by Derek
I was arrogant and believed that it would all keep getting better and better. But I was wrong.
Three days after my thirtieth birthday, I got a call from my father. My little sister, Lori, was in the hospital. Apparently a gang of vicious girls had attacked my beautiful teenage sister and she lay in serious condition at Cedars Sinai hospital in Los Angeles.
I flew home at once, of course. Lori had a fractured skull, pieces of which had lodged in her brain. One of her arms was broken and ligaments were torn in one of her ankles. There were deep purple bruises all over her. She was incredibly lucky to be alive.
My parents and I sat vigil there at the hospital, praying for her survival and hoping with all our hearts that there would be no permanent damage from the attack. The doctors kept her in a medically-induced coma for a week.
When she opened her eyes and began to communicate with us, our hopes were dashed. The bone fragments and brain swelling had caused brain damage. My sweet sister, only seventeen years old, would be crippled for life.
I cried. I railed against a God who could be so cruel and heartless. I found the best lawyers and made sure they prosecuted the girls behind the attack to the fullest extent of the law. One of them finally confessed to the crime. Her excuse for the violent attack was that they thought Lori was "conceited." Actually, Lori was shy and bright. If she seemed to have her nose in the air, it was likely a symptom of shyness rather than something more egotistical.
I had no pity for those girls, for their difficult, some might say traumatic, upbringings, for their loss of control and mob mentality. No pity. I wanted them punished, and the punishment needed to be equivalent to the damage they'd done.
It took two years, while Lori learned to speak in a slurred voice, minus several IQ points. She had to relearn even simple things like drinking from a cup, as her hands and feet were twisted with unpredictable muscle spasms. She was often in pain and the drugs they gave her for it made her dopey and lost. The little sister I knew as Lori was gone and a shadow of Lori was in her place.
While she was fighting her fight, I moved back to Los Angeles, leaving everything but my network of colleagues and clients behind in Manhattan. Fortunately, I had the distraction of working on a unique economic model that had the potential to make some important people a great deal of money.
I dated, but my heart wasn't in it. There were plays, parties, always something that knocked on the shell I built around myself. I joined a private, exclusive and most-importantly, low-key BDSM group that called itself Boys With Toys and learned a lot about myself and my place in the world of BDSM. But for all my experimentation with the women at Boys With Toys parties, nothing really affected me–the intensity and intimacy just weren’t there. There was my work, there was Lori, and the rest were temporary distractions that were shallow footprints quickly erased by an incoming tide. Eventually, I finished and leased my economic model and money flowed in. It gave me a feeling of power and success, but it was hollow.
Then there was Margery. Margery was a bright spot, if anything could be said to be. She stuck with me, persistent and cheerful, even if I was moody and remote. She was a nurse at the convalescent hospital where we housed Lori. She treated my baby sister with the greatest care and gentle patience.
She wasn't the most beautiful woman I ever dated—on the outside—but inside she was, by far, one of the most beautiful people I've ever known. We interacted often and the way our relationship grew was organic and natural. When we finally slept together, we were like two friends who had discovered a treasure together. It turned out that she was a masochist to match my sadistic streak. Somehow, I think people like us give off signals that attract each other well before any real intimacy happens. Margery was what I later came to think of as a “natural masochist.” Her body required heightened stimulus in order to reach orgasm. Without such roughness, she could not climax. It was perfect for me. She was mentally stable, somewhat submissive, and our proclivities matched like pieces of a puzzle.
She would moan with pleasure if I treated her harshly. I brought out my riding crop and she smiled as though I'd given her a diamond ring. The little weals the crop left on her backside and inner thighs delighted her. She'd preen in front of the mirror as though robed in silk, not angry stripes.
I remember one night when, laughing like teenagers, we took my Humvee out to Malibu and made out in the backseat. The moon turned the sand on the beach a kind of violet-gray, and the swells and waves had a phosphorescence that, to this day, seven years later, I remember associated with Margery. That night washed away the last pangs of my doubts about finding a mentally-healthy masochist.
We fought our way around the seats until I could position us with her on hands and knees with me, pants around my ankles, fucking her from behind. It was rough, uncouth, incredibly exciting seeing her there. I'd put clamps on her nipples as we'd begun, and I heard them scraping against the leather seat with each thrust of my hips against her. Her moans and little cries of pain and pleasure drove me wild. There was a potent scent, a mix of leather seats, Malibu surf, and the compelling odor of sex in the car. My erection lasted a long time that night, the minutes counted out by each wave splashing on the sand. I finally ejaculated and I felt like king of the world. Margery was my concubine. Mine.
The feeling of possessiveness was powerful and made me want to pound my chest like a gorilla displaying his prowess.
