The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey

by Claire Thompson

  She struck him harder, her nipples stiffening as he hissed his pain around the chain he dutifully held between his teeth. Excited, she struck him harder still, several firm swats with the leather all in the same spot on his left ass cheek, leaving an angry square of red. She did the same on the right side, Owen’s groans like fingers stroking her swelling clit. He was still on his toes, his calf muscles bulging and twitching. She would need to let him down soon.

  She moved to stand in front of him, setting the crop down on the desk. Owen’s chest was heaving, his eyes squeezed shut, sweat rolling down the sides of his face. Sylvie reached for the chain. “Open your mouth,” she said, her voice husky with desire she forced herself to ignore. “I’m going to remove the clamps,” she said brusquely. “It’s going to hurt. Try to stay still.”

  Just to be safe, she loosened the wing nuts a little on the vise, in case he jerked when his compressed nipples were suddenly freed. He was watching her as she reached for the first nipple, his eyes wide. His body was actually shaking and Sylvie had to push down her impulse to put her arms around him.

  “Calm yourself,” she said instead. “You are doing wonderfully well, my brave boy.” She released the first clamp and, as she expected, Owen hissed with pain as the blood reentered his tortured nipple. She released the second one quickly, placing her hands flat over his nipples, which poked against her palms. When he had calmed enough to stop panting, she took her hands away. Reaching for the wing nuts, she unscrewed the vise that gripped Owen’s genitals. She unclipped the vise from the rod, and set it on the desk.

  Owen sighed with obvious relief as the pressure was removed from his cock and balls. He lowered himself until his feet were flat on the platform. Sylvie didn’t release his ankles, nor did she remove the cuffs from his wrists. His cock remained erect, the balls beneath it full and round. Succumbing to an impulse, Sylvie lightly gripped his shaft, releasing it quickly when he moaned.

  What the fuck was she doing? She needed to get control of herself. Owen was a client, not a lover, and there were lines she must never cross. To distract herself as much as Owen, Sylvie announced, “As your reward for doing so well, I think we’ll end the session with a good beating. I’m going to allow you to choose the instrument of your pleasure and pain. I can use the slapper, the flogger or a single tail. Your choice.”

  Owen followed her moves with his eyes as Sylvie opened the bottom drawer of the desk where she kept some of her toys. She pulled out the three items, laying them side by side on the desk. Lifting the slapper, which was made of a wide, thick strip of leather folded over onto itself, Sylvie hit the desk with it, creating the loud slapping sound that gave the implement its name. Owen jumped at the sound, his cock bobbing.

  “That one, Mistress. Please.” Owen’s eyes were burning with intensity, fixed on the shiny leather implement.

  Sylvie nodded. “Excellent.” Leaving the slapper on the desk for the moment, she moved behind Owen. “I think I’ll change your position. I don’t want your hands in the way.” She released the clips on Owen’s cuffs, allowing him to put his arms at his sides, though not for long.

  “Raise your arms over your head. I’m going to secure you to the ceiling. That, along with the ankle cuffs, will keep you just where I want you.” Owen looked up, and she could see him noticing the sturdy eyebolts imbedded in the ceiling, from which she hung potted plants when the space was being used purely as an office.

  Taking the stepladder she kept in a corner for the purpose, along with a chain she kept in her drawer, Sylvie climbed up and looped one end of the chain over both eyebolts. She clipped Owen’s cuffs to the other end and climbed from the ladder, moving it aside.

  Retrieving the slapper, she ran it over Owen’s shoulders and chest, feeling his shudder as if it were her own. She moved behind him, beginning slowly, using the thick leather paddle lightly against his ass and thighs to warm the skin. After a few minutes she aimed higher, hitting his broad back and shoulders, the smacking sound reverberating in the room, accompanied by the sound of his rapid breathing.

  She moved to face him, striking his muscular chest with the leather, which left a swath of reddening skin in its wake. She hit the front of his thighs, careful not to catch his cock or balls with the stinging leather—they’d had enough torture for one day. Again the forbidden desire to cup his balls and stroke his cock beckoned her and Sylvie retreated from it, going again to stand behind him.

  She focused on his ass and the backs of his thighs, slapping the skin in hard, steady strokes, watching as it turned from rosy pink to cherry red.

  After several minutes, Owen cried, “Mistress! Please!” His breath was ragged, his muscles rigid. “I can’t—it’s too much. Please—”

  Sylvie lowered the slapper, though she wasn’t done. Not yet. It wouldn’t be fair to Owen to stop now, not when he was so close. “Slow your breathing,” she admonished gently. “Unclench your hands. Flow with pain, instead of trying to resist it. Think of it like a wave. You can either struggle against it and get pulled under, or you can dive into it, and let it carry you along. It’s your choice, Owen. A conscious choice to accept, to embrace, to become one with the pain.”

  She spoke soothingly, honestly wanting to help him move past his resistance, certain he could get there if he tried. She stood close behind him, feeling his heat. She pressed her body against his back, letting her leather-clad breasts brush against him. Though she wanted to wrap her arms around him, instead she reached for his shoulders. She dug her fingers into the bunched muscle. He was strong and beautifully built. She moved her hands down his back, kneading the hot, sweaty skin until his breathing slowed a little.

  “Are you ready, Owen? Shall we continue?”

  “Yes, please, Mistress Sylvie.”

  Stepping back, Sylvie resumed the whipping, letting the leather land in hard, steady strokes against his ass and legs. And then it began to happen.

  Sylvie was struck with the same awe that always gripped her when she watched someone begin to move into that miraculous place where pleasure and pain no longer had separate meaning. Though she was no masochist, and took no direct pleasure from erotic pain, as the giver of that pain she felt intimately connected to the one who received it. It was, in fact, what kept her going as a pro Domme. It wasn’t the money, or the ego strokes from being admired by so many men, but this thing, this moment when she brought a client from greedy masochist into something loftier, something sublime.

  “That’s it, yes,” she murmured encouragingly, thrilled as she watched Owen’s fingers loosen and felt the tension draining from his body. Moving to his side so she could see his face, Sylvie continued to heat his skin with the leather, slapping hard against his ass, less hard over his back and shoulders.

  His head had fallen back so he was looking upward, as if toward the heavens, except that his eyes were closed. He almost looked as if he were sleeping, but Sylvie knew better. His cock was still erect, but the rest of his body was completely relaxed. He was riding the wave, flying high on wings of masochistic ecstasy. Sylvie grabbed on, the slapper her conduit into what he was experiencing. She felt powerful and alive, joy surging through her being as she continued to strike him, though each stroke was now softer than the last.

  Finally she stopped altogether, dropping the slapper and moving to stand in front of this man who had submitted with such grace. Slowly he lifted his head, his eyes opening, though they remained unfocused. His lips were still parted, and they curved slightly in a surprised smile. He was breathing deeply and slowly, still half in a trance.

  Without thinking what she was doing, Sylvie took Owen’s face in her hands, feeling the stubble of his five o’clock shadow beneath her fingers. Leaning forward, she touched her lips to his, slipping her tongue between them.

  He responded in kind, his tongue rising to meet hers, his lips pressing hard against her. Sylvie felt herself tumbling into that hot, sweet kiss and all at once she realized what she was doing and pulled back as if burned.r />
  Her hand flew to her face, for a moment covering the lips he had just kissed before she dropped her arms to her sides. Stunned, she blurted, “Je suis désolé,” before catching herself. Switching to English, she reiterated, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. That was wrong. I don’t do that.”

  Owen was staring at her, his lips still parted, his eyes blazing. Sylvie moved away so he wouldn’t see the scalding blush she felt rising on her cheeks. What in hell was the matter with her? She never kissed a client. Never, ever, ever.

  Quickly she retrieved the stepladder and climbed it, releasing Owen’s wrists in short order. Crouching in front of his legs, she unlocked the ankle restraints. She wanted to order him from her presence, and quickly, but she knew that wasn’t fair, not after the intense session she’d just put him through. Aftercare was crucial, and it wasn’t about her, she reminded herself. Owen was the client. Owen came first.

  “Sit a moment,” Sylvie said, waving toward the loveseat with the specially fitted sheet she would later remove and wash. He appeared none too steady on his feet, and Sylvie took his hand, guiding him toward the loveseat.

  Once he was seated, or more accurately, sprawled on the small sofa, Sylvie said, “I’ll be right back.” She hurried to the bathroom off the office and wet and wrung a washcloth, bringing it and a hand towel back into the room.

  Kneeling in front of her charge, Sylvie gently washed his body with the wet cloth, more to soothe than to clean him. She brought him a cold bottle of water and handed it to him, watching him drink. He’d need a long, hot shower after such an intense session, but he could take that on his own time, in his own space.

  His cock, she couldn’t help but notice, was still erect, hard and thick above his balls. She patted and stroked the shaft with the wet cloth and moved the washcloth carefully over his balls, following up with the soft towel. She could feel Owen’s eyes burning into her as she ministered to him, but she didn’t look up to meet his gaze.

  Satisfied she’d done her duty in aftercare, Sylvie pulled herself upright and stared down at her client. “You did very well, Owen. You took a lot today. You may dress now. The session is over.”

  She turned away, eager for him to be gone. She had to think. She had to regroup. She needed to be alone.

  Sylvie sat behind her desk, pretending to be busy while Owen pulled on his clothing. She didn’t look up until she realized he was standing beside the desk looking down at her.

  “Mistress Sylvie,” he began. “I just wanted to say—”

  “I apologize for that kiss,” she interrupted. “It was most unprofessional. I assure you it won’t happen again. Isabel will contact you for the next session.” Sylvie looked blindly down at her papers, cursing the heat she felt in her cheeks.

  “Please, let me speak.” Owen insisted. His voice was quiet but firm, no longer her submissive client, but just a man, a man with something to say. Sylvie looked up slowly and waited, her lips pressed together.

  “I just want to say, it’s okay. There’s no need to apologize for anything. Really.”

  Her cheeks still hot, Sylvie nodded mutely. Owen moved toward the door, turning back at the last moment. “Oh, and one more thing, Mistress.”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  Chapter 6

  Finally, a Saturday session. Owen could arrive relaxed, dressed in jeans, freshly showered and shaved. It was a crisp spring morning, the kind of day that held the promise of new beginnings. Instead of taking a cab, Owen decided to take the subway and then walk from the Washington Square station to Mistress Sylvie’s townhouse.

  He touched his mouth with two fingers as he stood on the stoop, the memory of her kiss still imprinted on his lips. If his hands had been free when they’d shared that brief kiss he would have pulled her to him, he would have crushed her body to his and never let her go.

  In retrospect, he was glad he’d been bound. It was clear from her reaction afterwards that she hadn't meant to kiss him. It had been a whim, one she obviously regretted. He’d recognized then that he needed to back off, to be careful. No doubt Mistress Sylvie had men hitting on her all the time. Owen was her client, nothing more. He seriously doubted he had a shot in hell with her on any kind of personal level, but hey, a guy could dream.

  Owen pressed the doorbell and identified himself. He stood back, staring at the peephole as if he could see inside, his heart kicking into gear at the thought of seeing Mistress Sylvie again. The door was opened by Isabel. He realized he’d been hoping that once again she would have the day off. Knowing he was alone with Mistress Sylvie during that last session had made it that much more intense.

  Isabel gestured him inside, inclining her head toward him as if to say he was no longer a new client. He was established—a regular. After Owen dropped the requisite envelope onto the silver tray, Isabel led him up the stairs to the dungeon.

  Mistress Sylvie was sitting on the high stool in front of the square of carpet. She was wearing a white silk dress, the bodice of which hugged her luscious breasts. The skirt was long and flowing, and Owen could see the outline of Mistress Sylvie’s shapely legs beneath its sheer fabric. Her feet were shod in white slippers and her thick, shiny hair hung to her shoulders. She looked like a princess in a fairy tale.

  She met his eyes, lifting her brows as she nodded toward the carpet. Recalling himself, Owen reached for the hem of his polo shirt and pulled the shirt over his head. Kicking off his topsiders, he unzipped his jeans and pulled them, along with his underwear, from his body. Naked, he moved toward the square of carpet and knelt, his head bowed, resisting the impulse to kiss Mistress Sylvie’s white slippers.

  She was holding his leather cuffs in her hands, the clips glinting silver in the soft lighting of the room. “Wrists,” she said briskly. Owen held out his wrists, a sensual, peaceful feeling moving over him as she clipped the cuffs into place.

  “Stand up,” Mistress Sylvie commanded. “Hands behind your head, eyes ahead. Don’t move a muscle until I return.”

  Owen obeyed, locking his fingers behind his neck, aware his cock was already rising with anticipation as Mistress Sylvie slipped from the stool and moved toward the toy table. She was there a while. Owen tried to see what she was doing in his peripheral vision, but her back was to him. His mind spun with the possibilities as visions of rope, chain and whips moved in an erotic jumble through his imagination.

  When Mistress Sylvie came back into his line of vision, Owen saw she was wearing latex gloves. In one hand was a tube of lubricant. She held out other. “Do you know what this is?”

  Owen swallowed. “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s a butt plug, Mistress.” Though he’d never seen one in person, he’d seen them used often enough on the BDSM porn sites he sometimes scrolled through on the Internet. He’d watched in fascination as the shiny black plug was pushed slowly into some gorgeous woman’s ass, disappearing between her cheeks until only the flat circle of rubber at its base remained in view.

  “Have you ever had a butt plug used on you, slave Owen?” Mistress Sylvie asked.

  “No, Mistress,” Owen replied, his heart fluttering against his ribs. In spite of the situation, or, if he were completely honest, perhaps partially because of it, he felt his cock harden. He’d thought often about the session when Mistress Sylvie had probed his ass, searching for the sweet spot, as she’d called it, and finding it. That scene had been intimate, even sexual, between them, at least it had been for him. He would have rather experienced that again—her gentle, sure fingers, the sweet murmur of her voice over him, her breasts grazing his back as she moved.

  Mistress Sylvie shook him out of the brief fantasy as she pointed toward the stool. “Bend over and spread your legs,” she ordered. “You may grip the legs of the stool with your hands for balance.”

  Owen took a deep breath, willing his body to comply. In spite of his trepidation, a part of him was deeply aroused by the authority in her tone. She didn�
��t ask him—she commanded, and he, with all choice removed, obeyed.

  Bending over the stool, he shifted until his midriff was resting against the seat, his legs spread, his ass thrust outward. He drew in a sharp breath when he felt Mistress Sylvie’s hands spread his ass cheeks. He was glad his face was hidden from her as she examined his exposed asshole, lightly rimming it with a single finger. He tensed as he felt a blob of gooey lube squeezed onto the puckered hole.

  Owen squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip when he felt the tip of the hard rubber butt plug pushing against his tight sphincter. “That’s it,” Mistress Sylvie urged. “You are doing well, Owen. Don’t resist what I want for you. Give of yourself. Show me you can obey, even when it’s difficult for you.”

  Energized by her words, Owen made a conscious effort to relax his rectal muscles, trying not to clench as the plug was pushed slowly but inexorably into his passage. He did okay until the very end, when the flared base of the plug stretched him painfully open as it slipped inside.

  “Ah!” he cried, before he could stop himself. “That hurts!”

  And it had hurt, but just as quickly, the pain subsided as his sphincter muscles adapted to the invading phallus. He felt Mistress Sylvie’s hands moving over his ass and back. She leaned over his body, her breasts pressed against him, separated only by the silk that covered them.

  “You will be punished for speaking out of turn.” Owen felt Mistress Sylvie’s soft cheek against his shoulder and he wanted to turn and kiss her, but of course he did not. All at once she stood. His skin ached with the loss of her.

  “Stand at attention, hands behind your head,” she said brusquely.

  Owen stood slowly upright, clenching his ass cheeks to keep the plug inside, though he realized as he relaxed a little that it wasn’t going anywhere, not with that flared base wedged inside his ass. He put his hands behind his head and waited, watching as Mistress Sylvie resumed her perch on the stool. The plug created an odd sensation inside him, but it didn’t hurt, not anymore.