my arms behind my back had not been just for fun: it had made me flexible. I shivered. From fear: the room was pleasantly warm.

Master snapped his fingers. "Assistant Cunt," Master said sharply. "Bring the flames up to Meat's face."

Even without the use of mirrors, I knew I looked like the younger sister of the woman Master had first beaten the previous November: relaxed, self-confident, blooming the way a woman in love should. The crow's feet that had been barely visible round my eyes were fading away, and the beginning of a frown-line between the eyebrows had vanished altogether. I knew that my whole face was glowing with happiness.

"Lower," Master ordered, and Sally dipped the candles to nipple height. My small flat buds had changed under Master's attentions, growing thicker as well as longer, tweaked, tugged and yanked into splendidly obscene tits that would leap into erection at the touch of Master's finger. Master took a clothes peg from his pocket and opened the little jaws, holding them on either side of the straining teat.

I gave a little gasp.

"Watch, Meat," Master crooned. "See how your nipple juts out to welcome the pain, sticking out like a chapel hat peg. Shall we hang something on it? Or shall we wait?"

Master glanced to the side, suddenly aware of Sally breathing heavily through her nose and around the metal gag. Sally moaned. Master looked down to see that Sally had dribbled hot wax down the side of one of the candles and scorched her knuckle.

"Not paying attention, Assistant Cunt!" Master snapped, "too busy looking at that delicious tit, you little pussy licker. Head clouded with dyke desire. Well, do it. Go on."

Sally looked at Master questioningly.

"Do the one thing you're desperate to do," Master instructed. "Move the flame closer to her breast." Sally tried to respond to Master around the edges of her gag, that she hadn't been thinking of that at all.

"Don't argue, Assistant Cunt," Master persisted. "Do as you're told."

There was pity and concern on Sally's face as she moved the candle forward, but it was mingled with lust.

"Hold the flame closer," Master ordered, "and higher."

As the heat took hold, I began to feel desperate. I tried to keep steady, but I was shaking, my heels drumming on the floor. I started to breathe heavily, desperately, and then to moan. 

"Scream if you want to," Master told me generously.

Under Master's guidance and training, even my screams had improved: they were louder and lustier than the ones Master had wrung from me when the training started. It only goes to show that everything gets better with use.

Sally cried out a muffled moan that sounded something like "Tokyo," her own safe word.

"You're not in pain, Assistant Cunt," Master snarled, and slapped her. And then I was weeping, and Sally was weeping in sympathy. Master ordered Sally to move the flame away.

Master picked up an ice cube and rubbed it on the sore tit. "No point in damaging the bitch is there, Assistant Cunt?" Master asked with a smile.

Sally shook her head.

Master had told me many times how much he loved using candles on slaves: fucking them with candles or making them wait with burning candles rammed into their cunts and arseholes while flames creep closer and hot candlewax drips onto tender flesh. "Up on that stool, Meat," Master ordered fiercely, pointing to a stool he had placed in front of the curtained windows. I obeyed, bringing my cunt up to Master's level. Master had previously explained that it would never do for a Master to bend or kneel in front of a slave. 

As Master helped me climb on the stool, Sally moved closer.

Master had not beaten me for over a week, at least not with anything that bruised, so my buttocks were barely marked. They were firmer than ever. Is it possible that something can improve with abuse? Master firmly believed that it was. Master's premise is that a human body is not an object, but a process. It can be made firmer with exercise, plumped out with food, ravaged by starvation or disease. Mild damage will be replaced with new flesh that is younger and firmer. It was Master's belief that, if he struck, scratched, pinched, and whipped a beautiful woman he made her even lovelier. Master spread my buttocks, and motioned the candles closer. 

In the glow of candlelight Master began commenting on the results of his inspection. "I'm not saying your arsehole has actually been improved by repeated buggery, but it is unharmed, and sexier to look at; less virginal, more of a pouting, welcoming mouth."

As I felt the wave of warmth flushing up from my breasts into my face, Master continued his commentary, "Your love lips quiver in dewy splendour. Like your nipples, Meat, they have been lengthened by loving manipulation."

I heard the sound of heavy breathing again. It took me a minute or two before I realised it was Master, not Sally.

"Not enough light in the cunt area," Master said curtly. "Stick a candle between her legs. Let's have a better look." I winced, but Master was merciful, moving Sally's hand away after a few seconds, savouring the smell of scorched pubic hair.

Master shoved two fingers roughly into my vagina. It was tighter than ever, but the tightness was born of training and use. Under Master's training, my cunt had become capable of spreading to engulf a hand, yet still able to hold a cock snugly and milk it of its sperm. 

I felt like Galatea in the Pygmalion myth, awed by the majesty of the amazing Master who had "created" me. 

"That's enough," Master said sharply. "Put the candles down, Assistant Cunt. Then turn the lights on and fuck Meat for me while I watch. You'll find a new strap-on dildo in the equipment case. You'll love it," Master told me. "It's a real monster."

The next Friday was a big night for all three of us, but particularly for me. I was wearing nothing but stockings and suspenders, standing beside Master as he lay on his back on the bed, ready for anything Master had in mind. "Tonight we're going to have a sandwich-fuck," Master told me. "And who do you think is going to be the meat?"

I smiled and lowered my cunt onto Master's throbbing prick, resting my body along Master's, legs drawn up and spread either side, making my bum hole as available as possible.

When Master made me wear a strap-on dildo to fuck Sally, it made me feel awkward and embarrassed. But Sally took to it like a duck to water, wielding one as if it had been growing out of her groin all her life. As I rode up and down on Master's cock, Sally strutted around the room, rubbing lubricant on the dildo that jutted out in front of her, telling me just how hard and how deep and how many times she was going to ram it in.

"Are you ready Bitch?" Sally almost spat the words.

"Yes, Assistant Cunt," I replied. "Give it to me. Right up the arse."

Sally clambered onto the bed and knelt between Master's legs. "Relax, you tight-arsed whore," she shouted hoarsely, giving me a slap on the thigh.

I gasped against Master's neck as the dildo penetrated my bowels. I must have been holding my breath waiting for the moment my anus opened up and welcomed its pink plastic visitor. Then Master's cock twitched as the dildo slithered smoothly past it. The patient hours Master had spent fucking me that way were paying off for all of us.

Master reached out and put his arms round Sally, pulling her towards him, hugging both of us and crushing the breath out of me until I murmured a protest.

"Shut up, Meat!" Master told me. "OK, Assistant Cunt, let's see what you can do. Fuck away with all your strength!"

"Fuck me, both of you!" I shouted. "Fuck me till I bleed!"

Sally did most of the work, laying into me with such ferocity it made my hips buck and the tight walls of my vagina slide up and down on Master's cock. At the same time the movements of the dildo in my bowels stimulated Master. The enthusiasm with which Sally thrust and plunged into my bum was frightening. Master watched Sally's face and mine; occasionally Master reached round my body to tweak Sally's nipples or tug at my hair. 

"Faster, whores," Master shouted, "and harder -- show me what sluts you really are!"

After a while Sally slowed down, and we fell into a natural rhythm, two strokes of the dildo to each one from Master's cock, the twin pistons moving in and out of me like some piece of industrial machinery. I could feel the frown lines on my forehead, a reflection of my concentration on the sensations of having both my holes filled and fucked so relentlessly. The fact was I was enjoying every moment.

"Cunt and arse together," Sally was shouting. "What does it feel like to be doubly fucked, you little bitch? Is it really enough for a whore like you? Don't you need another cock to give your mouth something to do?" All the while fucking away until I was, almost literally, nothing more than a piece of meat being pounded to pulp.

My heart swelled with pride. If I could stand this, I could take anything.

This wasn't making love. This was crude fucking: an inexorable process in which every thrust of Master's cock, every movement of the dildo in my anus, took me a step deeper inside myself, stripping away the sophisticated human to reveal the raw animal inside. In a sense we were one big writhing creature, but in another sense I was on my own, suffering more humiliation, reveling in being the centre of all that obscene attention.

As Master's climax began approaching he started to shout, drowning my moans and Sally began to call out her obscenities even louder, cursing me as a whore and a dog-fucker. Then it happened: all three of us came together and collapsed in a sweating mass, none of us able to move.

The sound of ragged breathing filled the room.

Then Sally pulled her plastic dick out of my arsehole and got to her feet. She pulled me to my feet by my hair and pushed my head between Master's legs. 

"Master's all messed up thanks to you, you juicy bitch," Sally said. "Lick him clean while I go downstairs and get him a drink." 



Mastering Submission Ch. 16



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

Long before Sally came to live with us, Master and I had discussed what historical figures influenced the manner in which Master exercised his domination. I was surprised to learn that Master credited Carl Maria von Clausewitz, the great military theorist, as his strongest influence. According to Master, von Clausewitz believed one must gather all one's forces and hit one's enemy where he was weakest. Master, in his inimitable way, had taken this precept and applied it to his practice of dominance, but by standing it on its head. Master did not hit or in any other way attack a submissive at her weakest point. Rather, Master does the opposite: Master uses the greatest force on the parts of a slave's body where she is least vulnerable to damage. Master's belief, honed over years of dominating slaves, is that, when punishment is applied correctly, the human body can take more than most people would believe.

Master was fond of stating, for example, that we humans have an immensely strong rib cage, particularly if it is struck with a relatively large instrument. To Master's way of thinking, this concept naturally led to the boxing matches that made the three of us famous in London S&M circles. It became so popular we did guest appearances in Manchester, Dublin, and Amsterdam. Over one weekend, we even performed at a party in New York.

It took a long time to persuade me to play this particular game, because I did not think women should box and, depending on my brain to make a living, I feared Master might get carried away and hit me on the head. My fears were silly, really, as a good master never gets carried away, and I knew from personal experience just how good a Master my Master was! 

Perhaps it'll be clearest if I told you about one of our shows, exactly as it happened. Not the first one, which we staged at one of Dave and Fuckpuppet's torture parties, but later when we'd worked out a smooth routine.

Master drove his two slaves to a big house in North London, in St. John's Wood. Though it was a fine evening, we walked up to the imposing front wood wearing those raincoats you see so much of around S&M parties.

It wasn't a fancy dress affair, though there's an element of dressing up at every S&M function. There were masters and mistresses in fine leathers, slaves wearing collars and leashes, and one gorgeous redhead had her head sealed into a steel cage, but the guests were there for the action, and already you could hear the sound of whips cracking and the moans of slaves in pain.

We weren't the only ménage a trois, either. A stunning, willowy blonde was hanging upside down against a wall while two black men dressed as sailors whipped her breasts and the fronts of her thighs. Another unforgettable sight was a dark haired beauty standing tied to a pillar, everything except her head and her large breasts swathed in cling film, while a scrawny urchin with a crew-cut and a ring through her nose stuck drawing pins into the flesh around each nipple, working outwards to make a complete brass bra. There were so many pins embedded in that soft flesh that the weight of the metal was dragging the breasts down. We stood and watched as the mistress pushed in the last one and grinned. "A hundred polished pins," she told her slave gleefully. "That's a dozen more than last time. You're a shining example to every other bitch in the room."

Sally and I were transfixed at the sight of this pinned slave. With Sally it was pure lesbian lust; what I was feeling was fear and curiosity, wondering what it would be like to be tied up and pierced again and again, on view to the casual partygoer. We stepped up for a closer look. As well as the drawing pins embedded in the breasts, each nipple was skewered with two long needles. Strangely enough, the slave's face looked impassive, as if those tortured globes of flesh belonged to somebody else.

"Can I touch?" Master asked.

"Be my guest," replied the mistress.

Master ran the palms of his hands over the heads of the pins, and the girl winced. 

"Smack them," the mistress suggested. "That's what she likes."

Master did so, and the slave moaned.

"They're very beautiful," Master said.

"Thank you. I'm going to make her wear them home and sleep like that," her mistress smugly replied.

Master shrugged. "I was hoping to watch you take them out. You're a lucky woman. You've got yourself a very fine slave."

"Thank you, Master," said the slave through gritted teeth.

"Shut your face," Master growled. "I wasn't talking to you." 

Master turned to me, and said, "As I'm always telling you, Meat, no matter how great your tolerance becomes, a way can be found to test you still further."

I nodded, awed.

Both Sally and I kept looking back as we walked away. That sight, I knew, would haunt our dreams.

On the other side of the same room, a sweet little curly-headed blonde was standing on tiptoe by the window, nailed by her tongue to the window-frame, breasts flat against the glass. I later learned that her piercing was nothing more advanced than the stud in many tongues these days, but the effect was spectacular -- of course, the fact that an elderly man in a morning suit was busy marking the woman's shoulders and buttocks with a cane added to the effect!

Before I began submissive service, my only personal experience with piercings was having each ear lobe pierced once, so the piercings I saw at parties usually took me aback. Not just because of my conservative professional image, I was relieved to have Master explain to me that he does not care for permanent slave piercings -- Master believes piercings spoil the line of lovely breasts, noses or cunt lips. Of course, this did not mean that Master could not employ temporary piercings when he felt they were useful in immobilising a slave with a ring or a hook.

Anyway, to return to that St. John's Wood party, our host (a young man wearing slave trousers with holes in the back to show off his already beaten buttocks) greeted us enthusiastically. "Thank you so much for coming," he said, leading the way. "Everyone's dying to see your performance." This was clearly true: masters and mistresses broke off from the action to watch us. When we got to the room set up for us, Sally took our coats and piled them neatly on the windowsill.

Sally was wearing nothing but a bow tie and a pair of white cuffs on her wrists. Master had black boxing shorts, with high black lace-up boots.

As we arrived, Master leaned over and told me he thought I looked glorious. I was lightly made-up, my hair done in soft curls. Sally laced lime green boxing gloves onto my hands, which matched my boots and the silk dressing gown over my shoulders with the word "champ" embroidered on the back in purple silk.

Master strode about the room, laying a length of scarlet cord into a square. Then Sally helped Master put on his boxing gloves.

By now the sounds of whippings and moanings had died down; everyone crowding into the one room. Even the brass-breasted girl with the drawing pins in her chest was there, and the girl with the pierced tongue had been set free to enjoy the show. I knew that Master was well-acquainted with many of these people personally, and most of the rest by reputation. Master murmured to both Sally and to me that, to have so many respected masters and mistresses gather round to watch, was an honour indeed.

"Listen up," Master told the crowd. "This cord represents the boxing ring, so stay outside it. Someone get me a stool for the corner."

Master hit his gloves together, and I shrugged off my silk gown. I had many humiliation outfits, but this was far and away Master's favourite. I was wearing nothing but those boxing gloves and boots, with a fair imitation of the Lonsdale Belt slung round my hips. The only thing on my as yet unmarked chest was a touch of lipstick on nipples that were already hard with excitement. I had come a long way from that first party when I wore the beekeeper's outfit. I stood, proud and virtually naked, accepting the admiring glances of the crowd. We met in the center of the room with our Assistant Cunt acting as referee. 

"I want a good clean fight," Sally told us, "with lots of pain. Shake hands and come out fighting."

Master adopted a boxer's crouch and Sally rang a bell to announce the start of the first round.

I raised my gloves above my head and danced towards Master, ready for the first blow to fall, reveling in the knowledge that a whole room full of people loved me with their eyes. After shuffling around the ring a little, Master caught me in one of the corners. A straight left flattened one breast; a right hook set the other one swaying. 

The action was tough and violent, but every movement was utterly controlled. The blows that landed on breast flesh were hard enough to sting, but no more. The punches on the ribs were much fiercer. Now and again Master would land a really hard one between the tits that would send me staggering back into the crowd. Strong arms grabbed me and shoved me back into the ring for further punishment.

All eyes were on the loser. When I grunted at a particularly savage blow, women in the crowd let out little cries of sympathy.

Sally walked around us, pretending to referee the match, watching my face in case the combination of pain and the attention of all those masters and mistresses made me come. If a sudden orgasm made me lose my balance and fall, Sally would step forward and catch me. I, of course, never attempted to hit back at Master, and Master didn't hit below the belt or lay a glove on my face, though my chest was taking one hell of a beating.

After a few minutes Sally rang the bell. I sat on the stool as Sally fanned my face with a towel and Master danced around the ring, hitting his gloves together and threatening the slaves in the crowd. Now and again, if Master thought it would be welcome, Master would punch a proffered breast, but mostly Master just dazzled us all with his footwork.

Then Sally rang the bell for the next round.

When I rose from my stool, I knew it gleamed with my juices. Another slave, a little Chinese girl, dropped to her knees and deftly licked it clean. By round three, the crowd was beginning to get into it, calling out shouts of encouragement:

"Hit the bitch!"

"Whack her tits!"

"Show her no mercy!"

By the fourth round, the crowd had fallen silent again, everyone in the room staring at my chest. Master landed a fierce left that had my sweat spattering across the faces of the crowd. The right that followed caught me full in the chest and sent me staggering. The eyes of the masters and mistresses glittered. The slaves looked shocked; one or two were actually crying.

By now I was letting out little grunts of pain and excitement as the punches landed on me. The essence of a performance like this is that it combines theatre and reality, illusion tempered with the genuine pain proven by the light bruising on the breasts and the heavier marks on my sides. The end was getting close, now: I had taken an enormous battering. I was tiring, but at the same time becoming more and more aroused. Master began to step up the punishment, hitting me hard on the breasts, building up the intensity until the blows on my tits were strong enough to shake my whole body, and until my breasts began to become discoloured by the rain of blows.

This was the fifth round (the most I ever went to was seven). By now, the ring had changed shape. This always happened towards the end of our displays. At the start, the crowd would form a neat square which we would dance round and then, as I stopped moving and it became a simple one-way slugging match, the audience would break ranks and move in closer. I am not even sure they realised they were doing it. In any case, each boxing match ended with a crush of people round us waiting for the last blow to land.

Master was no longer dancing on tiptoe; Master was flat-footed, exhausted, pounding away, his desire building with every blow that fell.

As the punches grew harder, I was no longer aware that we were putting on a show for the roomful of people honouring me with their attention. My imitation of a boxer's footwork had reduced to a rhythmic swaying from side to side. My nipples were erect, girl juice running down the inside of my thighs. My eyes were hooded, in an erotic parody of a boxer who had taken too many blows to the head. My sight and hearing had closed down, all my circuits concentrating on what was happening to my skin. Master nodded to Sally, who moved in closer. I slumped to my knees, the sign Master had been waiting for. Master stepped forward and knocked me flat with a light punch to the chin.

Master had taught me that, to a true slave like me, being hit can be as arousing as having my clit licked. I lay at Master's feet, rubbing the laces of my gloves against my nipples and moaning. Nothing existed but my body, and what had happened to it.

Sally stepped forward, counted me out, raised Master's hand in victory and then dropped to her knees. Sally pulled down Master's shorts, and sucked Master off, directing his sperm onto the mass of overlapping bruises on my chest, and onto my face.

Master dropped to his knees, Sally crouched down, and the two of them held me and comforted me on the slow journey back to reality. The crowd was silent now, impressed and shocked by the scene that had taken place in front of them.

They fell back as Master and Sally raised me to my feet. I beamed with pride, all trace of shyness gone as Sally and Master stood on either side, holding my hands. The crowd broke from its spell and burst into tumultuous applause, and we bowed.

Afterwards Master wandered round the house with a slave on either arm, enjoying the action taking place all around us as masters and mistresses, inspired by our show, laid into slaves inspired by my docility and tolerance to accept even higher levels of pain.

"Assistant Cunt" was exactly the right title for Sally, because Master concentrated most of his attention on me. Though Master fucked, buggered, and whipped both of us mercilessly, more often than not Sally was called on as witness and helper while Master worked on me. Just by standing there and holding the equipment, Sally put new life in all our games. Sally added intensity, and a sense of ceremony, that brought every scene to a different level of power.

* * * 

One rainy Sunday afternoon, Sally helped Master hang me in a big leather sling suspended from the beams in the Music Room. The room was a blaze of lights, all the overhead bulbs burning and every moveable lamp in the flat carried upstairs to shine on my suffering body. The scene Master set was stunning: Master in his best dominance leathers, Sally in a vinyl maid's outfit, and me absolutely naked except for leather restraints on my wrists and ankles.

"Both you two bitches are going to love this," Master told us. "Assistant Cunt, slip a raincoat over those maid's clothes and go out to the common for stinging nettles. Make sure you get plenty. And you can pick up a few dock leaves." While Sally was out, Master killed time by telling me exactly what was going to happen.

When Sally returned, she stripped off the mac. "Pull down the top of your uniform," Master ordered. "Nice and slow; I want to take a good, long look at your tits, because I'll be working on them next week." Sally obeyed. She reached up and perched the maid's cap on her dark, frizzy hair, and then busied herself preparing a tray which she showed to me: nettles, clothes pegs, a row of bulldog clips attached to a length of flex, a thin paddle made from solid hickory, like a slightly broad school ruler, and a tiny nipple whip made from the finest kid.

On Master's command, Sally covered my eyes with a scarlet scarf, knotted it firmly, and stood by to hand the implements to Master one by one.

Before Sally had me safely blindfolded, I watched Master set up a camcorder on a tripod, train it at my breasts, and then put a microphone near my mouth to pick up my screams. I knew that Master was not doing this to create something he would treasure -- we had discussed how the infamous Spanner case in 1990 had showed how dangerous it was to keep a record of erotic torture in Britain. Master's practice was to play it to me after the session was over, reminding me how brave I had been, and then Master would wipe it.

I heard Master switch on the camcorder as I felt Master's hand kneading my breast flesh before pinching it between wooden jaws. To start with I just lay there, enduring it quietly, but my mind was frantically reviewing all the things Master had promised me whilst Sally was outside -- I knew Master's plan was to take me further, maddening me with pain. As the forest of pegs grew, firmly planted by Master on each of my breasts in turn, I ground my teeth together and moaned, legs writhing, straining against their bondage.

"Lucky little slut, isn't she?" Master asked.

Sally didn't answer.

"Speak up, Assistant Cunt. I can't hear you," Master prompted.

Sally sighed, "Yes, Sir. Meat is a lucky little slut."

Master spread his fingers to strum the tips of the pegs before twisting them one by one, and I sang out my agony.

"Listen to that, Assistant Cunt," Master ordered. "She's enjoying this. Hear how much she appreciates my attentions."

Next, I felt Master attach crocodile clips to each nipple, pulling first one and then the other, making the focus of my pain shift from side to side.

"What do you think, Assistant Cunt?" Master asked. "She seems to be having a good time, don't you think?"

"Definitely, Sir," replied Sally sullenly. "The bitch loves every minute." 

"Pay attention, dyke whore," Master said harshly, whilst removing the pegs one by one from my breasts. "Your desires are showing."

"I was just feeling sorry for her, Sir," murmured Sally apologetically.

"So you should," Master replied, "Because it's not over yet." 

Immediately, I felt the breeze as Master picked up the narrow wooden paddle and began beating my swollen breasts as if they were the buttocks of a naughty schoolboy, making breast flesh bounce, bringing me to a place somewhere between orgasm and insanity. Then Master quickly removed the alligator clips before applying strokes from a tiny whip, stinging my nipples, making them swell harder than before.

"Master, it's too much," I whimpered. "I can't take this."

"Yes you can, you lying bitch," Master replied. "You can take far more. And you will." 

"How many clothes pegs did she have?" Master asked Sally.

"Thirty-four, Sir," Sally immediately replied, "seventeen on each breast. Plus the crocodile clips on the nipples."

"Do you think you could take that many pegs?" Master asked.

"Yes, Sir," Sally responded. "My breasts are bigger."

"Good answer," Master said. "How many strokes of the whip have I given her?"

"Sixteen, Sir," Sally replied.

"Not nearly enough," Master said. "But I'm tired. You're the maid, Assistant Cunt. Go downstairs and get me something to drink."

"What would you like, Sir," Sally asked.

"That depends on Meat," Master said, "what would you prefer, my darling?"

"Lemonade," I said hoarsely. "I'd love a taste of lemonade."

"So be it," Master said. "Get me a glass of lemonade, Assistant Cunt. With a straw so I can make loud slurping noises while I'm drinking. That'll make her feel even thirstier."




Mastering Submission Ch. 16



As Master drank, I moaned, but I still heard when Master put the glass down. My ears were straining, hoping -- and fearing -- for information about what was coming next, but I was totally unprepared to feel Master's fist, full of stinging nettles trailing slowly across the battlefield of my breasts. I sang out my pain. Still stroking me with the nettles, Master stooped down and kissed me, catching my cries in his mouth.

Master stepped back after kissing me, but held the nettles just above me so that, as my chest rose and fell with each breath, my nipples kissed those vicious leaves.

I began to scream, loud and long. This was the most pain Master had inflicted on me until now. Master traced the nettles in spirals from armpit to nipples, and then Master held great handfuls of leaves and cradled my breasts with them. 

I was lost now, pain taking over every particle of my concentration as I screamed and screamed. Then I suddenly realised my screams were turning into words. Words so distorted by pain that at first I could not understand them.

Even the always clear-headed Master was uncertain what I was saying. "What's she saying, Assistant Cunt," Master asked Sally.

"She's telling you she loves you, Sir," Sally responded.

"The cheeky bitch," Master exclaimed with a chuckle. Then I heard Sally gasp in shock. Master then said, "Yes, Assistant Cunt, it really does hurt." As if to ensure I didn't feel Master's attention had diverted itself to Sally, Master turned back to begin gently whipping my belly with fresh stalks.

By now, an hour and a half had gone by; the length of the average feature film -- or, as I told Master later, eternity.

When my screams turned to animal howls, Master forced Sally's face between my thighs. "Make yourself useful," Master ordered Sally. "Lick her while I give her tits another workout. It'll make the pain easier to tolerate."

My ankles were tied, but I spread my knees invitingly. For a moment Sally paused, and then she spread my love lips with her thumbs and dipped her pretty head obediently. I stirred, taking new strength from the stimulus. Master kissed my throbbing, tortured tits with the nettles once more.

Moments later, the sounds of my screams were joined by the gentle moans of a lesbian having the time of her life. And then the screams turned into the shouts of a woman convulsed with orgasm. Master yanked Sally's head away from me, and began to soothe my chest and belly with dock leaves. "Thank you, Master," I said softly. "And thank you, too, Assistant Cunt."

* * * 

You may find this hard to believe, gentle reader, but only a few months after Sally's arrival, Master told me that he began to regret having more than one slave. You might think repeated sex with two beautiful women ready to obey your every whim would be paradise, and Master admitted that it was wonderful at first. Some masters and mistresses run whole stables of slaves, and there are even a few sturdy slaves who can take on roomfuls of whip-wielding dominants. Master, of course, doesn't condemn people like that; as Master says, what he does is so weird Master doesn't have the right to act the Puritan. However, Master's experience has taught him that, for him, beating and loving one woman is enough.

I knew that Master liked Sally immensely. She was a fancible and fuckable girl, a good conversationalist, and a fine cook, with a wicked sense of humour. In short, she was very good company even when Master did not have his cock up her arse, which is more than Master would say for many women. Nevertheless, Master began to be disturbed, watching me wearing the beard, particularly because the quim in question belonged to a woman who enjoyed having it licked out as much as Sally did. And though I had been reluctant at first to kiss my first cunt or be fucked by a dildo-wearing dyke, I was getting used to it. Where once my face had revealed alarm and disgust at being obliged by my submission to Master to perform lesbian sex acts with Sally, those acts registered nothing now but pure pleasure. 

Master explained that he had phoned Dave's Fuckpuppet to get the telephone number of a Mistress I remembered seeing at their last party. She was short, quite plump but elegant, with blonde hair, and three slaves in attendance. Fuckpuppet told Master the Mistress was named Katrina; she owned her own public relations firm in the West End, and kept all her slaves listed on her accounts as "secretaries." 

When Master asked for Katrina's telephone number, he said that Fuckpuppet exclaimed, "You can't be thinking of sending that sweet Meat girl of yours round there. Don't do it! Dave lent me to her once over a long weekend. I made him promise never to do it again. They say women can be crueler than men. She certainly proved it."

Twenty minutes after speaking with Fuckpuppet, and then with Katrina, Master discussed his ideas for a new deal regarding Sally with me.

"You're quite right, Master," I said. "It's been great fun having Sally round, but she needs to find herself a permanent situation."

"Katrina knew who she was," Master explained. "She remembered her from one of our boxing displays. She's prepared to take Sally on as a house slave, and pay her a decent salary. Shall I break the news to her?"

"Leave it to me," I said, knowing that it was a necessary step for Sally, and a part of my own development in submission to Master. Yet the long, intense friendship I'd had with Sally for decades made me deeply, silently afraid of losing Sally to a different life. It was an indication of the degree to which I had immersed myself in my relationship with Master that my overwhelming emotions were exhilaration and excitement at the thought of resuming my passionate pas-de-deux with Master, once again without an audience.



Mastering Submission Ch. 17



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

* * *

We were all a bit nervous when the day actually arrived.

Master was trying to read. I was pacing. Sally was so still she didn't appear to be breathing, sitting on the edge of a sofa, her pretty blue Marks & Spencer dress falling round her in peaceful folds. There was no anticipation in Sally's face; nothing but peace. I'd never seen her like this. I'd never seen anybody like this before. Clouds scudded past and I, unable to restrain my restless impulse, walked across to the window to look out at the grey and thickening clouds. I glanced at my watch, "They're late," I said.

"Shut up, Meat," Sally said.

I began to pace the room once more, glancing down to the street each time I passed the window. Suddenly I froze, and announced, "They're here."

Master walked over and stood beside me. A black stretched Mercedes had pulled up at the curb on the opposite side of the street from Master's house. Three extraordinary-looking women were getting out. An old lady with a shopping trolley was staring at them open-mouthed. I could tell that Master didn't like that, knowing that he takes pride in the fact that nobody in his street has any idea of the sophisticated things that happen above the dry cleaner's on the corner.

I went down to answer the door. A moment later Katrina swept into Master's living room like a queen. She took off her leather trench coat. Under it, she was wearing a midnight blue leather leotard with a silver zip that ran down between her breasts and disappeared between her legs. Katrina also had on black, high heeled, thigh-length boots with the tops folded down like a principal boy at a pantomime, showing off midnight blue linings. The flashes of thigh between leotard and boots showed skin that was surprisingly firm for a chubby woman in middle age. Katrina's earrings were lightening flashes, blue enamel over white gold. Two Chinese girls I had never seen before, wearing identical black leather skirts and silver tank tops, their faces cold and expressionless, flanked Katrina, and took up positions on either side of their mistress.

One of them carried a long, velvet-covered box.

Katrina glanced at the bondage pictures on Master's walls and smiled. Whilst Katrina was scanning her surroundings and making eye contact with Master, I took the opportunity to observe her. Katrina was the most ordinary of women, mousy brown hair, and the wrong side of fifty, short and plump. However, there was something about her. Not just the clothes, but also the way Katrina held herself. Katrina was not the kind of person you read about in the tabloids, or even in the financial papers, except for the time Katrina had won the businesswoman of the year award, but she was the private brains behind dozens of celebrities and well-known brand names. Katrina also was a legend in the S&M community. Master welcomed Katrina to his home while her girls stood in silence, looking at the floor. Katrina knew the names of the rock groups Master handled, and commented on the way Master publicised them. Master does not like to have business conversations in front of slaves, but I could see that he was impressed at Katrina's grasp of his business experience and activities.

Soon after Master contacted Katrina about placing Sally with her, he explained to me that, in the S&M world, girls like Sally are bought, sold, swapped, lent, and/or given away all the time. Master told me that he had paid good money for the Red Cow, and could have sold her at a profit when people saw how far Master's training had taken her. Katrina looked at Sally and me, and asked: "Which of these whores do you want to off-load?"

"M-me, Mistress," said Sally, a tremor in her voice. I was dumb-struck -- Sally hadn't stammered since she was at school.

"Then why aren't you naked?" snapped Katrina. "Why aren't you kneeling?" she added, as Sally hurried to pull her dress over her head.

Katrina walked round her prospective slave, running cool eyes over her trembling body. Master had never managed that, although he had beaten and tortured her. We both knew Master never had made his Assistant Cunt tremble.

"Good," Katrina said, "no brand yet." She opened Sally's mouth and looked inside. 

"You didn't pull her teeth?" Katrina asked Master with a smile.

"No," Master replied, startled.

"Lots of delights await her then," Katrina said. "Does she take it up the arse?"

Master nodded.

"Has she taken a fist up the arse?" Katrina inquired.

"I don't know," Master admitted.

"She will," replied Katrina. She looked at Master as if weighing up Master's qualities as a master and finding Master wanting. "You don't seem to know how to show a girl a good time," Katrina commented.

I watched all this, pale-faced and silent.

Katrina lifted Sally's face with a finger under her chin. "Lick Ang-Sun's cunt," she ordered. "There's a good girl."

One of the Chinese slaves hitched up her skirt, revealing dark stocking tops and a pierced and shaven mound. Sally stuck out her tongue and leaned forward.

"Any good?" asked Katrina a few minutes later.

"Excellent, Madam," Ang-Sun responded.

"I thought as much," said Katrina. "Dyke to the bone. That's enough, bitch," Katrina directed Sally in a soft voice that was impossible to ignore. 

"Lie down on that table -- on your back," Katrina ordered. "Now raise your legs in the air. Do not look at me, dear. Keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling until I tell you otherwise."

Still trembling, Sally obeyed, holding her legs at ninety degrees to the top of the coffee table, toes pointed towards the ceiling.

Sally held the pose well, though she couldn't stop her stomach muscles jumping. Katrina snapped her chubby fingers and the second Chinese girl clicked the catches of the velvet-covered case, took out what can only have been an antique rapier, and handed it to Katrina who took a couple of practice swings, making the air sing.

I knew the terror this was causing me on behalf of Sally was plain to see, but, strangely enough, Sally did not look at all frightened.

Katrina stepped up to Sally and caressed her face. "Hold still, my dear," she said gently. "As still as you possibly can."

Katrina stepped back. Savagely, without any warm-up strokes, the side of the rapier struck home five incredible times against the backs of Sally's thighs -- blows really intended to hurt. While, in my experience with Master, narrow implements like canes were used with the utmost care and consideration, this vicious mistress was wielding a metre of toughened steel with all her strength, and with no thought at all for the well-being of the slave in front of her. 

I couldn't begin to imagine that intensity of pain, yet Sally didn't move. In fact, each of the five times the blade struck home, it was I who cried out, as if I could feel every blow on the back of my own thighs.

Realising that the blows had stopped, I made myself breathe once more.

The marks on Sally's legs were darker than anything Master had ever left on either of us, three of them were oozing blood, but Sally still didn't cry or move. I knew Sally had a high pain threshold, but to see a woman take punishment like that without even flinching was astounding. Even Master was looking more than a little disconcerted after Katrina's display, despite Sally's stoic demeanor.

Sally sneaked a glance at Katrina, a glance that showed nothing but respect, and then her gaze returned to the ceiling. "Thank you, Mistress," Sally said, quietly and humbly, though her teeth still were clenched.

Having finished her butchery, Katrina handed the rapier to one of her Chinese slaves, who wiped blood from the blade on a silk handkerchief and replaced it in its case. 

Katrina nodded to Master, "The bitch shows potential." 

Katrina then turned to Sally, and said, "Well, my dear, I think you'll do. Run along with my girls: they will help you collect your things."

Sally's face, when the Chinese girls helped her to her feet, was blotched and pale with shock. She stood up unsteadily, afraid to trust her weight to damaged muscles.

Master looked at Sally, she looked at Master, and I saw a whole conversation take place with their eyes. Master silently invited her back to stay in Master's home forever; she smiled bravely and shook her head, telling both Master and me that she was happy, that she wanted a mistress rather than a master, and that she was ready to take this gigantic step. 

Master has nothing but respect for slaves who can take pain, and I could see his admiration for my brave, beautiful friend we might never see again.

I was weeping openly now. I flung myself to the floor and kissed the toes of Katrina's boots.

"Mistress," I begged.

"What is it, my dear?" Katrina responded.

"Please, Mistress, may I say goodbye to my friend?" I asked.

"No, my dear, you may not," Katrina responded. "But you can come and visit her any time you like, if you think you can stand the pain."

A minute later one of the Chinese girls returned and bowed to Katrina, who nodded to Master and swept out.

I knelt in front of Master. There were flecks of blood on my dress that must have spattered there when Katrina's rapier hit a trickle of blood from an earlier wound. 

"Madam Katrina is so small, Master!" I said.

"Size," Master replied, "has nothing to do with it."

* * *

After Sally left, Master and I were even happier together, our lives filled with love and care for one another.

We were happy on so many levels. I could tell you about a dinner party we went to, welcoming foreign comparative literature professors to a conference in London. I could tell you about another dinner we held when Master was soft-soaping a businessman from Frankfurt and I was hostess, an occasion that I was proud to have used to helped Master cement an important deal. I could talk about walking together in Hyde Park, about rowing on the Thames, about a golden September morning we spent in a hot air balloon over Devonshire, with me pointing down at the house I was brought up in, and my first school. In fact, I could tell this whole story as a Mills and Boon romance, because that is exactly what it was: we went to art galleries together and took long walks in the country, and danced together, and kissed for hours. However, unlike the lovely tales of romance novels, in our romance, Master also beat me and ejaculated over my face, and made me give him my own juices.

"What are you doing, Master?" I asked during one of our sessions after Sally departed.

"Never mind, bitch," Master rejoined, whilst holding one of my breasts in both hands, squeezing towards the nipple.

"I'm not a cow," I protested.