It was idyllic for a while, but Margery started clinging a little. Her submissiveness turned into something more cloying and smothering. And just as I decided to talk to her about it, she said that she wanted to have children together. I knew it had to end. After experiencing the tragedy of my baby sister's long fall into torment, there was no way I could attach myself to another person that way. It was too much. What if something happened to a child of mine? No amount of self-discipline would be enough to prevent me from tearing the world apart.
I couldn't go there. Margery was nearing thirty-five and so was I. She had to act now to satisfy her biological clock. And even if we'd continued on without procreating in the usual way, she'd have wanted to adopt children. I was adamant that I didn't want that kind of responsibility and vulnerability.
We didn't have a big fight. We simply stopped seeing each other. It was amicable, as far as such things can be said to be.
I drifted emotionally for a time, and then I met Renee. Beautiful, sensual, submissive and masochistic Renee. She was twenty-three when we met. I worried about our age difference at first—after all, I was in my mid-thirties—but after a while, I realized that we were so compatible that the relationship was timeless; age didn't matter.
When I first met her, she'd had some experience with BDSM, but nothing particularly organized. She had little self-control and a tendency toward a hot temper—a redhead's curse, I suppose. But the first night, I tested her masochism and was greatly rewarded. She came with my hands on her, giving her pain, hurting her sexually. And Renee was—and remains—beautiful. She has long red hair and blue eyes that sparkle with intelligence. She knew what she was getting into with me and she went for it eagerly. I waited a little while before getting her in bed. I wanted to exert self-control and test her a little more before I took that step. She was not a one-night-stand quality woman. There was much more to be had from Renee and I wanted to explore that leisurely.
Once in bed, though, she was totally submissive. She had already begun calling me "sir" and "master" and as I tortured her nipples and clit our first night in bed, she begged for more. I think she needed the extra stimulus, much like Margery did, and she was willing to pay for that with submission. I also think she realized that she could learn something from me about the mastery of one's self and one's impulses, but it took me a while to be willing to truly teach her.
My methods were simple. If she misbehaved, she was punished. Usually, those punishments were non-sexual. I might deny her things she liked, such as her morning coffee (the denial gave her a caffeine headache), or desse
rt after dinner. I would forbid her from wearing her pretty clothes, or makeup, which made her feel drab. There was no point in rewarding bad behavior with enjoyable sex. I saved our sadomasochistic sexual encounters for the times she was well-behaved. Those times came more and more and our sex life was full and agreeable.
It took some time, but to this day, Renee rarely acts foolishly. She's learned her lessons well and I respect that about her. I care deeply for Renee. It's not in my nature to say the words she might like to hear, but I let her know of my affection in the ways I'm able.
We've been together for six years. Last year, I told her of my interest in taking the contract of another submissive masochist, Amiko. Renee had admitted that she was bisexual early on in our relationship. She accepted—no, relished—the times we brought another woman home to explore together. I told her about Amiko and I think she was a little concerned for her place in our world, but as I've mentioned, she's well-trained. She also trusts me, perhaps the most valuable gift she could ever bestow upon me. That trust saw her through that night. I wouldn't turn away from my Renee. She's a part of my life, my world, and, unless she betrays me in some way, I expect us to be together for a very long time. Of course, I tease her by “officially” keeping our relationship on a week-to-week basis. So, I tell her that I'll keep her for another week after she does something particularly satisfying. Sometimes she earns two weeks, but I don’t award those too often. The weeks have consistently been renewed, and they will continue to be so long as she accepts the terms we set out.
They went something like this: she will obey me in all things; she will submit to my will and my judgment in all things; she will act as my independent agent—my representative—if it's appropriate; and she will accept my sexual sadism without hesitation. She agreed to all these stipulations before I took her on as my…what's the right word? I suppose she's my servant, or perhaps vassal is a better term. At Boys With Toys, some people call her my "slave." That's fairly absurd, however. Slavery is illegal. Servitude is not. To most of the vanilla world, she's my girlfriend and Amiko is my girlfriend, too. Having two girls with me when I go out socially might raise a few eyebrows, but at this point in my life, I don't give a shit. I don't have to explain my personal life to anyone, so long as I'm not doing anything illegal. That's how I see it.
Amiko has been with us a year and, although having two women in the house took a little getting used to—for all of us—it is working out quite well. Amiko was tentative at first, and perhaps I spent too much time with her and made Renee uncomfortable. At the time, my thought was to let Renee deal with the changes her own way. She did.
My little Japanese cutie needed a little more TLC. Her previous sadomasochistic experiences left her foundering a bit. I think she moved from Dominant to Dominant rather too rapidly. But I don't see that happening with our relationship.
I should probably say something about the non-sexual terms of our contract. