Mastering Submission Ch. 04

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


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


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

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

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

“Hello,” he said. “Martin.”

“Good evening, Master,” I began.

“You bitch,” he said. “Where are you?”

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

“And what do you have to say?” he queried.

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

“Go ahead,” he responded.

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning, Master,” I said brightly, as Master arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will not question his orders or opinions.

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

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

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

I will be totally honest with him.

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

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

Signed this ___ day of _________________________, 2009.

“What’s the Prick Prayer?” I inquired.

“You’ll find out,” Master replied.

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

“None of your business,” he replied.

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

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

I winced, saying, “I know, Master. I’m sorry about that.”

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

“Meat?” I queried, completely at a loss.

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

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

As I returned both pen and contract to Master, I quietly replied, “I shall look forward to that. Yes, ‘Meat’ it is.”

“Are you wearing tights?” Master asked.

“Of course not, Master,” I happily replied. “I’m wearing holdups, with no panties.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And then,” I was saying, “Just as Barrington’s point about the ‘Dark Lady’ was completely exploded – “

“Meat?” Master interrupted.

I snapped back into the present. “Yes, Master?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Master said. “I’m trying to think.”

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

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

“You, Master,” I answered.

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

“You, Master,” I answered again.

“So whose opinion matters?” Master concluded.

“Yours, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”

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

“I’m not pretty,” I said.

“You’re certainly arrogant,” Master replied. “Try on that blue picture hat.”

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

“Green it is, then,” he replied with a smile.

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

I had to ask, “Master, what on earth are we doing in Harrod’s pet department?”

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

I looked round anxiously, “Must I, Master?” I asked.

“Are you questioning my orders?” Master quietly replied.

“No, Master,” I responded. “Sorry, Master.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, laden down with packages, we breezed into Butler he added matching earrings, bracelet and necklace, then we gathered up all our packages and hailed a cab.

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

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

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

“Oh, yes,” Master said. “I definitely count the tiara.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Here’s your tea, Master,” I said.

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

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

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

“Permission to speak, Master?” I asked.

“Permission granted, Meat,” he replied.

“You said we’d bought two outfits today, Master,” I asked.

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

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

“Very nearly,” Master replied. “We’re going to play a game I invented called ‘which tit.'”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I can’t wear four hats,” I began.

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

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32