Unintended Consequences

 

***

 

Anne Marie’s skin was covered in goose bumps.  My gloves back on again, I pulled an old army blanket out of a box of stuff I'd bought at an army surplus store and draped it over Anne Marie's shaking shoulders.  After I'd put a towel over her seat and guided her into the car, I drove thirty miles back towards where I'd requisitioned the young beauty and finally dropped her off on the side of a deserted country road.  I watched her walk blindly, unsteadily down the gravel road towards freedom, wearing nothing but the blanket, duct tape and high heels.  On my way back, I threw away the roll of duct tape, the plastic over the seat, the gloves, the towel and all of her ripped and torn clothes at different locations.  Home scott free once again.

 

When I walked back into the White Room, I could tell by the humid atmosphere that Rebecca had taken a long shower.  She was standing in a submissive position with her head down.  Her hair was coiffed and she was wearing a dark blue baby doll nightgown with strappy navy-colored sandals that had four-inch stiletto heels.  As usual, the heels only emphasized legs that were already gorgeous.  To my disappointment, there were no stockings, but DAMN!! did she look good.  Her extremely shapely legs looked baby smooth and they glowed in the soft light with the lotion she'd applied. 

 

Finally, she raised her face to look at me.  She’d changed somehow; suddenly, I knew she was looking at me with what I call Deep South eyes, eyes that hinted at how the weight of her body would feel as she moved willingly on me.  Her makeup had been expertly applied and she slowly began to move towards me, looking glossy and ripe, open and susceptible.  She gave me a small, tentative smile and a smile lit her face; she had the fullest, most sensual lips I’d ever seen.  Those eyes……

 

There are certain rare people who are born with a pheromone signature so potent that even in a crowded room, every member of the opposite sex is aware when they enter or exit.  Sensuality has always been more subtle than sexuality; beauty more complicated than bone structure, elastic skin and an assemblage of hydrated cells.  With certain women, their beauty never died.  This woman was like that.  None of my temporary women had ever had the haunting beauty of Rebecca. 

 

She didn’t wear bottoms and as she moved, her shaved mons veneris was sometimes visible through the gown that was tied shut with just one bow over her chained breasts.  There was new matching polish on her finger nails and toe nails that almost seemed to match the color on her swollen lips.  She looked soft and submissive, and feminine everywhere.  She wore the leather slave collar and when she looked up at me I could see that she'd inserted the nose ring back between her nostrils.  As she moved closer, I could see that she'd also voluntarily donned the painful nipple wires that I knew she hated. 

 

 

Chapter 30: In the battle of the sexes, woman gains her greatest victory by surrendering; Unknown Source.

 

I had taken my shower and was now ready to face Master.  I was clean on the outside but still felt terribly dirty inside.  I wasn't naive, but knew I would never know cleanliness of the soul again.  I felt uprooted.  It had taken me an hour to gather my courage, but now I was steeled to my fate.  I knew he would take me and hurt me.  But I also knew I deserved it and was now emotionally prepared to accept his discipline for as long as he desired; I'd rather that it happened to me than to another innocent.  But surprisingly, he was very gentle when he returned.  After looking at me for almost a minute with a strange expression on his face, he kissed me on the forehead and moved me into his bedroom, and from there into the kitchen where he began to fix both of us a light meal.  I had no appetite, but sat on a stool although the hard wooden surface hurt me terribly between my legs.  And even though I knew he would punish me for my insolence, I had to say something to him.

 

I didn't know what to say, what I would do when the reality of my new life finally hit me.  I had to force myself to go forward.  At the moment, there was only a sudden blankness in my heart, like some part of myself had been taken, torn away so fast that I didn't know what to feel.  It would come eventually, searing, burning, scarring, but right now there was a hole, a void, albeit one which would eventually overflow with feeling. 

 

But how would I deal with the business of life?  Right now, I felt I would never get to the point, the moment where I could think normally about my life again, without thinking about the man who had taken everything away from me.  I looked down at my chest and thought about the thick metal rings that pierced my breasts, all hidden under the skimpy, sheer top.  I reached up and tentatively touched the ring that hung from my nose and I thought about the small brand on the inside of my thigh that only now was finally healed.

 

I started my explanation, then had to stop for a second.  My voice was still an unattractive hoarse croak from last night, my throat still sore from spasms caused by their deep thrusts banging on and bruising my vocal chords.  I swallowed and began again.

 

"Master, I swear I will never disappoint you again.  It was my fault that you needed....that you needed a new woman tonight, and I'll never do that again.  But please don't make me help you like that---I beg you.  I think....I think....the memories might drive me insane.  I couldn't handle doing it again.   And you'll never NEED another woman again as long as you have me.  You've taken me and I'm yours.  I finally realize that now.  I swear, you'll never need another woman as long as you have me.  I'll keep myself attractive and in shape for you.  You can do anything that you want and I won't complain or make a sound, I promise.  Just use me, not other women.  And when you've finished and I've recovered, you can do it to me all over again---as much as you want.  Master, I beg you, please, just no more new women.  Not because I'm jealous, but I just can't stand seeing others hurt like that."  I was crying at the end, I couldn't stop myself now.

 

There was no expression on his face as he looked at me and I knew that I would be fiercely punished tonight.  Quietly, he asked me, “How can I trust you?  I think this is just another tricky way that you think you might get your freedom back.”

 

My heart was beating so hard I thought it might damage my chest and I was crying openly now.  “The police have a warrant for my arrest.  My husband and family have disowned me.  And I am publicly branded a sex offender.  I have no home, no money, nothing left for me on the outside and no where to go.  What would I do if I left here?”

 

He remained silent for another minute, then asked in a soft voice, “You would sacrifice yourself and any remaining chance of freedom for women you don't even know?”

 

I couldn't speak at the moment, so could only nod my head in agreement. 

 

“Do you really understand what you are offering me?”

 

I nodded again.

 

He just looked at me for a second, then came around and hugged me.  I was confused.  I didn't know what to do or how to react to this new person.  This person was more like the man that I had first known than the man I'd been taught to call Master.  He talked to me and I stuttered a few incoherent answers.  Confused, I finally gained enough confidence to begin answering his questions and even talk to him a little while I picked at the food he offered.

 

He ensured I understood that I was always partially, if not totally responsible for what he did both to me and to others when he did not have me around to soak up his pain and hurt.  I hated this responsibility.  I felt branded by my guilt in what we'd done together, what I'd done with him and for him at the end.  I felt shamed by what I had done.  I prayed that no one would ever discover my complicity in his life-style, in hurting that girl.

 

Master told me that he was sure I had still lied to him even when he first tortured me---he used the word compelled, but it was the same thing.  He felt certain of my lies.  But he also said that he knew I was much too smart to base elaborate lies on a flimsy structures of truth.  He assumed he'd know my reasons and my hidden truths soon enough.  So I gave him the final, tiny little details that allowed him to flesh out the whole picture of my humiliation and subjugation, the last few details that changed his picture of me from black and white to Technicolor. 

 

As I talked about what I had done with my students, I told him that women who are considered beautiful learn how to hide their secrets very early in life.  How I'd walked into  rooms of men where I felt like I was the bulls-eye behind every lie.  Could he, I asked him, imagine what it's like to be pursued relentlessly---to have your every move watched by men who want more than your body, they want to possess you, even your most private thoughts.  He dryly laughed in total understanding---of the men's point of view. 

 

I blushed in my stupidity, but earnestly still tried to tell him how no woman could live up to the expectation of that kind of beauty.  To choose a partner on my own terms---that was freedom.  Enjoy sex because I wanted it and the way I wanted it, that was the allure.  I had finally discovered that sex on my own terms was healthy, it changed my brain chemistry, kept me young inside.  But it had a price; my husband.  Men can forgive a women everything but two sin's; unfaithfulness and aging. 

 

I blushed as I began to talk about my husband.  Master thought I still had feelings for this man and this seemed to anger Master at first, but soon he listened intently.  I could never had said this to Master before, but even though I knew my marriage was over, I told him now how had I always at first secretly hoped that my husband could save me.  But tonight, for the first time I told him I knew this for the fantasy it was. 

 

I looked down at my bare legs and told Master I didn't want or need to be saved anymore.  As I spoke, I concentrated on the feeling of cold wood against my still aching bare bottom and vagina; the painful pinch of the taut wire loops around my nipples as they pulled my breasts together; all of these truly convinced me that I belonged to this man now.

 

***

 

I truly believe that that night was the night that Rebecca, the Independent Woman, was finally broken.  She had begun to care for me earlier, but has still fought her emotions.  But this was the night she lost all will to continue fighting me, or any other man for that matter.  Before this, I suddenly realized that there had always been an edge to her eyes, a dangerous awareness I had not at first appreciated.  But now it was gone, and I realized how untamed she'd been right up to the night I forced her to be my whore.  And now that edgy, watchful feeling seemed gone.  Left in its place was a woman-child broken on the inside, a soft, vulnerable female whose only fear was that she might be unable to please me enough....and through these actions ensure that every other female avoided what she had chosen to accept voluntarily, alone, as I satisfied my needs.

 

I got to thinking about Rebecca and suddenly realized that I liked the way she looked now, the way her skin felt, the way she smiled in those small moments when I allowed her to be happy.  At the same time, she needed to believe I was worth her sacrifice.  Her eyes continually searched mine.  She was a woman who’d been stared at by men her whole life in the same way, I suddenly realized, in exactly the way I’d been staring, so she knew when men were lying.

 

Unsurprisingly, at the end it had become critically important to really understand her.  To break through the resistance and silence; a man needed to understand Rebecca before breaking her.  And so I'd knotted the rope around myself and started down into the pit that made her what she was.  And in the end, I'd succeeded.  I'd pursued the internal Rebecca with a cold and silent passion.  I'd found that she was a complicated woman, her mind a strange and fascinating mixture of order and chaos.  My final understanding of Rebecca had helped us both achieve what had been fore-ordained all along.  When the defensive structures that represented to Rebecca the values and outlines of her previous existence, when these artificial rules and boundaries had finally been broken, it had been like the powerful roar of a weakened dam breached at last as all defenses crumbled and everything I'd been teaching her fell suddenly into place.  She'd finally, and almost seamlessly, integrated herself into the new role she would play in my life.  I had no doubt that I'd been meant to train Rebecca for her role in my life from the day she'd been born. 

 

I leaned over the counter and took both of her hands into mine.  I caught a scent; the faintest hint of feminine muskiness mixed with some subtle perfume.  The effect brought catnip to mind, and I found my eyes drawn down the curve of her cheek to the fullness of her lips.

 

“Rebecca,” I said, uttering her given name aloud for the first time since she'd been forced to accept the collar.  “I don't want any misconceptions between us.  No more lies, no more half-truths, no more truths left unsaid.”

 

I hesitated for a second; going through with this was rougher than I had thought it would be.  “I raped a young girl here tonight.  When I hurt, I want to hurt others.  I've been trained to manipulate people and then break them.  I'm good at it, I enjoy it and I don't want to stop.  That's what I am.”  I had come perilously close to the truth with her.

 

“And you, Rebecca.  I have a tape of you last night.  Rebecca, last night you willingly fucked at least ten men.  It might have gone further than you wanted, but at the end, you were a willing whore enjoying herself last night.”

 

She shook her head wildly in denial, her eyes filling.  “The ginger,” she croaked, “it....”

 

“The ginger,” I interrupted her protests, “may have pushed you past your initial inhibitions.  But what you did, it's in your character.  And once you were where you were with the ginger, the rest came naturally with those boys last night---that was the real you at the end, that was your true nature.”

 

She shook her head no, violently, silently.  But I continued, implacable in my beliefs and determination.

 

"You've always been a cunt to men.  I guess it's the way you learned to cope with your sexuality as a young girl.  And as an adult, you chose to be a slut---for reasons which only you know.  But last night, you were a whore.  All of these things, all these types of women are different...you know they are.  And you know that inside, deep inside, you look at yourself as a whore now.  The first part of last night may have started out with you a slutty, yet unwilling participant; but in your heart, deep inside that part of you that we all try to hide from ourselves, you KNOW you wanted it, that you enjoyed it way too much at the end.  And the worst part is now is the truth; you've discovered that you've always been this way.”  

 

“But, you see, here's the difference between before and your new reality now.  You're MY whore now.  You'll be making me happy.  You'll be satisfying my needs alone and I'll be satisfying your needs from now on.  You'll never have to whore like that again, you'll never be ALLOWED to do that again, unless you need to be punished.  But if I do choose to whore you out again, then you'll do it because I want you to and not because you've chosen to do it.  You see, that's the whole thing now; you belong to me and it's me that's responsible for anything you do now.  Do you finally begin to understand that there are NO boundaries that control what I do with you, what I can make you do, other than my desires and what I feel like doing?"

 

I continued holding her hands while we talked. 

 

“You hated it at first when I first took you; you felt you had to have your freedom back.  But given your nature, the best you could have ever hoped for was perhaps a more camouflaged form of imprisonment than you have here.  Freedom?  Perhaps sometime in your past, but not now.”

 

She sat in silence.

 

“I long ago learned that everything is relative.  Everything is temporary, and everything is mutable.  Perhaps that's why I've searched for stability.”

 

“You?” she asked in surprise.

 

“What's wrong, woman?  Can't you believe that someone like me is human?  I'm not as bad as you seem to think.”

 

She was silent because I'd caught her in her thoughts.

 

“There's always an explanation for what we do and what we are,” I continued.  “And, if you don't believe me, just take a look at yourself.”

 

“You know everything about me?” she whispered, lowering her head.

 

“Naturally.”

 

Now I took her hands and led Rebecca off her stool so that we both stood facing each other closely.  “On principle, I never believe in a woman's candor.  As to whether you're what I think you are now or whether you actually even believe what you've said to me, it all only adds to the confusion.  It's your actions that count.  The actions of a woman always speak so much louder to men than her words.”

 

***

 

He pulled me close and kissed me, his tongue in my mouth, probing deeply.  Even as my hands went tentatively around his neck, then pulled him closer, I felt his stiffness build between us, growing until it felt like it pressed against the whole length of my belly.  He kissed my exposed neck, then bit softly.  Then he pulled back and looked into my eyes, searching.....at the same time his fingers entwined themselves in my hair and he pulled my head back.  After a moment that seemed to last an eternity, he suddenly forced me to my knees. 

 

As I knelt on that cold tile floor in front of him, I knew immediately what he wanted.  My throat was sore, but I also knew that I would willingly give him whatever he desired, as best I could.  How could it have come to this?  I knew I must be deeply damaged emotionally, but still managed to function somehow.  The only answer I could come up with was that sometimes, I guess, what looks like a choice isn't really a choice at all. 

 

I still hurt so much from what had been done to me less than twenty-four hours ago.  My vagina, my ass, my throat, my jaws, my breasts.  He could have rejected my offer of total compliance or chosen so many other ways to symbolize this moment.  Ways so much more painful or demeaning, given my condition.  But he had not and so I bared him and willingly, urgently, lovingly took him in.  I prayed that he would not do tonight what they had last night.  But in the end, it didn't matter.  I belonged to him now and whatever he did to me, I would accept.  As his massive cock rested on my tongue and filled my mouth, hot tears of gratitude inexplicably began to fill my eyes.  I felt an unfamiliar sense of thankful appreciation that almost bordered on slavish duty. 

 

Was I going insane? 

 

***

 

She was on her knees, looking up at me with almost adoring glances as I deep-fucked her soft mouth.  Her luscious full lips gripped my cock hard and I could feel her throat muscles moving rhythmically, swallowing to take me more fully inside.  I shifted and surreptitiously repositioned my cock, and she moaned in protest.

 

***

 

I felt an unfamiliar sense of humbleness for the first time in front of a man.  This couldn't be me, I thought, feeling an obligation to satisfy a man, to sexually indulge him, to give him anything to show him that his decision was the correct one.  I was determined that he would never need......he would never want another woman other than me.  It was in those moment of complete lack of control, when I had no control over myself that I realized I might be falling in love with him. 

 

I knew I should be questioning everything I felt right now; How could this be?  Was I evil?  Was I stupid?  What perverse thing in me saw him as fulfilling my needs?  Instead, I asked myself, instead of weighing down my conscience with blame, why didn't I enjoy what he offered me instead? 

 

It seemed impossible, and yet I felt it could only be love, although I'd had little real in my life like this to compare it to.  I suddenly realized I'd never been in love, not as a teenager, not even with my husband.  I'd never understood the meaning of the word.  I had always been selfish, always standing alone at the center of my world.  I had always protected myself from the emotions that drove other women crazy, making them say and do silly, stupid things.  Now here I was, falling in love with a man who had kidnapped and tortured me.  I told myself over and over again that this unknown feeling which so bewildered me, making my heart race while I felt like both crying and laughing at the same time, it had to be nothing more than a product of the terrible circumstances through which I was being forced to live. 

 

I promised myself that when he let me go, and he had to let me go eventually, I would go back home and be a better person than I was before---no more rash behavior.  Life would get back on track and....  The truth was, I couldn't bear the thought of returning to my previous home.  Not after everything I'd been exposed to here.  I had the feeling that I would never be able to go home again.  I tried to shake off such useless fears and told myself to be brave, not to be so cowardly. 

 

Even as I felt this unfamiliar rush of emotions, I knew this man frightened me; how could I not be frightened of one who held so much power---all power over me and our relationship?  Master knew so much about me and guessed even more. 

 

But in one thing he was wrong.  I was his slut now; absolutely and totally and forever.  I acknowledged this, I bathed myself in this, I gloried in this........but I wasn't a whore.  At least not for anyone but him.  As time passed, I would prove this to him, somehow make him understand this and believe it.  I was right for him.  He had to know this about me.....it was of paramount importance that he know this about me.  I was many slutty things, but I wasn't a whore.

 

As I knelt on the cold kitchen floor for him that night, we both began our lives over again.  But this time I was a willing participant and held nothing back---nothing.  I belonged to him and we both knew it now.....and I knew we both had finally accepted everything that that entailed.

 

***

 

I felt good when she'd satisfied me in the kitchen, so I didn't make her crawl.  I let her off of her knees and walked her back into my bedroom, where she laid on the bed and waited for me while I showered.  As my new woman lay on the bed, I could see her began shaking because of what she thought might come next.  I could actually see her knees knocking together.  She seemed mentally willing, but physically afraid or unable to perform because of the condition of her body.  However, she was resigned to her fate and obeyed me in every detail.  She looked so pathetic as she lay down, scared and as stiff as a board.  Not pathetic - disgusting, but pathetic as in I felt a need to protect her.  The problem was that it was me that had reduced her to this state in the first place.

 

***

 

We walked to his bedroom, my hand in his.  I couldn't tell if I was leading or he was.  I'd been hurt.  I wanted to satisfy him so much, but was absolutely terrified of how it would feel.  I felt a throbbing sense of power emanating from him, as if he generated some kind of physic voltage.  My heart tripped---I felt a warmth spread through my body that was almost embarrassing.  I approached his bed, my emotions warring.  Eager to the point of euphoria.  Terrified enough to try to turn and run.   

 

I was a realist, I had to be.  He was right; I'd hidden parts of my nature from myself for too long.  Submerged them under false pretenses to better fit in with the life I thought I wanted in a previous existence.  I'd learned how to suppress my needs, taunt them or even just laugh at them.  But I had never been able to face them.  But I had changed; I knew now that I was different from most other women, different because I'd already learned how to deal with pain and my needs long before I had taken my Master's collar.  I had always looked at physical discomfort as a welcome ally that had pushed me at times to not quit.  But this wasn't one of those times.  It was only by no longer competing with him or against him, that I could hope to win him.

 

***

 

I finished my shower.  Naked, all scent of Anne Marie now gone, I turned off all of the lights except for small night light and walked back to my bed.  She was shivering as she lay next to me and when my hand first touched her, she jumped in what I guess was pure fear of what came next.  I admit I wanted intimacy from her, but not sex, not tonight.  She lay next to me on her side, facing me.  I softly touched her neck and shoulder, then I began to rub the tension out of her muscles.  She was stiff and unresponsive at first and forgot to breathe, but I never stopped.   Amused, I thought to myself that it was easy to rub her skin because the lingerie she wore covered so little of her body.  As it became more obvious that sex was not in her immediate future, she finally began to loosen up.

 

I thought back to when I’d first met her.  Rebecca was a smart woman and I had needed to be smart too.  All great schemes are prepared from the basic formula of one part simplicity to two parts complexity.  The first step was always to aim for results that were both predictable and controllable; the second was to create a set of measures that shielded the plan from the victim's knowing eyes and still calculating mind.  As much as can be done with human beings, I had executed my plan with clockwork precision.  I looked at Rebecca as my hands freely roamed her perfect body and I savored my total success.

 

She lay on her side with her back to me now and I continued rubbing her neck and shoulders and back.  Finally tired of this, I grabbed her shoulder and softly pulled her towards me and onto her back.  She stiffened again, but lay next to me as she had been taught; legs spread wide for her man, regardless of who he might be for the night.  I put my hand on her chin and turned her face towards me as I said, "I'm going to say to you now what I said that first night months ago.  Look into my eyes so that I know you're listening to me."  She shuddered once and her eyes filled with tears again, but she looked at me intensely.

 

Rebecca fixed her eyes on mine, her face looking like that of a lost little girl. 

 

"You belong to me and I care for you, but never forget that you're a possession just like this bed or that chair or the belt hanging in my closet.  As long as you behave, as long as you're a good girl, I promise that you'll never have to go through that again."  I didn't necessarily mean this, but I knew that it was what she needed to hear right now.  "I'm responsible for you now, for your safety and your welfare.  You may think of me in some ways like your father.  You give me your complete and total obedience, and in return I will protect you from everything bad.  I'll protect you from everything bad and never demand more than you are capable of giving." 

 

I had been trained by professionals; I'd been a professional liar for years.  I'd been taught to keep my face blank and the guile from my eyes.  Rebecca looked into my eyes for what seemed an eternity, searching my face for any deception.  Then slowly, oh so slowly, her face crumpled, for she had found none.  Her lips trembled and suddenly she threw herself into my arms and wrapped her own around me.  She broke down, crying her heart out.  "Oh, God.  Oh...my...God," she sobbed into my chest. 

 

"You understand that I will demand absolute obedience from you?  There will be pain, but I promise you that it will never be too much for you to handle.  You will always be given just enough to satisfy both our needs, but never more than you can handle."

 

Her face was pushed into my chest and she nodded her head quickly.  I moved her back and looked down at her face.  "Total obedience?"

 

Looking like nothing so much as a little girl, Rebecca nodded, "Total obedience, Master." 

 

She had answered me in an almost little girl tone of voice, and this was totally unlike her.  She didn't speak in a phony sing-song voice of an adult talking to a child, but rather, truly like a young girl.  This sudden affectation angered me at first, but I quickly understood.  This was an unintended emotional signal from Rebecca that told me she was in hyper-submissive mode; her mind's unconscious way of asking if she had been good enough, pleasing enough to me.  It was the voice of a little girl looking to her cold and distant father for love, the voice of the prostitute beseeching her brutal pimp for assurance that every loathsome act was valued, the voice of the unappreciated housewife begging her ignoring husband for just one unconditional touch of affection to acknowledge her existence.  It was all of these and more. 

 

The human mind is a marvel.  I had taken a beautiful, intelligent, educated, confident woman who was used to getting her way with men---a controlled and controlling cold-hearted bitch, and turned her into a submissive slave, a beautiful servile woman that was nothing more than a docile sex addict that desired a fix from me in ever shorter intervals every day. 

 

I loved the human mind in all it's strengths and frailties.

 

I pushed her onto her back again and slowly untied the bow in front that held her tiny gown together.  She went stiff one final time that night, but after I bared her chest, I gently cupped her right breast and pulled it towards the left so that I could free her nipples from the cruel wire loops that still held them captive.  She groaned softly in release and when I lay on my back again without making another move towards her, she gave me another big hug.

 

For a few moments, I felt strong satisfaction at what I had accomplished even as I kept my face blank.  I looked at the woman I held in my arms and marveled again at her beauty.  I felt a sense of accomplishment inside; it was so difficult to take a suddenly vulnerable female and bond her against her will to a life that that another had designed, one based solely on satisfying the other’s needs.  I had left Rebecca no choices in this, manipulating her and her environment every step of the way.  And that made her final defenseless dependency even sweeter.  She'd been a physically exciting, yet emotionally detached woman that at one time had thought she was impervious to any man around her.  Unfortunately for Rebecca, the sheer intensity of feelings she aroused had made me want to do anything and everything to first break her of her studied detachedness, and humiliate and degrade her.  And I had. 

 

This had been a feminist's dream woman; intelligent, strong, beautiful, educated.  I'd used classical conditioning on her: isolating her from every support structure and every source of strength in her life; her family, her husband, her friends, her ability to earn a living, her ability to rely on herself to succeed and the confidence that engendered, and finally, her freedom to make any choices of any kind.  I'd engineered the demise of the feminist; slowly desensitizing her to the brutality that became first unavoidable, and finally inevitable. 

 

Then I made her focus more and more on first understanding, then accepting and finally incorporating the character traits she'd successfully hidden so deeply for so long and which I had finally exposed.  Then after re-shaping her life, I set Rebecca up to be gang-raped.  By this act alone, I had forced her to undergo the single worst experience of her life, showing her on the way down into her own personal gutter-hell, that she too possessed a carnal side to her nature she'd never before really allowed to be free. 

 

Even as she had over the last ten years subjugated to her will that openly erotic side of her nature, I had in turn set free that very same trait, even if initially against her will.  She could always claim that it was the ginger root she had unwillingly accepted that night that made her that way.  But while the ginger may have been a catalyst, once the woman I saw on the video last night had gotten started, she had willingly spread her legs to fuck every male available in that room.  And the woman I saw greedily gulping the last drop of cold cum from the scummy rubbers retrieved from the floor had, at the end, not been forced to participate at that level.  In her heart, she knew this as well as I. 

 

The extreme acts performed on her body last night had broken her physically---and from these she still had not recovered.  But her voluntary assistance in helping me rape Anne Marie tonight was what had finally destroyed her mental equilibrium.  Even now she was still trying to alter that previous reality through a filter that somehow would allow Rebecca to protect herself, to convincingly tell lies to herself about what she'd seen and what she'd done.  We're all confused in some ways and we all wear masks to hide our true feelings.  But she was broken now; her need to be needed and told by someone that she was good enough, that she WAS okay was so strong that she'd do anything for me.  Everybody lies, but she was in terrible pain from hers.  And I knew that the part that was most frightening to this formerly independent woman was that it was me that made the calls from now on regarding what she would experience.

 

My initial smugness of a few moments ago was gone, fled with the tiniest bit of exultation I might have felt.  This was a woman that I might have cared for, might have even loved at one time.  And now she was nothing but my cock-puppet; the principle actress, the ONLY actress in an erotic play that she would never truly understand; a play that never used the same lines twice in a night, and never the same scenery two nights in a row.  I felt sad in a way; the challenge was gone, the erotic mystery that had made Rebecca Denholm so unique was all gone now.  I would care for her, but knew I could never love her when she was like this; and it was all my doing.  I held Rebecca in my arms for at least an hour that night as I allowed her to cry in her grief for the loss of her last remaining individuality and personal freedom.  Then I think she cried for the sacrifices that she knew would be demanded of her; demanded by me in return for allowing her to save others more innocent than she with her surrender.  But even as I held her that night, I was aware of this still, cold side of me that watched her, always measured her. 