Master crushed my nipple until I winced. "Shut the fuck up," Master told me. "You are whatever I want you to be. Stand still. I've got a present for you."

Master had two presents in fact. I had been spending the afternoon parading for Master in the main room in a variety of perverted outfits, ending up wearing nothing but a long pearl necklace round my waist and a pair of cream stilettos with outrageously high heels. It was the latest in a series of different uniforms I had been modeling over the previous hour.

"What presents, Master?" I asked.

"Stick out your tits and close your eyes," Master ordered.

I tilted my head as Master started the tiny motors, and then gasped -- twice. 

"You can look now," Master said.

"They're beautiful, Master," I responded.

"Do you know what they are?" Master asked.

"I think so, Master. I think they are breast pumps. Thank you, Master. You are so thoughtful and inventive. Did you actually go into a chemist shop and buy them yourself?" I asked with curiosity.

Master nodded, and said, "The girl behind the counter was more embarrassed than I was."

"I bet she wondered why you wanted two," I said, grinning.

Master took a pump in each hand and shook them. "How does that feel?" Master asked. "Is it painful?"

"No, but it's very humiliating," I truthfully replied. When Master let go, I swung my body, making the pumps jiggle. "Can I touch them, Master?" I asked.

"Go ahead," Master responded.

I tugged one thoughtfully, and said, "They hang on very firmly."

"They have to, to pull the milk out of your tits. Look," Master directed. There was the tiniest pearl of white on the left nipple: colostrums, the pre-milk every woman produces before lactating, and some have it all the time.

I nodded, and crossed over to the mirror and admired my reflection. 

"I love the way they pull my breasts out of shape," I said. "I must look like a real slut."

"A whore," Master agreed. "But then, that's what you are. And they're not just for decoration. They make a lovely outfit, but they're also there to stimulate your milk glands. I want you to use them on yourself morning and night, and in the staff toilets when you're at university. Even if we never have children together, I want to taste your milk." 

"It's an amazing idea, Master. And of course you can do anything you like with my tits," I responded. "But it's just a dream, isn't it? It couldn't possibly work."

"In the Third World, women breastfeed one another's children when times are hard," Master said. "Even here in Britain it's not unknown for a woman to breastfeed an adopted child. That's why -- "

"That's why you've been fooling with my tits that way when I'm in bondage, Master," I said, finishing Master's sentence. "I thought you were being a bit rough."

"That's right," Master said. "I've been going through the motions of expressing milk by hand to get your glands going. Well, what do you think?"

"My breasts are definitely feeling a bit tender," I replied. "Oh, I see, Master. You mean what do I think about giving you my milk?"

Master nodded.

"I think it's a lovely idea, Master," I said. "Even if it doesn't work, it'll be nice to have you paying extra attention to my breasts."

Master had some more presents for me. "These are breast shells," Master explained. "If you get the feeling you might be producing a bit of milk, you pop them inside your bra to catch the drops."

I looked doubtful, and said, "There might not be room inside one of my bras for them."

"I've thought of that. I went through your underwear drawer, and here," Master pulled out a carrier bag. "I bought replacements for every bra you own: a set that is one size, and another two sizes, larger than the size you wear now."

"Master," I said uncertainly, "these pumps have made me very excited. Would you please fuck me?"

"Certainly," Master said with a smile. "And then you can get dressed and we'll take a walk with you wearing them."

My eyes widened, and I asked, "But what will it look like, Master, with two huge bulges like that under my coat?"

"What do you think?" Master replied. "It will look like I'm taking my slut for a walk." 



Mastering Submission Ch. 18



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

* * * * *

The pumps worked, though. Five weeks later, Master was at a recording studio, laying down tracks for a new album, when I rang his mobile phone.

"Hello?" Master responded to the chirp in his pocket.

"Master, are you alone?" I asked, hearing my voice sounding breathless and excited. "Is it all right to talk? I thought you'd want me to call you straightaway."

Master replied, "I'm not actually alone, but talk anyway."

"Master, it's started," I said. "I suppose I didn't really believe it would happen, but you were right as usual. It is what I've been hoping for. What we have both been hoping for. Unfortunately, it couldn't have started at a worse time." 

"What were you doing when you found out?" Master asked.

"Reaching up to write on a blackboard!" I exclaimed. "I suddenly realised there were stains on the front of my blouse. Fortunately, my blouse has a pattern so hopefully nobody noticed; it's so unlikely. But it was hard to concentrate on rhyme schemes in Shakespeare's sonnets, I can tell you."

"I can imagine," Master responded.

"I had to run off to the toilet in a hurry. I had to use a student toilet because it was closer," I giggled. "My breasts have been feeling a bit tender these last few days. I was hoping it would start at home, preferably in the bath."

"Never mind, Meat," Master said. "Did you have your breast shells with you?"

"Yes, Master. I have them in my bag all the time, just as you told me to," I assured Master. "I managed to save a little in my right shell and quite a lot in the left one. I have tutorials this afternoon. It's not going to be easy keeping my mind on anything but my tits."

"Save your milk for me," Master ordered. "I'll drink it when I get home. And well done, Meat, my darling. I can't wait to taste it."

"Me, neither, Master," I said with pride. "I can't wait to suckle you."

So what's it like being a lactating woman who doesn't have a baby to take the lion's share of the milk? Just feeling Master unwrapping my swollen breasts is enormously exciting. You feel really close to a man who has taken your milk. Above all, it made me more of Master's slave.

And, Master insisted, "The extra nourishment from drinking your milk gives me the strength to fuck you more often!"

We had quiet evenings together, during which Master was cradled in my arms suckling hot, sweet milk from my tits, and this was an unforgettable experience for me. Master used to lie on the sofa with his head on my knees, and I would lean forward and guide my nipples down towards Master's mouth, my face a mixture of peace and excitement. 

Master had plenty of practice suckling a slave, and he warned me that it can be quite a challenge to make the thicker, sweeter after-milk pour into Master's eager mouth. Master's method involved lightly slapping my breasts to help to prepare me for suckling. A variation of the method include Master adding tight clips to the nipples so there's a painful build-up of milk, which resulted in a spectacular spray when Master took the clips off.

Of course, Master felt that in this service, as in most submissive services I rendered to him, that a little verbal abuse helps, too. "I think we should buy a puppy," Master would tell me. "A boy. You'd be able to feed it, and when it grows up we can teach it to fuck you."

"Oh, Master!" I would respond, secure that Master was not interested in sharing any aspect of my submission with anyone or anything.

Master even let me share the big master bed so Master could drift off to sleep holding my breasts, though I had to get up and move to my own little cot as soon as Master was asleep.

My breasts were much bigger now, with a slight droop. They were so big, in fact, that I could suck my own nipples, which Master told me he always loved to watch a woman do. Although I felt strange and silly, sucking my own breasts, Master assured me that the sight of my own milk running down my chin made me look more exciting and loveable than ever to Master.

I became fascinated by the taste and texture of my own milk, in the difference between the thin colostrum and the richer, yellower after-milk. I just could not leave my own tits alone. When I was reading, even a complicated scholarly article dealing with some esoteric aspect of Elizabethan literature, my fingers would stray idly to my chest.

I also became fascinated by clothes. Before I met Master, I was barely conscious of what I wore; now I was always looking through catalogues and wandering round shops, searching for a more comfortable nursing bra, or an evening dress that showed off my swollen breasts, or a suit to wear when I lectured, so as to minimise my more voluptuous figure.

As much as Master enjoyed drifting off into milky dreams on a stream of my breast milk, Master really loved making me empty my breasts with my hands or the pumps, and then give my milk to Master in formal rituals. Breakfast is the milkiest meal, and often provided Master an opportunity for ways to use my breast milk that had been collected.

One Sunday morning, Master sat in a silk dressing gown, and rang a bell to summon me. I appeared at the dining room door, and curtsied, dressed in a black-and-white vinyl maid's uniform, carrying a tray loaded with a pot of fresh Arabica coffee, a bowl of corn flakes, and a crystal jug of my own milk, collected over several days, kept frozen and defrosted that very morning. 

I put the tray on the big oak table in front of Master, who leaned forward to watch as I pulled down the bodice of the uniform, displaying breasts almost too big for me to handle, and tugged a final spray from each nipple into the jug. The fine jets of milk gave audible hisses and left little bubbles that disturbed the creamy surface of the milk, showing up stark against the black vinyl of my outfit. I bit my lower lip in concentration as I worked on my own body, distorting my breasts and their now huge, dark nipples. When I finished, I poured a coffee for Master, and added my milk to both that and the cereal. Master had put his semen in my coffee a couple of times, so it was a fair exchange.

Human breast milk is very sweet, making corn flakes taste a bit like sugar-frosted cereal.

My eyes never left Master's during the whole performance. I liked to watch Master consuming my milk, and though it is strictly against the rules for a slave to look at a master's face, Master indulged me. After all, as Master frequently reminded me, Master could always punish me for insolence afterwards.

"That was delicious," Master said as I went through the ritual of licking the bowl clean. "You're not just a pretty cunt, are you, Meat?"

"If you say so, Master," I responded.

"You're also a useful pair of fun bags," Master insisted.

"Thank you, Master. Thank you for the compliment. And thank you for drinking my milk."

After Master fucked me, Master made me kneel in front of the couch with his feet on my back while Master read the Sunday papers.

I was very surprised to learn that women whose bodies are busy producing milk eat huge amounts of food. I first noticed the change in an Indian restaurant in Covent Garden; the waiter wrote down my order and walked away, assuming I had ordered enough for both of us.

Although having such a huge appetite was more than a little embarrassing for me, Master was delighted. In Master's opinion, a hungry slave is open to endless exploitation. For instance, Master would masturbate in front of me and smear his semen inside a sandwich, knowing I was so hungry I would eat virtually anything. One evening when Master knew I was starving, Master had vast quantities of dim sum delivered by the local Chinese restaurant, which Master served to me morsel by morsel, as Master told me, "On a single chopstick."

"Wait for it," Master ordered, savouring the sight of me kneeling in front of his bobbing cock, drooling, eyes fixed on the tempting miniature spring roll balanced on the end. Master had seen me eat Chinese food before and knew I loved it, but this time I was almost wild with hunger. I took the first morsel off the end of Master's cock delicately with my teeth, but later, as I got into it, I was filling my mouth with cock, slurping and sucking, as hungry for Master as I was for the food. Master gave me little pastry parcels of prawns, sesame toast, won ton dumplings. Master made me wet Master's cock with saliva, and then Master rolled it in fried seaweed, and I licked it clean.

Master rounded the meal off by making a little hollow of skin in my scrotum, pouring syrup into it and feeding me lychees for dessert. When I had eaten my fill, I sucked Master to a climax, the lips that thanked Master smeared with sperm and speckled with crumbs.

The next evening, Master tied my hands behind my back and made me eat pieces of pizza from between Master's toes. The day after that, Master shoved four frankfurters up my cunt, pulled them out and fed them to me dripping with my own juices, a dish that became a regular item on the menu, and which Master christened "Fanny Battered Sausages." At tea time, Master stopped a blow job at the last moment, and came on a jam tart that Master made me eat in front of Master. And several times, Master tied me up and fucked me with a dozen carrots, chopped them up and made me watch while Master cooked them in a stew.

Master even took me round to tea at Katrina's, just so I could eat éclairs out of Sally's cunt.

To explore all the possibilities for feeding a hungry slave, Master organised the "Parsnip Dinner," which was served on a Saturday in early October. Master kept me busy all day, hurrying me through breakfast, whisking me off to a press conference for one of Master's singers who'd returned from the States, breezing into a gallery where a friend was exhibiting some collages, making sure I was too busy to grab more than a couple of canapés, promising me something very special in the evening. It was certainly special, but not in the way I expected.

When we got home, Master blindfolded me and ordered me to strip, hitting me when I fumbled. Then Master made me stand to attention as the flat filled with the rich smells of cooking. I stood listening to the simmer of pots on the hob, and the clank of cutlery as Master laid the table, knowing that at any time Master might pinch a nipple or yank my pubic hair. From time to time, Master checked my deportment, slapping my rump when I let my posture droop, and once when I did not droop.

Master held a pan of hot food right under my blindfold to tantalise me.

"Something smells good," I murmured.

"Shut your face, bitch," Master told me sweetly.

When the meal was ready, Master led me into the dining room, removed the blindfold with a flourish and showed me two chairs, one with a lurid pink dildo jutting up from the seat.

Master uncovered a dish. "This is your first course," Master explained, "if you choose the seat without the dildo."

"What is it?" I asked dubiously.

"Mashed parsnips," Master replied.

I shuddered. "I can't eat that."

Master ignored me. "This is what you get to wash it down with." Master took his cock out, and pissed into a glass. I eyed it nervously. "Liquid gold," Master told me. "It is very refreshing. What's the matter, Meat? You think my piss is not good enough for you? You drink spunk don't you? This is just a small step further down the same road."

"Oh, Master," I said plaintively. "I'd never drink urine."

"How do you know you haven't drunk some already?" Master countered. "I may have been pissing in your soup for weeks."

"You bastard," was my shocked reply.

"'You bastard, Master,'" Master insisted. Master uncovered another dish. "This is damp toast, which is what you get to eat if you sit with the dildo up your cunt, and here's a glass of lukewarm tap water to drink it with. However," and here Master uncovered a third dish with a flourish, "This is deep-fried Brie with cranberry sauce, and that's what you'll eat if you stick the dildo up your arse. And you get a glass of vintage Bollinger."

"It's a bit of a small helping," I complained.

"Merely an appetizer," Master replied. "There'll be loads more to eat if you're a good girl."

"Can I grease the dildo?" I asked.

"Yes," Master replied.

"Then up my arsehole it goes," I said.

Master smiled, watching the thoughtful way I rubbed Vaseline over the dildo and wiped my fingers on my napkin, and watching the changing expressions on my face as I lowered myself carefully onto the chair and made myself comfortable. I demolished the Brie in no time.

Master removed the dishes and returned with a choice of main courses on a tray.

"Roast parsnips," Master announced, uncovering the first one. "Eat them with the urine if you want to be bare-chested. If you hang a dozen clothes pegs on your breasts you can have this delicious plate of fish and chips, bought yesterday and kept in the fridge overnight. On the other hand, this lobster thermidor is fresh, piping hot and delicious, served with a side salad and a choice of seven different fresh vegetables. But you'll have to put these mousetraps on your nipples, and they might hurt a bit." Master grinned. "One trap is enough for a mere mouse, but it takes two to capture a beautiful woman. And it's even more fun if she traps herself."

I eyed the food wistfully. "I want the lobster, but I don't think I'm brave enough," I said. "Would you hang the traps on me, Master, please?"

"Not a chance," Master replied firmly. "You have to apply them yourself. If you can't accept the challenge, you can always fill up with parsnips."

I picked them up, and fingered them gingerly, pulling back the springs to test their strength and wincing. Then I shrugged, having made up her mind, and picked up the first trap and looked up at Master. Master nodded sternly. "Get on with it," Master commanded. "Your meal's getting cold." I pulled back the spring, took a deep breath and clipped it on my nipple.

I knew I had taken pain as intense as that before, but I never before had inflicted pain on myself. When the pain had died down a little, I picked up the second trap and hung it on my other nipple. 

With indecent haste I picked up the knife and fork and started shoveling food into my mouth, then pulled off the traps and slumped back, gasping. Milk dribbled from both nipples.

"It's exciting when you hurt yourself," Master said. "I must make you do that more often."

Pudding was a dish piled high with Baklava oozing mountain honey if I wore a clothes peg on my clit, an apple if I wore two pegs on my love lips, or raw parsnips if I wore no clips at all. I went for the apple, and could tell Master thought me a bit of a coward.

"Thank you, Master, for a most interesting meal," I said, taking the clips off my cunt and easing myself carefully to my feet.

"You did well," Master told me before picking up the glass of urine, and emptying it over my head.

Producing milk made my breasts big and tender. After a few weeks the pain settled down, but my breasts stayed big. I was admiring the way they jutted out from my chest when I said, "Master, you haven't whipped my breasts for a long time. I think if you sucked them dry they'd be all right now."

"Actually," Master replied, grabbing me by the nipples and pulling my breasts together, "I was thinking they're probably big enough for a tit-fuck."

When I had to go to a conference of professors in Boston, Master took the opportunity to visit South Africa, to take up an invitation to judge a township jazz competition in Soweto, and possibly find a group to sign up for a tour of Europe.

Master booked a flight that left ninety minutes after mine so Master could say goodbye in the Terminal Four departure lounge at Heathrow. Master wasn't just being nice. He explained that hanging round a big airport could be turned into an opportunity to continue my training. "Be a good girl," Master told me. "And drink your milk."

"Of course," I said, and smiled. "This is a very important conference," I added. "I'm lucky to have been invited. But I can't help wishing I was going with you to South Africa." "I wish I was going with you to South Africa, Master," Master corrected gently.

I did not like to use the title "Master" in such a crowded area, but I knew better than to disobey. "I wish I was going with you to South Africa, Master," I intoned dutifully.

"You'd hate it," Master reassured me. "I'll be going to dangerous areas, late at night."

"I expect you'll find time for drinking lager and chasing after black slaves, Master," I said, only half kidding.

"I shall do nothing of the kind," Master replied. "I'll be busy eighteen hours a day, and during the other six I'll be dreaming of you. How about you, Meat?" Master asked sternly. "Are you going to be faithful to me?"

"Definitely," I replied earnestly. "That's what it says in the contract I've signed: 'I will have sex only with Master Martin and any of his friends and acquaintances he wishes me to serve.' And that's what I'll do."

"No submitting to American masters?" Master persisted.

"No submitting to American masters, Master," I answered.

"Have you got everything," Master demanded. "Arse?"

I glanced round to see if anyone had heard Master. A chubby businessman turned a page of his Economist. A smartly-dressed woman tapping away at her laptop computer looked up and glanced away. "Yes, Master," I replied. "My arse is neatly packed away under my skirt."

"How about your cunt?" Master inquired.

"Yes, Master. I have my cunt with me," I answered.

"Tits?" Master asked.

"Left and right," I said with a smile, realising that no one was paying us any attention.

"Look after it all for me, will you? I'll be putting that equipment to use again the moment you get back," Master instructed.

"Yes, Master. I can't wait," I said.

Master and I stood close together, just looking at each other, and I said, "Penny for your thoughts, Master."

Master replied, "I was just wondering how all these nice people would react if they could have seen you last night, kneeling, with your arms chained behind your back, those tight clamps on your nipples, and my sperm on your eyelashes." 

I could feel the blushes marking my neck and face, as Master smiled.

Master reached into one of his pockets. "Here's something for you," Master told me, "a going-away present."

My eyes widened as I accepted his gift, and I said, "Handcuffs?"

"That's right," Master said. "I want you to put them on every night and sleep in them, and not undo them till you wake up in the morning."

"Oh, Master," I said. "That's a sweet idea."

"Do you promise?" Master asked.

"Of course, Master. I'll wear them every night," I said.

"It'll help you remember whose slave you are," Master instructed.

"I don't need reminding, Master. I know I belong to you." I glanced up at one of the monitors, and gave a wry grin. "My flight is boarding," I said. "I hope this doesn't seem impertinent, Master, but I'd like you to kiss me."

"I don't like to kiss you unless you're in tight bondage," Master replied. "You know that."

"I know, Master, but we're in public. And I couldn't be tied to you tighter if I was chained to your ankle," I begged.

Master leaned forward and kissed me. Then, so quickly nobody had time to notice, Master slapped me on the cheek.




Mastering Submission Ch. 18



"Thank you, Master," I said.

"I'll phone you every night from my hotel," Master said.

"Yes, Master. But it won't be the same. You won't be able to call me a whore and a slut properly over the phone," I whined.

"I can call you 'Meat,' though," Master insisted. "Nobody will understand that, even if the hotel receptionist is listening in."

"That's nice," I said. "Every time you use the word 'meat' I feel the touch of your whip on my heart."

Master folded me in his arms. "Meat," Master crooned over and over again. "Meat, Meat, Meat, Meat, Meat," Master turned me around and patted my behind. "You'd better run along," Master said. "It wouldn't do to have the air hostesses spanking you for being late." 

From South Africa, Master brought back diamonds, biltong to feed me off the end of Master's cock, as well as peach brandy Master used to drink to my continued good health. My gift for Master was a beautifully balanced whip in black cowhide with gold thread braided into the handle, from a shop called Sarah Lashes. Master used it on me the night I returned.

On Master's birthday, I woke Master with a breakfast tray and a deep curtsey. In the corner, next to the toast, was a brightly wrapped oblong package that looked as if it might contain a ring, or perhaps a cigarette lighter.

"Master," I said, "I wanted to give you something wonderful for your birthday, but you're so much richer than I am. And, well, I thought I'd make you something." I smiled shyly. "And, well, anyway, here it is."

When Master took off the wrapping there was something soft inside, done up in greaseproof paper.

"What on earth is it?" Master asked.

"I've been keeping a little of my milk aside every day," I explained. "I took off the cream and churned it and, well, it is my butter."

"Your own breast butter?" Master asked with a smile.

"Yes, Master," I said, my heart full of love for Master, "I'm afraid it isn't very much."

"It's wonderful, Meat," Master reassuringly said. "That's the best birthday present anyone ever gave me." Master spread some on the toast and ate it, giving me a little to taste.



Mastering Submission Ch. 19



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

* * * 

I felt I looked stunning in an outfit by Nicole Farhi that I had chosen myself, and charged to Master at his request: wide-legged Capri pants, camisole, and long-sleeved cardigan with no buttons, all in matching grape coloured silk. It was the first time I had ever been seen by Master in trousers, of which I knew Master disapproved, but this was a very special occasion. My heart was thumping in my chest as I poured Master a glass of champagne. "You're not eating much," I said.

"No," Master admitted. "I'm not very hungry." Then Master gave me a brave grin and took a sip of wine. "Well, Meat, my sweet," Master told me, handing me an envelope. "Your year's contract is up. This is a cheque, drawn on my Swiss account for the balance of the money you owe. From tomorrow, you are free."

I raised my glass. "Thank you," I replied. "Thank you for mastering me. I'm sorry I was so expensive." I smiled. "You changed my life, you know. Before I met you, I enjoyed sex. But looking back, when I was lying there with a man cradled in my arms, thinking I was satisfied, there must have been something deep inside me asking, 'is that all there is?'"

"I want you to stay," Master said.

"I know," I replied.

"But you've made up your mind," Master responded.

"Yes," I confirmed.

"I could beat you into submission," Master said.

"But you won't," I replied with the assurance of my year's service to Master.

I knew Master had been thinking about this moment for a year, as had I. Still the power of my emotions took me by surprise. Although Master was behaving calmly, we both knew he felt he was about to lose a woman Master truly loved for the second time in his life. I knew Master likely was devastated, knowledge that was supported when Master lifted up his glass to shield his face from my eyes before saying, "You're right. I don't want you to go, but I won't punish you for going, or keep you against your will." Master was hiding his eyes, but there was no disguising what the lump in Master's throat was doing to his voice.

In the fantasy world we had built up together, Rebecca Parsons was Master's to do with what Master wanted, but in the real world, I was a career woman with a life of my own. Though the flat was crammed with chains, straps, and padlocks, we both knew Master would do nothing to stop me walking through the door.

Some time tomorrow morning, Master felt he would watch my fabulous arse walking away from him forever, and then Master would be on his own again.

Even though I knew how much Master felt he wanted me to stay, even after my contract was completed, I had no expectation that Master ever would grovel, fling himself on the floor, clasp my ankles and cry for me to stay. One of the lessons I had learned during my year of service to Master was that a master simply could not behave like that: a master who begs is no longer a master; a master who grovels loses the right even to remember that a woman was his slave. I was sure that, as Master sat quietly drinking his wine, his thoughts were racing. I believed Master was looking back over our year together, wondering if Master could have done anything better. Master rightly prides himself on being a skilled master, but Master accepted that there is never any way to tell how that skilled mastering is being received. Master knew he had kept me in service long enough to transform pain into pleasure, to turn my shame at being exposed and abused into pride in my own strength and tolerance. Despite that knowledge, I could see in Master's eyes the thoughts that, if Master had been kinder -- or if Master had been crueler -- would that difference have caused me to become addicted to Master's whips and chains, and caused me to have stayed with Master forever?

Master had taught me it was possible to reach orgasm through pain alone; Master had shown me how to let humiliation make me confident; Master had given me more pleasure and more fun than all the other men in my life put together. But both Master and I knew that, if there was to be any chance that some time in the future I would come back to Master, he had to let me go. 

Although Master had never talked to me at length about his experience with slaves before me, I knew that slaves had left Master before: when their jobs took them to other cities or other parts of the world; when they felt Master had taught them all they needed to know; when they fell in love with other masters. And I also knew that Master had thrown slaves out, sometimes brutally. Three of Master's slaves left because Master sold them for hard cash, and Master had been happy to see them go. But I knew that I was different -- and I believed that Master would regret losing me as his slave for the rest of Master's life -- but I was glad that Master and I were having the chance to say good-bye, to make love one last time.

Master tied me up, then, very tightly. Master roped my ankles to the tops of my thighs, and tied them together. Then Master tied my wrists together at the back of my neck, knowing that I was so supple this would only be mildly uncomfortable. Part of me wanted Master to carry me up to the Music Room and have a real go at me, sending me out into the world bruised and bleeding, but Master decided just to wrap some twine round my nipples and fuck me.

Well, not just fuck me. For the first time since we met, Master ate my pussy, slowly and lovingly, getting the smell of me deep in Master's soul, giving Master something to remember in the lonely evenings ahead. And Master slapped me about a bit while Master was fucking me; not hard, just enough to make me come. Even though Master knew it was our last night together, when with real affection Master untied me, Master tucked me into my little slave bed at the foot of Master's four-poster bed.

"Stay out of harm's way, won't you?" Master said tenderly.

"I will," I replied.

"I don't have any right to ask this, but I'd prefer it if you didn't let anybody else beat you," Master said.

I returned Master's gaze thoughtfully. "OK," I replied. "I won't. I can promise you that."

Master looked as though he did not know whether to be pleased with that reply or not.

As I drifted off to sleep, tucked up into my little bed, I thought of screaming while Sally's candle burned my tit. I remembered licking honey off Master's cock. I thought about the experience of being watched by Master whilst I maneuvered my arsehole onto a purple dildo jutting up from a dining room chair. I heard my voice counting the blows of a whip and thanking Master for each blow. I remembered smiling through a faceful of sperm. The memory of my beaten feet was so intense I only had to close my eyes to count the bruises. Memories I would take with me to the grave -- memories I knew Master shared and that Master planned to use to sustain him after I was gone.



Mastering Submission Ch. 20



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

I stood outside Master's flat at 6:15 a.m., knowing that Master still would be tucked up in his big bed, sleeping soundly, as he was when I quietly left his flat, just after midnight, leaving my little slave bed neatly made and empty for the first time in a year. I left behind all the beautiful clothes Master had bought for me (including the Donna Karan jacket he had replaced after slicing up the one I owned), and wondered if Master would notice or if he would just go about replacing me.

The doorbell rang for a minute, with no response, so I just kept applying my finger to the bell, ringing and ringing away, pressing my body up against the front door of the flat so that I could not be seen, should Master glance out of the windows.

I was not surprised that, after a year of not having to answer his own door, Master jerked the door open with anger, bellowing, "What the hell!" 

Once Master's eyes adjusted to the morning's brilliant sunlight, Master was able to see that, there on the pavement, I stood, my little Delsey suitcase on the pavement by my side, dressed in the same cheap fawn outfit I was wearing in that Underground train a year before. 

"Good Morning, Sir," I said with a curtsey. "I'm looking for work. Do you have any vacancies?"

Master paused for a moment, and replied, "As it happens, I do have a position for a whore."

"That sounds very interesting, Sir," I responded. "What does the work entail?"

"Being beaten, fucked and buggered," Master replied. "You'll have to give tongue baths and suck cock. And there will be a little light housework and groveling."

"I think I'll be able to manage that, Sir," I said.

"There are additional duties, too," Master continued. "You will be expected to love the master of the house with all your heart, and be loved by him in return."

Suddenly there were tears in my eyes, and my voice took on a strange quality. "How much will I earn?" I asked.

"Fuck all," Master replied. "Last year the job paid very well, but things are different now. You'll be expected to do all that for nothing but an occasional mouthful of sperm."

"Those terms are most generous, Sir," I said.

"You accept, then?" Master asked.

"Most gratefully and humbly, Sir," I replied. And this time, even though there were people about in the street on their way to work, I knelt down without being told to and kissed Master's bare feet.

Master looked down at me, and said, "You bitch! You decided all this long ago, didn't you?"

"Yes, Master," I admitted with a smile.

"I'll make you suffer for putting me through all that," Master promised.

"Oh, Master, I hope so," I replied.

And that is how it has been ever since. Each year on the morning of the second of November I knock on Master's front door and apply for my contract to be renewed. After a little ceremony, the words of which never change, Master drags me inside, and beats and fucks me. Then I sign a new contract, and another year of loving pain begins.

By this time, I thought I knew Master, and I thought Master knew me.

I was utterly wrong on both counts.

Master planned our evening so carefully, buying a luxurious but easy-to-prepare meal of dressed crab, ready-made salad, and a cream gateau, with pink champagne in the fridge. Master had Spohr's Clarinet Concerto, sophisticated, yet unfamiliar, playing quietly in the background throughout our lovely meal.

When I was sitting comfortably in the main room sipping after-dinner coffee, Master dropped on one knee and said, "Rebecca, I love you. Marry me."

I was startled enough to respond, "Don't be silly. Masters don't marry slaves." "They do," Master countered. "Fuckpuppet is married to Dave."

"Really?" I asked.

"I thought you knew," Master said. "They've got two kids."

"But how do they arrange," I began to ask.

"Dave is well-off, you know," Master said. "They've got a big house, and the main play room has one-way video links to both the kids' bedrooms. If either of them wakes up in the middle of a scene, they break it off at once."

"But those parties," I persisted.

"The kids sleep over with Fuckpuppet's parents," Master explained. "Not that Grandpa and Grandma know what's going on: they're just obliging. Several of the couples we see at parties are married." 

Master took my hand, and asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"About what?" I asked.

"About marrying me, of course," Master said. "Marry me and make me the happiest man on earth."

"How can you want to marry someone you despise?" I asked.

"I don't despise you at all," Master said.

"But you spit on me," I persisted.

"The fact that I beat you does not mean I do not respect you," Master said, with a look of puzzlement on his face. "Nothing could be further from the truth. It takes strength to accept pain and humiliation. The ability to wait patiently for a beating takes a rare kind of courage. If you can withstand a barrage of insults that would make me want to curl up and die, that just shows you are stronger than me. When you ask me to hurt you, it is because you are honest enough to admit what you want. I admire you. I envy you. I love you."

"That's nice," I said with a little sigh. "Marriage is a big step, though. I'll need time to think."

Master sipped his coffee, "How much thinking time will you need?" Master asked.

"I've thought," I said harshly, "And I'm sorry, Martin, but I cannot marry you." "'Cannot?'" Master exclaimed. "What do you mean, 'cannot'? Are you already married? Have you decided to become a nun? Has living with Sally turned you into a lesbian?"

"None of those things," I replied, "but I won't marry you."

"Why not?" Master asked.

"I can't tell you," I said; "I won't tell you."

"Tell me," Master ordered.

I bit my lip, and then replied, "No."

"That's not on," Master said. "When I laid down the rules at the beginning of all this, I made it clear that you had to be honest with me. A slave can put a stop to a relationship any time she wants, but she has to say why."

"Did you ask me to marry you as a slave, or as a woman?" I asked.

"Both," Master replied. "I want you to be my beautiful bondage bride. You don't have to accept, but if you don't, you must give me the reasons."

This edict was followed by a long pause. "No," I said, "I won't tell you."

"Explain, and I won't bother you again," Master insisted.

"Please, Martin, don't ask," I begged.

"But I love you," Master said desperately. "And you love me. I've heard you say so a dozen times."

"Only when I had your cock in my mouth," I said, "only when you were holding a whip."

"Tell me you don't love me then," Master ordered.

I did not reply.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Master's voice was growing shrill. "I laid down the rules for our relationship. You agreed they were fair, and you accepted them. And now you're going back on everything. Tell me why you won't marry me, or I'll beat you till your soul cries out for release."

I shook my head.

I cowered back as Master seemed to explode in white fury, shaking with rage.

"You bitch!" Master shouted, "you stupid, selfish bitch!" Master got to his feet and grabbed me by the hair, and forced me to the ground.

I screamed, and it was a new kind of sound: not a slave being taken to the limit of her endurance, but a woman in terror.

Master was deaf to my cries. Master dragged me towards the door on hands and knees. In my heart, I believed that Master knew what he was doing was wrong, and refusing to believe that Master was powerless to stop himself. I struggled, hanging onto doorframes and banisters as Master dragged me by brute strength up the stairs. Master went as fast as he could, bashing my knees on the stairs, driven on by the necessity of getting me into the soundproofed Music Room before the neighbors heard my yells for help.

Half a dozen pigeons on the windowsill outside the Music Room scattered as if afraid they might be hurt, too. Even as terrified as I was by the way Master was behaving, I took note that, outside, people were scurrying about, hats pulled down, umbrellas up, cars with wipers going, with no knowledge of this room or the terrible drama being acted out inside it.

"Please, Master," I begged. Don't, Martin. Please."

"Tell me what I want to know, or shut the fuck up," Master bellowed.

"Parsnips!" I shrieked, really frightened.

"Shut up, bitch!" Master hissed, "If you can break the rules, then so can I."

Master punched me in the solar plexus: my mouth gaped open, and my eyes stared forward in shock and surprise. For a minute I was too rigid to be moved, my arms and legs solid with paralysis. Master took the opportunity to buckle leather restraints round my wrists, then as life returned to my leaden limbs Master lifted me up and hung me from the hook in the ceiling. At least, Master managed to hang the left arm securely, but I was getting my breath back, and fought with all my strength to stop Master chaining up my right arm.

All my strength wasn't enough.

Master kicked the door closed and dragged the curtains across to blot out the normal world from view. Then Master turned the lights on full and looked at me. "This is your last chance," Master told me. "Answer my question, or take the consequences."

"Let me down, you bully," I gasped.

"Is that your answer?" Master asked.

"Parsnips," I said. "That's my answer." 

"Forget parsnips," Master said. "I am giving you a new safe word -- a whole lot of words. I will stop torturing you when you tell me why you will not marry me." Master stepped forward, and went on, "Don't make me hurt you, Rebecca. Tell me what I want to know."

I kicked Master in the balls.

Master staggered back into one of the vises on the bench by the window, and then sat down with a thud on the floor. Even before the noise of Master's arse hitting the floor had faded, I was saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again.

Master stood up, and said, "I don't mind you hurting me. Well, I do. But not as much as I mind you not saying why you won't marry me."

"It's none of your business," I said with resignation. 

Master knelt behind me and strapped my ankles to a spreader bar. Master took out his lock-back knife and cut the clothes off me, leaving them where they fell, then picked up a whip and lashed out at my arse.

When Master paused for breath, an agonizing, eternal fifteen minutes later, the whip was broken in his hand. Master discarded the whip, and then reached into the equipment case and took out his lock knife and held the blade to my right nipple.

"Tell me," Master insisted

"No," I replied.

Master held the knife to my throat, and repeated, "Tell me."

"No," I responded.

Master swapped the knife for a dressage whip, a truly awesome weapon that had no business ever coming near human skin. The other beatings Master had given me in this room were nothing to what I was getting now. It was not erotic whipping, it was just whipping. Master stepped forward, lashing my thighs, breaking my spirit. Half an hour later, Master was dripping with sweat, and the reflections in the mirrors throughout the room made my condition all too clear. My shoulders were covered in red and purple marks, my breasts criss-crossed with welts, the curves of my arse a horrible dimpled confusion of welts and bruises, oozing blood in a few places.

Master dropped the whip, took my face in his hands and kissed me, tasting tears.

"Tell me," Master begged me, desperate to avoid inflicting any more pain.

"All right," I said. "I give in.

Master could not do enough for me then. Master unhooked me and laid me gently on the floor, where he gathered me into his arms. As Master held my sobbing body, Master was crying, too.

Master unclipped my wrist and ankle straps, the skin beneath them pale and unbruised, like the marks left when you have been wearing a watch in the sun. They say there's nobody as kind as a good master. Well, Master had proved them wrong - his beating had spread onto the forbidden areas over the kidneys and the backs of the knees. 

"Tell me," Master said. Tender, but still insistent.

And it all came out.

"It's my brother," I began. "He died when I was nineteen, of Muscular Dystrophy. It's a terrible disease. Do you know anything about it?"

Master shook his head.

"It was dreadful," I went on. "It wasn't just what it did to Philip, it was how it affected Mom and Dad. They had to watch him getting worse day after day, having to get that wasted body into action every morning, knowing there was no hope."

Master took my hand.

"It was especially tough on Dad," I went on. "He put his heart and soul into it, collecting money for a special Muscular Dystrophy charity, organising holidays so Philip could see a bit of the world. I remember Dad taking us to Disney World, and the pilot letting us go onto the flight deck. They do that sort of thing when children are dying. After Philip died, Dad sort of lost the plot for a bit." 

I shuddered. "He had a stroke six weeks after the funeral. Only a small one, but he's never been the same. He came back from the hospital looking like somebody else altogether. He still does, a bit. He still sounds like my dad most of the time, but he drifts off sometimes when you're talking to him." I paused for a moment, lost in thought. "Anyway," I said, rousing myself, "when I was fourteen, the family doctor took me to one side and explained what it meant for me. The gene is carried in the female line. He didn't actually force me, but he made it pretty clear he thought I ought to be sterilised."

Sobs rocked my body, but whether I was crying for my brother, or my father, or just because Master had beaten me so incredibly hard, I could not say. 

"You didn't agree to sterilisation, though," Master said, prompting me to continue.

I shook my head. "I've always been interested in science, so I did some reading and found out what they were doing in gene therapy for inherited conditions. Every woman has a biological clock ticking, but for me there's a second clock to think about. There's a slight chance they might find a treatment before I'm too old to have children." I gave Master a sad smile. "They're taking their time, though."

"But you did not try for a career in science, hoping to find the treatment yourself?" Master prompted, putting the conversation back on track.

"I dreamed of being able to find a cure to the disease that killed my brother, but I just do not have that kind of brain. I know you think English literature is a silly career, but it is fascinating," and there was real fierceness in my voice. "I work terribly hard. I suppose knowing I would almost certainly never marry gave me an edge over the other students in my year: it made me more determined to make something of my life."

"But you can marry without having kids," Master said.

"I don't think so," I replied. "I think people who do not want children should just live together, and I've done that. I lived with a man - men. However, I think marriage is there to give children a proper home, with proper commitment from both parents. Otherwise, it is just a sham."

"What about adoption?" Master asked.

"That seems a bit of a sham, too," I answered. "A lot of adopted kids at school seemed very unhappy."

"Did you love the men you lived with?" Master inquired.

"I think so," I said. "I thought so at the time. But I always felt there was something missing. And when you came along and turned me into a slave, I found a new hope to cling to. I thought I might be able to have a really intense relationship without babies and without commitment. That is why I was happy to let Sally come and join us, to make sex more powerful without strengthening our emotional ties to one another. Everything has been so exciting." I gave a sigh of despair. "It was just what I wanted. And then you ruined it by asking me to marry you."

"It's not my fault," Master protested. "If you had not been so docile, and so fucking pretty, and if you didn't have the most beautiful arse of any woman in the world, I wouldn't have fallen for you. Anyway if you think there's no commitment in an S&M relationship, you haven't been paying attention. Dave would die for his Fuckpuppet, and she would die for him. They're good parents, too. And you remember that blonde being whipped by two black men at that party?"

"The sailors? How could I forget?" I asked.

"They're identical twins," Master said. "They fell for the same woman, and she fell for both of them and couldn't choose between them. They decided which one she would marry by tossing a coin. I am not denying they are perverts, but there is a lot of love there, too. It is really tough for them," Master added. "When they got together, both sets of parents were furious."

"I hadn't thought of that," I said.

"We are all human," Master said. "Though sometimes you mightn't think so when you're standing in the middle of a fancy dress party looking at all those masks and gags and chains. But whenever you see a woman being led round the room by her nipples or a man having his scrotum stapled to a bench, you're looking at a human being with parents, with opinions, ambitions, intelligence. You're looking at a skilled worker, a managing director, a mother, a son, a human being who just wants to get on with his or her life. Outside the S&M world, Bernadette and her two men get trouble from just about everyone. One of the men, Luke, was assaulted and blinded in one eye. They think it was a racist attack rather than prejudice against sadomasochism, but you can never tell for certain about things like that. It's hard enough to be born twisted, and difficult to love across race or class divides, but to find yourself in love with two people as well demands real courage. They had to move out of their house into a block of flats, the kind where nobody knows their neighbors. S&M parties are one of the few places the three of them can go together without people giving them strange looks, or picking a fight. When you've got a problem like they've got, the S&M scene can become your entire social life."

"What a sad story," I said. "And they seemed so happy."

"They are," Master replied. "And the rest of us bask in the glow of their happiness. But people are strange. Not everyone likes to see other people having a good time. Love and perversion strike wherever they want to. If you love somebody, or if you're a born slave, then choice doesn't come into it. Bernadette and her two men are happy together. And that ought to be enough." "How come you know so much about them?" I asked.

"Bernadette is a dancer," Master replied. "I used her in a pop video we made for one of my groups. We recognised one another from the parties we've been to, and got chatting between takes. She's really nice. She says her men are so similar, it's like being in love with only one person."

"I expect it's more tiring," said I thoughtfully. "They've got wonderful bodies, all three of them."

"Yes," Master agreed. "I once saw them putting on a sandwich-fuck at a party. People having sex can look ridiculous, but they made a kind of black-and-white poetry. It looked wonderful."

"I expect it was," I mused. "All three are beautiful in their own way." I sighed. "Imagine finding not just one master, but two."




Mastering Submission Ch. 20



Master laughed. "You think you could take on both of them?"

"I might," I said.

"I could arrange a slave-swap," Master said.

"Oh," I said with alarm.

"Thinking of chickening out?" Master teased. "Beware of your fantasies, my little slut. I'm the kind of man who can make almost any dream come true."

"Bernadette can take a lot of punishment," I said.

"Only from them," Master replied. "I don't fully understand it. Some slaves lap up pain; after being broken in they spend their whole lives searching for more. But for some, like Bernadette, it's an expression of a particular relationship. She's never had S&M sex with anybody but those two men and I bet if anything happened to split them up she wouldn't turn up on the club circuit. She'd live alone, or find a straight man somewhere and live a normal life. But I've seen her so black and blue she was nearly as dark as her masters."

"I'd be like that," I said. "I wouldn't want anybody to beat me but you."

"That's because you love me," Master said triumphantly, "Every bit as much as I love you."

"No, I don't," I replied, peevishly.

"Yes, you do, you lying bitch," Master insisted. "And I still want to marry you, whether we have children or not. But I wish I hadn't beaten you without permission. That was unforgivable."

"No, it wasn't, Master," I said sincerely. "I forgive you. You were right to beat me. Thank you for beating the truth out of me." 



Mastering Submission Ch. 21



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

* 

Two weeks later the bruises were fading nicely. When I got home from lecturing that Thursday evening, Master wasn't there. But there was a note stuck to the mirror in the hall:

"Useless slave, tonight you're going to be a very popular girl. But you will be perfectly safe. By seven o'clock, you must be in the main bedroom, stark naked. You will find a blindfold and a gag on the bed. Put them on, and then bend over the chair with your arse towards the window and wait. No matter what happens to you, you are not to let go of the chair or to remove the blindfold. You will be fucked. If you don't want it to hurt, make sure your cunt is wet and ready for penetration. After a while, an alarm clock will go off. When that happens, remove the blindfold. You will find further written instructions on the bed."

Absolutely mystified, but trusting in Master's assurances that I would be safe, I followed his instructions carefully, fully anticipating that, at any moment, Master would suddenly appear and explain everything. 

I had held the position Master had specified for about twenty minutes before anything happened, and what happened had me turning my head, trying to hear as clearly as possible what was happening in the room since I could not see anything through the blindfold. I heard the sound of furniture being moved, and listened intently, every nerve straining, trying to work out what was going on around me, not daring to take off the blindfold.

I jumped at the first touch, and then calmed down as a hand ran gently the length of my spine. Other hands joined in, running up and down the insides of my thighs, cupping my breasts, trailing across my belly and caressing the nape of my neck. At this point, the only sounds were my soft moans.

I barely winced when my nipples were clamped, and kept silent when a whip struck the first blow, trust overriding fear. As the blows increased in ferocity, I was sure my knuckles on the back of the chair whitened due to the tightness of my hold, but I didn't move. A tear trickled down my left cheek from under the blindfold, and was tenderly licked away. An unfamiliar whip swung upwards at my belly and the undersides of my breasts. While I was getting used to that, what felt like a riding crop began to slash at my calves. Then a third whip joined in, this was a broad leather tongue, applied to both my shoulders. Before I had time to get used to this symphony of pain everything became gentle: a feather traced its way up the inside of my left leg; a hand in a fur glove caressed my back; soft lips kissed my forehead. A broad tongue forced my teeth apart and plunged in, licking my palate, raping my mouth. Then another person kissed me: softer, but just as deep. Then a man with a beard kissed me.

Whips lashed at me from left and right. Strange textures I never had felt before whispered across my skin. I planted my feet more firmly on the bedroom carpet and prepared myself to be fucked. A finger entered my cunt, then another, then another, stretching it open. I was, as requested, already wet so all the objects that were shoved inside slid home smoothly, even the very big ones.

The first time the gag came off, I asked: "Master? What's happening?"

"Shut up," Master told me. "And put up with it." The gag was replaced by a condom-covered cock, which I compliantly sucked. Then I was gagged again. And then that gag was replaced by a naked cock, then with a dildo, and then with a different gag. Every time something hard touched my lips I opened my mouth dutifully. I reached orgasm three times, but still maintained my grip on the back of the chair. When a fourth orgasm brought me to my knees, I was beaten back to my feet.

Then I was left to myself, conscious only of my own breathing, and then it started up all over again.

The occasion was rounded off with a dildo-fucking up the arse, so vigorous the chair moved in jerks across the carpet, followed by a caning that took my breath away. 

Then there was nothing. I was left alone again, in a room that now stank of male sweat and cunt. What seemed an age later, an alarm clock went off. Continuing to follow the instructions I had been given, I removed the gag and blindfold, and found a note on the bed that said: "Clean yourself up, put your clothes on and come down to the main room. Never, ever, talk about this."

Ten minutes later, I knocked on the door and Master called out: "Come in." 

I breezed into the main room, feeling and looking gorgeous. I had done a hurried job of cleaning myself up, but I knew Master loves seeing me with a "raped-and-repaired" look. My floating progress into the room was halted as I appreciated that Master and I were not alone. I froze, and then glanced round the room slowly. When the other occupants of the room looked back at me curiously, I blushed and looked down. Mandy (the vocalist and bass guitarist of the pop music group Master recently had signed to represent, who I recognized from the publicity photos Master had shared with me weeks before) seemed to stare at me with an especially keen interest.

"Hi, Darling," Master said. "You remember 'Satan Wept,' one of those groups I manage. We're listening to a remix of one of their numbers. Could you get some beers?" I nodded in recognition: Master had spanked me many times to the sound of their records.

Master had talked to me quite a bit about this group since his association with them began after I had started my first year's contract in Master's service. Master explained that the five members of the group are actually pleasant middle-class teenagers from a picturesque rural town, despite the fact that they style themselves to look like a gang of terrorists taking a break between massacres, and they speak with rough big city accents. They're not the most skilled musicians in the world, but they earn good money for Master and they certainly look the part. 

When I returned, I almost (but not quite) curtsied as I handed the drinks round. When I got to Stan, the fat, bearded, sweaty drummer, I knew Master could see that my hands were trembling. Then I stood quietly as we listened to the tape, my eyes drawn to the musicians. All those times when I had worn a blindfold for Master were racing through my mind. From now on, whenever I addressed a room full of young people, I would wonder what it would be like to be fucked and beaten by them all. 

The moment the musicians left, I knelt at Master's feet and said, "Permission to speak, Master?" 

"You're going to ask me about what happened upstairs, aren't you?" Master asked. I nodded. 

"And what did it say on that note?" Master inquired. 

"That I wasn't to talk about it, Master," I responded. 

"Then shut the fuck up, Meat, there's a good girl," Master instructed. 

"Yes, Master. Sorry, Master," I said. 

"That's better," Master said. "What I decide to do with your cunt is none of your business." 

I remained on my knees, silently replaying in my mind the events I'd experienced whilst blindfolded and gagged earlier, trying to place the musicians who were waiting in the front room into the roles of the people who had used me under Master's supervision. After an hour or so of companionable silence, Master leaned forward and softly kissed my forehead before assisting me to sit next to him. 

Master held my hand in his, and quietly said, "In these days of incurable diseases, I would never allow you to be gang-banged, least of all by one of the rock groups in my stable. They wouldn't be so eager to take my advice and pay me my ten percent if I let them fuck my woman." 

I was taken aback by this revelation, although relieved to have the reassurance that Master's care had been there when I was defenseless, blind, and unable to speak out in my own defense. But then I realized that now I was back to not having even the slightest clue about who had taken part in the blindfolded interlude that Master had arranged for me earlier in the day. 

The following Saturday we were driving home from one of Dave and Fuckpuppet's parties, not a fancy dress one, a savagely physical session in which I had come in second in a weight-lifting competition (all the female slaves raising increasingly heavy weights attached to their nipples). To round off the evening, we'd stood round watching Fuckpuppet being thrashed non-stop for over an hour, no restraints, no gag, no spreading the pain across the body; just a naked woman bending over a dining room table and being beaten on till her skin was a mass of welts, and everyone in the audience was shaking with the sheer intensity of the scene.

"Master?" I asked.

"Yes, bitch," Master replied, his voice full of love. 

"Master, about you wanting to marry me," I began. 

"Yes?" Master calmly prompted.

"Well, you see, Master, it's a big step," I said. 

"Go on," Master encouraged. 

"Much bigger than deciding to let you fuck me up the arse, or agreeing to be your slave for a year," I explained. 

"Yes," Master replied. "I can see that." 

"Well, what I'm thinking is that the reason I can't decide whether to marry you or not is because I don't know anything about you," I said. 

Master continued to drive quickly and carefully down the highway, but his breathing deepened and quickened. Although his driving claimed the majority of his attention, Master continued to flick glances my way, almost as if he were reminding himself of things about me that had been forgotten during our time together. Finally, after taking a deep breath, Master began to respond to my comment. 

"I found out many years ago that you can get on with a woman without putting much of yourself into the relationship," Master said. "You simply listen to her talking, listen to her scream, playing her like a musical instrument. And for a lot of women, that's enough." 

I maintained my silence, hoping it would encourage Master to continue his explanation. 

"You are like that, but only up to a point. You enjoy basking in the warmth of my attention, in the agonizing heat of my attention, but you also are interested in me. No wonder I love you so much."

At that, I had to say, "And I love you, too, Master." 

And there, as we continued speeding along the highway at half past one in the morning, we had the kind of conversation most couples go through on their first date. Master told me about his years at school, including funny stories about the rock group in which he played bass guitar. After school, Master went to art school where he spent a year learning that he preferred a place out of the limelight. The time spent in art school gave Master the tools to pave the way for other people to make hits, and to design T-shirts and produce advertising to make those hits bigger. 

Going back to his beginning, Master then told me about his parents: how his father escaped from Hungary during the rising in the Fifties, and changed his name from Schartner to Sharpe when given British nationality. Master related how he had gone on his own back to Budapest to visit relatives with whom he spoke in his schoolboy German, making his own connections to his family roots. And, after the fall of the Berlin Wall, Master went back again to start a radio station there with his distant cousin. 

Having covered the facts and background of his life and family, Master began to relate stories to fill me in on his early explorations of love and sex. Master said that normal sex always seemed numbing to him. He discovered S&M through books: the Marquis de Sade and The Story of O. Master believed such things, exciting and engaging to him as they were when he read about them, only happened in fiction, in books, and in the imagination. Then there was the Easter weekend in a woodland cottage with a girl who, too shy to ask for what she wanted, nonetheless wanted it enough to cut, trim and hand Master a birch switch -- and made Master see that the things that he wanted and needed weren't limited to the imagination. 

"Did you ask any of your other slaves to marry you?" I asked. 

Master drove on in silence for a moment. "I was married," Master replied. 

"Tell me about it," I asked. 

"Her name was Elizabeth," Master said. "I called her the Red Cow, because of the colour of her hair, and her docility."

"What happened to her?" I inquired.

"She died," Master responded. 

I was silent for a moment. "If this is too painful for you," I began. 

"It's in the past," Master said. "It took a long time, but I got over it." By now we'd arrived in our street. Master parked the car in silence and we made our way home. 

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," I insisted. 

"We shouldn't have secrets," Master replied. "Make some coffee and I'll tell you about it." 

I came into the main room carrying two mugs and looking concerned. "The Red Cow was killed in a train smash," Master began. "It was six weeks after we'd discovered she was pregnant. One of the nurses she'd worked with was married and had a kid, and got ill. Elizabeth took a week off work and went down to help." 

I could see from Master's face, and hear in his voice that talking about it brought it all back. 

"I blamed myself for a long time," Master continued. "I was always interfering in her life, trying to make things better, or more interesting, or more painful." I smiled gently. "She didn't drive, and I wanted to take her, but she insisted on going by train. So I made her go first class, because I could afford it. That's why she was at the front of the train, and that's why she died." 

I touched Master's arm. 

"I was on the rack for months afterwards," Master went on, "my days empty, my evenings lonely, my dreams filled with images of freckles stark against my wife's lifeless skin. Months later, when the power of the pain had died down, the loss stayed with me. No matter where I was or what I was doing, it was as if tears were flowing down the insides of my cheeks." 

"If it hadn't been for meeting you, I'd have been like that for the rest of my life," Master concluded. 

We slept in the same bed that night, cradled in each other's arms, the first and last time I spent the whole night in Master's big four-poster bed. 

"Can I visit some of your businesses?" I asked Master the following morning. 

"Of course," Master replied. "As it's the university vacation you can start now. I have to drop in to the design studio tomorrow anyway. And we'll be mixing a new CD for one of my groups on Thursday. Have you been to Budapest?" 

"No," I said. 

"It's great. We'll go to the radio station, and you can meet my family," Master enthused. 

Although I expected to be a bit intimidated and uncertain in exploring the far-flung business empire Master managed, but it turned out the trip was much less difficult than I anticipated. Years of academia had trained me to meet strangers well, and helped me exercise charm with Master's employees. Master gave me access to his business records, and even listened when I made a suggestion that I thought might improve the traffic control of design jobs as they went through the studio. 

It was strange dealing with Master as an equal, and even weirder knowing that this was an opportunity when we both were aware that I was in a position to judge Master, evaluating his suitability as my life partner. Master showed me all the treasures Master had amassed: the design awards, the records that had reached the top fifty, and the top twenty, and the one that had reached number four, and Master did all of this with courtesy and patience. But I knew Master hated it. Master prefers to be the one that does the judging. 

Although I knew Master was uncomfortable, I wouldn't let Master off the hook. If pressed for a decision, I always gave Master the same reply, "I'll let you know by Christmas." 

To make up for treating me as an equal in real life, and pay me back for making Master wait for a decision about marrying him, Master beat me harder than ever when we were at home, anxious to regain in the arena of sex the dominance Master had given up in our day-to-day lives.



Mastering Submission Ch. 22



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be. 

*

Although I had yet to decide whether I would consent to marry Master, I was determined to win first prize at Dave and Fuckpuppet's December fancy dress party. As Master typically felt only first prize was worth winning, both Master and I set about ensuring a spectacular entry with a vengeance. 

Master bought me a pair of white ballet slippers and a little ballerina's tutu that sat high on my hips without obscuring the view of my buttocks or my minge hair, which at that time happened to be a neatly trimmed triangle (need I add that the trimming had been neatly done by Master with his lock-back knife?).

Master also bought me white holdup stockings by Jonathan Aston that had a slight silver sheen, and I made myself a pair of wings from cheesecloth and wire. My undergraduate courses in literature had brought me into the theatre, and I was always more comfortable backstage, working on props and costumes or running lights, than trying to perform for an audience. You just never know what experiences will be important in life, so it is best to plunge in fully and accumulate all the knowledge and skills possible along the way.

Master bought a brooch from Butler & Wilson that went with the tiara he had bought for me so long ago. Master attached the brooch to a slender chrome-plated pole to make a wand.

The final touch was an artificial fir tree chosen for its lightness and sturdiness. Master decorated it with tinsel, glass balls and little pieces of polystyrene foam wrapped in coloured paper to look like Christmas gifts. Then Master added a chain of blinking lights that were also very light in weight, with light-emitting diodes instead of bulbs, powered by small batteries hidden inside the empty plastic flowerpot at the base of the trunk.

On the topmost branch of the tree, Master glued a waisted butt plug Master bought from a sex shop during one of Master's out-of-town trips. We carried the whole thing carefully to Dave and Fuckpuppet's party in a box.

When we got inside, Master took my coat off and stuck the wings to my back with gum arabic. Then Master sprayed glue on my tits, arse and pubic patch, which Master then liberally dusted with glitter.

Master put the tiara on my head and the wand in my hand before ordering me to bend over. Once I was in position, Master greased up the butt plug and shoved it up my arsehole. Master turned on the little twinkling lights and I entered the competition as the fairy on the top of the Christmas tree.

As I moved round the party, I was struck by a weird feeling -- I felt as though, despite the fact that I was walking round naked with a Christmas tree stuck up my anus, I was moving like a dancer and acting like a lady. Of course, this introspective moment was lost when, to ensure our chances of winning, Master joined me and began to beat my tits with a holly branch. As distracting as the rhythmic taps of the pointy holly leaves were, making my tour around the room even more difficult, Fuckpuppet later assured me that Master's addition of the holly to our scene was the final touch that cinched the win for us.

"What do you want for Christmas?" I asked Master in the car on the way home, with the first place prize on my knee. It was a beautiful leather harness, hand-made by Dave, and I knew I was going to look lovely wearing it.

"You know what I want," Master replied.

I shot Master a puzzled glance as I said, "I don't, Master, honestly. Tell me what you want for Christmas, and if I can possibly afford it I'll give it to you."

Master hesitated. "The only thing I really want," Master said, "is for you to marry me."

"OK," I said simply. "I will do it. I will be your wife, as long as I can also be your slave. I will be everything you want in a woman. I will do anything you ask, no matter how disgusting or perverted."

Master stopped the car at the side of the road. At this point the story gets alarmingly sentimental, so the next (and final) chapter will fast forward past Christmas itself, and past the turning of the New Year that we celebrated in Hungary an hour earlier than most of our friends, drinking schnapps rather than spanking buttocks.



Mastering Submission Ch. 23



In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.

*

We had a wonderful April wedding in my home village church, with my beaming parents in attendance. After finding their shared music interests, my father was thrilled to be giving me away to Master. The rest of my family, who had not met Master before, was impressed by his manners and his appearance, both of which were impeccable. 

Apart from Master's cousin Antal and his family, as well as the other members of Master's family from Budapest, the guests on the groom's side were all perverts who behaved themselves impeccably. Although the locals cast many a questioning glance at the groom's side of the church, taking in the "sophisticated" and very interesting fashion looks that were modeled by the groom's friends, everyone's primary focus was on the ceremony and the joy of the celebration Master was hosting with his usual flair.

None of the wedding guests was given an opportunity to inventory our wedding gifts, as sometimes is the fashion. That was not just because both Master and I were private people, but also because as well as toasters, china, and linen, the wedding gifts included a tongue depressor, a speculum, and a metal cage just big enough to contain a Ph.D. graduate with a taste for restraint.

All the guests enjoyed our champagne reception, with one of Master's more conservative bands providing music for dancing that kept the dance floor jammed with couples having a terrific time. Finally, after the toasts had been concluded, the generous dinner of lobster and steak (with not a parsnip in sight) had been consumed, and the cake had been cut, the reception was drawing to a close. 

When I slipped out of the reception to go upstairs to change, Master soon followed behind me. Once inside the changing room, Master shouted, "You two, out!" And my bridesmaids whirled round, terrified.

"Out!" Master repeated, and they fled. Master locked the door.

I looked down at my dove grey going-away suit, and hoped Master would exercise restraint, but stood, eyes downcast, waiting for and accepting what would come. Master didn't tear the suit off. Master simply motioned for me to kneel in front of him. Once I was in position, Master took some plastic straps from his pocket and fastened each of my ankles to the opposite wrist behind my back.

Master unzipped his fly.

Master's cock pulsed a hair's breadth from my lips. "Say it," Master ordered. "Say it without a cock in your mouth. Say it and mean it."

"I love you," I said.

"Say it again," Master ordered.

"I love you," I repeated, although this time the words were indistinct, formed round a hard gag of flesh.

"Now, hold still, bitch-bride," Master said, smiling. "I'm going to fuck your mouth till your teeth ache."

We went downstairs to discover that none of our straight guests seemed to have noticed anything, though Fuckpuppet gave us a funny look. We were showered with confetti as we got into Master's Mercedes, and then I settled back in the passenger seat with a sigh.

I had left all the arrangements for the honeymoon to Master. All Master had told me was that I should pack light clothes and a passport. Although I had followed that instruction, it would turn out that I would not need anything I had put inside the brand-new Louis Vuitton case nestling in the boot of the car. The only thing I wore during our honeymoon was the beautiful harness I had won at the fancy dress party. 

Master had secured accommodations for us for our honeymoon trip at an exclusive club in the country that had been one of England's stately homes. I would spend the next two weeks pulling Master round the estate in a neat little two-wheeled sulky. During these drives, Master would lend me his lock-back knife to cut birches from the hedgerows for Master to beat my arse with. And night after night I joined the other slaves, chained and blindfolded in the Banqueting Hall, listening to one another's screams.

Those runs round the grounds, lifting my knees and tossing the plumes of my headdress, would be the next steps in the long journey we were taking together, a journey that began so long ago with a teary ride on the subway.

THE END