“Where is your place, Slut?” he barked like a drill sergeant as his whip came down with precision and artful technique, making contact with my labia.
“On the floor, Sir. I’m on the floor where I belong, Sir.” I tried to articulate but the mumbled words fell from my mouth with viscous saliva that dripped from my chin to my chest in small, slippery puddles as I crawled back and forth, through a hazard of my own devices.
“Good girl. On your knees, Slut!” he barked again. I smiled through the gag, pleased with the praise for passing his first challenge. Daddy slipped on a black latex glove, and when it snapped against his hand it sent shivers through my body. I wanted him to enter me.
“Ok, Slut. Let’s show everyone what we’re working with,” he grabbed hold of my cunt. “I need you thinking with your pretty head instead of your pretty cunt,” he said and slipped his fingers into me. He smiled, looking at me, and I felt seduced by his gaze. I felt seduced as his lover, not as his submissive. Was there even a difference? It felt as if there was. We shared tender moments of care that informed the intense physical impact that we experienced together. With each lash of the whip I felt the warmth of memories and gifts we exchanged, like little books of poetry marked with notes on our favorite passages that we shared with one another. Those loving moments of intimacy and connection fueled the endurance and passage that we were in together as Daddy pumped his hand in and out of my red, swollen, and whipped cunt.
“This is the pussy I’m talking about. This is the pussy I want available at all times.” Daddy pulled out and slapped my cunt again, hard. The sound echoed through the room.
As I sat, recounting the experience for the camera, I felt my pussy throbbing from a week of being whipped, slapped, and filled with cock. I pulled my hair back and clipped it out of my face. I looked tired, thoroughly fucked, and rather bedraggled, but there was a glow about me, evident even in the cheap motel lamplight.
“The crawling was painful but I think I was still a little...cocky. I don’t think I realized there would be anything physically, um...challenging. I’m usually pretty tough. I have a tough exterior, and there isn’t usually any position that I can’t do.” I confessed on camera, to my reflection, to the world watching, to Daddy.
Leather cuffs were fastened around my wrists and ankles, my sweaty palms pressed against the cold stone walls and I arched my back, accentuating the curve of my ass. Daddy ordered me to stand on the balls of my feet, legs spread. I’m familiar with this position, a perverted version of second position in ballet. I practiced ballet from elementary school through freshman year of college, and the art form instilled in me a love of discipline, of pushing my body to its utmost extreme. It seemed simple enough to hold the position for a moment or two, but what I didn’t know was that this position was a military stress position, used to break the most hardened soldiers down to crying, whimpering babies. Could Mr. Mogul and I break each other down and rebuild?
My nipples were clamped with tight clover clamps, traditionally used for pulling material tight when sewing. The clamps were pulled even tighter by small, solid steel weights that hung from the chain of the clamps.
Mr. Mogul recorded notes, examining my position.
“How long do you think you can stay like this, Madison?”
“As long as you would like me like this, Sir?” I stared forward and found a spot on the wall to focus on. It had only been a few minutes, but already I felt my calves start to burn and my muscles strain to maintain the position.
There was a disturbing quiet for a moment and I heard Daddy set down his clipboard and grab his whip from the shelf. I knew I have answered incorrectly, but I didn’t know what the right answer was. The whip stung my already burning thighs.
“When I ask you a question like that, I want an accurate and honest answer.” He sounded annoyed, frustrated. I gave Daddy a canned answer, a performer’s answer. I hid behind a fantasy rather than revealing my vulnerability and responding truthfully. I am a performer at heart, and a performative element still informs my responses. Mr. Mogul deserved more than a performance, and I wanted to give him more. I just didn’t know how to do that.
“What you’re giving me is bullshit.” I stared forward, focusing my eyes on that same spot as he approached my quivering body, his hands finding their way back to my cunt. He whispered in my ear, “Now we wait.”
Daddy pulled up a chair and sat down to watch, waiting for me to succumb to the exhaustion. Eventually, the lactic acid in my muscles would build to painful cramping and I would collapse. I would either have to disobey Daddy and move, breaking position, or wait for my body to give in, falling to the drool-splattered ground from which I have just risen. Carlos and Lux came in close, fascinated; as if watching a rare bird in an exotic environment, they studied my body’s composition and form, documenting my physiology and emotional response. I trembled and stared at the chip in the concrete wall. Just a chip in the rock, a tiny flaw. I memorized it, dove into it, shrunk my body down to size so I could explore it like a crater. I filled it with water and went for a swim, my body floating effortlessly in the pool contained in that crater. Carlos panned up and down with his video camera, zooming in on my face, revealing my trembling body and cramping feet. Flashes from Lux’s camera popped in my eyes, but I let it go. I guided myself through meditation, letting all thoughts, all people and actions in my periphery melt away. I acknowledged their presence and then let them float away. Determined that my body would be on the brink of utter collapse before I gave up, I meditated on the image of me and Daddy safe on the other side of this giant roadblock that laid in front of us. My body started to shake violently, but I held my eyesight, remaining focused. I visualized Daddy holding me tight, close, tighter, closer.
Daddy got up from his chair, surprised. His hand gently ran down the arch of my back as he smiled at me with pride, “You are a tough little thing, aren’t you?” He laughed, amused by my perseverance.
I glared with determination, and a warm smile came over my face at the sound of Daddy’s voice. More than ever, I was determined to prove my devotion. I gently whispered, full of love and honesty, “Yes, Sir.”
“You will endure any amount of physical punishment, won’t you?” I felt his eyes on me, but I wouldn’t break my gaze. Daddy is on the other side, don’t lose focus.
“Yes, Sir.” My voice came out soft, honest, raw, vulnerable. It felt like we were practicing our vows to one another. My form shifted as different muscle groups tried to take over, my body’s natural physical defense building, but there wasn’t much give and take in this position. Daddy’s voice was kind, gentle, and earnest. He was strong but not demanding, and he spoke softly. I knew he believed in the words as much as I did. I had a sense of pride, in holding the position, in pleasing Daddy. Daddy was proud of his little Slut.
“Please, Sir?” I begged, my legs convulsing as I grasped the solid cement wall. Daddy came up behind me and eased me to the ground, where he held me close in his arms. “You did good, Slut. You did really good.”
After my legs stopped shaking and I had regained strength enough to stand upright on my own, Daddy walked me onto a large cement block that was basked in a warm spotlight. Lux handed me a black KINK water bottle and I sipped on the cool liquid. Water never tasted so good.
“I want you in standing slave position, Slut. Facing front, legs spread, arms folded behind your back, and I don’t want to catch your eyes on me. Do you understand?” Daddy picked up his clipboard, thumbed through his notes, and scribbled onto the yellow lined paper.
I did as instructed, my arms folded behind my back as I stared forward, ready to receive the next challenge.
Mr. Mogul picked up his whip and leaned in with one foot on the slave block, close to me, asking earnestly, “Are you willing to let go of me as a lover in order to be my slave?” He smiled, staring at me, and my face was deadpan. Pausing before answering, I meekly replied w
ith, “Yes, Sir” in an uncertain whisper.
Daddy stepped away from me and circled the room, contemplating his next move. He realized that there had been an emotional shift and we were walking a delicate balance between public and private, cameras rolling.
“Then get down on your knees and present yourself like a slave.”
Daddy leaned in close. “You’re a good girl, hey, look at me.” I abandoned the no eye contact rule, looking up at him with sadness. “You’re a good girl,” he repeated, grabbing my hair and leaning in to kiss me on the lips, while I retained my slave position. With a renewed sense of confidence I looked forward, arms folded, kneeling, legs spread.
“I think you have earned a reward,” he shared, stepping onto the slave block. His hand scooped up my hair and directed my face downward to his black leather boot.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“It was very hot,” I smiled like a giddy teenager divulging locker room kiss-and-tell moments. As I spoke, I wanted to touch myself, confessing erotic intimacies, but that would be breaking the rules and I knew better.
A glance at the clock told me it was 6:30 p.m. It was getting late and Daddy would be here soon to collect me and take me to sushi. I needed to wrap it up, but I was still processing. I fetched a sweater and turned down the air-conditioning, then resituated myself in front of the camera, film still rolling.
My face was dewy with sweat from the long day, and from the long week. My eyes closed and my legs splayed open to give Daddy access while maintaining the kneeling slave position that he has taught me. As his whip came down on me, I felt my edge. With each whipping I felt myself teetering on an emotional cliff, getting closer to falling. But what exactly would I be falling into? I opened myself to the energy that lay past the edge. I could feel the edge of my mind, a round, beautiful, safe feeling full of warm energy. This safe space of transcendence opened before me, and I knew if I went any closer I would cry. With release, with joy, with complete gratitude, it was better than any orgasm I have ever experienced. Daddy’s hands touched my flesh and grabbed hold of my hair. The space we walked into was sacred, spiritual. I felt my body become weightless even though I still knelt on the ground, and each lashing brought my consciousness back to my body like an invisible lasso. I had fallen in love, and the world around me disappeared, all that remained was me and the person I loved. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for my very existence.
“Does it feel good?” Daddy’s lashings fell on my skin, pink welts sprung up like wildflowers.
“It feels so good, thank you so much.” I was riding waves of endorphins, my body mentally levitating, breathless and weightless.
“You want to cry? Go ahead and let it out.” Daddy laughed as tears streamed from my face.
“Thank you, thank you so much, I love you so much! Thank you.” I exhaled, overcome with joy.
The bright sun peeked through orange fabric curtains, nudging me from a restful sleep. I was curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed in a nest I created out of a terra-cotta colored floral comforter and white plush pillows. My chain collar and padlock pulled heavily, leaving faint bruises from the four days that they had served around my neck as a reminder of the freedoms I was surrendering in order to attain true freedom. Daddy was in the middle of the bed; I heard faint snoring. The floor was my place. Daddy was enveloped in a white sheet, his feet hanging off the bed, sticking out from the thin layer of linens. I nuzzled my face against them, delicately kissing his toes. I was so hungry for him, I wanted to pounce on the bed and uncover his hard morning cock, wrap my lips around his member and fulfill my desire, but I knew that wasn’t what this week was about.
One of my assignments this week was to learn my subject: Daddy. Although I knew that I desired him and that he had fulfilled my needs for the last two years, I didn’t know his routine. I couldn’t tell someone what his favorite color was, or what he did first thing in the morning. I had never paid attention to those details, consumed with my world, my work, and my personal desires. Our relationship had been second to my efforts to provide community space, facilitate connection, and my own self-exploration through such community building. I saw my relationship as a personal need, and personal needs were put aside until after community and global needs were met. I used to reschedule date nights so I could attend community panels and meetings, but I was starting to see things differently.
BDSM isn’t just about fulfilling kinky desires, it’s about serving someone else on an individual level with care, focus, and intimacy. By serving my Daddy with complete dedication, I was participating in a larger community dynamic as a person engaged in service to my dominant. By caring for my own body, I nourish a tool. My body is an implement, a conduit for service to both my dominant and my community. If I disrespect or neglect my body, my mind, my spiritual, emotional, and psychological well being, then I am not only neglecting myself, I am a detriment to my dominant and my community.
In my time in San Francisco I had discovered my primal desires and figured out how to tap into those desires with self-love, but now I needed to focus on facilitating intimate exchange with my partner. What would Daddy need when he gets up? I looked around the small hotel room. Coffee. I had never made coffee, but I watched Daddy make it every morning. I poured in the premeasured packet of coffee and filled the small plastic device with water, and flipped the coffeemaker on. Soon, the coffee filled the room with an earthy, warm morning scent. Daddy’s body stirred as I poured in instant creamer from a small, plastic packet and stirred until the liquid was the beautiful color of a Spanish girl’s thighs.
I set the coffee cup on the bedside table next to him. Tangled in sheets, he had his face nuzzled into my green cardigan, with the faint scent of vanilla and perspiration. He requested it upon our return to the motel to keep the scent of me close by even while I was on the floor, far away.
I knelt in slave position, legs open, arms folded behind my back, eyes forward, waiting. His eyes slowly opened and he smiled lovingly. “Good girl, Maddie. Good girl.”
Daddy’s hands combed through my long hair and he led me to my feet, bending me over the bed and placing the Hitachi Magic Wand vibrator in my hand. My face turned to one side, and I could see Daddy pick up a two-by-four from the corner of the room. I smiled in anticipation.
“Nicely done, Slut. You may turn on the vibrator now. That will feel good on that cunt. It must have been hard not touching yourself all week, wasn’t that difficult, Slut?” Daddy paced back and forth, his eyes examining his target.
“No, Sir. It was my pleasure.” I had a sensation of pleasure every time I abstained. All week long, the eroticism of obedience felt vigorous and fulfilling.
“Well, that’s good to hear. I’m proud of you. You’re a good girl. Now, when I beat you with this two-by-four it’s not a correction. It’s a reward. Do you understand?” The vibrator buzzed against my entire vulva. It was a welcome sensation: indulgent pleasure, vulgar in its obviousness but wonderful in its simplicity. My cunt needed some love and attention, a reward, after the service and beating it had taken throughout the week.
“I can already feel your muscles tensing. You’re getting close, aren’t you, hungry girl? Look at those feet curling. That’s my little slut.” The two-by-four came down hard on my body and I was overtaken and knocked off my feet by the strong wave. The thud on my ass enforced the jolts of pleasure radiating from my vibrating cunt.
“May I please come, Sir?” I begged, one hand grasping at the bed cover and the other clinging onto the vibrator as Daddy’s industrial-size makeshift paddle fell hard. With a boyish pleasure, he laughed, “Come for me, Slut,” and I did, loud and hard. With permission, I came for Daddy.
Thoroughly fucked and beaten, I knelt before my prince, my Daddy, my dominant. We made it. Daddy pulled a small key from his pocket and unlocked the heavy chain around my aching and bruised neck. “You’ve worn this training collar well. It�
�s time for you to graduate.”
“Thank you, Sir.” I was humbled by his approval. When he fumbled with the key I knew Mr. Mogul must have been a little nervous, too. This was a milestone in our life together.
As the collar came off, I felt stripped naked. Unprotected without the symbolic temporal object I have held onto, I felt separated, even though I was warned not to get attached. Daddy drew a simple black leather collar from his pocket and I was caught breathless at the sight of it.
“You earned this,” Daddy gazed down at this token with affection and respect, a gift that came with the promise of protection and safety, ownership and affection, and a bond of mutual respect.
“Thank you, Sir,” I smiled, overcome with emotion. “Thank you.” I closed my eyes and started to cry, an honest confession of the deepest gratitude when words failed to serve me.
“Kiss it.” Daddy’s eyes met mine, his hands touched my face and I surrendered to him completely. I leaned in to the leather collar, which he held close to my face, and kissed the leather and Daddy’s fingertips and hands. He looked at me with tenderness, gazing earnestly into my tear-filled eyes and held the collar against my bare chest, “This is yours. Nobody can take this away from you.”
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