 

Somehow, even under the terrible stress of these moments, there were still times that she'd exuded a sensuality that was as tangible as a low, vibratory note.  Her eyes would lock onto mine briefly, and she would gaze at me with a smoldering focus.  And at those moments, I had an absolutely abdominal sexual awareness of this woman, even though it was absurd at these times. 

 

And when she was done crying, she wiped her tears away and looked up at my face, then gave me one quick kiss before snuggling into my chest and finally going to sleep.  The strong, independent female had finally been broken.  The arrogant woman was gone and in her place was left a soft, feminine body that had finally and willingly accepted the yoke of total sexual slavery.  She was mine now.  Mine body AND soul.  Mine to do with as I pleased. 

 

I finally went to sleep, somehow, surprisingly, less than totally satisfied with myself and the little slave who lay snuggled into my chest and whose limited horizons I had just erased.  I wondered if I'd made a mistake.  Could I bring that sexy, independent woman back?  It would be difficult to do; but would it be worth the effort to bring her back? 

 

Nah.

 

***

 

He held me with what seemed infinite tenderness that night and explained what my future held.  I was still a mess, but I was better too.  I was scared of the unknown, but knew I had to face it with what little courage remained to me.  That morning I'd been overwhelmed by a sense of total failure in my life; I'd felt a depression that seemed not only natural, but well and truly deserved.  But now, less than twelve hours later, after sending me to the deepest levels of hell, he had somehow again taken away so very much of what seemed my perpetual gray existence and brought light back into my life.  This man truly controlled my life and there was nothing I could do about it, nothing I wanted to do to change this.  I still hurt from what had been done to me, but suddenly, somehow, I felt freer than I ever had before.  I felt like I had thrown off a set of shackles I hadn't even known I wore. 

 

Yet even as I savored this sudden sense of freedom, I still felt terrible guilt for what I had done earlier this evening.  That poor girl had been there because of me and my weaknesses---and I had almost killed her myself.  I vowed to never be that weak again, to never put another woman in that situation because of my pettiness, my insignificant aches and pains.  I could handle my new life now because I wanted to handle it.  I needed to handle it!  It was only pain that he offered, and we both knew that I could take great pain---if I wanted to.  And now, finally, I did.  The mind controls the body.  It tells the muscles and joints to ignore all kinds of warning signals.  But the problem was that those warning signals were there for a reason, and in fighting him, I had been trying to ignore what he brought me.  I finally realized that under his caring guidance, we had together approached the ultimate level of my submission to his authority; the exactly right mix of maximum pain for me and supreme pleasure for him.  I wanted to please him, make him proud of me.  I know that the vanilla others outside my new world might look at me with amazement for this, and a few even with disgust.  But their scorn was nothing more than I would have received from them anyway, once everything about me became public.

 

I lay next to him; I inhaled and he smelled like wood smoke and leaf, dusky and thick, and the scent went right to the primitive part of my brain and flicked a switch.  Not tonight, but soon.  I was still too sore.  Somehow, my sense of smell had been changed by him; become much more tuned to the softer, yet more raw flavors of sweat and sex.  In my unconscious, I knew that there was clinical evidence that people, especially women, reacted submissively to pheromone signals from authority figures, especially testosterone.  The last line in that article had always stuck with me, “…they tend to obey a man of parts.”  Regardless of the reason, the smell he released as I lay next to him in his bed seemed overwhelming in its intensity. 

 

I suddenly felt like I was a child in a warped family where love had been perverted by sex, and the easiest way to survive was to submit.  I felt my breath catch, then come fast.  I hesitated, and then breathed deeply again, bringing his scent deep inside, coating my need for him with the sweet promise of pending ecstasy.  I felt a tightening in my aching throat and the need to physically touch him settling more and more firmly inside me.  My invisible manacles had been created by my very nature and hardened by his manipulation.  Well, he had what he wanted now.

 

At the same time, even as I lay so close to him that I could smell his breath, I felt paralyzed, and a feeling of shame suddenly suffocated me, shame at what I'd done and shame at what I'd become.  I made a superhuman attempt to turn away from him, but failed.  I suddenly felt awkward and his silence was unbearable.

 

Finally, eventually, I fell asleep in his arms that night.  I knew that it would not always be like this, warm and safe and secure, his arms a cocoon of protection.  But hopefully, there would be enough times like this to allow me to survive.  And with that thought, I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

 

 

Chapter 31: The body says what words cannot; Martha Graham.

 

The morning sunlight awoke me.  I looked over at Rebecca.  I brushed the long hair away from her forehead.  The early morning sun pouring through the window gave her face an angelic cast.  Her pale, sleeping profile was perfectly silhouetted against the bright light, emphasizing her patrician nose, her elegant neck.  I felt something unfamiliar; a warm, tender, protective feeling came over me.  I watched over her while she slept.  Unlike the last few months, tonight she slept on my arm in a sleep so deep that it seemed she would never awake.  It was the deep, rebuilding sleep of the psychologically and physically traumatized.  A sleep in which the mind takes its first steps towards re-integrating with a world that had been totally changed.  She would need this sleep, and much more before she healed completely, if I ever allowed her to go that far.  But that was for the future.  I lay next to her and looked at her face.  A face that was already beautiful.  But to me, her looks had been greatly enhanced by accepting the symbols of her new life, by voluntarily wearing the nose ring and nipple wire last night along with her slave collar.  That act alone spoke volumes about the commitment to her new reality. 

 

I looked closer and saw that there was something inherently different about her now.  There was a glow that was new; the sense of self-imposed restraint seemed gone.  In its place was a look of relaxation and contentment that encompassed total surrender; on her face was a look of....a look of actual happiness, something she had never before let me see.  Something terribly important had changed between us.  We both knew it, and we had tiptoed around it last night like it was the proverbial 800 pound gorilla that nobody wanted to mention.  

 

She was awake now and wanted to lay in bed by my side.  But I wouldn't play the role I was sure she wanted; rather, I decided to make her prepare breakfast for us both.  She looked at me for a moment and smiled, then hopped out of bed like a ten-year old girl and shook her hair out.  Before she left the side of the bed, she slipped on her blue stiletto heels---that was a nice touch and it brought a smile to my face.  My Sub was such a sexy bitch!  I had to begin trusting her some time and now seemed as good as any.  I lazily followed her, and even though it was still bruised a little, I enjoyed the look of her gorgeous, firm ass peeking out from behind the lingerie she still wore from last night.

 

I sat at a stool by the kitchen bar, watching her closely.  As I allowed Rebecca for the first time to prepare and serve a quick breakfast, I attempted to begin the healing.  I talked about what had happened last night from the point of view of her being a victim too.  She must, I said, acknowledge that what she had done in helping me was justified.  She had been on auto-control, and everything she'd done was merely an attempt by her lower brain to survive.  She shouldn't feel guilt about it, because everything had been scripted, totally out of her control.  If she needed to feel anger, feel it towards me.  But she also had to acknowledge that in the eyes of the law, she was an accomplice in the young girl's rape.  Rebecca's eyes clouded for a second and I knew that she still felt guilty about her role in what had happened to that innocent, young girl. 

 

This gave my little slave a lot to think about while she ate.  Finally, she looked at me and said, "I can handle it, if you want me to, Master."

 

I just about fell off of my stool.  Once truly broken, I was amazed at how quickly my sexy slut was able to incorporate her new lifestyle.

 

***

 

Later that day, I heard a news report about Anne Marie.  It appeared that she had first been found last night by a couple of teenage boys that were out drinking and joy-riding.  Wearing nothing but high heels and duct tape, she had quickly been taken for another ride, one much more brutal than that which she'd received from me. 

 

I felt bad about this.  She had been nothing but an innocent tool, a means to an end with Rebecca and hadn't deserved this.  Actually, she hadn't DESERVED any of last night.  But that was what the world was about.  There were always a few wolves in it and the rest of us, ALL of the rest of us were nothing but prey.

 

I look back now and I can almost pinpoint the hour that I finally won my private war with Rebecca, the day that she finally submitted to my dominance in every way.  And it was Anne Marie that I had to thank for that.  So her pain had not been in vain, and for this I thanked her.

 

It was like Rebecca's emotions had been kept hidden behind an earthen dam, and when my demands had built up enough psychological pressure, it'd suddenly broke.  And when she finally internalized an acceptance of the unacceptable, Rebecca had suddenly felt a relief of the spirit that she'd not even known she desired.  Non-consensual slavery was for many a punishment, a sort of exile for those with weaker spirits.  But for her, she had finally learned through intuition that it could be a haven of peace, a place of liberation.  This was the day she fully accepted the role that I had demanded of her for so long. 

 

***

 

It was mid-February now and everything began with his first visit to the White Room this morning.  It had taken my body over a week to heal; he had given me all that and more.  The obvious bruises and torn flesh healed quickly.  But there were unexpected muscle aches, abdominal cramps and problems with indigestion; and my stomach was suddenly full of acid.  I fought my way out of a terrible depression and it finally felt like the clouds that had followed me everywhere for so long had finally left me to go doom some other poor woman. 

 

Although each of these symptoms were physical in nature, we both knew that they were psychological in origin.  But he was patient with me and treated each with a gentleness and kindness that surprised me...as long as his head didn't hurt.  I was sleeping better, now for I knew I was in love.  I slept better, but my last thoughts at night and my first thoughts when I woke up were always of my Master and how to better please him.

 

I had not slept well last night and when I'd awoken this morning, the sleep deprivation still felt huge.  I looked at my toenails and knew they needed trimming.  I felt like my whole body needed an overhaul.  I forced myself to stand up.  The floor felt cold to my feet.  I pulled the robe closer around myself and looked out on the sunlit scene through the door that he allowed open now.  I wished it were summer; I longed to sit in the wet heat and let it bake me to the bone.  I always felt so cold now……always on the verge of getting sick again.  But I somehow sensed yesterday that he was impatient---impatient with me, impatient with himself, impatient with us, and so did not look up as he closed the door behind him this morning.  It was still cold and my body was goose-pimpled; I did not know if it was his naked presence or his absence that made me so cold.  I had not yet dressed, but obediently assumed a submissive pose. 

 

He stood at the door, silently looking out over the porch.  He was subdued, eyes glazed, staring out at the gray horizon that melded into nothing.  I burned a mental image of his boyish grin in my memory, to savor as needed.  I studied his profile in the half-light.  Too sharp to ever be bland, too wary to ever count as unassuming.

 

There was an early morning fog that hung over his backyard, spreading out below and seeming almost to abruptly start from nothing, as if the deck upon which he stood was floating in an infinite pool and we both were treading water on the edge of possibility.  It was an organic space of light and air and water, a place for beginnings.  But not a place for beginners.

 

His manner seemed almost uncertain today, diffident.  I was able to watch him without his noticing.  I was becoming ever more familiar with the structure of his lanky body, the sharp definition of its muscle and bone.  I must admit that everything about him disturbed me.   The perfectly symmetrical beauty of his face was something of which he was totally unaware.  Then he turned.  And as he walked towards me, I studied him as I had not dared before, considering the intensity of his wide and slightly hooded eyes.  Eyes that I finally realized, might not be judging me after all; that might rather instead be just watching. 

 

Mine wasn’t a bad body; it had always done what I asked, more or less.  It had survived my Master’s training and his later demands.  But it had needed his training too.  I had lost all sense of my true sexuality prior to his arrival in my life.  It had gotten worse while first held by him and I had especially felt this way immediately after the last rape.  But the strands of an unfamiliar erotic need had already returned and more and more of these strange desires were coming back now every day.  It was time, perhaps, to let some things come back all the way.

 

The strangest thing was that my new feelings that should have made me feel guilty, were actually turning me into a freer and happier person.  I wasn't worried about explaining my feelings to anyone, for I didn't care anymore whether others else would approve or not. 

 

As I increased my distance from the event of my capture, my thoughts became in ways more lucid.  Master could sense my doubts and my fears, my internals and great suffering.  I hated this place sometimes.  Yet at other times, it was a magical place.  It required an isolated place like this to bend a slave’s will until it broke.  Only then, I realized, does a slave truly become useful.  Complete obedience may have slightly damaged me, but it also allowed me to survive.

 

He'd opened to me not only a secret history of women still enslaved, but an enigmatic world of the men and women that controlled these women.  Early on I had no idea of what to do, of the rules by which to navigate this man, the one that demanded I call him Master.  But this morning I suddenly realized that I no longer felt emotionally drained, exhausted from fighting him.  And instead of warfare, I unexpectedly felt a need to please him; I needed to accept everything instead of fighting it.  This was a new world to me, but as before in my previous life, I was still without a familiar role or model; not daughter, not wife, not lover nor teacher.  But at the same time, it now did not seem worth panicking over.  Instead, in a perverse sort of way, I found myself excited by the challenge of this man, my Master.  With a shock, I realized that like two distinct threads, our lives were beginning to be woven together.  It was still a thin, mysterious tapestry at best, but somehow I knew that this picture of the two of us would soon be complete.  But I didn’t know what it would show.  I do not know how this will come out, I thought.  I do not know how this will end.  It may or may not end poorly---but in every way it was a new beginning for me.

 

 

Chapter 32: For male and female alike, the bodies of the other sex are messages signaling what we must do -- they are glowing signifiers of our own necessities; John Updike.

 

It's been almost seven weeks since he entered my life.  I suddenly remembered that Stage five, the final stage, was supposed to be that of Acceptance.  It was for me at least.  Suddenly, I knew that I had lost long before I had been able to say it aloud.  It was in the present that I now found myself suddenly wanting to please him, to finally give him everything he'd ever desired from me.  And it somehow felt right to do so, for I knew in my heart that this was best for me.  I was in the midst of an epiphany, an awakening of the spirit.  I wanted to brush the hair from his forehead and amuse myself by looking at the lines on his face.  They were the traces of the times he spent without me, some forty-odd years that he'd lived far from me.  He had lived, dreamed, worked, breathed, laughed, and even perhaps loved without suspecting that I was waiting for him.  It struck me as miraculous that someone like him had latched onto someone like me.  Even though beauty wasn't something that was important to me, I wished I were more beautiful and attractive for him so that he be blown away when he next saw me.

 

I no longer had the will or felt the obligation to thwart his needs and desires.  For the first time, I knew an intimate willingness to bend, to finally accept another’s will in place of my own.  I both needed his slavery and yet feared the unknown it represented.  I felt that once I accepted his demands, it might then help me reach the stable ground that I so craved; that it might somehow help inhibit the craziness that sometimes seemed to forever ricochet inside my skull and somehow controlled my life.  This chaos was something that had never given up and never before allowed me to remain standing before it. 

 

And beneath that fear was another one.  Most things could be fixed nowadays, but it did not seem possible that the scorched place inside me could ever be healed by any man.  But I could still hope.  It had been difficult to admit total submission.  Remember that moment, I thought.  Remember what the world looked like before.  Before I finally gave him everything he demanded, and more.

 

In fairness, he seemed to realize the importance of these moments to me.  I did not move when he briefly touched the nape of my neck with the backs of his fingers.  “This is one of the most beautiful parts of any woman,” he said softly.  His touch immobilized me.  It was the touch of supreme confidence, the touch of a man who knew without question that some things on earth belonged to him.  I thought, I have never been touched this way before him.  I have been touched furtively, drunkenly, ineptly: I had been groped and worse.  But never this.  He said, “Some women are as skittish as horses.  Ideas alone can cause them to bolt.  But not you.” 

 

I ignored the blood rushing through me and held his eyes in a less than demure way, “Not me, Master.” 

 

He said, “Look at me.  No, really look at me.”

 

I sighed and laughed under my breath.  I leaned over very slowly and gave him a kiss on the very lines I loved.  He was standing in front of me naked.  Where his legs joined, his man’s beautiful staff poked up stiff and hard from a familiar thicket of coarse, dark hair.  It was long and thick, veined and purple, and the bulbous head gleamed in the morning light.  I thought back to when he first brought me to his house; how it had been me in charge, demanding that he wear a condom each time before accepting his slickly lubricated meat between my legs.  Now he was in control and nothing would ever be the same again.  Every time he penetrated me now, his brutality and sheer animal vigor overwhelmed me as he forced himself inside my body. 

 

But the past didn’t matter to me anymore.  I had sincerely submitted, exerting myself to satisfy this man’s needs; physically, emotionally and sexually.  I leaned forward and ran my tongue over one of his nipples, then the other.  They tightened against my lips so I scored them with my teeth.  He grabbed my hair and I stilled, ready to fight for the right to taste him.  But instead of pulling me away, his palm cupped my head, urging me on.  I suckled him, the tiny bud of his nipple hard against the roof of my mouth.  His free hand smoothed over my back, up my ribs, then settled onto my breast where his thumb teased me into a similar state. 

 

Immediately, I began to let down love’s juices and he worked my body with a focused intensity that made me realize he would never have given up until he had won.  I had so greatly underestimated him from the beginning.  I knew now that even with my fine woman’s intuition, I had never really understood the danger this man had presented to my sexuality.  In truth, I had actually sensed the danger, but still had not been prepared for the depth of his desire, the heights that he would be willing to scale to possess me. 

 

Was I going to be fucked now, I asked myself or was he going to torture me by making me wait?   I was on my back finally and my pussy was in the air.  I was excited, my labia were engorged and wet, and I could smell the heat between my legs.  But I was a little apprehensive for some reason too.  Oddly, I felt my nipples harden at the same time that my mouth began to water.  I balled my hands into fists and used them to prop up my hips, raising my pussy even higher.  He liked this sometimes and my response was nearly automatic now.  I waited, breathing hard.  I loved this man, but like any junkie, I cursed my addiction to the sexual release he offered and felt guilty about it, but still.....my body literally vibrated in anticipation of what it knew he offered.

 

I sensed his bare feet near my face, standing on my hair, pinning my head to the mattress.  He knelt, half sitting on my chest.  I could feel his bare cheeks touching the flesh of my breasts. Finally my vision cleared; I was in a canyon, a long, hairy box canyon with a huge prick waiting at the end. 

 

Anticipation!  I'm about to be fucked by a man that keeps me as his captive and I felt......anticipation!  What was wrong with me?  How had my life come to this? 

 

Anticipation....and fear.  I couldn't help it.  He held so much power over me that I looked up at him like a frightened child.  He stroked my face, and the fear subsided, replaced by a throbbing need to make contact with his flesh.  The blood whooshed in my ears as I turned my head and licked his bare foot.  He laughed and lovingly straightened my head with his hands, moving forward so that his balls were over my mouth.  He lowered his hips and I took him inside eagerly, gently, moaning softly in pleasure.  My moaning turned him on as usual, and I could hear his mannish grunts of satisfaction and anticipation as I tongued and gently sucked on his sack. 

 

After a while, he slowly lifted his balls out of my greedy mouth and turned his hips.  I knew what was coming next, so I tilted my head back, opened my throat and waited for him to slip his cock inside me.  His aim was perfect and my lips closed on him.  I timed my breathing to his long strokes as he began to mouth fuck me.  Wet sucking noises filled the waiting air, but there was no gagging.  I never gagged anymore.  His hands were on my breasts, and I felt him pinching my nipples, then twisting the golden bars that were now permanent marks of his ownership.  He knew the pain made my body arch under him and my mouth and lips tighten around his meat. The pinching got harder and more aggressive, and I became more and more responsive to his cues.

 

I loved these feelings of domination and submission, and eventually everything faded out but the sensations of the moment.  When I finally returned, he'd mounted me.  Instinctively, I squeezed my vaginal muscles in time to his thrusts.  He groaned and covered my mouth with his.  His saliva flowed down my throat as he did this, but I didn't care because his thrusts were so powerful now that he pushed my sweaty body towards the foot of the bed.  I flattened my hands on the bedsheet and tried to wrap my legs around him, but they wouldn't move.  I groaned with the frustration of not being able to wrap myself around his body.

 

He lifted my upper body off the bed like a weightless doll and looked directly into my eyes.  We stared into each other's eyes for a second that dragged out for a lifetime, then he slowly impaled me, purposefully dominating my open and willing body again and again and again.  His slippery, silky cock felt like a huge fence post as he jerked me up and down on it, pushing me forwards and driving me backwards, my hypersensitive pierced nipples always rubbing wonderfully on his chest.  We finally exploded together; his arms wrapped around me with crushing strength.  I couldn't breathe...and I didn't care.

 

He spoke softly as he held me.  I felt so odd, as if the vibrations of his deep voice penetrated straight to my loins.  I struggled against the effect, but there was an intense pleasure now that was in such contrast to anything that I’d experienced over the last year.  God.  I felt myself take a deep breath, feeling myself become more fully immersed in that soft and confident voice, as if I were sitting in a tub with warm, gurgling water rising around me.  Nothing mattered except this overwhelming sensation of fluidity.  He continued to look at me and I felt him invade me as if he were on top of me in bed. 

 

I said nothing.  What was the matter with me?  I only wanted him to look at me, to caress me and talk to me.  Nothing else was real to me in that delicate moment.  He moved closer and licked my ear, then bit my neck softly.  I smelled something good, something male and exotic that had the fragrance of freshly ground hazelnuts.  My skin began to tingle, and something slightly sweet spread across my tongue.  I licked my lips and nodded, as if to say, I have no control over what you do to me, but of course I’d stay even if I were free.  Right now, I’d do anything that you asked, just to keep you touching me.

 

When he finished, he left me without saying a word, unchained and free---he'd sated himself and then he was gone.  I lay on my back in my bed, my arms held rigid at my sides.  My vagina ached and buzzed and tingled; my belly and the insides of my thighs were sticky with his cooling semen.  I finally raised my arms and spread my fingers wide.  I go forward, I thought.  Taking first one stroke, and then another, away from the scene of my initial devastation at his hands weeks and weeks ago.  Toward a rock; something solid that would not give way.  But this anchor had never seemed within my reach until I had truly consented to serve his desires. 

 

Finally, I closed my eyes and sank into a strange animated state of rest.  I don’t know if I actually slept.  I seemed fully awake, yet simultaneously hovering over my body.  It should have been frightening, but it wasn’t.  I could see him too, not too far away, doing whatever he was doing.  I dozed lightly then, as if in a trance.  I drifted away from the wreckage of my previous life and the uncertainty of my new one.  There was nothing here that could hurt me.  Whatever I could lose had already been taken away; I was in so many ways safer now.  There was nothing left for me to lose.

 

I awoke and stood in the dim light of the White Room, wondering if I knew exactly what I had done.  My heart was racing and I was perspiring profusely.  After fifteen minutes of confusion, I took a shower; it felt like I was washing away all of my previous sins.  After I cleaned myself, I engaged in mindless chores to make the time pass.  Later, he came back, stepping into the dim light of the White Room.  He wanted more and for some reason I involuntarily stepped back, like an animal trained by fear.  There was the right distance for us to both guard ourselves and look at each other, which we did in a concert-rated silence.  A silence that would not have existed before my accepting his collar in totality.

 

I was, he told me, to come to his bed at nine tonight.  Then he left again.  The rest of the day passed slowly.  Now I sat in front of the mirror in the White Room and gave my hair a wild brushing, then inspected my face in the mirror.  I was taken back by the fact that I looked very much the same as before. 

 

Then it was time.  But instead of coming immediately as my Master had ordered, I sat on the edge of my bed looking at the opposite wall for I knew not what.  I had submitted to him and my fear was gone.  I felt, if not peaceful, at least settled inside.  All I needed now was courage, and I would do my best to please him tonight.  In just a few short weeks, I had gained a new awareness of my body due to him.  On the outside, I might still seem upright and strong, but I knew now that my body was a weak vehicle that had betrayed me to him.  It, and I, belonged to him now.  Finally disallowing thoughts of what was to come next, naked except for my collar, I rose and strode quickly to the door that led to his bedroom. 

 

After the White Room, his bedroom was a salve.  My eyes drank in the colors that I remembered from when I was free.  I pulled the door closed and leaned against it.  I drew in a deep breath, allowing the air to fill my lungs completely.  So this was it, I thought.  This was where I would truly experience again the spell he'd woven around me with his collar.

 

He was standing there on the far side of his bed, but I felt somehow my tardiness had angered him.  He remained standing, seeming to glower above me.  His anger seemed sudden and I could feel it like a wall of heat.  I closed the door behind me and sat on the closest edge of his bed in fear.  I flattened my palms on the fine muslin bedspread.  Now that I was here, the moment had arrived and my nerves were exposed.  I sat very still and strained to hear something other than our breathing.  Suddenly, my sense of isolation was cavernous.  I knew it was wrong at the time, but it didn’t seem to matter.  Unbidden, I rolled onto my stomach on his bed and waited nervously, absently tracing the embroidery I could like feel Braille under my fingers. 

 

When I emerged from my thoughts, I realized his eyes were studying me; but I was unable to meet his gaze.  During the day, I had evaded their burning look, while I tried to keep my voice normal.  I admit that I found him immensely.....very handsome.  I didn't know if it was the way his hair fell over his forehead, or the way he gestured, or how he smiled.  When he looked at me like this, I felt weak in my knees.  I wanted to flee, go back to my room, run away and never see him again.  I closed my eyes in a silly, desperate girlish attempt to take refuge in my mind, but I couldn't.

 

“You're late.  I like you,” he said in a harsh tone, “but don't mistake kindness for weakness.”  Suddenly, his apparent anger was gone.  He remained on the other side of the bed as he said, “I know everything about you, woman.”

 

Even as I turned to face him, I could feel my cheeks heating up.  “What do you know about me, Master Christian?”

 

“I know that your skin smells like, like some exotic lotus.  I know you like the feel of your legs bare, rather than wear stockings.  I know that you have demons inside you that you’ve fought for years.  I know that you’re embarrassed by your own beauty, but you know it’s there---because you know just how to avoid your own reflection.  I know that you've hated your collar, but completely accept the idea now.  I know that you’re sad, because the creases in your face have taken years to form---and though those creases are faint, they tell me exactly what you will look like when you’re fifty.”

 

“I don’t know how you do it, Master.”

 

“Do what?”

 

I had gone too far.  “Nothing,” I stammered.

 

“Tell me.”

 

Now I was frightened.  “It’s nothing, Master.”

 

“For the last time, tell me---you will tell me.”

 

I hesitated for a second, weighing the punishment of telling an unpleasant truth versus being caught in a lie.  But suddenly, I knew I truly had nothing left to lose.  “It's you.  It’s like you turn a tap on and off.  First charm and wit, sensitivity and all feelings that you need a soul to feel, then the brutality.  You turn it all off as quickly as you turn it on.”

 

He remained silent as he looked at me for what seemed an eternity, then shook his head with seeming disappointment as he said, “You don't think I have a soul?”  He laughed hard for a minute.

 

“For one so experienced, you are so naive about yourself and your refusal to face the truth.  As a female, you like charm from a man; but as a woman, you need the discipline as much as I do.”  Finally, he climbed into bed with me and I lay under the covers with him.  I did not feel I had the energy to either dread the coming event, nor enough to look forward to it.  Without a word, he reached out and slowly rolled me onto my back. 

 

His hand was on the back of my head, bending my neck back so far I was afraid he would break it.  I remained silent, I had no choice now.  A weird lethargy came over me as he kissed my neck, then scraped the throbbing vein with his teeth.  My blood seemed to thicken and slow; my pulse beat in my ears as if I'd been running for miles, or making love for a long time.  Finally, he reached my lips.  And when he was done kissing me, I suddenly realized that I'd never been kissed the way Master had just kissed me, as if I were the only woman in the world, the only woman he ever wanted.  Foolish, I know, but that's how he made me feel, and I began to wonder, in a far corner of my mind, was there a chance for us, together?  My fingers touched my lips; they felt swollen, sensitive, needy.  I realized that I craved the taste of his mouth.  When he finally finished with me, I remained in his bed.  I closed my eyes and sleep came almost immediately.

 

In the night, I dreamed and awoke twice, beginning each time the numbing and familiar role of imagining the worst.  His voice soothing me as he lightly bit my neck.  The pain and the excitement it caused.  The feather-light stroke of lips to the pulse at my throat, a tongue trailing across one breast, then the other, teeth grazing my nipple, then my stomach, then thigh.  Heated breath brushed the naked skin between my legs as a clever tongue did things that made me both limp and tense, tantalized and tortured.  The scream of a small death as I came.  I finally awoke a third time, panting and gasping, my dream orgasm still rocketing through my body.  I glanced to my side and saw my Master. 

 

Watching him sleep, I felt a surge of gratitude so strong that it brought tears to my eyes.  I had learned to live.  Without fear.  I wanted to wake him with a kiss, hold his face in my hands and look in his eyes and thank him, really thank him, so that he could understand how much his trust meant to me.  I smiled faintly at the ridiculous urge and waited for it to pass. 

 

I continued to listen to him breathing softly next to me and somehow comforted, I went back to sleep.

 

***

 

I jolted awake, bolt upright, my eyes wide open.  Fear fluttered in my heart, like a bird in a net struggled to be free.  I pressed my hand against my chest to still my beating heart.  For a moment, I was neither awake nor asleep, as if some part of me had been left behind in a dream.  The room came into focus.  I was safe in his bed.  Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the dark.  I was safe from my fears, nothing could reach me now. 

 

My Master was deeply asleep, his arms flung out claiming ownership of most of the bed.  His hair, smelling of smoke and wine, was fanned across the pillow.  Moonlight fell through the bedroom window.  In the gathering light, I could see the shadow of rough growth on his chin.  I wanted to him to wake so that I could tell him that everything was all right, that I knew I didn't have to be afraid anymore.  But he did not stir and it did not occur to me to wake him.  Fearless in the past over so many other things, I was inexperienced in the ways of being his slave and was cautious still.  So I contented myself with lightly running my fingers down his smooth, tanned arms and across his shoulders, firm and broad.  I could feel the life moving beneath his skin even as he slept.  And when I remembered how we had spent the early part of the night, I blushed, even though there was no one there to see.

 

I realized suddenly that I was overwhelmed by the sensations he aroused in me.  I delighted in the way my heart had begun to leap when I caught unexpected sight of him, the way the ground shifted under my feet when he smiled at me as I made him happy.  At the same time, I realized that I still had a ways to go, for I still did not like the feeling of complete powerlessness.  I feared love was making me weak, giddy.  I did not doubt that I had begun to love him, and yet I knew that I was still keeping a little of myself back. 

 

I sighed.  All I could hope was that, with time, it would become easier.

 

***

 

I had finally decided upon her name.  Female slaves kept in Arab harems in the past had been named after gems and precious stones; diamonds and rubies, pearls and sapphires.  The practice was appropriate then and seemed appropriate to me now.  The next morning I informed my woman that she would from this time forward be known as Rasha, the pearl.  She accepted this with quiet dignity, bowing her head to my will.  I was not in the mood for a fight today and frankly, I admit that I was relieved at her calm acceptance. 

 

 

Chapter 33: Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me; John Donne.

 

Two days later, I was reading in the afternoon, alternatively finishing a paragraph or page, and then becoming distracted by rays of the sun that sliced through the air beside me.  My reading brought to mind romantic notions of love that swam enticingly inside my head, diving and surfacing in a dangerous and flickering pool of hope---could a slave ever have hope for love?  I hadn’t seen as much of him since I had formally yielded my freedom, and I found myself listening for him as I tried to quell my impatience.  It was if he were as confused as I.  But of what, I wasn’t sure.

 

Even as I found myself thinking about Master, I later realized that I was unable to think about parts of our shared past; it was a defense mechanism, a way to keep my sanity. 

 

Instead, I thought about my last conversation with him.  It was clear from the beginning that we both were lost in our own labyrinths.  However, even though he and I were initially going in different directions, I felt that we somehow would soon be sharing the same paths.  And I knew that we both would learn to like it.  Were these thoughts too impudent for one such as me?  We were drawn, I realized, to people who could teach us.  And the people who teach you, they also set you free; you love them like no one else.  This is why I was drawn to this imperfect man.

 

Maybe, like the man that now controlled every aspect of my life, I was becoming a little strange.  There were moments in the violet silence of the southern evenings, when I was aware of a deepening of my spirit.  There was an obscure nothingness to my life now, but I was satisfied with it.  Perhaps it was only at the edge of nothing that true meaning began.  Everything I had once known had been forgotten.  But I only had to re-discover it again.  Unearth it again, but now in a new context.

 

Each weekday now I exercised and cleaned the White Room, then prepared for his arrival in the afternoon.  As I cleaned, I sometimes found myself daydreaming, my hand unconsciously caressing a piece of equipment.  Then I would catch myself and pull my hand away quickly as if I had been burned.   But thoughts of the smooth wood, braided rope, cold metal and aromatic leather would often stay with me for longer than was healthy.

 

With a shock, I suddenly realized that I was enjoying my life.  I had no responsibilities, except to be available to him.  He actually spent time with me in the afternoon and at night, and for the first time in a long time, I had someone with whom to talk.  There was the sex of course, and while I didn’t get to make a lot of choices, he was a good lover when he chose to be.  And when he was bad with me, he was VERY bad.  Like each of us he had preferences, and there were certain parts of me that he kept perpetually sore, but I actually found myself looking forward to these times and the odd feelings that they brought to the surface, emotions I had not yet sorted out.

 

My life was a life laid bare to the bone.  As pathetic as my life might now be to some, I still felt a sense of relief as I finally realized that what this man had been trying to teach me about myself was probably true; this was almost certainly my single remaining route to happiness.  And the funny thing was that I felt happy for the first time in years despite what had happened, in spite of everything that he had done to me.  Something had shifted inside me---it was as if the dry, frantic neediness that I had brought with me from my previous life had somehow edged out of me and infected him instead.  It was true; I could feel it inside of him.  I needed the discipline he gave me, but I felt he needed me too.  Suddenly, almost overnight, I wasn’t afraid of him anymore.  If I was not happy here, I certainly felt somehow content.  I liked the way he gave me only the freedom that I deserved, and the way that no one stared at me now.  I liked the oddities in my life, I liked everything about it.

 

 

Chapter 34: Seduction is often difficult to distinguish from rape.  In seduction, the rapist often bothers to buy a bottle of wine; Andrea Dworkin.

 

A few days later, I finally took Rasha out for quick weekend at one of the nearby tourist towns.  This was the first time I’d allowed Rasha out of the house since her night in the electronics store and her time with Anne Marie.  I'd kept her isolated while she integrated her old values and beliefs with her new reality---and it had taken quite awhile. 

 

We'd had a good weekend.  She wore a short light-golden, almost yellow sun dress with matching strappy four inch heels.  Rasha was gorgeous and men everywhere were struck dumb by her beauty.  Her dress covered her breast chain in a way that ensured she actually seemed to forget for awhile that she'd been pierced.  A metal retainer for the hole between her nostrils and her formal necklace as a subtle slave collar.  She'd quickly gotten over her initial embarrassment with not being allowed underwear and had begun enjoying herself.  We could have been any vanilla couple.  She wore light makeup and had her hair in a ponytail; she acted like she was fifteen years old again.  She'd enjoyed shopping for the tourist kitsch and I'd gone without a headache for a long time; so I found myself able to smile at that odd things that all women seemed to want to accumulate.  On Saturday afternoon, I took her to a late lunch then back to a small, out of the way motel.  With nothing better to do and tired of shopping after a couple of hours, we went back to our room.

 

I led her into the motel room and looked at her silently after I closed the door.  It was time.  She was in a good mood as she set her shopping bag down.  She looked at me quizzically at first.  But as the silence drew on, she became more and more uncomfortable.  Rasha looked down at her feet at first, then finally returned my gaze.  A long time went by silently---twenty seconds, maybe thirty.  I could see some color coming into her cheeks, her nostrils flaring slightly with each exhalation. 

 

I broke the silence with probably the last thing she'd ever expected to hear.  “If you want your freedom,”  I said, “all you have to do is leave.”  She quickly looked at me for a second in disbelief, then looked away.  The silence extended into a long uncomfortable stretch.  She clearly didn't believe me and glanced around the room, her head moving in quick, efficient jerks.  She became more and more agitated.  Finally, she got up and started pacing, slowly at first, then more rapidly, her head nodding as though internally confirming something, trying to accept it.  She looked everywhere but at me.

 

“All you have to do,” I repeated, “is leave.”

 

“You don't want me?  I don't believe you.”

 

“All you have to do to be free,” I repeated myself a third time, “is leave.  I want you to walk out that door, if it's possible.”

 

“You really don't want me?  You really don't want me.”  She looked stricken. 

 

“God.  I......I have to get out of here,” she said more to herself than to me.  She walked over to the dresser where I'd allowed her to unpack the few things she'd brought and pulled open a drawer.  She began throwing things into a soft sided bag.

 

“Rasha, get out.  If you can,”  I said.

 

Finished packing, she threw the bag over her shoulder and headed towards the door.  Her eyes were filled with tears.  I moved in front of her.  She tried to go left around me.  I stayed with her.  She went right.  That didn't work either.  She moved left again more quickly.  No go.

 

She had become oblivious to my presence.  Something had gotten in her way, she had been blindly trying to force her way around it.  But her lack of progress forced her to change focus, and all at once, she saw that the obstacle was me.  Her eyes narrowed and her ears seemed to settle back against the side of her head.  I watched her shift her weight, a slight rotation of her hips. 

 

She made a sound, half rage, half desperation.  She stepped back and swung the bag at my head.  I went with the blow, dissipating most of the force.  She reloaded and swung again.  Again, I flowed and absorbed. 

 

Rasha started crying and swearing softly, hammering me with the bag, with no obvious goal now except to vent the rage and frustration that had built up over the preceding weeks and months.  I let her pound on me, taking most of the impact on my forearm.  She was in shape and it took longer than I would have liked for her to tire.  But eventually the power of the blows lessened, the interval between them lengthened.  Finally she stood, the bag hanging at her side, her breath heaving in and out.  I lowered my arms and looked at her. 

 

She glanced around the room.  I realized that she was looking for a better weapon of convenience.  Something heavy and blunt, or sharp.  She must have sensed that I was onto her.  Or she didn't see anything that would do the job.  Regardless, she stopped scoping the room and looked in my eyes.  Her pupils were huge and black---dilated by adrenaline. 

 

Her panting punctuated her words.  “Get.  The fuck.  Out.  Of my way.”

 

I looked at her.  This was the old Rebecca and it was going to be a long night for her. 

 

Suddenly, she charged and caught me off-balance.  The move might have worked, but I caught her body with both hands and used it as a brace.  She reared up under me, and I grabbed her by the biceps and shoved her against the wall. 

 

She dropped the bag and tried to hit me.  I took hold of both of her wrists and slammed her arms up against the wall on either side of her head.  Our faces were inches apart.  I felt her knee coming up and I pressed my body against hers to stop her.  My cheek was pressed against hers now and her smell, that perfume that I liked was now mixed with excitement and fear and sweat.  It hit deep inside me. 

 

I dropped my face to her neck, feeling as if I was going to bury it there, but then I was kissing her instead.  I heard her say, “No, no,” but she wasn't fighting me anymore. 

 

Keeping her arms and body pinned to the wall, I brought my face around to kiss her on the mouth.  She twisted her face away.  I let go of her wrists and took her face in my hands.  She tried to push me away for a second, then she was kissing me back, almost attacking me with her mouth.  I ran my hands down her breasts and squeezed her waist, her ass.  I realized that I was kissing her as hard as she was kissing me. 

 

I reached up and tried to undo her dress, but my hands were shaking for some reason and I couldn't do it.  Fuck it.  I slipped the fingers of both hands into the gap between the top and pulled hard on the sides.  Everything popped free and her breasts were in my hands.  The chains of ownership that kept them bound swung wildly.  Her skin was damp and hot from her exertions. 

 

Kissing me so hard I was forced to step back from the wall, she reached up and tore my shirt open the same way I had torn her dress.  Then she reached down for my belt buckle.  No, I thought.  You first. You do nothing to me---I do it all to you.  I yanked her dress down to her wrists and spun her around so that she was facing the wall.  We started to struggle again.  I put her left arm in a wrist lock and bent it behind her back.  I held it high, almost to her shoulder blades, and shoved her up against the wall.  I reached under her dress with my free hand.  She was steaming hot, soaking wet.  I pushed her dress up, pinning the fabric against her ass with my hip.  Her buttocks looked great, very few bruises remained now from her previous spankings.  She snapped her head back and caught me on the cheek.  I pressed against her harder and pressed the side of my face against hers so that Rasha was pinned entirely against the wall.  I reached down and began to touch her softly between her legs.  She closed her eyes and groaned.  I moved my fingers inside her and her body shook.

 

I looked around wildly.  To our left---the dresser.  I shoved her over to it.  There was a stack of travel magazines on top and I swept them to the floor with my free hand.  I bent her over, bearing down on her arm and pinning her upper torso.  She struggled but the wrist hold was too tight.  I stepped to her side, opened my belt, and undid my button and zipper. 

 

I stepped on the cuff of my left pants leg with my right foot and dropped my pants, stepping clear of them with my left leg as soon as they hit the floor.  No way was I going to deal with this wild bitch of a slave with a pair of trousers pooled around my ankles.  I repeated the move with my right leg, then slipped off my underwear. 

 

I stepped between her legs and pushed up her dress again.  Her breathing now was more like gasping, and so, I realized, was mine.  Still pressing down with the wristlock, I started touching her again.  I don't know what I was waiting for.  Maybe I wanted to torture her a little, to torture both of us.

 

“Do it,” I heard her gasp.  “Do it now, or I'll kill you somehow.”

 

I ran my free hand along her back and flanks as I moved to her rear.  I felt her struggle and from the back could see the aroused, oversized mound between her legs darken as it filled with blood.  My heart was hammering so hard I heard it thudding in my skull.  I moved in, pushing my cock lengthwise between the lips of her slippery pussy.  She groaned in pleasured anticipation.  I didn’t want to enter her just yet, but somehow, as if by instinct, she inched backwards until she was over my cock and then pushed herself onto me.  She had overstepped her boundaries and needed discipline.  I twisted and heard her moan from the new pain in her arm.  I laughed softly and started to pull out, then felt her vaginal muscles try to tighten on me.  It was a delicious sensation, but as usual, I had another hole in mind this afternoon. 

 

I kicked my slutty slave's feet further apart, wiped some of her wetness on me, pointed my cock and started to push into her ass in one smooth motion.  She cried out, squirming. But the pressure of my cock on her anus was unrelenting and slowly I worked my way inside her rectum.  I knew I had to be hurting her, but I was beyond the point of caring whether what I wanted hurt her or not.  In a few seconds she was fully impaled. She no longer had to wait for the bowel expanding sensation she'd known was coming, but gasped so loudly at the last moment that I felt the sound of it run back into me like the feedback screech through a microphone.  I started driving into her; long, slow smooth strokes that buried every inch, my hips sliding up and forward, my gut and ass clenching and releasing with each profound stroke.

 

I was enjoying the sensations almost too much to maintain any coherent thought processes---almost, but not quite.  I suddenly realized that this was a wonderful opportunity to test her training and maximize my pleasure at the same time.  I needed a paddle.  Looking around, I grabbed the single magazine remaining on the dresser and after rolling it up loosely with one hand, I slapped her flank once.  Immediately, as she'd been taught over the last two months, Rasha's squirming hips settled into a steady rocking motion—a nice comfortable gait that I'd repeatedly trained her to use at moments like this.  Her ass was like compressed heaven, her hips making springy, short moves as she formed herself to me and my needs.  There was no thought now; she was solely engaged in satisfying me, her pelvis making the necessary collected, controlled movements of a born ass-slut as her weight shifted back towards me and then away from me again. 

 

I enjoyed Rasha grinding around my cock for what seemed an eternity, then gave her ass another single sharp whack.  My beautiful slave responded instantly, increasing her fucking speed to a slow trot, her buttocks grinding into my loins even harder as she took everything I had.  She moved beneath me to a controlled beat that only she could hear and I bottomed out inside her more than once as I tried to give her a last half-inch of steaming meat.  She cried out in pain each time, and I looked down at her the last time.  The side of her face was pressed against the dresser, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open and panting, in pain or ecstasy or both.  I didn't know---I didn't care.  Her cheek was streaked with tears.  I didn't care if I was hurting her or not, I kept going.  I didn't slow down at all.

 

A minute went by, maybe two.  I forgot who she was, who I was, why I had her there.  There was only the room, the heat, a singularity generating a rhythm as old as the oceans.  I waited a bit and then hit her ass with the magazine again and again.  Each time my beautiful slave went a little faster, increasing her pace as I took her from a lope to a canter, and finally to what I made her call a gallop.  She was fully extended now, her head as low as it could go.  Her moves had shortened to a full-out slamming of her buttocks into my groin accompanied by little circular movement; but everything was accompanied by a clamping move with her rectal muscles that was jaw-clenching in its intensity.  I rode my woman in a crouched half-seat at the end, maintaining control with my hands on her hips as I asked her for everything she had.  And she gave it to me again and again. 

 

I heard a deep groan and realized it came from me.  Or maybe it was her.  She opened her eyes and looked back at me, pleading for something.  I let go of her wrist and took hold of her hips with both hands.  She gripped the edges of the dresser and even though she still wore high heels, she moved up onto her toes even higher.  There was full length mirror across the room and I could see ourselves in it...she was heaving for air to fill her lungs, her dress was bunched up around her waist and our bodies were connected only by my steel-hard cock.  The ridges of her leg muscles were sharply defined as she raised her ass even more for both her pleasure and mine.  Her lips were moving, but if there were words I couldn't hear them.  Her legs were trembling.

 

Finally, she clamped onto me like a vise and as I felt her start to cum, she took me over the edge with her.  The heat from her rectum and the pressure as her final internal clench literally sheathed my cock with her velvety soft, searing hot flesh, every sensation crashed together and made it feel like she was vulcanizing her insides to me.  I dug my fingers more deeply into her hips.  The pounding in my chest and in my head seemed to fuse together with everything else; my legs, my balls, my gut, her body beneath and before me, everything.  Through it all I could feel her cumming in waves under me and all around me and myself cumming inside her.

 

Finally, it subsided.  I eased down on top of her, supporting some of my weight with my arms.  I could feel her slowly relax and go back down on her high heels as I finished injecting my final gift of love deep in her ass.  I felt emotionally empty, physically drained.  We stayed that way for a long time, our breathing slowing down, our sweat drying, coming back to ourselves and our respective positions in the world.  I reached down, grabbed a handful of pony-tailed hair and pulled her head up.  I looked down without expression at my beautiful ass-slut as she looked back at me out of the corner of her arctic blue eyes.  We both knew that I had just proved once again my ownership of her body and her soul.  I let go and her head fell back to the dresser as she closed her eyes.

 

It had all been so successful.  I looked down with almost bittersweet emotions on the woman that still used her rectal muscles to please me, rhythmically clenching and releasing as she'd been taught; milking for his pleasure whichever man had last taken her; draining him of his very last drop of semen.  It didn't have to be me anymore, she didn't realize it yet, but she'd been trained to perform like this for any man that might possess her. 

 

As she continued to grab me, then let go, I realized how different men and women were.  Beneath me, Rasha lay on the dresser with her eyes closed.  I think she was savoring what she felt was a deep emotional connection based on our sensory and emotional and physical associations; her intellect probably consumed with the buzzing afterglow of what to her was an act of love and deep devotion and commitment.  But like most men, as soon as I got my nuts off, my mind wandered into totally unrelated areas.  I rubbed the firm muscles of Rasha's ass even as my cock still kept her anus pried apart. 

 

My hands rested on her hips with casual ownership as I thought back to our first meeting.  She'd sat across from me, a proud, arrogant woman.  A slick gloss of indifference had covered her expressions and whatever her real emotions might have been.  She’d later refused to play the hopelessly ditsy female to reassure my masculine insecurities; she hadn’t rambled and hadn’t used double entendres to test what she considered tasteful boundaries.  An independent, strong-minded woman not used to losing battles of will with men; a woman that was instead used to manipulating men.  A wife.  An intelligent and trained professional woman.  And as soon as I saw the haughty look on her face that day, I'd wanted to wipe it away forever. 

 

Now, as she willingly lay bent over the dresser this afternoon, panting, with my spent cock still rammed up her ass, I felt the buzz of total sexual release and the absolute satisfaction of total dominion over a beautiful woman.  This was ownership of another in its most profound state.  I'd ridden her right up to the gates of everything she'd ever feared, and made her jump them as she continued into the unknown of total domination. 

 

I'd wanted to degrade her, make her pay for all of the other women that had treated me and every other man the same way.  And I'd succeeded; I'd taken everything away from her, piece by broken piece. 

 

To me, at the time, it seemed only appropriate to turn her into a sex toy; and even more humiliating for her, I’d concentrating on the type of sex that I'd known she'd hated, the type of sex that tended to burn toys out quickly, physically aging parts of their bodies far beyond their years as they serviced men this way.

 

In the end, if her last performance was any thing to go by, I'd wildly exceeded my expectations for two reasons.  I'd torn down or taken away anything that made her an individual and then re-shaped her into a loyal slave that was also the perfect ass-slut; the pathetic creature that now crouched beneath me with my shriveling cock still buried in her rectum.  This act today, in this tawdry motel room, had been nothing more than that; an act staged to test the loyalty and love and strength of training of my sex slave.  It had been like domesticating an African lioness, then leaving the door to its cage open one last time at the end of training just to see what the big cat did.  But I'd turned the once beautiful cat into a pitiful shell of its former exquisite self with my punishments and discipline. 

 

And Rasha had performed beautifully.  She'd walked up to the open door of the previously inescapable cage that existed now only in her head, smelt freedom one last time, tasted it over and over on her tongue---and then---and then she'd backed away and raised her ass to let me take her one more time.  Choosing the simplicity and surety of sexual slavery over taking responsibility for the troubling and far too complicated concept of freedom.  For where I had taken her mind now, freedom was far too “messy” of an idea.

 

The second reason?  I think she loved me.

 

I should have felt ecstatic, and to be truthful, I was happy---happy with what I'd accomplished.  I'd take her out tonight and we'd celebrate a little.  I planned to enjoy myself, perhaps humiliate her a little, then we'd come back and she'd celebrate with me one more time.  But....but, as I looked down on Rasha, her eyes still closed in apparent ecstasy as she continued clamping and releasing, clamping and releasing, I realized that I too had become emotionally involved.  For even as I had molded her body and feelings and needs to please my desires, I too had changed.  If I'd allowed it, this could well have been the woman that answered all the questions that I'd ever had about life and love.  In her I might have found the friend and lover for whom I'd been waiting my whole life. 

 

Or at least the unbroken and untamed woman that I'd first collared could have been that. 

 

After awhile, I eased myself up and stepped back.  She pushed herself up off of the dresser and looked at me.  Neither of us said anything.  There was a pause and she looked down at what was left of her dress, then let it slide off her arms as she stepped out of it.  I pulled her to the bed and she yielded softly, expectantly, laying down next to me; her body's needs gorged for now, she soon she fell asleep in my arms.

 

She lay next to snoring softly, satisfied for the moment with her sexual exhaustion.  Her pose displayed her naked torso to its best advantage, the light accenting the scattered small red blotches that formed patterns characteristic of being physical disciplined.  I followed the smooth flow of her muscles, the play of light across her naked breasts and stomach.  A hypnotic sight, marred only by the light bruises that I'd given her as they'd blued and darkened over the last couple of days. 

 

We'd had a wild and noisy affair that could have been heard all up and down the hall.  But I didn't care.  This had been more symbolic than anything else.  Even though I had set her up, as far as she knew, this had been her last opportunity for freedom.  But in the end, she'd submitted beautifully to my ownership even when it wasn't clear she needed to.  For the first time it, I was convinced that she wasn’t faking her commitment to me, to her subordinate position in our relationship, to her new role in this new world.  Refreshed and sated, we awoke famished.  Then I decided that I wanted to take her to a club for dancing.

 

***

In spite of feeling fresher after almost four hours of sleep, I was still mentally exhausted.....and sore in one area.  I didn't want to do this, I didn't particularly enjoy the feelings of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder on the dance floor.  If it had been possible, I would have asked Master to take me on a vacation, then followed him to the ends of the earth, some place where nothing and no one reminded me of the life I'd been forced to leave behind.  I was a changed woman after his intervention, more than willing uproot my life for him.  But what would I do when this was over?  Would this EVER be over for the likes of me?  Would he ever let me go?   Would I ever want to leave him?

 

Only one thing was for sure.  No matter what happened, I was sure he cared for me in his own way and would stay with me, always in the lead until I put my life together. 

 

***

 

Music has always had a strange, almost primal effect on me.  The beat of some songs seemed to pulse through my body, giving me uncontrollable urges.  But tonight, mostly my thoughts centered about Rasha.

 

Before we went dancing, I insisted on a slutty look that made her uncomfortable: very short red skirt, tight off-white halter top, red strappy high heels and a red velvet choker that acted as a dressier, slightly more formal slave collar than black leather.  The halter top had a low V-cut neckline, an empire waist and was made out of a soft, light nylon-cotton mix that clung to her body.  It hid nothing and with no bra, in the cool evening air it was immediately obvious that she was excessively female.  I'd made her continue dying her long hair light brown and she'd put it up in an inappropriately elegant chignon.  Rasha'd hated the whole look and was absolutely embarrassed when I'd forced her into it.  I found it so interesting that she still felt a sense of shame about style and tone of her dress and appearance---did she still somehow preserve some modicum of dignity after all I'd done to her?

 

But she was happy about my having allowed her a thong; I nodded graciously as I accepted her profuse thanks.  But I didn't really care, for the damned triangle of cloth was so small that it covered absolutely nothing between her legs.  She was still fresh from the shower and I'd watched a grimace of distaste cross her face when she put it on.  Now all I wanted to do was to slide my hands up under her skirt and slip the damn thing down around her ankles.  Finally, I'd insisted on more makeup than she was used to wearing.

 

***

 

I felt almost groggy after making love and then taking a nap, but after putting on light makeup, I dressed quickly for him, reluctantly pulling on the sluttish mini and tight blouse he insisted on.  Wonder of wonders, he'd finally allowed me a thong.  As usual, I finished off with the normal pair of uncomfortable stiletto heels.  Then he made me put on more makeup.  I looked at myself in the mirror and blushed.  I knew I was too much of a walking cliché to look sexy.  I looked so ridiculous that I felt like crawling into a hole, but finally having panties to wear made me feel a little better.  He just couldn't seem to understand that women.......leak sometimes.....and panties were necessary.  I looked like a total slut when I was finished, and I walked a little funny because my rectum still ached from satisfying his needs.  But the men that saw me later that evening seemed to find my appearance attractive.  Most important, I knew my Master was pleased and somehow, this made me feel a little more sexy.

 

***

 

I entered the club with my woman walking slightly behind me.  Radiantly beautiful, even dressed as a slut, Rasha was still somehow able to look cool and haughty, indifferently ravishing.  As always, my Rasha turned heads as she strode in a suitable distance behind me.  She ignored the inevitable stares and the whispered comments as if she were at home on a model's runway in Paris or London.  She looked almost professional, donning once more her old mask of arrogance and disinterest---it was a persistent fiction that she seemed to work at maintaining and I would destroy it later tonight. 

 

Women dressed to kill stood shoulder to shoulder, but men still stopped talking as my woman passed by in that amazing glide she had.  I knew immediately that she was the sluttiest, sexiest thing there, clearly more desirable than any of the other equally pretty, yet empty-headed young women that seemed to stalk the dance floors and bars like jungle cats looking for prey.  There was something different about Rasha.  She seemed a puzzle to the men that watched with hungry eyes; a woman that clearly despised a meat market like this, yet it was clear that she was no innocent in this sort of a place either. 

 

Surprisingly, after all I'd done to her and all that she suffered under me, in public at least, Rasha still managed to maintain a distant, almost cool appearance of dignity.  Yet at the same time, she somehow still exuded an indefinable air of innocence.  And it sometimes seemed mixed with something a little more spicy---amusement perhaps?  Or maybe it was the obvious intelligence in her eyes that so confounded the men around her?  Maybe it was the way she walked.  The almost predatory, yet subtly controlled aggressive movement of taut ass and hips barely covered by the short strip of red cloth that hinted of massive sexual fires barely contained in her belly; the fires that were obviously tamped down and under full control, at least for the moment.  Clearly, her looks promised a man his ultimate challenge before she submitted for his pleasure.  And the men responded en masse.

 

Combining the innate challenge to men that just oozed from every pore in her body along with the provocative way I'd forced her to dress was a killer combination. The men noticed it immediately, as did most of the women.  But none of them knew that I'd gotten there first.  I was looking forward to tonight; tonight I planned on humiliating her a little.  Breaking through that haughty appearing exterior with an audience of hungry men looking on.  Nothing too much, just enough embarrassment to bring back the wild look in her eyes and the pain in her face.  She was addictive and she was mine; and after our bout in the motel this afternoon, she needed some manipulation.

 

There were two bars in the club; the one on the second floor in the back was almost always empty.  I found a tight booth for us in a dark corner and after she'd slid in, I got us two drinks from the bar.  As she sat next to me, her tiny skirt barely covered her gorgeous ass.  Everything about the woman seemed to scream sex: her beautiful hair as it caught the flashing lights off the dance floor, the way her eyes sometimes locked with mine as her body swayed softly to the music even as she was sitting still, the way her body seemed to move innocently under the strobes yet inadvertently still touch mine. 

 

I urged Rasha to finish her drink, then got up to get her two more.  While I was gone, apparently one of the men standing around took it upon himself to make a move.  I stood at the bar and looked back just in time to see him say something to her, then reach for her hand.  Just as he did, she slapped him hard.  A real stinger that sent his expensive glasses skittering across the floor.  She was a tough broad to other men, I thought to myself.  But I'd domesticated her ass for my own private use.  At the same time, I wasn't sure how much I liked the fact that she could revert so quickly back to pre-collar behavior.  She wasn't I realized, completely where I wanted her.  I'd have to watch her closely.

 

I suddenly felt possessive of my beauty and after I sat down again with her drinks, I put my arm around her shoulder.  I could see that a few other men had wanted to visit our booth while I was at the bar, but she'd given them incentive to stay away.  I'd watched her closely after her encounter and there'd been no come-along looks, nothing on which a man could pin his hopes.  She pleased me with her loyalty.

 

Rasha was attentive---not flirtatious, just attentive.  She listened to every word I had to say, looked into my eyes, didn't even mention what we'd done earlier.  I watched the light play on her hair and told her she looked lovely.  She smiled in pleasure.

 

I pushed her to finish her last drink---Rasha didn't handle alcohol well and this fit into my plans for the evening.  On impulse, I grabbed her right breast.  I cupped its soft, full weight and supported it in my palm  It was the openly possessive act of a woman's openly possessive man, letting the whole world know she belonged to him.  I could tell that she was uncomfortable with my obvious control in front of others, but that didn't matter to me. 

 

The men continued watching and a few single girls came in and sat on the opposite side of the lounge.  Their presence ignited my already flaming loins---not because they were watching---they truly didn’t seem to care.  The idea that they knew something sexual might be happening across the room was what heightened my already turgid state of arousal.  The crowd was thinner now and most of it consisted of college kids interspersed with a few older single men; the usual bachelor losers that always seemed to patrol a place like this, dreaming of making just one more score, but never quite bringing it off.

 

Rasha had no choice but to finally accept my open possession of her breast.  After a moment of pleasure, I upped the ante.  Soon I'd slipped my hand inside her halter and cupped her breast without the flimsy cloth between us.  She again squirmed uncomfortably as I stroked her breast possessively. 

 

There is a theory about the power of human touch, something about it being the most subtle form of sex.  Certainly it is the most sensual.  Not that I was necessarily getting a perverted thrill out of massaging my woman's breast in public, but I admit I was enjoying it.  I gave her breast a good squeeze, and Rasha stiffened like she was going to pull away, but she knew better.  Once she tried to gently push my hand away, but I wouldn't stop.  She took a quick look around and saw that no one seemed to be watching, took a deep breath and finally relaxed a little. 

 

In this I could tell that she was wrong.  The alcohol was finally beginning to hit her blood stream and as I continued massaging her tit, I could feel her nipple harden.  Suddenly, Rasha leaned in and gave me a quick kiss.  As I kissed her back, I pinched her nipple harder to punish Rasha for her forward behavior and she gave an involuntary whimper of pain.  Even with my discipline, her last kiss still seemed aggressive, almost angry; she raked my lower lip with her teeth as she pulled away, but I liked the taste of it. 

 

Her knees were slightly spread, and although it was awkward, I quickly slipped my other hand all the way up her skirt; Rasha actually looked surprised for a second and I thought she would say something in her shock, but she kept her silence.  I finally freed her breast from my obviously unwelcome attentions as I began to stroke the inside of her thigh; she finally spread her thighs a little more allowing me to touch her from the inside of her knee to the stiffening clit she thought hidden behind a tiny rag of cloth.  The smell of aroused and wet female sex soon filled the air around the booth.  I reached in with my right hand and pushed aside the tiny crotch of the thong in order to stick two fingers inside Rasha.  As this all took place under the table, it seemed to be a little more acceptable to her.  As I continued massaging her pussy, she finally arched her back and began to gasp softly. She was almost in a trance as she moaned to the music. 

 

I continued finger-fucking her and quickly the crotch of her thong was sopping wet.  I knew she was turned on and drunk, and that she didn't necessarily want to be either.  She looked delicious at the moment, almost stunned; her eyes were wide open and her glossy lips were spread as I began to tug at her thong---she didn't move to stop me.  Soon it was so stretched out of shape that we both knew it wouldn't stay on if she tried to dance.  Unwillingly, Rasha lifted her hips a little and I had it off of her hips and down to her knees in one second.  Blushing fire-engine red, she unobtrusively removed it the rest of the way herself. 

 

Suddenly her thighs clamped shut on my hand to keep it pinned where it was.  At the same time, her hand finally came to life and began to stroke my rigid cock through my pants.  I left my hand imprisoned for a minute or two, then freed myself.  I now went back to her tit and soon I had pushed the halter top to one side and bared Rasha's gorgeous breast for everyone to see.  Her breast chain hung seductively from the nipple piercing, then draping into her cleavage.  Her nipple was a light rose color in the dark booth and it was engorged, sticking out far enough that I could have hung a hat on it.  This move brought her back from her own personal world and she began to fumble as she tried to cover herself and hide her breast in the halter again. 

 

With the hand that was around her back, I grabbed her wrist and pinned it so that she couldn't cover up.  In a couple of seconds, Rasha finally stopped fighting me and looked around praying, I guess, that no one was watching.  But several couples were clearly watching us now.  I smiled at them and openly played with her nipple some more.  Rasha was now sitting next to me with in silence, her head down and eyes were closed, her face expressionless but red with embarrassment.

 

After a minute, Rasha took a deep breath and finally lifted her fourth drink to take a sip.  I reached between her thighs and as it reached her lips, I pinched her clit and then began to roughly massage it.  She almost dropped her drink, but was finally able to control herself long enough to take a small, fake drink.  She licked her lips again, and finally looked at me with slitted eyes; the emotion there was hard to read in the dark, but I thought it was unwanted lust. 

 

We had been in the corner of the dance club for about forty-five minutes now.  I had a huge hard-on that wouldn't go away and was getting impatient.  I leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Down on your knees, Little Slave.”  She looked at me in shock, quickly shaking her head no.  I smiled and said it out loud this time, “On your knees, baby!” 

 

“Please, Master.  Please don't make me do this. Not here, not like this.”  Rasha begged me softly.  She had a pleading look on her face that made her look as innocent as a ten year old.  Her eyes were suddenly filled with unshed tears and she was begging for my understanding.  But this afternoon in the motel room had defined our relationship for good.  I had my needs and wanted to feel her on me, so I grabbed her hair and began to tug her down.  She desperately looked around one more time.  It was one of those moments when everyone knew exactly what was happening, but pretended they weren't watching.  Rasha was being studiously ignored and there was no white knight to save her---I think they all thought she was a high-priced whore I'd rented for the night.  Finally, with a look of resignation that was mixed with both despair and surrender, she finally slid beneath the table and onto her knees.  I felt her hands fumbling at my jeans and soon my zipper.  I looked around nonchalantly and saw that the same two couples were still watching us; this was okay since I have nothing against public displays of affection. 

 

I had nothing on under my jeans, and with the fly open Rasha could bob up and down almost all the to the base. She took me into her mouth and the feeling was unbelievable.  Being out in public when I made her take care of me like this was almost surreal.  The sensation was intense to the point of being unbearable---I couldn't get enough.  I kept my hand on the back of her head to ensure that she didn't get any unwanted ideas.  Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes, then opened them a second later as I felt her fingertips pushing beneath my erection to stroke my balls.  She knew exactly how hot she made me feel, and I wasn't sure how much more of this I could take. 

 

Now she took her revenge; going slow and moving to the beat of the music that rumbled from the speakers, rocking her mouth over my meat with a sloooow, rhythmic up and down cadence, sucking in hard, and then relaxing.  God, she knew how to suck cock even when she didn't want to.  The little tricks and the little moves with her lips and her special sucking kisses, swirling and licking with her tongue, they all pushed me over the edge until I felt like I was falling into the music.  Falling and rising up, then falling again.  No more waiting.  No more holding back.

 

Soon, both of my hands were clenching the edge of the table in a delicious passion and she was on her own.  As the music swayed over me, I knew that I was going to cum.  And suddenly, I did.  I grabbed her hair and let a solid rush of semen gather velocity as it rumbled the full length of my erection before it  jetted into her waiting mouth.  She fought me for a quick second as she felt me bulge, then took it all on her tongue in the back of her throat.  I came several more times, each spurt being smaller and having less velocity than the preceding one.  Finally, I was done; my cock lay on her tongue, pulsing slowly as it filled her mouth.  Rasha hesitated for a second, then I could feel my cock thrum in her mouth as she swallowed the full load.  God, this woman was amazing!

 

I could barely move for a minute or so.  At the end, I had been controlling her head and mouth with handfuls of her hair.  Finally, I pried my cramped fingers apart and let loose of the handles that I'd grabbed on each side of her head; suddenly she slid back up to sit next to me.  I zipped my pants as Rasha looked at me expressionlessly; she first licked her lips, then took a long sip of her drink.  God, she was sexy.  Even when she didn't want to be!

 

***

 

I reluctantly slid under the table and got on my knees in front of him.  I'd knew had too much to drink and was getting a little tipsy because as I knelt on the floor, I almost fell on my side.  I soon had him open when Master grabbed great handfuls of my hair on each side of my head to keep my head centered and mouth under his control. 

 

He'd left me with nothing, taking almost everything of value from me; my freedom, my pride, everything that defined how I valued myself.  My face burned in that dark corner under the table, my eyes stung with the need to cry.  I was terribly embarrassed at what he was making me do.  The office full of boys a couple of weeks ago had been horrible, but at least there I hadn't been been on my knees under a table, forced to perform in public for an audience of hundreds.  He'd allowed me to be treated like a whore then, but now, for the first time he'd made me feel like a whore.  He'd finally succeeded in making me feel like a cheap, trashy whore.  The man had everything else of me that he could ever have wanted—why did he want this too?  I didn't deserve this; God, why me?

 

My thoughts continued for a few more seconds, then crashed like a ship on a reef as I finally understood I could no longer deny that there were certain realities that I'd been forced to develop in new my life.  Abruptly, I was exasperated with myself; I was sick of the pretenses, sick of the excuses I'd always made for myself. 

 

I inhaled deeply through my nose since I couldn't breathe through my mouth, then continued pleasuring him.  He'd given me a chance to leave him earlier today at the room, but I had not done it.  Instead, I'd let him ass-fuck me until I could barely move afterwards; no, the truth was I'd wanted him like that, rough, brutal animal sex without preliminary build-up.  We both knew I could have left him at any time tonight.  But I hadn't, and somehow he'd known I wouldn't.  He knew I'd stay to see it through even though I had not known this myself until thirty seconds ago.

 

Within a couple of minutes, my initial humiliation had changed to an almost drunken defiance of what I'd always thought of as accepted social custom.  I was not only ignoring it, I was actual defying what had always been for me “...accepted norms of behavior.”  I felt a thrill of perverse satisfaction at what I'd done, at how far I'd gone in front of my audience.  But a quick thought pulled me out of my satisfied reverie.  I was different now, we both knew it.  How far would I have voluntarily gone with Anne Marie?  I truly didn't know what my limits were anymore. 

 

Despite his treatment over the last weeks and the training he'd put me through, I knew that a few tiny kernels of pride must have still existed somewhere inside me or I wouldn't have been so embarrassed at his first demands in and under the booth.  I finally understood that he was doing his best to root out what little remnants of conceit that still remained at my core.  And as I sucked his cock in front of the other, younger women, I finally understood.  I despised them for their weaknesses and their desperate need, but I was no better than any of them.  I knew that if he'd possessed any of them for two months, or even two weeks, they'd be under the table just like me, greedily filling their mouthes with his erection.  He was that good at leaving a woman with nothing but an aching need to satisfy him.

 

When truth was laid bare to the bone, I knew I'd valued myself too much in the past, I'd had too much pride in who I was.  The pride was wrong, but.........I wasn't as innocent as I sometimes wished I could pretend.  The bare truth was that I'd never imagined a pleasure, guilty or otherwise, that I hadn't wanted to experience.  And I'd never experienced a physical pleasure that I hadn't wanted more of.  And now,somehow, he'd tapped that perverse vein of desire in me. 

 

Even as my face burned in what could only be a last embarrassment before he'd taken this final emotion away from me too, if I was absolutely truthful, if I brought to the surface the deepest feelings I kept secret inside me and truthfully examined what I kept hidden there, for some reason I felt a perverse sense of.....of defiant satisfaction at what I was doing at this exact moment.  I was his whore for the evening now and we both knew it now. 

 

My public side had been so important to me before Master that I'd made almost a fetish out of appearing as a productive member of an honorable profession.  But now I was a pariah.  I was a pariah as Rebecca Denholm and as for tonight, for all the world knew, I was just a whore he'd picked up for a couple of hours---and I think that's what he wanted them to think.  After all, to all outward appearances, I was willingly doing this for him.....and I was.  No one knew that that he'd held me captive for months in the beginning and forced me to be this way.  He'd changed me in that time, and I was different now.  What I now did with, and to, this man was publically forbidden.  But because of that, it was also exciting.  I was so different from how the me of even two or three months ago would have acted in public.  How far, I thought to myself,  would he make me go tonight?  How far, I wondered, was I willing to go?  A thrill of excitement chased down my spine as I thought how the men and women I'd known in the past when I was married would look at what I was doing.

 

Suddenly, I felt him begin pulsing and his buttocks clench.  Then it was over as he came in my mouth and I slowly swallowed his salty sperm.  I rested on my knees without too much thought as I finished cleaning him off, then I felt a quick thrill of panic as I realized that I'd have to get back in the view of everyone and sit next to him.  Even though I knew that I taken him in public, I'd somehow been able to pretend for a moment that my acts under the dark table went unseen.  For some reason, I hadn't thought of having to re-appear next to him.  Could I do it?  How embarrassing would it be?  Would the humiliation add spice?  I calmed myself and after a few deep breathes, most of the panicky feeling left.  It seemed that much of the hard shell of defiance that I'd been able to pretend I'd felt a minute ago seemed to evaporate as I crawled out from under the table. 

 

I sat next to him in a sort of defiant way.  The women across the room had looked at me when I had first re-appeared and laughed as I futilely tried to fix my hair where he'd been grabbing it.  They knew exactly what I was trying to do, and were enjoying the embarrassment I felt at my lack of success.  I felt the defiance inside me build, along with the heat of embarrassment.  I generally tried not to be crude, but fuck them. 

 

I thought back to when we'd first come in, when I'd first seen them.  We'd come in and I'd followed a step behind and to the right as I'd been taught.  I'd been whipped too many times to do it any other way now.  As I walked in behind him, I was conscious of being watched, yet was unable to tell which particular man or woman since there were so many.  My gait had been in stark contrast to that of the other women we passed; I knew I had an odd walk, but that was part of who I was.  But when we entered the door, it was me the men watched, not them.  And every other woman there knew it.

 

I felt a now-familiar inward quaver, and hoped my Master couldn't see my fear.  I waited a couple of minutes, finishing off my drink quickly to get the taste of out of my mouth.  In the dark under the table, I'd felt strong, adventurous.  But now I just wanted to crawl away, slinking out in the dark of the night.  I didn't feel confrontational right now, I just wanted this over.  I felt like everyone was looking at me and suddenly I couldn't take any more. 

 

I had to urinate so badly that I begged Master for his permission to go to the bathroom.  He made me wait another minute, then he gave me permission to leave and I got up, then stumbled a little.  I'd had too much to drink and it was hard to walk in the ridiculous heels he always made me wear.  The bar had filled since we'd arrived and I made my way past a lot of tightly grouped people.  The single men looked at me with an intensity that almost frightened me, like a lion would look at fresh meat.  But if the men were with another woman, they'd take a quick look then avoid me.  Most women just glared at me or ignored me.  But a couple of women bumped me into me in an aggressive sort of way, then looked at me like I had just propositioned their dates.  But I just apologized and continued on with my face and ears burning red.  When I arrived, there was a line waiting for a stall to open.  I patted my hair, but knew it looked a mess.  There was nothing I could do now.  I knew that I'd had too much to drink and would soon begin to feel sleepy.  It took almost ten minutes and I'd finally begun to regain my composure.  When the second stall to my left opened up, I stepped forward to go in. 

 

Without warning, a young girl with short lime-green hair grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the empty stall with her.  She was one of those that had aggressively bumped into me outside; she slammed the door shut behind us then pushed me up against the grungy wall tiles in one quick move.  My mind was still buzzing from being humiliated, I'd had three and a half drinks by now, and I was thinking about my uncomfortably full bladder and whether a stall would open in time to save me from absolute mortification.  She took me totally by surprise.  Suddenly, I felt her hot lips on mine and her tongue began to search my mouth. 

 

At first I was stunned; I just stood there as she kissed me.  I kept waiting for someone outside to start yelling, but all any of us could hear was the booming music.  Suddenly, I could move again and I tried to push her away, but she was amazingly strong and kept me pinned.  The music was booming, echoing, crashing in my ears; my stomach was full of alcohol and I couldn't think straight.  Finally, I just stopped fighting her; my head was buzzing and I didn't have the strength. 

 

She was relentless and came at me again.  My mind was blank now and I couldn't help myself.  It was as if I watched this happening to someone else; I felt a remotely distant sense of shock as my body somehow began to melt into hers.  I know that I reacted with confused, drunken lust even as my mind screamed no, No, NO.  

 

My Master had broken me of the rules by which I'd lived my previous life; what happened next most assuredly was his fault.  I'd never done anything like this before; I felt both frightened and bewildered, yet somehow tremblingly eager to experience this girl at the same time.  I felt her hands on me, all over me, finally sliding up from my stomach, ending as she somehow opened my halter to reveal my breasts.  Then her hands were on my butt, pulling me towards her.  She was looking up into my eyes before she leaned into me again and got a small smile on her lips as she saw my breast rings. 

 

I tried to stifle a moan of pure erotic lust as she lowered her head to suck on my nipples, while her hand found its way under my skirt.  I spread my thighs and she found me slippery with need.  She didn't know that I was still wet from masturbating while sucking off Master. 

 

She slowly massaged my breasts.  Despite my initial reactions and the awful way it had been done, I had come to admire  the art of what Master had done to me; the golden color and the contrast of pierced nipple against natural breast.  Not only did I find it somehow aesthetically pleasing now, the sensations I felt when touched there were incredibly varied.  My nipples had always been sensitive and I knew without a doubt now that his piercings had increased the sensitivity a hundred-fold.  The green-haired girl drove me wild with sudden, unexpected lust. 

 

There were women waiting just outside and I stifled my moans at first, then I was forced to cry out softly; she was rougher now as she played with my clit before she flicked it with her fingertip and sucked hard on my nipple at the same time.   The pain cut through the mental fog and somehow it felt wonderful. 

 

Even though other women had seen her enter the stall with me, we were in our own private world right now.  Besides, no one could hear me over the music anyway.  My Master had done these things to me; why not her too?  I could scream to my heart's content and we would still be alone.   And so I let this unknown have me.

 

I ran my fingers through her hair and began to pull her face to me; somehow I knew she needed to be kissed.  But instead I threw my head back in order to moan; her fingers were pushing inside me now and forced my thighs even further apart.  She expertly finger fucked me, dipping them in a practiced motion that told me she was skilled at making other women cum. 

 

Suddenly, an errant thought ran through my mind; my bladder was killing me and I really wasn't up for this, was I?  But nobody had told her; the girl's fingers made my pussy feel as hot as molten lava and as she continued, I suddenly realized that she had found my G-spot.  She pushed me again until my back was against the wall and I could go no further, then she worked between my thighs with two fingers perfectly curled to put her fingertips right where she knew I wanted them most.  I tried to tell her how good it felt, but my voice had gone, leaving me speechless in the thunderous racket of the club.

 

I pulled her to me again and kissed her on the lips.  As she pushed deeper inside me, I could feel the pressure increasing against my full bladder; the girl's fingers rhythmically tormenting me, slamming my insides.  But something about the motion was over-working my G-spot, stimulating it, making it feel wondrous despite the pain of my now bursting bladder.  She slid my skirt up around my waist and I could feel the cold tile of the wall against my bare ass. 

 

But reality surfaced again and hit quickly; I managed to spread my feet as far apart as possible, for suddenly I couldn't hold it in any longer and a gush of urine hit the floor beneath me.  I thought I would die from embarrassment, but she didn't seem to care.  She stopped and backed off for a second.  Suddenly, I was empty and the flow trickled to a stop.  The pee slowly moved towards a stopped up drain, then pooled there.  But the girl never stopped, suddenly going to one knee on the wet concrete and leaning in towards my pussy.  I spread my thighs for her again as I felt her hot, sucking mouth suddenly envelope me.

 

I threw my head back and screamed in pure, unexpected pleasure as she began lapping at me and sucking on my clit.  When she put her fingers back inside me again, my knees suddenly felt weak; I frantically grabbed for anything that I could hold and that would allow me to remain standing.  No matter how I moved, her mouth followed my pussy.  Finally, I was braced with my back in the corner as she began to work me again.  Her tongue was on my clit as her fingers rhythmically pumped in and out.  My bladder had emptied, but she still had pressure on my G-spot; I couldn't help myself, I knew I was cumming and it was a big one.  Even as I threw my head back and screamed my joy, I knew this had to be one of the crudest and most tawdry encounters that could ever have been imagined; my panties were gone and I was standing in my own urine, pushed up against the wall of a nasty toilet stall as I allowed an unknown woman to have oral sex with me.

 

The girl's face was buried between my thighs and I could see that her free hand was buried inside her pants.  The sensation for me now was so intense that it was almost too exquisite to bear, but suddenly, if it was possible, something about what she was doing aroused me even more.  I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her face back enough so that I could reach down and spread my labia even wider for her wonderful, long tongue.  Before Master, I had been rather conservative during sex, rarely making a lot of appreciative noise; never screaming and forcing myself to keep my pleasure limited to moans or groans.  But he had made me learn to give voice to my pleasure, often during sex but sometimes due just to the pain.  And I had learned to appreciate expressing myself this way---and tonight I did.  I threw my head back and screamed, a howl of pure pleasure at the top of my lungs as the girl's tongue forced one continuous orgasm after another from my body. 

 

The green-haired one must have felt me cumming again, because after about a minute, she finally stood up and lifted her hand to her mouth, then put her fingers in my mouth so that I could lick her fingers and taste myself.  I leaned against the wall, legs shaking, totally spent as I sucked on her fingers.  My body tingled all over, my legs felt like wet noodles and I knew that I couldn't walk right now.  Then she was done.  She kissed me one more time on the lips.  A hard and violent kiss that told me she had gotten what she wanted from me.  Then she turned and left me standing in my own urine, my skirt up around my waist and my top opened to expose my breasts.

 

I was shaken physically, but even more so emotionally.  I had never before done anything like this and would probably never again.  But for tonight, for just this one night, it had been incredible.  He'd forced me to satisfy him from male selfishness, but she had done this for just pleasure.  I knew that I could go back to Master now and he would never have to know.

 

Even after having experienced so much of life, I knew I was still quite naive in some ways.  I felt some shame at having allowed what had just happened.  But to my great surprise, I also felt a sense of guilty exhilaration; an awkward feeling of elation that ran through every fiber of my being at having just experienced a piece of life that I'd never realized existed before having been acquired by this man.

 

What was wrong with me?  What was happening to me?

 

It took me another five or ten minutes to pull myself back together.  I had no purse or clutch, no brush and no makeup.  After I put my clothes back together, I left the stall and just stood in front of a mirror.  A couple of the younger girls looked at me with sardonic smiles, but I ignored them.  Eventually, I was able to walk again.  When I finally slid in next to Master, he had an annoyed, impatient look on his face.  All I wanted to do was see if I could find the green-haired girl on the dance floor.  God, what a night!

 

***

 

I love to dance; it was around 9 PM and the dance floor was hot.  A new song was just beginning and I swayed with the music.  It'd taken Rasha a long time to take a piss and she now was acting odd.  It was starting to piss me off a little, but it was impossible to stay angry as long as the throbbing beat pummeled my ears. 

 

The music having finally won, I was in a better mood again; it was a slow song so I took her hand and pulled her to her feet.  Her hair was falling down now from the sort of bun she'd put it in earlier and she held back for a second, but I pulled harder and finally we instinctively glided to the nearest spot that had enough room for two. We got into position and paused, taking a moment to feel each other as well as the beat. She was hesitant at first, but I led her into a conversation without words.  She turned out to be a good dancer and our bodies quickly adapted to each other as we moved through the song, our eyes almost always in contact. Normally, I would have preferred a little more demure performance, but not tonight.  Although she followed my lead, there was little passivity on her part as we danced.  In the pause after a turn, I moved into an erotic step that was divided equally between approach and retreat, my knee driven between her thighs.  Dominance and submission.  Control and freedom.  In a few moments, our lips were so close that I could almost taste my slave's sweat. Then I whisked her into an extreme dip.  As I expected, she indulged me perfectly, the loose strands of her hair nearly touching the floor in perfect abandon.

 

Could anyone ever deny the connection between sex and dancing?

 

As I have gotten older, I better understand that dancing is about submission and control; communicating with your partner, dominating and guiding their every move, then letting go to see if they understood the required servility. Many of the same dynamics apply to sex.  I controlled Rasha's body now; we'd connected first in bed and now again on the dance floor.  She finally seemed to be her normal sexy self, an obedient slave again.  But she must have begun to feel the music in her bones, because with the change of a single song, she suddenly became a true dance floor slut. 

 

She was never obvious or coarse, but a few times she moved against me in such an erotic way, I thought that I'd almost orgasm on the dance floor.  Dancing with Rasha at that moment was almost as good as having sex with her.  And as we touched, feelings and emotions started coming to both of us naturally as we moved.  Her pelvis and flat, tight belly moved in an unhurried fashion, slowly but irresistibly grinding into me.  At the end of that dance, we both had an unspoken agreement that it was time to leave.  My headache had returned somewhat.  The music had found at the end the rhythm of the blood pounding in my temples and every sound suddenly had a serrated edge.  I slowly led her into the night, preceded only by my erection; I could hardly wait to get back to our room for the rest of the night.

 

***

 

As we left, I looked around for the green-haired girl, but she was gone.  Instead, it seemed as if everyone knew what we had done.  People looked at me now as we passed them; as if I walked like I wanted somehow to be noticed or smiled like I wanted to be used.  I knew that some of the men here would do anything for me---or to me---if I let them.   Many men undressed me with their eyes as we walked by them.  I didn't mind being admired, but there were other things that men could do with their eyes.  These were the ones that had little fingers attached to their eyes and when they stared at me, I could feel them crawling all over me greasily.  They’re the ones that thought the world’s full of whores.  Their dead faces and unspoken thoughts left me cold with a feeling of numb detachment.  Fuck them.  I didn’t crave their acceptance or their avarice or their needs anymore.   All I needed was Master.   Master, telling me that it was alright to do the things he did to me because my mouth asked for it now.   But inside, I knew my mind was in the palm of his hand.   And this was as it should be.

 

***

 

“The whips I used on you,” I explained to Rasha, “are fashioned from the cords of love.”  It was bullshit, but it sounded good at the moment. 

 

As usual, I enjoyed the hell out of our love-making, but as usual, there was no love in it.  I laid down The Discipline and looked at my woman as she lay on the bed, her back and ass bearing a new series of red welts.  She was good at helping me relax.  Real good.  Sex was only another form of wielded power and I had no qualms about using it on her ass.  It helped me relax and it was good for her ego.  Yes, she was very nice to have around to satisfy my needs. 

 

Uttering a soft involuntary sound of pleasure, I first unhooked the improvised gag I'd made her wear before I pushed her onto her back.  Then I spread her thighs wide, using my thumbs to part the petals that were her lips.  As I did this, I watched her face instead of her pussy.  I liked the way Rasha’s face seemed to change as I touched her, those light blue eyes closing slightly, seeming sleepy or perhaps just suddenly relaxed from the endorphin high.  I continued to probe her, stroking her brand, playing with her as I used my fingertips on her clit or brushed against it and made her move to my music.  Even after several months, I realized that her body was still amazing to me.

 

She was hot and moist and ready.  I was on my knees at the edge of the bed now and I moved between her thighs, quickly impaling her with my cock.  Rasha shuddered as I entered her.  The back of her knees were resting against the back of my thighs and her feet met between my legs.  I could feel my wave of need rush through her body, dominating her, ending with the tight inner muscles of her vagina contracting on me like sheets of unending moist fire.

 

I worked her, sliding back and forth in the wonderfully satisfying slickness between her thighs, bucking against her, driving into her with my entire being.  I grabbed her face and made her look at me, but she didn't really see me.  She was totally inside herself as I fucked her.  Rasha took it all in, everything that I did to her and processed it, just as she processed the pain she knew I would always give her.  And she understood; knowing that her body would always capitulate to my needs well before her mind.

 

When my cock was finally coated with her satiny juices, I pulled out and ordered her to clean me.  Rasha obeyed instantly, understanding exactly what I wanted even though I am sure she would have preferred to have me cum inside her.  She was quickly on her hands and knees, bent low on the bed as she took me into her mouth; deep into the velvety heat of her mouth, lapping at the juices from her most feminine area that now dripped from the tip to the base of my cock.  Her hair was down now and I wrapped my hand in it, ensuring that she found my rhythm, moving her mouth up and down, back and forth.  I was happy for once and told her how proud I was of her tonight.

 

Rasha looked up at me and murmured an answer, but her voice was muffled, her words slurred around the cock that completely filled her mouth.  I stroked her beautiful muscled back, feeling her muscles tensing and sliding beneath her finely pored skin.  She swallowed harder, trying to take me all the way down her throat, trying to devour me.  I could tell that her only concern tonight was pleasuring me just as she’d finally admitted to herself that she’d relinquished all previous claims to any power or equality between the sexes.

 

For one fleeting moment, I thought about turning my bitch onto her back, straddling her chest and feeding her my cock inch by inch  I knew that the position would ensure that she took it down her throat until her lips met my groin.  The thought had just entered my mind over when suddenly I exploded.  I was torn, satisfied at the great sex.  But disappointed, because I’d finally decided I wanted to mouth-fuck her, then roll her over and cum on her naked back, covering with my semen the raised red welts she now wore with pride.  Covering her pain with my bliss.  When I had my breath back, I knew that I needed to get out a few of the more serious toys I had brought with me.

 

***

 

She looked up at from under her eyelashes with eyes that were moist with pain.  She snuggled in closer against my chest and sobbed softly once in momentary misery, the waves of pain becoming less by the second.  After a minute or so, her eyes were soft and wet, still full of the confusion brought on by her endorphin high.  The haughty bitch of tonight with the surface patina of arrogant disinterest was gone, and in her place was my sweet pain-slut.  The woman that had been taught her lessons in pain once more, the woman who had finally learned to love being hurt by me.

 

As in every day for the preceding month, she had willingly cooperated; yet I had still intentionally hurt her a lot tonight in the motel room.  Rasha had not voiced concern about our neighbors hearing us---she wasn't bound right now, but I'd gagged her too quickly for much noise to have escaped our room.  I'm pretty sure that she understood why I got such pleasure out of causing her pain.  But I think that what was confusing Rasha was her reaction to being hurt; she couldn't understand why the idea of being tortured bothered her so much less now.  That was the question; she could understand someone being able to handle pain, but why was there pleasure in it for her now too?  The answer to both questions was the same as why she found pain to be an aphrodisiac---the need was in both of us.  

 

***

 

Later, after he'd finished for the night, I lay next to him and my mind lit up with the memories of what I'd done tonight.  The remembrance was unreal, another TV show unspooling in my mind.  Someone else had done that.  No, it hadn't been me.  At least in my mind, I tried to run away from the truth, but the truth kept catching up.  The memories wouldn't go away.  There was the table, and there was the girl, and everything he did to me afterwards.......I had changed so much in such a short time.  

 

***

 

She didn’t come from a particularly happy home and seemed to have developed a pathological fear of relationships---scared they’d turn out like her parent's.  She was like me; she'd broken everything she'd ever touched, no matter how well intentioned she was. 

 

I thought about what she must be experiencing as a new slave-whore.  It was like an idealized despair.  Any life-altering experience like she’d undergone must begin with a moment of transforming truth.  For her, the pain was part of it, for no great insight is gained without a price.  This was the ordeal she'd needed to go through, to prove it worthy.  Rasha seemed to have understood this at an instinctive level, but yet consciously fought it some of the time, even now---and as a result, what should have been an exquisite moment of truth could still be quickly shattered into falsehood and shame and even bitter comedy. 

 

But with the passage of enough time and my assistance, her experiences and feelings had become irrefutable truth again, and the broken mirror flowed together as though it were liquid.  The nasty parts were eroded away in her memory, leaving behind only the marble white bones of her personal truths; a beautiful certainty of her need to belong to me that was beyond proof.  That’s where she was now, facing the certain proof of her own body and mind.  She had become a woman that would do almost anything once, and most things as often as she could.

 

And for Rasha, that meant in some ways she had become almost a human Barbie-Doll now.  As arrogant as she could appear on the surface to others, once she knew it was play mode, she became passive and docile, waiting for me to decide what she would be for me and to me, making only minor suggestions or improvising to increase the depth my experience.  And afterwards, she was always anxious until assured that she had been both pleasing and had pleased me.  I dressed her up and positioned her in any way I desired.  Then I would force her to first scream and then finally beg, and when I was finished with that, I used her as we both knew she deserved to be used.  And afterwards, when the little girl voice appeared, I knew her mind was exactly where I wanted it once again.  Then I would use her once more, regardless of the pain I caused.  No matter what my demands, she submissively accepted it all now.

 

God, she was a fucking sex machine now; a sponge that offered sexual release and sucked up pain and humiliation and sexual degradation, burning through everything I did and turning it into fuel that only fed her need and desire.

 

Part of it was physiological.  As I conditioned her mind to feel a need for what I did, she became more and more addicted to the natural high that resulted.  All I had to do now was touch her lightly between her legs and she was immediately wet and ready.  No Pavlov's dog had ever learned to respond more expertly than Rasha.  She performed superbly, ever more willing to give anything demanded in order to feel that obsessive endorphin rush one more time. 

 

At the same time, much of it was psychological.  Because of what we did or perhaps in spite of it, it was clear that she now increasingly needed to know that she had satisfied me, that I was pleased with her actions.  My quick nod of approval had become her ultimate goal.  I was the main figure in her life---I was the only figure in her life now; I was the one from whom she required absolute reassurance that I approved of her, that I loved her for what she did and what she was.  And finally, for what she had become. 

 

She was always looking for new ways to please me.  Now reading the history of BDSM, she had developed a habit of surprising me in some of the things she asked to do or have done to her.  Everything I did to Rasha now drove her into an erotic frenzy.  She consumed it all; converting everything, ever horrible thing I did to her, into a frenzied sexual energy that only I could tap and relieve.

 

***

 

Things were not always so serious between us.  I served him in the living room tonight, crawling to him on all fours and still balancing his tray of food.  When I was next to him, he gave me permission to stand and I did without spilling anything.  This was more difficult than it sounds, and I had become very proud of my ability.  Afterwards, I cleaned up and as a treat, he allowed me to stay with him in the living room.  He was in a good mood and we lay on the couch side by side.  We were both naked and he was drinking Irish whiskey, giving me only tastes every now and then.  Master had a little too much to drink and it had seemed funny at the time for him to take on an Irish character.  He grabbed my chin and intoned, “Tis the blood o’ a virgin princess I fancy.”

 

Giggling, I immediately got into character.  “Well, you’re out of luck with me then, Master.  I’m common as muck.  Not a good princess, nor even a virgin.”

 

“Oh well,” he finished as he settled onto me.  “It’s the horn of abundance I’ve got, and I’m a-giving it to you anyway.”  And he did, twice.

 

***

 

It had taken me only a few minutes to learn the posture and language he required, but days and weeks of clenched jaw and gritted teeth before the words smoothly flowed off my tongue---Master….Mistress…..Please Sir…..May I have permission…..  For some reasons, being deferential at all times and assuming the correct body language he desired was even more difficult.  I understood what he wanted, but I earned continual punishment from him for over six weeks before I understood why…..be respectful; periodically lower your eyes in deference…..when given an order, do your best to comply immediately…..when in public, (if that ever happened again), stand just behind his elbow, so that he was slightly in front of me….thank him for every privilege Master granted me---and so much more.  We each had well defined roles and responsibilities to the other, and I was learning mine.  It had just taken me a long time.

 

Soon, through constant use and his continued reinforcement in the White Room, it became so much easier to accompany my actions with the appropriate language.  Following my submission at the end of the fifth week, I found myself unconsciously using the language of the slave all the time.  It was such a seductively easy way to give up all responsibility for my actions.

 

One evening we were sitting in the living room talking.  The almost radioactive rage of before was long gone.  I had not only accepted my life, I almost gloried in it now.  And so I listened more closely than would have been normal even just a few days ago.  He already knew me too well.

 

“Close your eyes,” he said.  “You’re here until I choose to let you go.  You're the way you are and nothing can change that.  You were a rule-breaker.  Following the rules is always simpler; by doing so you avoid the remorse and blame that comes with disobeying them.  And although you didn’t go nearly far enough, you've still experimented more than most with pain and sex.  Regardless of what I say now, you're going to keep on testing the limits of both sex and submission from this point on.  And you know why?  Because you’ve been awakened to the possibilities inside you and you’re curious.  Now that you’re aware of how different you are, you want to know what’s within you.”

 

He thumped me softly on the chest, “There.”  And then again softly below my belly button, “And there.”

 

“You know something?  You just cannot imagine how alike we are, you and me.  I know exactly what’s going on in your head.  To understand this, you’ve got to tap into your true nature; feel it, it's almost like everything’s speeding up inside you.  There's a darkness there---an acceptance of pain that pushes you over the edge from physical enjoyment to pure ecstasy---look hard and you’ll see it.  Concentrate.  You see it?  Call to it.  Let it fill you.”

 

I obediently closed my eyes as he began, but I wasn’t drugged now and wasn’t on his horse, so his descriptions seemed like a bunch of crap to me.  Nothing.  I didn’t see or feel anything like what he described.

 

“One day, one day soon, you’ll give me the secret you hide inside.  And you know what?”

 

I dropped my hands and looked at him.  “What, Master?”

 

“It won’t even be a big deal.  Because…..’ he looked at me and his eyes gleamed, “….because you and me, we’re the same.  Like me, you’ve got to accept your nature before you can control it.  Open yourself to it; let it fill you---accept it as part of you.  But know that if you question or doubt them, these desires will destroy you.”

 

“Rasha, say it; say, ‘this is a part of me; this is a part of who I am.’”

 

With my eyes still closed, I said, “This is a part of me; this is a part of who I am.”  Saying this a couple of more times under my breath, I began to concentrate on what he was saying rather than my first superficial reactions.  Always before, I had been able to reach an almost unbearable plateau of pleasure when he allowed me drugs before he used me hard.  Later, after I had been shown the path by a combination of his drugs and his equipment, I was able to achieve something approximating these feelings without the drugs.  But even as I achieved this absolutely exquisite link with the pain, I knew that these sensations, the places in my mind that I visited under their influence, would later flee.  My mind and my heart told me they were too intense, too strong for normal life and must be remembered and experienced only on special occasions. 

 

After a couple of minutes, I think I finally began to have a glimmer of understanding.  My life had been a mess, and I didn’t want all of the details that it had entailed.  I found I had gladly given up all of that to a Dominant man that I could trust and respect.  Too, Master was talking about the unique sexual release I felt when I was used in a rough, physical manner.  When I'd finally admitted the truth of this about myself, finally succumbing to this need, forceful, even brutal foreplay almost always for me led to the most satisfying sex now. 

 

Despite my earlier misgivings, I'd learned that my anus was a highly sensitive area with huge erogenous potential, providing ample opportunity for Master to experiment with my sexual arousal.  I knew now that anal sex was a natural permutation of human sexuality, little different from oral sex.  For me, having Master drive into my rectum indirectly stimulated my vagina and I could finally appreciate the subtle differences.  The muscles of my anus contracted on him during orgasm and I'd found that the presence of a man filling me, forcing my sphincter open with his cock actually strengthened the sensations of the contractions and intensified my orgasm.  Somehow every fiber and every tissue in my body shook with a red-hot release when taken like that.  But I would never allow myself to be fisted again.

 

Rough sex that hurt and was physically demeaning---up to a point---was now the best for me; I ached and throbbed at the receiving of pain.  I had not known this about myself a month ago, and the clear recognition of this truth scared me.

 

Suddenly, I had a realization that rocked my world and turned it upside down.  I had already accepted his dominance as something I could no longer fight.  But now, I realized for the first time that I also needed this man.  I'd never before needed a man in this way; I may have wanted a man, but I'd NEVER needed a man like this before.  I needed him for what he did to me; for the way he made me feel.  God!  Why now, why him?

 

***

 

That night for the first time, Rasha gave a couple of subtle hints about mounting the horse.  Unsure if I was reading her signals correctly, I asked point-blank what she wanted.  She hesitated for a long while and then blushed as she gave a small nod with her head.  Surprised, I searched her face for a second.  In her eyes I could see mostly fear; but with it was an obviously hungry look; a subtle, subliminal longing that she'd always done her best to ignore.  I knew at that moment that she was truly mine.  And because it was something upon which we both knew she needed to experiment, I set it up for her and then waited impatiently. 

 

Rasha stepped up and threw her right leg over the horizontal beam, but kept her weight on her left foot.  After a moment’s hesitation, she grimaced and finally mounted it; both feet now off the ground.  She leaned forward and put her hands on the bar in front of her, lifting her pelvis a little off the polished wood.  Slowly, gingerly, with her eyes closed, she lowered herself onto the varnished beam; every pound of her body that was taken by the lumber was accompanied by a soft, drawn out groan from her parted lips.  She hissed in pain.  Finally, Rasha rested fully on the horse and her toes pointed stiffly towards the floor, missing it by at least four inches.  Within about fifteen seconds her nipples were each the size of the tip of my small finger.  She moaned once again softly and remained frozen in place for a minute or two.  Then she began to slowly writhe and undulate on the beam, grinding her crotch into it with a small, slow, circular movement that eventually grew bolder and more obvious with increasing need. 

 

She drove me wild.  She was panting now and sweating in the most interesting places.  Rasha froze again for a second and then her knees and feet began making small quick jerking movements to the front, each move dragging her labia and clit back and forth over the polished wood.  Suddenly, she shuddered once all over, then raised her face towards the ceiling even though her eyes were closed.  Finally, she licked her lips and climbed off.  She was still panting when she turned to me with a slight smile and thanked me!  My God, was I turned on!

 

I dragged her to the bed in her room.  She was incredible.  Her body consumed mine that night.  Astride me, she made low breathing sounds of craving, head back, eyes closed, her face a mask of shadow and light.  Her fingers knew male sensitivities intimately and understood where tiny collectives of neurons lay beneath skin.  They played them delicately at first, then with great demand.  When we finished the first time, we lay next to each other.  After a few minutes she rolled onto me, then nuzzled at my chest.  She snuggled a little closer, which I wouldn't have thought was possible.  But not only was it possible, it was perfectly delightful.  It seemed as it went on like this for hours, but finally I was exhausted.  Nothing however, seemed to faze her, she was tireless.  What a beautiful, wonderful, sex machine. 

 

***

 

At first it hurt.  My legs dangled below me uselessly; I had pinched my labia against the wood and it caused great pain in the beginning.  But I adjusted my seat and then held myself motionless for a minute to build my courage.  Finally, I began to move my hips slowly and ground myself against the irresistible force I felt building inside me.  Soon, it blossomed into so much more.  I kept moving and suddenly I was consumed in a moist, rose pink eternity.  At the end, I found I was kicking with my feet and knees and thighs; and my lungs sucked for air that I could not find.  I was sweating and in pain, and it felt wonderful.

 

***

 

It was mid-February evening around 9 PM.  I looked out as Master Christian stood lost in thought on the back patio, staring out at the lake.  It was a clear cool evening, the moon was bright as it played hide and seek beneath the clouds; rain was expected.  He had been out there for over fifteen minutes wearing only pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.  As I looked at him all I could think of was that he looked so lost.

 

He allowed me more freedom now, so I walked out to him with a blanket.  As I threw it over his shoulders, I felt an uncomfortable surge of tenderness towards him.  He had been as good as his word; teaching me about my emotional, physical and sexual needs.  And in fairness to him, although I had submitted to him almost a month ago, I knew I still sometimes acted like a child.  My behavior had tested his patience time and time again.  And when I did this, he punished me; as now seemed only right.  He had been angry with me for the first few days, but after that he never seemed to react in anger.  He would always wait a little while before he decided what to do.  It took me almost a month to understand what he was doing, but when I did, I appreciated it all the more.  He was not a bad man, at least to me. 

 

The rain soon started and he came in.  He had gone to bed now.  My shower was scalding hot when I stepped in.  I liked the heat.  It made me feel clean.  I had scented the cubicle with fragrant oil and as I closed my eyes, the smell and the warmth enfolded me.  I had ridden the horse two nights ago and could feel the heat soaking through the soreness between my thighs.  I shuddered when it entered me, and the pain and stiffness seemed to dissolve after a minute.  I floated in the steam.  When I was done, I stepped out and after I had dried myself, I brushed my hair until it fell like a river of liquid silver down my back.  I used a soft scent then; a touch on each wrist, behind my ears and on the tips of my breasts.  The last dab was for my sex.  My fingers felt as light and cool as a lover’s kiss as they slid between my lips.  Finally, I put on a very short, sheer black nightie that he had left me a few days ago.  The collar and the nose ring were already in place and I was ready.

 

The doors into the house had been left unlocked for two weeks now.  The room was lit by moonlight as I went to his bed.  I found him still awake, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling.  He turned to face me as I stood by the bed, the moon at my back.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

 

“I know, Master.  I know.”  I slowly pulled off the nightie, knowing that he was watching me, trying to think about what he was thinking, trying not to think of anything at all except the moment.  He said nothing more.  Finally naked, I purposely stood in front of him.  I waited like this for a moment, letting him see me, wanting him to see everything that I was, simple in the moonlight.  And then I got into bed with him. 

 

***

 

I felt insanely calm, aware that something truly frightening was happening to me and for once I wasn’t afraid.  Who could be afraid of the angel/little girl that had approached my bed?  I rose on my elbows and lifted my head to consider the rain, which still drummed down outside.  I wiped my face with one hand. 

 

She had changed over the weeks.  But I knew there was still something inside her that I wasn't sure I could reach.  What it was I couldn't say: regret over being forced to change her life as she accepted a new role?  A deep-seated, yet barely realized bitterness at how she had been treated in this new life; perhaps sorrow over the normal life, the family, that she had been forced to give up and which now would be denied her forever?

 

She tended to use the term Master pretty much exclusively now, rather than the more formal Sir.  She always maintained the proper attitude, but there were times when I wasn't sure how deeply she meant this term of respect.  Sometimes when she said Master, in some ways, it seemed as if there was just the slightest tone of mockery?  As if we were in on some universal joke that only the two of us recognized as amusing.  Or perhaps only she was in on the joke?  But then, there was my bottom's other side.  These were the times that she willingly rode the horse, or mounted the T-cross and hung bound from it while I whipped her, or lay bound in front of me, profoundly appreciative of every foul thing I did to her.  Her tone then was that of the servile bottom willingly accepting, even grateful for what I gave her.

 

Rasha stood silently closer to the bed.  She slowly stripped for me and the light from behind turned her hair into a rippling halo, accentuating the curve of her hips and the muscles of her thighs.  She considered me for a long moment, an unreadable expression on her face.  “I’m your prisoner here. 

 

“You’re my slave,” I replied.  “There’s a lot of difference.”

 

“Master, I suppose I am,” she said carefully, hesitating for a long minute.  “But I may as well be of use to somebody, don’t you think?  And it’s not so bad.” 

 

Then she climbed in with me and I covered her mouth with my own.  I’d had enough talk; I needed the simplicity of the pleasure that I found between Rasha’s thighs.  Here, I knew that I was finally welcome.

 

***

 

For a moment, I felt very young as I brushed against the hot, dry skin of his hip and then it was too late.  He reached out and put his hand on my belly and I turned to him.  I mounted him and he slipped immensely into me as though he had belonged there from the beginning.  He began to move and I moved with him and nothing that he had done to me mattered anymore.  I didn’t know if I was doing this for him or for myself.  Nothing mattered at all except right now and that was enough for both of us. 

 

***

 

Rasha slid down and kissed me, very gently but full on the lips, parting my mouth with her tongue.  Suddenly she clamped her mouth on mine, and we wrestled as lightning flashed and thunder boomed outside.  I had never before learned to really kiss before acquiring this female.  She liked to kiss and leaned down to kiss me now; I kissed back with an unaccustomed expertise.  It became a very long kiss, quite steamy; going from zero to sixty in nothing flat.  I ran my hands along her spectacular body.  Our eyes met.  For a hushed moment there was a perfect mutual understanding I could never have put in words, the most profound intimacy, and the overwhelming conviction that she was so right for me.

 

She somehow lowered herself even further onto me and began to move.  I worked her nipples and breasts in the brutal way she had learned to like; she moaned and began to speed up.  I put my hands on her hips and tried to slow her down, but could not.  It went on and on and on; one or the other of us always slowing down just enough to ensure that it would not stop.  At the end, I groaned and that sound was what seemed to send her over the edge.  Finally, she rolled off of my sweaty belly.  “God, God,” I gasped at the end, fighting to control the shudders that still ran through me.  Rasha lay silent next to me, hugging herself tightly.  We’d had sex for hours and it had been wonderful. 

 

***

 

He filled me to overflowing.  The sensations seemed almost like a power surge that overwhelmed the senses, as if somehow all of the lights everywhere burned brighter.  I had cum the first time and it had been like a supernova.  My nipples were sore and bruised, but I didn’t know if I had screamed or not.  Indeed, I wasn’t aware of anything at all that moment except a transcendence for which no words existed, or could exist-----for words could describe only that which lay with the realm of familiar senses. 

 

We made love for at least an hour; exhausted, we finally stopped.  But he was soon hard again.  He pulled me down next to him again and touched me all over; all slow and light, and the feel of his breath on my cheek was so soft.  It was so hard to think.  Then he stopped the caresses and hugged me; I rolled into his arms.  I felt how warm his skin was, and smooth, and how parts of him were soft and others were not because of his muscle. 

 

It didn't take much to start me again.  He must have sensed how I moved, because his leg moved, his knee slid a bit between mine and then up.  I made a small sound and tried to move---because all the heat in my body was moving to two places---my brain and below my hips.  It felt nice.  I ached.  And I wanted to roll over and hug the pillow and stop feeling down there.  Or something.  But I didn't.

 

His knee moved again.  Not an accident.  And he was soothing me with his voice and his hand on my back, so I started to move against his leg.  It was an awkward dance and didn't last long.  Then he entered me and it went on for another hour.  I couldn't help it at the end when all the suns in the galaxy seemed to flare behind my eyes, flood my limbs and burn me to the core.  And afterwards, the cold of space.  Except that he hugged me.  I was damp and weak and embarrassed; and I lay in his arms, totally his.  When he released me, as always, I felt the pressure of his grasp long after our flesh had parted.  What I wanted to do, beyond all reason, was to push my hands through his silky mass of hair and pull him to me, shattering twenty years of self-discipline with a single kiss.  Wipe away anything that might have been inspired by any other woman and replace it with only that inspired by me.

 

And then, like the spots you see when you’ve looked at the sun, that indescribable supra-sensory radiance began to fade.  Gradually, I became aware of my physical surroundings again, taking note of one thing at a time.  My breasts felt heavy and bruised, and my nipples ached in delicious counterpoint to the tingling I felt in my pussy.  I hesitated as my heart skipped a beat and a reenergizing warmth pumped through my veins.  I pulled in a deep breath, another, and waited for my throat to unclench so that I could speak normally.  Time passed as I practiced not looking at him.  But even as the sensations began to fade, I tried to lock them forever into my memory.  Lovers, I now truly knew, never forget.

 

And so, not for the first time since I willingly walked into the dark unknown of slavery, I thought, is this it?  Is this who I really am?  In the end I think, for me, wearing his collar was just a wake-up call for the rest of my life.  And just like that, I'd become this man’s willing slave. 

 

I was born again, but now into a role that I didn’t even think existed anymore in America.  I had changed so much over the last weeks and months.  I could never go back for I was too altered by what he'd done to me.  The distance between what I'd been and what I had become was too great---unbridgeable, and the dissonance between the two a constant reminder of what I wanted so badly to forget.

 

He was a strong man; he had created me and he was therefore superior to me, at least in this.  I truly cared for him; he could steal my heart away now by just walking by.  I could not imagine what it would be like to have this man’s daily attentions for the rest of my life, to make love to him every day, or even just sleep next to him every night.  To do everything in my power to make him happy.  But even as I hated myself for these obviously incorrect feelings, I also knew that I desperately wanted to stay with him forever.  But I was finding out that he did things in his own time and would not be pushed.  Even to explain anything to me would be to serve only his purposes, not mine.

 

I fell asleep in his arms.

 

***

 

I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.  I woke up once.  Rasha was sleeping next to me snoring softly, her legs spread wide and one thigh exposed by a tug of the sheet.  I looked at her tousled beauty for five minutes before I fell asleep again. 

 

I sat up quickly in the soft, morning light.  Rasha reached up to pull me down next to her.  God, she was beautiful.  She didn't even have to work at it; she just was.  Her eyes were sleepy, her hair a mess, and she looked absolutely stunning.  I kissed her forehead. 

 

I yawned.  However long I slept, it hadn't been long enough.  Like most men, I wake up with a hard-on, so it’s natural that I want to fuck the woman in bed with me first thing in the morning.  But I'm also convinced that I'm finally beginning to learn Rasha's nature, for every time our eyes met like this, I knew that she wanted me to fuck her.  But she didn't have any choice in the matter.  I liked to keep her humming with tension during the day and sometimes I wouldn't respond; it drove her nuts.

 

Sexual tension I've found, is often a true rush, a powerful force of nature.  For me it could just be as fleeting as a few flirtatious moments of furtive glances between a strange woman and myself while getting coffee at Starbucks, or as expansive as the almost magnetic connection stretched out over months between a couple of ex-lovers who kept running into each other. 

 

We naturally want what we aren't supposed to have, whether the restrictions are self-imposed or forced upon us by culture or law or our own pathetic weaknesses.  Sometimes this other person may not even know you exist.  A woman who looked so good would never come to you willingly.  Was that fair?  A man had the right to resent it.  Then came the feeling that things were out of reach, no matter how badly you wanted them.  It created emptiness, then anger.  You still felt the desire to possess; to somehow render the laws of our civilization inoperable in order to own the object of your attention, even if for just a short while.  To me that was the difference between flirtation and infatuation. 

 

While flirtation was a form of recreation for me, infatuation was a force of nature.  I sometimes flirted; it was harmless.  It was.  But infatuation was something else.  If flirting was a tease......the first sip of an icy beer, champagne bubbles tickling your nose, or the first caress of a cool breeze on a hot summer day, infatuation was a different phenomenon, more profound, irresistible, resembling in many ways a force of nature.....a hurricane, a tornado, a wildfire.  An avalanche.  Something kinetic and dangerous.  Something wild and too big to hide from.  Something too big to trifle with.

 

If I'd taken the time to look around, I'd have realized that I was already engulfed from the moment I'd laid eyes on Rasha.

 

The impulse to act on this attraction was natural, and when the object of this desire was an exceedingly beautiful woman, not doing so caused a profound escalation of sexual tension in me.  While most men waited for the object of their desire to give permission, I've found that achieving gratification with the many woman I've known---without waiting for their approval---gave me the most satisfaction.  “If it felt this good," I told myself, "how could it be wrong?”  And then I took what was not given to me willingly.  Meeting a woman who lived alone or spotting someone attractive in a parking lot, getting her alone, then taking her.  It was healthy when the feeling got too strong, or the timing was right, or when it was someone especially beautiful.

 

My choice of partners was never truly random.  I understood that to these women it may have seemed I suffered from distorted judgment and complete loss of reason.  Perhaps.  All I knew was that I became so consumed with desire for them that I would allow nothing to stand in the way of my possessing them.  Dominating these unwilling partners, forcing them to submit to my physical, sexual and emotional needs; this was the process by which I liberated the sexual tension that existed within me, and between us.  And even as they were unwillingly forced down the path of satisfying my needs, there was something that  none of them ever seem to really understand---not until it was too late.  For once I had forced total physical cooperation from them and achieved a certain level satisfaction with their bodies, I no longer needed to be with them.  From that point on, they belonged to me---they were mine.  At that point, even as I set them free, we both knew that they would never truly be free.  I would continue to dominate their lives, living on in their thoughts and their dreams for a long time to come.

 

Sex was the prism that reflected the spectrum of our inner lives. When your life was chaos, carnal pleasure could be pure escape, whether by simply releasing your stress by orgasm in another's body or by putting on a costume and becoming someone else for a while.  Role-playing was replete with unconscious motivation; I became a Master as a result of a traumatizing breakup.  But I later began routinely breaking women because of....other things.  The seemingly senseless things I'd suffered led me down the path towards dominating women, whether I had their permission to do so or not.   I thought, “If her body can’t be sacred to me, it won’t be sacred to anybody.” 

 

I felt empowered by first seducing women to submit, and then later by forcing them to do so.  But all the while I always remained emotionally inaccessible.  My mantra was “No woman will ever be allowed to reject me again.” Now I could really get back at her/them, I thought, by ruining them or enslaving as many as I could, even if only for a short while.  But while the sex was always good and often great, it took me years and a specific woman to suddenly realize that my life was a mess.  Often now, when I had Rasha down on her hands and knees in a totally open and submissive position, I would suddenly find myself trying to rupture her colon, doing my best to sexually destroy what she used to represent.  At times like this, only the look of absolute horror and fear on her face mixed with agonized grimaces and shudders of pain was enough to bring me out of my sexual rage.  It was then that I realized that sex had become a dysfunctional coping mechanism.  In this, I wouldn’t be surprised if every master or dominatrix didn't feel vulnerable without their whips and chains.

 

I am not a fool.  The women I have taken against their will don't run to a type, other than always being attractive.  I had never before kept a woman long enough to worry about seeing them as anything other than a vessel, a way to fulfill my needs.  Their value never exceeded being anything more than a means to an end.  But Rasha somehow had gotten beyond the defenses I automatically raised against the women I took.  She'd become a individual instead of a faceless victim that went with a well-used body.  She herself had changed and in the process, so had I.  The selfish, driven and controlling woman/child around whose neck I had first fastened my collar was gone.  In her place was a mature woman that had now embraced with enthusiasm a set of basic needs that she had kept hidden from herself for as long as she could remember. 

 

And as the man that had opened her eyes and the Master that controlled her, I was the primary recipient, the only recipient of her joy as she continually explored the boundaries of previously forbidden pleasures in ways that were always new to her.  This was a beautiful woman that responded to my every need or desire unselfishly and enthusiastically.  I made her laugh with joy and I made her cry with pain; nothing was too great for her to experience at this moment in her life.  And she drank it all it in, all of it, with great gusto and pleasure.  I had opened a whole new world to her, and she grabbed for it with both hands, with joy and exuberance.  And in the end, her enthusiasm for the new life she found herself living because of me somehow required me to re-evaluate mine too.

 

***

 

It was late in the evening and he had pushed me up against the wall so that I could not move away from him, even if I had wanted to.  Suddenly, a jolt of hot-blooded passion that I had not felt for a man in years lit its way through me.  I knew it was out of character and wrong for one like me, but I didn't WANT to be passive tonight.  Without thought, I acted as I would have months ago with one of my students before I had been collared.  I jerked him forward into me, spinning us until his back hit the wall where mine had been.  He had a look of total surprise on his face.  The way he slammed into the chains that bound my chest made my breasts feel as if they were being torn off at the roots.  Breathing fast at the wonderful, horribly stimulating sensations, I met his eyes with mine.  I felt my jaw tighten because I knew my eyes were dilated with lust.  Would he accept this or would he punish me.  I waited for a minute and he just looked into my eyes.  Okay, then.

 

“Master, my skills as your slave,” I said, as I maneuvered my leg between his and hooking my foot behind his, tugging until our hips touched, “are phenomenal.  You know this.”  He smiled as he shook his head in amazement at how his little slave was acting.  Pulse hard and fast, I pushed him away and around again so I was between him and the wall.  He let me do it, but then he'd had enough.  Suddenly, he moved so quickly, I sensed more than saw the motion.  His hand abruptly moved, hitting my cheek with a light slap that was almost mocking in its contemptuous ease. 

 

Even as my face flushed from the humiliating blow, I felt my groin tingle, bringing me alive with desire.  My pulse was fast and I felt wire-tight from the need thrumming through me.  When I had first met him, I hadn't been a woman that needed or wanted sex except on my own terms.  I'd used it when necessary, playing the boys at school for a sense of power or rarely allowing my husband to satisfy himself.  It'd been a long time since it had been satisfactory; even longer since I had initiated the moves from any sense of need.  But I recognized that he had changed me over the weeks and months.  Changed me from a woman isolated from her body and emotions to a female that was totally in touch with her senses, totally in touch with every inch of her skin.  I willingly responded to his needs, and mine, anytime of the day or night now, multiple times.

 

He'd molded me into a savagely passionate woman.  That he had done it only to satisfy his needs didn't matter.  It was who I was now, and a guilty part of me gloried in the abandonment that I allowed myself, even as I had denied myself everywhere else before I had been claimed.  I had survived by creating the lie that the sex was meaningless.  But he'd claimed me, sensitized my entire body and then kept me isolated so that only he could make it resonate to passion with just his lightest touch or the smell of his body. 

 

He was in total control, commanding obedience and having the right to do what he wanted with his property. To the few that were aware of our reality, I knew that it conjured up images of a woman having no choice, no veto power, and no way out.  But that was not true.  For those like me who found they desired real control and no safety net, it was satisfyingly absolute.  Everything he did exerted some kind of control; the breast piercings, the brand, the beatings and spankings.  For some slaves and owners, branding was an intense desire, indicating total commitment and psychologically stamping the slave as property; ensuring the slave truly felt owned and wanted.  For those with a low pain tolerance or just wanting to pretend, a mark could be applied with an ink marker or cheat 'brands' could be applied with tattoos.  But I surprised myself, for I found in the end that something like temporary ink would not have been what I wanted---it would not have been as satisfyingly final.

 

Undrugged, I then rode the wooden horse for perhaps the twentieth time, my ankles crossed and my straining thighs crushing the piece of flat wood locked between them.  I was covered with rivers of sweat and my aroused nipples stood out from my breasts like giant light switches.  My hands were braced on the wood in front of me and I was rocking back and forth, pinching my clit with one move of my hips and my labia with another; my head was thrown back, my eyes were closed and I was screaming.  I was giving voice to my defiance of the vanilla world that had never understood me and at the same time, I howled my pleasure at the achingly intense and exquisitely wonderful pain that I discovered each time I did this.  I rocked like this for his pleasure.....and mine, but then he'd watched long enough.  Grabbing me by my hair, Master dragged me off the horse and threw me to the floor.  He slid between my aching thighs and filled me like never before.  He was huge.  And even though I hurt there, it felt wondrous.

 

Sometimes when he rode me really hard like that, I became free of everything; the White Room, my body, even time.  That was the slut's high, I knew, and even though it felt like freedom, it really was the melding with, the clicking-in with and then totally satisfying his needs and desires that did it.  When he slid that magical, fiery python-sized rocket between my legs, it felt like it belonged there, and always had, and always would.  As if it were some hyper-evolved alien tail I'd somehow extruded; as though over patient centuries, I'd grown a sweet and intricate piece of flesh and bone that was only there to give me pleasure.  I was entirely part of him then, a wild-ass little dot of energy and matter impaled on the end of his rock-hard cock, and I made a thousand choices to please him more, jumping from instant to instant; how he moved his hips and how to respond, how his belly felt sweat-slick on mine as he pumped me, how I grabbed his ass and dragged him ever deeper inside me, never wanting it to stop, how I bit his neck and shoulder and the way he responded in shock.  And how at the end, as he came inside me before falling, relaxing like grace itself, exhausted.

 

***

 

He helped me begin to understand myself better than my shrink ever had.  Because of my looks, I had become sexualized earlier than a lot of other girls my age.  By the time I was fifteen, I found that I liked sex but only on MY terms.  It seemed like a Catch 22: if you repressed your sexuality, you became neurotic, but if you expressed your drives and irrational behaviors through sex, you’re still neurotic, but now just in bed.  Men said that I was a rush in bed because they assumed I'd do anything.  But I'd found that a person others considered neurotic may be thought a great lover, they won't consider them the ideal long-term partner. 

 

That truth alone screwed my head over because I thought that while every male I'd ever met wanted to fuck me, nobody wanted to love me.  So I just continued to do what I did best because I obviously was not worthy enough to be in a relationship.  I continued acting out, eventually embarrassing my family with escapades that often became famous in our little town.  But no matter what I did, no matter how much I acted like a slut, either because of luck or because of my parent’s intervention, I was protected from most of the consequences of these deeds.  Not all of them, but certainly more than I deserved.  Soon, I came to take this apparent invulnerability as my due.  When I later became a teacher, I continued my not so subtle war with society's values.  After a couple of years, I had reached the point where even though I felt isolated from everyone, I connected with half the population through my looks and was hated by the other half for them.  I was jaded and arrogant, expecting every male to bow at my feet.

 

Now I know that I needed a man as a guide during those times.  A man to whom I could have give my freedom and who in return would have guided and directed my life for me.  But I had my Master now.  I wouldn't give up my freedom lightly and not to just any man who would claim to be my master.  But when the right one came along, we both recognized the need we filled in each other.  I made him take me by force, unconsciously ensuring that he had the strength I craved, but I willingly belonged to this man now.

 

We had our problems in the beginning, most of them due to my arrogance and inability to recognize him as my rightful Master or to understand what he offered.  But once he had beaten down my defenses and allowed me to feel his strength, I found that I eventually desired subjugation just for the serenity it brought.  And at the end when he had won and I had lost, he forced me to my knees to take my first sip of the tranquility that he offered.  The hot-blooded highs and blood-thick lows that I experienced everyday in his service---none of it mattered in the end. On my knees with head bowed in front of this man, he offered me the peace of “complete emptiness”; it was the complete absence of personal responsibility and the presence of total freedom to act as I desired, the total comprehension of my true nature as well as his, and an absolute trust in that character.  And it was what my soul craved.

 

And so, here I am.

 

 

Chapter 35: The worst thing about slavery is that the slaves eventually get to like it; Aristotle.

 

We were going out tonight.  As I prepared myself, he came in and watched me dress.  He walked up next to me and I could feel him standing behind me.  I sat on the edge of my bed and put on my left stocking, then the right.  After I had fastened the last garter,I could feel the slick softness on my fingertips long after I had released it.  When I had on only my navy garter belt and stockings, he suddenly said “Tiptoes.” As I had been taught, I immediately stopped whatever I was doing, stood and looked at him over my shoulder with a smile on my face as I went onto the tips of my toes. 

 

He looked at me for a minute, ran his eyes over my body, then shook his head and said, “Down.”  I continued with what I had been doing.

 

***

 

Rasha was absolutely beautiful as she stood on her toes wearing only stockings.  Her legs were straight and shapely as her muscles tensed and strained, allowing her to hold the pose I found so provocative.  Her slender ankles acted as counterpoint to long vertical lines of muscle in her strong yet attractive calves; all of which led a man's eyes up to her firm thighs and the tight way that the tops of her stockings embraced her firm flesh.  Her clenched buttocks were cellulite-free, sticking out with a firmness that a man had to touch to appreciate.  She had small shapely feet and when she was on her toes, encased as they were in navy blue nylon, they splayed out with a sort of Barbie doll look that was lovely to see if you were a leg and foot man like I was. 

 

I loved the look this pose gave the heels of her feet as she went up on her toes; the lighter areas in back where the tight nylon stressed the skin on the back of her heel more than for other areas.  Her legs absolutely glowed.  She'd done a good job of keeping her legs shapely and the skin soft; it showed now.  I wanted to immediately jump her, but knew that I didn't have time.  Oh well, there was always tonight.  And she would always be available. 

 

***

 

He gave me the order that permitted me down, then watched in the mirror as I quickly resumed my tasks; I powdered my face and dabbed on rouge.  And when I was done with this, I put on my dress,.  It was an intimate rite, I realized, and his presence made me somehow a little uncomfortable.  After I had put on lipstick, he walked over to the mirror and stood behind me, “You see, there’s nothing wrong with being female.”

 

I stared at my reflection.  I said, “I don’t know if I can do this, Sir.  At one time in my life, maybe.  But it’s been so long.”

 

“I think it’s time we enjoyed ourselves.  Now put on some heels.”  He just looked at me when I was ready.  He said, “You’re going to be eaten alive tonight.”

 

***

 

There existed just north of the central part of town, a place of specialty shops, taverns and restaurants, all suffused with a flavor that I thought of as ‘Bohemian.’  It was a flavor that stood in appealing contrast to the overpowering fast food chains I normally used. 

 

I had already talked with Rasha about her public behavior.  I'd given her permission to cuddle in the car; we sat like lovers as I drove.  Me with my arm around her, Rasha with her face pressed against the side of my neck.  She crossed, then re-crossed her legs in the car, showing smooth, silky-looking skin all the way up to where it ended. 

 

As we walked in from where we'd parked, Rasha turned briefly and flashed me a soft smile over her shoulder.  Despite her obvious happiness, I felt a twinge of annoyance; she had already forgotten to let me precede her.  I grabbed her arm and moved quickly to the lead.

 

It was clear that we were a mismatched pair, figures from different paintings from different times.  I was twenty years older, wore jeans and a jacket, and cross-trainers that didn’t make a sound as I walked.  She wore a short, expensive-looking navy dress with a deep daring front, sheer heeled 10 denier navy stockings and navy pumps with four-inch stiletto heels.  Dangling earrings and a one inch wide dark blue velvet choker that acted as a formal collar finished her outfit.

 

***

 

My Master lengthened his stride; I was forced to run sporadically to keep up with him.  He stayed slightly ahead of me.  I followed like a stray dog, like a Muslim woman.  Soon I was disoriented and I wondered if he was deliberately confusing me. 

 

As we walked to the restaurant, I raised my eyes to the women I passed, the girls who met my eyes boldly and the plainly dressed southern women who after a moment of scrutiny, cast theirs away.  In what, I wondered?  Disgust?  Shame?  Boredom?  What had happened to these women in their journey to adulthood?  I know when I'd received my training in plain dress by my mother.  When were they instructed to hide themselves? 

 

I became conscious of my own body as we walked and how, unlike these women, my clothes now contoured my shape; they were bright and colored and completely without mystery.  I was conscious of the length of sheer leg I showed. As I walked I enjoyed the feel of open air on much of my skin beneath my dress.  It was a strange context in which to be reminded of my essential femaleness, but I realized that I was grateful. 

 

It was my first time out like this for awhile and I was tremblingly eager.  We were at the restaurant now.  I smoothed my short dress over my hips one more time, straightened my shoulders, let my arms drop loosely at my sides and began to walk.  I willed myself to go slowly, in a fake sexy way that made my face burn and my legs feel weak.  Even above the background music and conversation I could hear the shoosh-shoosh of nylon as my thighs brushed against each other.  Would anyone see the garters under my dress that held up my stockings?  Would anyone know I wasn’t wearing panties?

 

At the same time, I also had the feeling that we were being watched, that eyes were following me, evaluating me.  It was an eerie feeling, like there were eyes floating along after me as I walked through the dinner crowd towards our table. 

 

Snaking past the tables, we passed other diners sitting at the small tables.  One stood out because of his long dark hair, worn in a fairly elaborate style with braids hanging down in front of the ears and one thick ponytail in back.  He had a full beard, which was likewise gathered into a braid.  On anybody else, his schoolboy smile might look pleasant, but on him it seemed threatening.   Although appearing portly, he stood up quickly and stepped forward, pulling Master aside in a familiar way and speaking in unfamiliar accent.  Both of them stared at me as the strange man spoke, giving me an odd feeling. 

 

After a minute, Master removed the man’s hand from his shoulder and we continued on.  He stopped at one more table, this time that of a woman.  The woman scared me.  She spoke with a directness and a candor that was almost intimacy….  Her eyes moved as I watched, scanning the room full of men.  She was an observer of men, and of the brutal poignancy that was new in my life.  She was a woman that was fearless and shameless and unapologetic about following the clear call of her spirit.  If things had happened differently, I thought, I could have been like her.  Looking at the poor slaves that wore collars, instead of being one myself. 

 

In the final analysis, I knew that deep inside I was made of the same material which this….mistress….seemed to personify.  But while I had limped from one crisis to another in my life, men and women like her had the ability to bring life and direction.  I belonged to Master and knew I would never try to run away again.  Aside from the discomfort and uncertainty, something important was happening to me here under his careful guidance, something for which I think I had waited for a long time.  Something I had not yet named.  Nor yet fully earned.  And I never would have predicted it would come to me this way.

 

Going out at night.  It was a world I thought I had lost because of my changed status in life.  As we entered the dining room, I kept my eyes lowered but smiled involuntarily.  I followed him as we went to our table and knew that this was an impossibility.  This was no longer my realm, but an afterworld for survivors, a sanctuary for those untouched by the collar I wore.  I felt fraudulent and torn; I wanted to be five years younger; everyone here had to know my status and I just wanted to disappear.

 

I forgot my position and made another mistake, allowing the waiter to seat me first.  I looked at Master Christian with fearful eyes---I think I embarrassed him in front of others.  His face grew very still and he refused to answer my implied questions.  Realizing what I had done, I fumbled with my napkin in confusion and looked down at my plate.  I would never do that again to him, and I hoped he would know this and not punish me too severely. 

 

We ate at a private table on a southward-facing balcony which overlooked the narrow crooked streets and colorful plaza of the renovated town.  Our waitress had enormous jutting hips, as though the body of a much slimmer woman had been grafted onto the waist of a Bradley tank, all camouflaged in an unflattering black skirt. 

 

I smiled demurely.  My eyes were lowered, but I was sitting as straight as I possibly could next to my Master.  In the clothes I wore, I felt almost naked.  I found myself tapping my high heel to the background music.  He finally looked at me and said with a smile, “Look at you.  You can’t keep still.”  We both laughed at this; he in a good mood again, me in relief.

 

The cuisine combined ingredients familiar to us both, but was prepared in unfamiliar ways, and was wholly exotic.  I deferred to him in all things and as we ate, the city lights began to twinkle to life with the onset of twilight.  Master was in an expansive mood now and ordered brandy for us both.  By the time after-dinner drinks had arrived, the few remaining clouds had lost the pinkness of sunset and stars were beginning to appear, along with a sickle of the moon.  He allowed me to linger over the brandy as the cityscape became a blaze of light that couldn’t banish the stars above. 

 

I drained my snifter---oddly but pleasingly shaped to my eyes---and leaned back with a sigh.  “Master.  It seems so peaceful.  Perfect, even.  Hard to believe that….that….things are like they are.”  I couldn’t help but frown.

 

***

 

There was something that I wanted to ask him, something that I'd been thinking about on various levels for a long time.  But the time had never been right.  It wasn't something that I'd said out loud, and I found myself reluctant to bring it up.   Partly because doing so would make it more real, and partly because it would probably seem so silly to the man who now controlled my life.

 

“Master,” I said looking at him, “may I ask you a question?”

 

He pushed his chair away from the table, leaned back, and laced his fingers over his belly, “Sure.”

 

“Have you, Master, have you ever been bothered by what you do?”

 

He looked at me intently for a moment, then began to smile.

 

“Please, Master.  I'm serious.”

 

He shrugged as he looked at me.  “Not usually, no.”

 

“You don't ever feel like.....” I smiled tentatively.  “You know, like God is watching?”

 

“Oh, sure he's watching.  He just doesn't care.”

 

“You really think so?”

 

He shrugged again.  “I figure he's the one that made the rules.  I'm just playing by them.  If he doesn't like the way things have turned out down here on Planet Earth, he should speak his mind.  I would if I were him.”

 

“Maybe, Master.....maybe he is speaking his mind and no one's listening.”

 

“He ought to speak a little more clearly, then.”  He looked up and nodded.  I knew that our moment of intimacy was gone.

 

***

 

After dinner, we went back to the car and then began the drive back to his home.  This time I sat apart from him.  For some reason, he pulled in to the parking lot of a golf course that had lights on and people still playing rounds of night golf. 

 

“Come on, Little Slave,” he said grabbing my wrist and dragging me past the golf shop and along a dark path that ran beside it.  “Slave---Rasha”, he whispered, coming up from behind me.  He chuckled and buried his mouth into the base of my neck, making sounds of satisfaction.  I have to admit that it was not an unpleasant sensation. 

 

He brought his head up, breathing through his nose.  I could smell it too.  “It’s the lilacs, Sir,” I said.

 

He was kissing my neck again and his hands came up around my breasts.  “You are the sexiest woman alive.  I don’t want any other women tonight.  I just want you tonight,” he murmured, keeping his left hand on my breast and dropping his right around my waist to pull me tight against him.  I felt his erection against me.

 

It felt so strange, to be out free tonight, yet knowing at the same time that I was still his.  He was crushing my buttocks against him, grinding into me now and his left hand had slid easily under my dress and over my breast.  He pinched me hard and suddenly, without wanting to be, I was aroused, hot and wet between my legs.  I was amazed, incredulous, thinking that this could not be me; this was not a me that I recognized.

 

Suddenly he sucked a breath in through his teeth and roughly turned me around, holding me around the waist, looking at me, pressing himself against me.  He took my hand and brought it down, pressing it against the swelling in his pants.

 

I have touched this man many times before, and it was always on his terms.  But now, Master kept his hand over mine, guiding me to press down on him, rubbing, rubbing, and he moaned suddenly, hoarse, letting his head loll back.

 

Did he want to climax?  Like this?  I didn’t know.  I didn’t know what was going on, this was so strange…….so wonderful.  Master brought his head down, and then suddenly he carried me like a line-backer through the bushes, which scratched us both, and then we ran into something, a golf cart.  He fumbled a moment, pushed me past it, and then we both stumbled and fall to the ground.  Gravel was scraping my back.  He had not allowed me underwear tonight and all he had to do was push my dress up around my waist; he did this in frantic haste.  He looked down at me, his eyes glittering as they caught light from the parking lot.  He undid his belt and let it flap open.  He unhooked his pants and jerked his zipper, fighting with it, and then yanked his shorts down.  He was lording over me on his knees, holding his huge gleaming self in his hand.  He reached for my hand and brought it to him, guiding me to gently stroke it. 

 

“All I want is you, Little Slave,” he whispered and he eased himself down as I angled myself up, knees wide and I guided him toward me.  He paused, looked at me, said, “I only want you” and pushed himself in, divinely pushing his way in up to the hilt, pushing until I could feel his balls slapping me between my legs.  “You’re mine, you’re mine, you belong only to me,” he said, closing his eyes and staying up on the palm of his hands as he began to thrust, twisting, jamming, going after me.  He had me gasping, crying, and finally, convulsing around him, whimpering, shaking with each spasm.  He froze, cumming---injecting me deeply with his love---then collapsed on me.  The gravel dug into my spine now and I winced, but I didn’t dare move.

 

Not now, not now.  My hands fell to his back; it was slick.  We were both wet, soaking.  His face was in my neck, his hair tasted of salt.  He said something that I couldn’t make out and then rolled over, pulling me on top.  His hands detected the gravel embedded in my flesh and he laughed, pulling my hips tighter against him.  We lay there for several more minutes until we heard laughter in the parking lot.  Hastily, we both popped upright and tried to dress, but he fell over and scraped his knee.  “Shit,” he yelled.  The security guard was coming this way now, his flashlight swinging.  I dove through the bushes and Master staggered after me.  We burst out laughing then, as we hurried down the path to a place where we could pull ourselves together.

 

In comparison to all of the other men that have been in my life, he seemed tonight like an uncomplicated gift from the heavens.  Straight forward lust, no guessing; whatever he wanted, he just told me and I did it.   It was a wonderful night.

 

 

Chapter 36: What is sexual is what gives a man an erection... If there is no inequality, no violation, no dominance, no force, there is no sexual arousal; Catherine MacKinnon.

 

Self-bondage.  The concept held a certain perverse fascination for me.  This was something I'd been thinking about for awhile.  He'd kept me for months and I knew that he had strong feelings for me.  And God help me, I cared for him, far more than I wanted to.  I knew better than anyone how much I'd acted like a spoiled child before he’d come into my life.  But now it was different; he took care of me and treated me as an adult under his protection, no better and no worse than I deserved.  In my head I refused to consider myself as his slave, but rather something more.  I now found that I accepted my subservience with far too much ease.  Annoyingly, I discovered that anything he wanted, it seemed automatically I desired that too.  My husband had not aroused anything like these feelings in me; in fact, I had never before found a man whom I wanted more to please in every way.  This wasn't like me, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.

 

His birthday was coming soon and I had nothing to give him; I had little to give except myself.  But in this, we had already experimented far beyond anything I could have ever previously imagined.  What could I give him that he had not already taken?  I shivered in anticipation and a touch of fear at my next thought; he'd made it clear from the beginning how much he enjoyed taking me from the rear.  Getting a big, hard cock rammed up my ass---this was something that I had never before wished to experience from any man but Master Christian.  But always before, he had been the one to initiate it.  I knew that it was pathetic even as I thought to myself, this could be my gift to him.  He knew how strongly I had abhorred anal love before him---if I requested it from him for the first time, I just knew that he would have to appreciate what I had sacrificed for him and what I offered.

 

Self-bondage.  I'd thought about this for some time and wasn’t sure if I was up to it.  I was sure that if I was to follow through on this…and I wasn’t yet sure that I would….I knew I needed to put myself in a position in which once I had started, I couldn’t back out---no pun intended.  There are an infinite number of ways of restraining someone and an equal number of reasons why people might need or want to be restrained.   But I had never much thought about this before and wasn’t sure that my motives were appropriate, let alone my skills. 

 

I wasn’t sure that I would have the self-control to keep myself still for him in the beginning without bondage, let alone continue with the act itself.  But I also knew that pretending to immobilize myself for him over a short period of time wouldn’t satisfy my Master or me either.  It needed to be more elaborate; something that he would appreciate aesthetically as well as physically.  And as his bottom…I blushed as I realized that I was even using his terminology now…..as his bottom, I hoped that if I did this for him, he would understand how much more than just my body I was offering him. 

 

Self-bondage.  I knew that I needed more than emblematic bondage.  For both of us, should I take this step, the bonds must be actually physically inescapable: I needed to genuinely know that I could not avoid whatever he wished to do to me.  I had to trust in his good nature---and his self-control.  I think I knew from the beginning that I had always wanted this to work; but even as I felt a kind of dread just thinking about the act, there was no doubt that he would enjoy the physical side, as he always did.  But much more important to me was that for the first time, I was voluntarily giving him true control over myself.  This was a hugely symbolic act….putting myself in a position in which I offered him that which only he would have the key to set free.

 

He was still at work, but I expected him within half an hour.  I was already feeling a little horny and rapidly growing in arousal---I knew in my mind I had already decided to go ahead with this---and I also knew that I had to lock myself into the straps before I chickened out.  And so I began my preparations.  At the head of the bed, I laid a tube of lubricant, a medium-sized dildo and a small butt plug. 

 

I stripped naked and put on a pair of strappy white high heeled sandals---I knew that he liked what they did to my legs.  I hooked short bungee cords to both corners at the foot of my bed and laid them out pointing towards the head of the bed.  Next, I hooked a third short bungee cord from the center of the bed frame at the top and laid it out on the mattress.  I also put my blindfold next to this last cord. 

 

Standing by my bed, I strapped on leather wrist and ankle restraining bracelets.  Each ankle bracelet had four small steel rings sewn around it, and on both ankles I snapped a small caribiner that had a gate that opened and closed.  All bracelets now comfortably tight, I adjusted my one-inch thick leather slave collar, after which I put a penis gag in mouth and strapped it around the back of my head.  I couldn't make a sound.

 

I climbed on the bed onto my knees and after I had turned the caribiners on my ankles so that they were facing each other, I attached the bungee cords from the foot of the bed to the outside ring of each ankle restraint.  This forced my feet and knees quite far apart.  I walked on my knees up the bed to the point that the cords were stretched taut and I could move my ankles no further.  I carefully laid out the butt plug and lubricating gel next to my right knee…it was for him to use at first to get me ready.  I hoped that with this he wouldn’t hurt me as much when he finally took me there.  Next to it I laid the dildo…I knew that he would explore my vagina too.

 

Breathing a little heavily now due to the gag, I took the bungee cord from the head of the bed and hooked it to my collar.  The cords pulling on my ankles from the foot of the bed and the one on my collar pulling from the head of my bed almost flattened me out on the mattress.  Fighting the pull of the elastic, I grabbed the blindfold and put it on.  I paused; this had reached the point of no return.  I made sure that I could still breathe with the pull on my collar; no problem. 

 

Self-bondage.  Now for the last and most important part; I drew my knees up towards my chest as far as I could and hunched over, then I reached blindly between my knees with both hands.  Using my right hand I locked my left wrist to the inside of my left ankle with the caribiner.  Finally, I fumbled with my right hand for what seemed hours before I was able to push the ring on my right wrist restraint into the caribiner attached to my right ankle. 

 

I had succeeded, I think.  It was uncomfortable, but I knew that I was locked into a position from which I could never free myself.  I was hunched over, my face was driven sideways into the mattress, my knees were spread wide apart, my wrists were strapped between my knees to my ankles and my naked buttocks were pointing straight into the air.  I grabbed a high heel in each hand and then wiggled my hips experimentally.  I knew that this would drive him wild with lust.  God, I just hoped I knew what I was doing. 

 

It seemed like an eternity later, yet soon, far too soon, I heard him enter the house.  I heard him call out, but I waited for him in silence.  Within a minute, I could sense him standing by the bed.  His breathing grew louder and quicker in my ears; I could tell from the sound alone how aroused he had become.  I waggled my butt for half a minute, then spread my knees a couple of inches even further apart.  I was as spread for my Master as I could make myself. 

 

I felt his hands touch me lightly between the legs and then roam over my buttocks and back.  Then I heard his footsteps as he departed---this was not in my plans.  Soon, I heard him coming back; he ran his hand slowly between my thighs and I felt him stroke my abdomen.  Then he slowly pulled his hand back from between my legs until he cupped my vagina, giving it a couple of quick shakes before his hand was gone.  He said, “You are so beautiful, so truly beautiful.”  I almost felt like wiggling like a puppy, I was so happy that I had pleased him.  After a second of silence, I felt him reaching around my back to grab my left breast. 

 

It was then that he put what must have been a wooden clothespin on my left nipple.  I gave a grunt of surprise and pain at the same time that I jumped and arched my back in total disbelief.  I had long become used to my Master’s fascination with the sensitivity of my nipples, but always before there had been a slow buildup, a set of visual cues that preceded the actual act he wished to perform, all of which aroused rather than repelled me.  But here the pain was so immediate and intense and unexpected, so out of the context from the scenario that I anticipated in my mind, that instantly my thoughts were taken away from the awkward position in which I had put myself.  I bucked a couple of more times, but it was no use.  The clothespin had cruelly captured my nipple until he chose to take it off.  Suddenly, I felt his hand sliding over my ribs on my right side.  His hand cupped my right breast and pulled it out so that he could get at that nipple next.  I tried to pull away, but not in time---my Master had pinned my other nipple too. 

 

I heard him undressing.  This was not going according to plan and much of my initial desire was gone.  I was more concerned with getting the pins off of me now.  I pushed my chest desperately against the mattress and tried to rub them off, but they were turned in a way that defeated my every effort.  My hands no longer grabbed the heels of my shoes, instead writhing and struggling against what kept them from freedom.  I pulled and struggled against the bonds that held me, but it was no use; I would not be seeing freedom---of any type---without his help.  Freedom---this was a word that had no real meaning for me anymore.  I cared for this man and had begun to want him more and more.  I was all too well aware that he was a man who knew what he wanted and how to keep it---and now it was me he wanted in a new way and I had served myself up on a golden platter. 

 

I felt the drizzle of cold lubricant down the crease between my cheeks.  God no, I just wanted this to end now.  As much as I had reached the point where I wanted to please this man in every way, I also felt like nothing I did could ever go right between us.  We would always misunderstand each other---and this time it was entirely my fault.  Suddenly, I felt him open my vagina with his hand.  There was the drizzle of still more lubricant and then, with a grunt, he began to strongly drive what must have been the fingers of his left hand inside me.  I was filled with horrified understanding; he had mentioned a couple of times that he had always wanted to ‘fist’ a woman. 

 

Immediately, I was flooded with images and feelings from the Black One as he fisted me in my mind all over again.  I shook my head, no, No, NO!!!  NOT AGAIN!!! and screamed into my gag, but nothing stopped him.  Sensations from my previous fisting came back and from the beginning, it felt like Master was trying to push a fire hydrant inside me, but it just kept getting bigger and driving deeper.  My head automatically came up off the mattress as far as I could raise it.  I heard myself squeal and try to tell him no, but even to my ears all that came out was, ‘Uuuhhhmmmm-nah-ah.”  One hand was on my hips steadying me, while his other, four fingers straightened and kept closely together, twisted like a corkscrew and drove ever deeper.  “Uuuhhhmmmm-Nah-Ah.  NAHHH-AH!” 

 

Soon he pulled his fingers out slightly and I knew a little relief.  But there was the drizzle of more lubricant and then his fingers were back, worse than ever; it was four fingers AND his thumb now.  His hand was inside me and I knew I couldn’t take much more of this.  I was sobbing at this point, both from the pain and awful, frustrating certainty that he had totally misread what I offered him.  I kept on trying to pull my ankles a little closer together so that I could close my knees more, but nothing worked---my first attempt at self-bondage had been horribly successful. 

 

His hand kept driving and corkscrewing into me and suddenly, with a grunt, he had succeeded in defeating my vaginal muscles.  A flash of burning pain accompanied by an involuntary shudder ran through me and I knew without a doubt that his hand was buried inside me up to his wrist.  “Nnnaaahhh-Aaaahhh-AAAAAAHHHHHH,” I screamed into my gag.  There was the pain of my flesh being horribly stretched, but worse was the terrible feeling of fullness, of a probing wrongness that so deeply filled me.  I couldn't breathe, his hand must have been pressing against my diaphragm; he was so deep inside me now that his fingertips would puncture it.  I felt like I would never be able to close my legs again.  The muscles on the insides of my thighs quivered out of control, but the most awful part was that he kept on pushing, even after I felt that he had succeeded beyond even his wildest expectations.  He pushed and he explored and at the end as he slowly clenched his hand into a fist, he filled everything that I was and that I'd ever had and that I would ever be….he spared me nothing.

 

I was like a ventriloquist’s dummy made of flesh and blood; his hand was driven so deeply inside me that every move of his wrist or forearm shifted my hips to perfectly conform with his desires.  I moved my body up or down, left or right, however, wherever he silently commanded me.  We communicated in a supremely intimate, yet wordless dance as he first forced me to hunker down a little more for him, then I would feel the overwhelming need to arch my back and go up as high on my knees as I could; whatever his hand and wrist commanded, I obeyed.  We were totally synchronized at this point, so much more than merely wedded; his hand deep inside my pelvis, relaying in the most intimate way his every desire for my body to perform. 

 

It seemed to go on this way forever, but suddenly I heard him softly say, “Shit.”  I think he had cum on himself.  I knew that it was over as he slowly unclenched his fist and began to withdraw his hand from inside my body.  When he kissed my back and thanked me, I started crying uncontrollably.

 

Self-bondage.  When the clothespins had first gone on, it was clear that he had missed what I thought were obvious prompts and cues; I had struggled as best as I could, but I had lost.  History is in the business of repeating itself; I had next fought against his hand---and lost once more, but that was gone now.  But here I still remained, the victim of my own actions, completely unable to move or free myself. 

 

What I had learned was that night was that in a perfect world, while the Top should be the one that controlled everything that might take place, if at all possible he should not actually rule the bottom.  It was only the scene, and not the bottom, that should be controlled by the Top.  It is the setting that gave the bottom her thrills and fulfilled her needs.  But this time, in this particular scene and my imperfect world, I could blame no one else but myself for this disaster.  I thought of what was yet to be with this man, what might be between us, and of what slavery really meant for me.  Was this truly what I deserved?  I could only remain here on my knees with my face pushed into the mattress, sobbing softly now and waiting for him---and what was to be.

 

I think that he was confused now; I knew that my feelings were jumbled into a pile of emotional debris.  He took the clothespins off first and then freed my wrists from my ankles.  He continued on to free my ankles from the bondage I had so willing assumed, as I ripped the blindfold off and then unhooked my collar from the bungee cord.  By now he had begun unstrapping the gag, so I held still until he had finished.  When the gag was finally out, he knew that I had been crying for real.  I didn’t trust myself to speak.

 

He thanked me for my gift, saying that he had always wanted to do that to me, but knew that I hadn't wanted to accept it until now.  I lay afterwards in his arms, crying softly.  This had been almost as bad as when he gave me to the Black One that night in the store.  I still had nightmares about that night and what that young boy had done to me as I lay stretched out over that desk.  But I had done my best to move on with my life as my Master's slave and his conscience. 

 

Again, just like that terrible night, I hurt between my legs, my flesh throbbing with each beat of my heart.  But with each pulse of pain, somehow I felt better too.  It had all been a horrible misunderstanding.  It had been a mistake, and he hadn't known what I offered.  It had been my fault for not being more clear. 

 

I ached and throbbed between my legs, but his hands gently pushed me down on the bed and he began to lie down next to me even as his hands stroked me.  I could smell my sex on his hand as he touched me and I pushed him away, but he laid down anyway and cradled me in his arms.  I buried my tear-streaked face in the chest of my Master, the man who had just fisted me, and he held me tight.  Finally, he thanked me one more time, saying how he hoped it hadn’t hurt too much, but telling me again how much he had enjoyed it.  I pushed away from his chest so that I could look him in the face.  I think that he was surprised when I began sobbing into his chest again.  I will never again voluntarily give him total control over a scene between us like this again. 

 

My Master wasn’t an idiot.  In the end, he knew what had gone wrong, but more, he knew something had changed in us both.  Somehow, because of the lost translation between what I offered and what he took, it forced us to look again at the deepest assumptions we held about the other.  I felt we became even closer after this; I knew we began an intimate journey that night which took him beyond physical desire and me beyond the need for care and protection.  I knew beyond doubt that we began to care about each other beyond what either had ever expected, and certainly more than either of us deserved.  But there were still great hurdles ahead.

 

In some perverse way, being a misunderstanding also made it more bearable.  For the anticipation that he wouldn't always WANT to hurt me that badly gave me hope.  Later that night, he took me again.  And even though my pussy still ached and throbbed from its earlier violation, this was okay for I had finally realized that even when I was in pain, it gave me pleasure to give him pleasure.  I finally understood in my heart that my role was to give and his to take.  And I realized that my time of training in this must be over, because this style of life was as it should be, at least for the likes of me.  And even later, he took me one last time anally, before we both fell asleep.  And with this too, I knew that my training in his hands was complete, because I had finally come to enjoy this almost as much as I liked being fucked in my pussy. 

 

The feeling of fullness and forced extension and the unusual way that it put pressure on my pussy; the total lack of control on my part; the idea of his total dominance as he probed and searched a place in my body never meant to be explored like that.  The pushing inside and his driving me ahead of him, his hands cupping my breasts and using them or my hair as reins, often forcing me from my hands and knees onto my belly.  Everything about it turned me on so much now.  I found I liked rough sex now, I liked it much rougher than I could ever have imagined I would before I'd accepted his collar.  I'd come to anticipate being pushed by him to the edge of the abyss.  And afterwards, I found I liked the ache of a body pushed almost too far.  And giving up all control over any choices in the matter just made the experience that much sweeter when he made every decision for me.

 

 

Chapter 37: [I]n these politically-correct times where most women would not dare to admit openly – even to their close female friends – that they enjoy being dominated – heterosexual women who do enjoy being dominated are intimidated into silence; Angry Harry.

 

I was looking out the window.  It was April and I knew that I had finally begun to earn Master's trust.  I had the freedom of the house when he was there, and I appreciated it so much more than I had ever before.  Shards of pure color, formed by the lake's reflection through the window glass danced over my face as though small flares burned beneath my skin.  The lake itself, I saw, had calmed from the storm last night.  A pleasing picture, a well-ordered reflection of the house itself; large, lake-facing, quiet, with chairs on the veranda that were comfortable.  I played with my hair as I looked out.  It was back to its natural color now and I felt more like myself when it looked this way.

 

Things were getting very interesting between us.  He achieved great pleasure in the acts of BDSM.  Last night was an example.  Blindfolded and gagged, spread-eagled on my belly and cuffed to the wooden bed frame, I was unable to avoid the whip he used so expertly.  Master had played with me most of the evening, unexpectedly snapping the leather end near parts of my body.  But he had also occasionally scored a direct hit when he so desired; these left a series of raised welts along my upper shoulders and ass.  Ridges of red, raised skin that throbbed and tingled with an anticipation all their own.

 

He helped me up and then uncuffed me.  After he’d taken the gag off, he handed me a small pillow.  I tingled all over and soon felt the familiar pleasurable warmth begin to flow through my body as if I had been drugged.  He touched my face and to my surprise, my body responded with rising excitement and I was immediately wet for him.  I couldn’t believe that I wanted more.  At the same time, there was a lack of sensation inside me, as if I were filled with drifting snow.

 

***

 

Rasha came to me unbidden now, often in my dreams, when I could not keep her out.  I woke with a memory of her clear eyes.  Of what I had known of her touch.  But in daylight, I could always coax her back into where my heart knew she needed to be kept.  

 

I was dreaming a pleasant dream---she was bent over my groin and had taken me into her mouth—I filled her there but she somehow managed to take it all in without gagging.  My God, that spirit woman had a soft mouth and deep throat.  Suddenly, I was awakened by an itching nose and the melody of a soft giggle.  Above me, captured in a shaft of cascading morning light, was Rasha.  Lying across my bed, she was dangling her long hair playfully across my face, laughing mischievously as she licked her lips.  She was a woman of near heart-stopping beauty---talented and womanly and clever---and yet the sight of me seemed to make her flush bright red.  Her smile below the nose ring was girlish, full of unsophisticated pleasure.  “Hello, Master,” she said, her voice soft.

 

“Welcome back to earth, sir dream candidate,” she teased and laughed again. 

 

I couldn’t help it---I laughed and gathered her up in his arms.  Without realizing it, the tensions and the pressures of the last couple of months had taken their toll on me.  She wore the diaphanous nightgown that I’d given her a few weeks ago.  It was a gift both for her and my hormones, a murderously expensive confection imported from Italy.  Transparent from the neckline to the floor, cut with an opaque swirl that covered just enough and no more. 

 

Rasha straddled me, the gown’s skirt hiked up to reveal her satiny thighs.  She made a quick joke that made us both laugh.  Then she leaned forward, shoulder-length hair veiling her face, and kissed me.  Quickly, there was no more nightgown, just her flawless skin, lit by unseen illumination.  Perfect breasts with nipples confined only by ring and chain.  Swell of hip.  Head thrown back as she moved above me, called my name, cried out in ecstasy. 

 

I pulled her face down to me.  I leaned into her and let my lips brush hers. So light.  The barest touch.  I kissed her cheeks, her eyes, along the lines of her jaw, her neck.  I lingered over her pulse points, raking them lightly with my teeth.

 

Rasha wrapped her arms around me as her knees threatened to buckle altogether.  I could feel her heart pound.  She pulled me close, felt my hard muscles beneath her hands.  I buried my head in her neck and murmured things that made her gasp. 

 

She was mine and I proved it twice that morning.

 

***

 

He'd finally allowed me more clothing and I found that I'd employed my near-albinism today like a fashion accessory.  I looked at myself in the mirror and knew that I resembled nothing so much as a medieval nun rendered in polished marble.  I’d brushed my hair forward and dressed in ivory from head to toe.  Short, tight skirt, ivory stockings and high-heeled ivory pumps; the collar of my blouse standing up in back almost like a cowl.  My height and face enhanced the image, as did my fair skin, drawn tight across cheekbone and brow. 

 

I think that I disturbed Master this time, no matter how often he’d seen me and regardless of how I had been dressed.  He told me I looked like an ambassador from the Other Side.  He showed his appreciation too, but in a way that was associated with my accepting a lot of pain.  Clearly I had provoked a dominance issue with this look and I think he felt the need to reassure himself. 

 

He never allowed me to wear this particular combination again.

 

***

 

As Rasha became more comfortable with me, my demands and her circumstances, she began to open up.  In addition to the deep anger she’d felt at first having her freedom taken away, she had also borne a huge false burden of emotional guilt; she’d worn it like a yoke.  But that was changing as we got to know each other better, and she began to show me the real person she’d hidden for so long inside---she was now perhaps too emotionally expressive for even my tastes. 

 

Much of the time, I kept her silent.  But when I allowed her to talk, I often felt she was like a freshman on a first date with the senior prom king, talking incessantly, gushing, fawning, stammering and almost hovering around me.  It wasn’t that her conversation was boring or banal.  Quite the contrary.  At other times she reminded me of the most sophisticated woman I'd ever met; a woman that had traveled the world and seen everything. 

 

I was continually impressed with her philosophical and religious insights.  It was just that she had begun to show an unbridled enthusiasm for life that she'd kept hidden from the world for the last ten years; it had returned and it was overwhelming.  I observed, not for the first time, that if you turned off the volume you would swear at times that she was thirteen years old.  But she was good to have around and she made my nights go faster.  And she surprised me sometimes.

 

***

 

Standing in the dim light of the lavatory in the White Room, I gripped the sides of the sink and leaned into the mirror, studying the carmine color I’d just applied to my lips.  I lifted my arms and ran my fingers through my white-blond hair, inhaling the scent of the perfume rising from the warmth of the cleft between my breasts.  I was wearing a black negligee, Galliano.  It had been a gift from him and it clung to me like a lover.  I smiled at myself in the mirror, then closed my eyes for a moment, my lips parted, my lashes brushing the swell of my cheeks as I composed myself.  Thinking about what had happened between us, I felt as though I had a secret that only he and I shared.

 

Even as I knew I should hate what I had discovered about myself, I had given myself over to it with abandon.  The pleasure of giving to another all responsibility, all control over my needs and my desires.  I knew I pleased him, and when he was pleased his generosity and good-will towards me knew no bounds.  But then, neither did his brutality when he felt it was necessary.  I had a dark side too and this was one of the main reasons that I was so strangely attracted to the man that kept me as his slave.  Under his expert tutelage, I’d found that I had always had a taste for the unusual, but just hadn’t been aware of it. 

 

“Master?” I said softly, pausing in the doorway so that he could see my body backlit by the pale light behind me. 

 

“Come here,” he said simply, his hoarse whisper barely audible. 

 

“Do you miss me Master, when you are not here?”  I ran my hands down over my hips, adjusting the drape of the black silk.

 

“God,” he whispered.  Even the sound of silk whispering across my body seemed to drive him mad.

 

“Why are you wearing pajama bottoms, Master?” I asked.

 

“I was cold.”

 

“But it's so warm in here.”

 

“It will be,” he said, pulling back the covers and making room for me.

 

I padded across the room, taking only a few small steps before I reached him.  I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his cheek.  Suddenly I pulled back and looked at him for a moment before I laughed and leaned over to kiss him on the mouth, my chained breasts resting softly upon his chest.  It was a hard, brief kiss and when I felt his probing tongue, I sat upright again. 

 

His hand moved under hem of my negligee, tracing his fingers along the skin of my inner thigh and over his mark of ownership, his fingers suddenly desperate to touch me.  I caught his wrist and pulled his hand away, “Please Master, not yet.”

 

He reached up to pull me towards him, but I pulled back, laughing.  “No, Master.  Please, you must wait.  Let me explore what you hide too.  Please.”

 

I ran my hands over the cords of his heavily muscled chest, my fingers pausing to entwine themselves in the thatch of curly hair that began at the base of his throat.  Then my hands moved down over his taut belly.

 

“No more secrets, Master,” I said as I surveyed the pale landscape of his chest.  “Please.”

 

“No secrets,” he said as I pressed my lips to the puckered scar on his chest that began just below his nipple.

 

“Tell me about this one,” I said, my lips trailing along the outlines of the still angry scar. 

 

“Well, that was a bad one, I’ll tell you.  An arrow got me,” he answered me.  “Cowboys and Indians.  Charleston, nineteen seventy.  I was ten years old when that Arapaho brave snuck up on me.”

 

“And this one,” I said, my lips traveling downwards across his flat belly and finally centering on a scar; a scar that I later knew was the only visible memory of the emergency surgery needed to repair his abdomen ruptured by the unknown little man. 

 

“Self-inflicted.  I was playing ‘Doctor’ with my cousin and she bet me I couldn’t take out my own appendix.”

 

“Liar,” I said.  Then I added quickly, “Sir.”

 

Suddenly he looked like couldn’t breathe---as if his ribcage was taking a terrible battering from his heart.  He looked down to see my hand resting lightly on the folds of cloth that draped between his thighs.  My hand traveled upwards, the fingers parted, searching.  He was hard as a stone when my hand firmly seized the object of its desire. 

 

“My Master,” I said, turning my eyes towards him as I caressed him through his pants, wrapping him in it, tightening and then easing my grip.  He opened his mouth to speak, but I pressed a finger to his lips and stopped whatever words he was about to utter.

 

“No, Master,” I whispered hoarsely, taking his hand and crushing it against my breast where I knew one nipple was already engorged under my top.  “Let me speak tonight.”

 

He collapsed back against the pillows as I bent my head to his lap, unbuttoning his pajama bottom and freeing his gorgeous python.  And as he lifted his hips, I yanked them down around his knees; I took him in then, my hair cascading over his belly, my darting tongue everywhere.  I believe I was willing to offer my soul to God if only he’d let this moment stretch out for eternity.  I had changed.  Oh yes, I had changed.  I would burn in hell for his sake, if necessary.

 

Licks of fire caused Master to moan and arch upwards involuntarily.  His breathing was rapid and shallow now.  Suddenly, my mouth was at his ear, nibbling, my own breath hot and loud.

 

“I want you,” I whispered.  “Now, please.  Master.”  Somehow, someway, he was on top of me peering down in the darkness.  He was looking into my eyes as though he’d only just recognized me.

 

***

 

I awoke, needing to use his bathroom.  I rose and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders.  He sighed, reaching for me.  I slipped away.  I came back and re-entered paradise, slipping into the warm bed where my lover-Master lay.  He awoke when I climbed back in beside him, grumbled a little, reached out his long arms to pull me in close and tucked me in under his chin, just as my father had done so many years ago.  I lay awake, fighting my nightmares, but I knew them now for the false things they were and they couldn’t scare me anymore.  For the last few weeks, I had desperately forced myself  to concentrate---to  try to forget the crazy, unsettling feelings that wouldn't leave me alone.  What had started out in horror was now a joyful emotion that affected the way I reacted to him.  One can fight an illness or one's destiny, but how was I to supposed to fight the feelings that were pushing me towards this fascinating man?

 

Just before I fell asleep, I made myself consciously think of every smell, every touch, every sensation.  These were things I would never forget.  I smiled to myself as my eyelids closed and I remembered perhaps the only thing I'd ever learned in high school because it sounded so cool; “Meminerunt omnia amantes”.  That's Latin for Lovers Remember Everything---and they do.  I fell asleep at last, soothed by the rhythm of his heartbeat. 

 

 

Chapter 38: In real life, events seem much less dramatic; Jessica Savitch.

 

My last clear impressions were of the body beside me rearranging itself, with breasts pressed into my back, an arm draped over me, and a peculiarly comfortable clamping of feet, mine in hers, like hands.  Her long, smooth legs moved against each other, then against me.  I realized my thought processes were slowing down.  What was offered was sometimes enough.  Sometimes.

 

I awoke in the morning and after hesitating, I went to Rasha.  Mostly she slept with me now, but sometimes she needed to be alone and I allowed it; it was then that she slept in the White Room.  And so it was this morning---she'd gotten up  early in the morning without awakening me and gone to her bed.  She was sleeping as I entered, and even in sleep her legs were spread wide as she’d been taught.  I awakened her, ensuring that she began her daily schedule on time, and as I did a wave of desire washed over me as I watched her make her bed and clean the room.  As much as I cared for her, discipline was still necessary in her life.  She exercised as I prepared a simple breakfast of a small egg on English muffins and coffee; again, I watched intensely as she ate.  I never tired of her beauty or her grace.  But unfortunately, work called.  With the quality of the help that I’d hired a few years ago, I knew that I’d have to go to the office eventually just to ensure that my business didn’t go under. 

 

I had learned so much about this woman in the short time that I'd possessed her.  When I walked out the door this morning, I had for some unknown reason been aware that she needed discipline today.  I left Rasha’s slave collar connected by chain to the tracks in the ceiling.  In addition to the normal routine of cleaning and straightening her room, I had left her specific instructions on physical training.  While she finally seemed to be settled in her new world, I would still check the video’s of her efforts later.

 

Now in my small office on the outskirts of Savannah, I chewed on a small pencil as I hummed a 60’s rock tune.  My feet were stretched out in front of me, one foot crossed over the other.  I had to push away from my desk in order to do this; my legs were too long to stretch out beneath the desk itself.  There was a wall immediately in front of the desk with memos, postcards and fire instructions pinned on it. 

 

I smiled to myself; I’d had no chance to read during the last week---too busy with my bottom.  At first I was lazily catching up the newspapers, but suddenly I sat upright.  I read the item through three times.  Spotted in the Statesboro Herald of all places. 

 

It was being reported that an aggressive new Assistant District Attorney, with the DA’s office for less than six months at the time, had prematurely announced the arrest warrant for Rebecca Denholm.  However, a frustrated and over-worked local cop had just recently leaked to the press that there just wasn’t a case to be made.  No one would talk to the investigators and there was no physical evidence of any wrong doing.  Over the objections of the DA, the busy police chief had finally been forced to pull most of the task force after fourteen weeks of absolutely no success in obtaining any incriminating evidence that supported the charges against this female teacher. 

 

‘Off the record’ the article strongly implied that while the authorities were pretty sure that something had happened, they couldn’t prove it.  And while the police still wanted Rebecca for questioning, as a result of the premature announcement of the charges and the negative publicity now associated with the case, unless one of the participants or a witness came forward, the case against her would be dropped for lack of evidence. 

 

While it was clear that her job and her reputation were gone, in a strange quirk of fate, instead of the public being outraged by another teacher/student sex scandal, in Rasha’s case the public seemed to side with the woman who newspapers proclaimed had been tarred prematurely and in the end, perhaps unfairly.  In this, Rasha’s beauty proved to be a god-send.  Under numerous pictures provided by her soon to be ex-husband, the local newspapers ran the usual charges against the City; continually emphasizing that Rasha was ‘innocent until proven guilty’ and that this smear by the DA’s office ‘could have happened to anybody’, and that her ‘persecution’ was the result of the actions of an inexperienced, over-zealous public prosecutor against a ‘small person,’ just an ‘average person’ attacked by an ‘uncaring, big city’ Government. 

 

This was the Savannah DA’s third such political firestorm in less than six months, and while he may have been a political creature, he wasn’t stupid.  This particular disaster was too much too soon.  Consequently, even though it looked like it made the bile rise in his throat, he went into immediate damage control mode; the young lawyer had immediately been publicly chastised for his ‘extreme’ actions, and his lack of both ‘professionalism’ and ‘common sense’ and a generic apology was then issued. 

 

It was late afternoon and I wanted to be alone.  Freddie and Nan picked up on this and went home and I gratefully retired to my office again.  I shut the door, switched on the lamp and sat behind my desk in half-darkness.  How was I going to handle Rasha?  I would check with some sources to ensure that the right information was being released to the news outlets by the courts.  But if it was, then it appeared to me that except for the formality of talking to the police one last time, while her previous life may now be in tatters, Rasha was free to resume it unhindered by at least the interest of the police.  This I planned on keeping close to my vest---this was a woman that needed to be enslaved; more, she deserved to be a slave to a man like me.

 

 

Chapter 39: Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes. Marquis De Sade.

 

I'd slept in his bed and it was still relatively early in the evening.  I woke up as I felt the slight tingle, the mild frisson of the shock not completely unexpected.  I felt him between my legs.  I’m being diddled.  I laid back and clasped my hand over my still-sore stomach.  It didn’t do to get too excited---a person could miss things if she let herself get carried away. 

 

I looked down at him.  He finally sensed my attention and looked up with a small smile.  Master Christian loved touching me like that.  I knew he loved the way I always yielded my heat to him in spite of myself.  The way that he could make me exhale my very breath into him, in the end making me beg him to take me.  He made it a slow dance, a subtle tease, the most delicious of agonies for me.  Sometimes he used pain in conjunction with the touch, and other times it was the touch alone.  He so enjoyed the way my body arched towards ecstasy with a driving need that I couldn’t begin to understand, let alone articulate.  His was the gradual embrace, the one which isolated and made me feel alone, so softly that I never knew that I was held fast by it until it was too late.  Only at the end would I gasp and struggle against the inner suffocation, and then….too late.  I was his once again.

 

***

 

I punched my pillow and turned over slowly.  Again.  Again.  I will not look at the clock.  I looked at his bedside clock.  Six-thirty.  I knew that I’d have to get up or he would punish me again for sleeping too late.  The thought of rising wouldn’t have seemed so daunting if I’d managed to fall asleep in the first place.

 

In the months that he’d kept me here, he’d treated me either as a goddess or entitlement, depending upon his mood.  Early on, he’d been a harsh master.  But I’d eventually learned how to please him.  Sometimes now he was tender when he felt good and the sex with him was very good; but sometimes it was not so good.  Last night had been……difficult.  He’d been in one of his moods.  It happened less now, but it still did.  The joy went out of him and the shadows flooded in.  At first tender, he’d become much rougher as one of his headaches progressed and it had seemed an eternity before we had finally satisfied both of our needs---all of them.  I rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling, my limbs sagging into the mattress as if they were made of lead.  I kicked off my covers slowly, then rose in stages.  I didn’t want to wake HIM.  One leg over the side.  The other.  Sit up.  Wait for the room to stop throbbing.  Stand.  Walk.

 

I slowly walked into the White Room so as to not wake him.  Showering proved a challenge.  Even though his rules made it clear that I could not take a shower until I'd exercised, I needed one now just to start the day.  He’d ordered me into the White Room and used The Discipline on me again last night.  He used it on my buttocks or back at least once a week.  He demanded that I ask permission for it and I had to choose the time when I wanted it, then he became quite zealous in its use.  This was on the good days.  While the way he used it caused a lot of pain, I was glad he had yet to leave scars.  This was something that I checked after each session.  I hated the fact that there were parts to this that I didn't hate---this upset me more than anything else.

 

I had not moved quickly enough earlier in the week and my buttocks and upper back, a skinscape of light green and purple from his earlier attentions, were now overlaid by a new series of lightly raised red welts.  I faced the shower head and let it beat into my face.  By the time I emerged, eyes stinging and back muscles twitching, my stomach had begun to ache.  He still kept me on tight rations.  Could I go back to bed in here?  I checked the clock he'd given me last week.  Seven-thirty.  Nope.  It would only anger him.  It was Sunday morning and I didn’t have to exercise today.

 

The man whose collar I wore was so…odd at times.  Odd, but brilliant.  So bright, yet sometimes so lacking in….what?  I sighed and shook my head.  So very, very smart about people and how to manipulate them, yet so unwise about women for all of that.  Could you know a lot about women without knowing a lot of women?  I finally made myself stop thinking about it.  I put on the bikini he made me wear during exercise and worked out even though it wasn't required.  Would he punish me for breaking routine?  I didn't know.  Afterwards, I took another long shower.

 

After fixing my hair and putting on a little makeup, I picked out a short, expensive yellow and white sun-dress.  It might be early spring, but he liked me to wear things that exposed a lot of skin.  No bra or panties of course.  Strappy sandals with unworkable heels.  I’d finally begun to get used to his demands.  But I still didn’t have to like them.  Especially, I thought savagely as I pulled on the second shoe, these damned heels.  They hurt my feet and if I never saw another pair, it would be too soon.

 

***

 

Often I took Rasha's discipline far beyond kneeling on rice, for I admit that punishment spankings turned out to be something I enjoyed giving my lovely slave.  Sometimes when I was in a bad mood, these encounters with Rasha got quite personal, often turning into serious endurance events in which the challenge was to see who would give in first.  The White Room would be so quiet as we began.  There was always that little hesitation as she removed what little modest clothing I allowed.  The look on her face often reminded me of something; fear and perhaps longing controlled for too long?  Sometimes I began immediately.  Other times I was forced to do “other” things to get her or myself into a more receptive mood. 

 

But deep inside I knew that this was not only what she needed, but it was what she wanted too.  I'd known there were women out there like her, but she was the first woman I'd possessed that had actually learned to want what I offered.  Others might pretend, but the pretense could only be carried on for so long before reality set in.  But not Rasha.  Sometimes she would misbehave just to earn a spanking. 

 

Like tonight; I already knew exactly how it would go.  Once she was in the right frame of mind, the badly behaved woman would be bent over my lap and the spanking would commence, stroke after stroke on her raised and willing bottom.  She would submit totally.  We'd gone so far that there was never the thought of physical resistance from Rasha anymore.  There was never a misunderstanding on her part, for she knew this spanking would happen exactly according to plan.

 

I had thought about the unexpected treat that Rasha had proven to be.  The reasons why a beautiful and educated woman like her enjoyed being disciplined ranged from the profane to the sacred.  She may have had a masochistic desire for the sting of her Master's whip as she peaked during sexual arousal; we both knew the line between pleasure and pain was very thin here.  On the other hand, some people felt an intense need to be punished for current, past, or even imagined misdeeds.  And their Master's floggings released them of much of their guilt; this too I felt, was much of Rasha's motivation.  Some submissives took discipline through devotion, to please their Master and satisfy the Doms' sadistic urges.  Some slaves swallowed their pain out of obedience.  On the other end of the spectrum, a few extreme religious people perceived discipline as completely absolving them of their sins. 

 

When I desired, I ensured that pain was not necessarily a big part of the punishment when I disciplined Rasha.  Rather, if it was done right, the psychological took precedence here; delicate skills that it had taken me years to perfect.  And at this point in her training, she had been totally liberated from the mindset imposed by those who had no concept of how this could make one feel.  For by now, a serious spanking like I had planned for her tonight always humbled Rasha; making her feel both forgiven and thankful. 

 

But then, sooner or later, she would regress and need a repeat.  She was my responsibility, and over the last few weeks I had learned her mind as well as her body.  I knew how to act towards her now and what to say.  Despite being a physically tough woman, she was openly vulnerable now to having her emotions.  Manipulated.  Should I so choose, what I said and more importantly, what I did here could cut like a knife through the old defenses she'd erected around her mind and her heart.  But I had found with Rasha that as long as I was firm, she would accept incredible amounts of degradation and pain from me.  This because she was convinced that it was for her own good.....that I acted in her best interest.....and mostly, she just fucking deserved it.  And finally, she double-fucking secretly loved it.  A couple of times during the last couple of weeks, I'd been forced to give her light maintenance spankings just because I knew one was due and I had the power.  But I had to be honest and admit too that I did this because I was also in the mood to give myself pleasure. 

 

But this was not maintenance tonight.  Not tonight.

 

***

 

When we were in his home, although often quite demanding, he could also be a gentle Master.  It was only when we entered the 'play' room that he seemed to change.  For whatever reason, the White Room often brought out the worst in him.  Tonight, he seemed to have an especially strong need to take me there.

 

Master gave me the look to quickly strip and I didn't hesitate---it would only get worse as the night went on should I disobey at any point.  Thankfully, he is rarely in a mood like this---generally only when he has one of his headaches.  He enjoyed nights in the White Room because that's when he felt the most creative...and the most receptive to the emotions he stripped from his women.

 

I was finished now---I quietly knelt in front of him naked.  He smiled, then quickly slapped my face as hard as he could.  My head jerked back and to the right, and he timed it so that when I was facing him again, he used his backhand to perfectly slap me one more time.  This was not unexpected and was probably only the beginning; I knew this because he slowly smiled at me.

 

On these rare nights, he couldn't get pleasure from me just following his orders.  No.  Thre was a sadistic side and he enjoyed giving me pain.  If someone offered to buy him gifts fit for a king and endless money to spend as he chose, Master would still undoubtedly turn it down if he could just use me, or any other woman, like this just one more time.  Money and gifts didn't excite him when he was like this.  But let a woman offer him her mind and her soul---these gifts he accepted immediately although she might not appreciate how he expressed his gratitude.  He tormented me endlessly during these spells.  I believe that if he felt my body could have withstood it, he would have enthusiastically whipped me for the whole night---sometimes softly and sometimes not. 

 

But always, there would an undeniable kind of love for me too.  If others saw the same look in his eyes that I saw when I screamed for his pleasure---and yes, for his mercy too, I knew they would also understand. Yet, it was at these very same times that I least understood myself.  His face would be so still, the quiet of a winter pond covered in blue ice; but at the same time, the coldness of his expression somehow turned me on, making me feel that I had to offer my body in totality and with complete willingness to accept whatever he might offer.  If only I could offer him enough of myself, I would please him for one more night.

 

He seemed to thrive on the emotions I gave off.  Seeing me in pain didn't do it for Master anymore when he was like this.  But MAKING me go through the pain, that seemed to fill him with the rushing energy that he needed to continue performing his sadistic acts.  But even though I didn't understand it myself, I honestly had begun to accept this now too.  

 

No...I was lying to myself.  I didn't just accept pain, I wanted it tonight.  I hate the fact that there are times when I want to experience every type of pain that there might be----as long as it was he that was offering it to me.

 

Master smacked my buttocks according to his own internal needs.  Right now my cheeks were burning as if he had lit a tiny blowtorch and held it almost against my skin, but it didn't matter for I knew this about myself now; if it were easy here, I would somehow leave him and look elsewhere for what I needed.  I find this hard to admit---I guess....I guess I am a masochist. 

 

I had always been taught that this was a sickness, and that it was evil and depraved.  But I know now that this need had always been inside me and it always would be.  Somehow, I just hadn't know this about myself, or didn't have the courage to admit it, before him.  Yes, my Master.  Whip me, beat me, even torture me, but God!  Just don't neglect me.  Not when I need your attention.

 

Master put a blindfold on me and tied my wrists together, then pulled my hands above my head in the center of the room and tied them off.  He slapped me again and it was unexpected.  I grimaced, but I dared not make a sound.  He never gags me during this game.  But I have learned that if I make a noise, even a squeak when he is like this, he always punished me even more.  But in this little game of ours, I always lose.  He made certain he caused me enough pain that I always finally gave in to his destruction and had to grunt or groan to let out the residual energies that had built up inside me.  Even as I whimpered, I knew what this meant.  No matter how much I fought it and no matter how soft the sound might have been, we were now going to the next level.

 

Even as I can't see it this time, I still know that Master stares at me with a look of disapproval, and yet, and yet, there will be satisfaction too that I have eventually given in to his dominant will.  This is as it has been and as it will always be.  Master takes The Discipline and uses it squarely on my lower back, causing me to shudder with pain.  Some blows were merely light touches.  Then comes devastation, riding on a black skeletal horse, surgically removing any sense of proportion or mercy my Master might have still entertained.  I have learned to count on this.  He continued the onslaught for more than twelve strokes, at which point I finally lost count. 

 

He was finished for now and even as he breathed heavily from his exertions, I heard a quiet chuckle.  As I hung in my bonds, I know he examined my back and approved of his artwork, then I sensed he smiled.  Finally, he removed the blindfold and I could see again, even though my eyes were filled with unspilt tears.

 

As I expected, at this point he had to do something that was degrading in an attempt to either make me submit or aggravate me beyond control.  My Master leaned in quickly and kissed me fully on the lips and when I didn't react fast enough, I knew I had angered him.  I knew too that I would be punished even as I look squarely in the eyes of the man that controlled my life and apologized profusely; it was important that he knew that I mean every word. But it did not matter and it did not end.

 

He looked at me with a hint of disappointment and then finally the decision had  been made; he spit in my face.  I apparently did not show enough remorse for my willful disobedience, for he grabbed my chin with one hand and a handful of hair at the back of my head with the other, he pulled my head back and forcing my mouth open.  And as his saliva rolled down my face, he kissed me again hard, his tongue probing, exploring, fighting with mine.  As he pulled back from this last lingering kiss, he spit on me again, but this time into my open mouth. 

 

My lips have been all over his body, feeling him, tasting his essence with my tongue.  I have sucked on his toes and fingers, his ears and balls and cock.  I have licked or kissed or tasted every part of my Master, so this did not upset me.  Truly, I could only accept what he had given me, knowing as I did that the worst was yet to come.  He let me savor his saliva for a moment in my mouth, then commanded me to swallow before I licked his first spittle from my cheeks.  This I did as best I could.

 

Leaving me hanging from the rope and facing in the other direction, he walked over to where he kept his personal toys.  When he returned, he circled me like a lion would slowly circle his prey.  I was never allowed to look down to see what he might be carrying, but could only look directly into his eyes.  He stopped at the edge of my vision and turned, anticipating me anticipating him.  My heart was beating like it would burst free of my chest and my body was drenched in sweat.  But this only pleased him even more. 

 

He toyed with me now.  It's an old game and we both knew the rules; it was the play of two party's that are vastly unequal in power in the same way a Rotweiller would be, should it ever be playing with a kitten.  Suddenly, he turned and without warning, lashed out with the belt I have felt so many times before.  The pain reached a crescendo of agony as he continued spanking me, beating me.  Oh God; not now---please, yes, now, please.  I could feel the slickness between my thighs; I was wet.  He wasn't even half-way finished and I was already wet for him.

 

He swung the belt so close to my ass that I trembled, and yet he missed!  My involuntary look of terror brought enjoyment to his face, for he loved seeing the fear that I showed him in times of his recklessness.  He looked at his target and then after one big swing, let go with a flurry of blows that connected perfectly on my ass.  He always called it perfect; exquisite and beautiful.  Perhaps, maybe it was this way for him once, but I didn't believe this anymore.  My butt felt as if he had left no skin there.  But even though I was in pain, a lot of pain, I took  this because my Master was worth it.  I would have walked through fire for him just to prove my devotion.  I think he'd finally begun to understand this; perhaps this was why on those nights in the White Room, rather than treat me as his loving slave, he always treated me like I was a new woman that had never before experienced his torment.

 

He softly touched my body all over again, gently exploring territory he had first conquered weeks and months ago.  He told me he loved the expressions on my face when I was at his mercy like this.  Master smiled once again with the knowledge that more torment was about to come my way.  Finally, he stepped back, his signal that I should again prepare my body for his pleasure.  But we both know that that was physically impossible to satisfy him.

 

He gave me a look of satisfaction, but I knew that he could never be truly satisfied.  Suddenly, he left me.  I hung from my rope in the White Room, slowly twisting.  The cuffs he used were hard; constrictive and painful to my wrists.  I often had red marks around my wrists.  But as I hung there, I was thinking about he and I, about us.  The best I could hope for tonight was to sate his desires for just the evening.  But at the same time, there was definitely something here that we both seemed to enjoy as sadist and masochist, slave and master.  And that was each other's company.  And even as he truly relished torturing me, I felt too that he cared deeply for me in ways I didn't yet understand and......but not as much as I enjoyed his terrible passions, both emotional and physical. 

 

I was resting when he returned ; I was excited by his re-appearance, but afraid of his obvious need.  As for my need, I was quivering for my god of the whip and the belt.  He knew this all too well, for I could feel him feeling my need.  At the same time, I felt inside me the impatience of a woman whose needs had not yet been satisfied.  Men had often called me strong, or proud and arrogant, or even headstrong and aggressive.  But none of this had prepared me for the reality I faced here, with this one man.  How could I fight him; how could there ever be a true battle between us when we both knew I would always lose?  

 

That is, you see, the conventional thinking of a vanilla world.  The battles we fought now were never on the physical, for that would have been too easy.  The true battles always took place in the mental world that we both inhabited.  Early on, I had fought him physically; vowing to never give in to his demands on my body.  This was a war I could never have won, and it took me weeks and numerous.....devastating lessons.....to understand.  When I finally realized this, I then fought against the seductive embrace of the psychological coils of his world.  This battle too, I eventually lost when I realized not how different we were, but rather how similar.  Finally, now we fought a battle of mental strengths---for the sheer pleasure it brought us both.

 

Even though he owned me now, if I let him beat me psychologically in this war between us, he would OWN me.  We both knew this.  But where would the challenge be in either of our lives then?  For we had learned to push each other, my Master and I.  And our battles always ended in a tie.  For even if he ALWAYS got what he wanted from me, we would have pushed each other to examine ever deeper levels of our relationship---and I too would have gotten what I wanted.  I think that I would always feel the need to challenge him like this. 

 

I looked at him and thought, how could I let a man bully me like this even as he tried to hurt me more than he thought I could handle.  I knew now that even if he made me cry, the tears were just proof that I am not necessarily female and weak, but rather weak flesh and blood as we all were.  And I knew that he must look at me and be thinking, how could I let a weak woman, even a beautiful one like this, win in my world?

 

He used the belt one more time, then he stopped to observe the physical effects of his art.  For me, I knew the torment was almost over, at least for tonight.  Master looked like he was weakening in his pursuit of abuse.  He finally untied me, then laid me tenderly across his lap.  Master smiled at the marks left on my bottom, approving of the raised red welts that have been laid over the older blue and orange bruises.  He then softly caressed me just prior to spanking me with his bare hand.  I jumped on his lap, but I should not have been surprised.  He enjoyed this so much now that he never noticed the tears that finally began rolling down my pitiful face.  He had “won” again. 

 

Finally, he realized his temporary victory and dumped me onto the floor.  I was, he ordered, to crawl to the other side of the White Room and first clean, then put away the toys he had used on me tonight.  He watched me in satisfaction, and after I had done as he ordered, he told me to kiss his feet and his legs.  When I did this, he allowed me to stand, then gave me the soft, compassionate kiss of the winner just before he left me alone.

 

***

 

Master had spanked me hours earlier in the day.  He assured me that I had deserved the spanking, but assurances did little to remove the pain.  Finally he had left me alone.  Then an hour later, he came back and from the way he stood, I knew what was next in my future.  I still hurt and had little interest in sex at the moment, but as usual my wishes did not count.  I still would not allow myself to say that we made love, but at the end I admit that even though I could not move as easily as he, I was certainly as enthusiastic.  Then he left me to recover.

 

Now he has just walked into the White Room a second time in the last two hours.  “And now again,” he said. 

 

“Oh no,” I groaned, “Lord no, not again.  Master, please.  For heaven’s sake.  It’s like I am laying on a coil of barbed wire.”

 

He just looked at me, crooked his finger towards me, then turned and left the room.  I followed after a second, because we both knew that it was only his desires that counted here.  And that was only right.

 

 

***

 

I stood on the back of the veranda watching the wheeling water birds over the lake.  I looked down at her and was surprised.  It was mid-May now;  she lay on a chaise lounge chair and she’d been sunbathing.  Rasha had the kind of complexion that quickly turned from office-white to a light copper-bronze and after two weeks in the sun, her flawless skin positively glowed. 

 

She wore a shimmering small black bikini top with black thong bottoms, a black choker, open stiletto heeled sandals and nothing else.  It only emphasized that she had the kind of figure that made men walk into walls.  Although it wasn't necessary, I still wanted to make a point, so I clipped a leash to the chain that connected her nipple rings and led her into the White Room like a beloved dog.  This always succeeded as a not-so-subtle reminder of her status in my life.  She stood behind me after we entered; I turned and held her very close, nuzzling her neck and promising her that she was the most beautiful slave I’d ever seen.  I could see the soft smile come on her face as I spoke.  She smelled so good to me.

 

I asked her what she thought when she wore this outfit.  With only the small smile that was necessary when there was genuine love, she said, “If it gives you pleasure Master, then it gives me pleasure to wear it for you.” 

 

I laughed and replied, “No, really.  What do you really think of it?”

 

Rasha shook her head and in an earnest tone said, “Master, I really don’t mind wearing this---it at least gives me a little support where I need it, and it’s better than nothing.”

 

I thought for a second and asked, “How would you have answered that question six months ago?”

 

“Sir.  You don’t want to know.”

 

“Try me.”

 

She sighed.  “Master, I would have said that the idea of me wearing this for any man was disgusting and promoted an extremely sexist attitude towards women.”

 

She thought for a second, then continued.  “I think that I would have said that any male who liked to see women in something like this all of the time was an immature adolescent who was probably hiding feelings of sexual inadequacy.  I also think that---“

 

“You’re right,” I interrupted her.  “I don’t want to know how you would have felt.  What is important is how you feel now.  And even if you don’t really feel that way, at least you’re smart enough to keep it to yourself and live my way.  Right?’

 

“Yes,” she turned and looked at me from under her eyelashes.  “Master.”

 

***

 

I liked everything about our relationship and wanted it to continue.  Every time he touched me or he leaned against me, I felt the warmth and strength of his body.  When he punished me, I knew that it was only out of a sense of love for me and duty towards my welfare.  I felt the immense physical attraction of my Master.  I loved the man, yet didn’t quite know yet what to make of our chemistry, how to handle it.  I wanted to turn towards Master and let him know I would always be there for him.  I needed to see him and tell him that we had made it through the toughest part. 

 

Perhaps I could lose myself forever if I gave in to these intense emotions.  But I wanted more from him than I had now, and I knew that I subconsciously pushed him for far more than I should for one in my position.  We were like two ships in parallel navigation over shoals and bars, and only lately had it been safe enough to watch each other.  But we had now gone far past those first moments of indecision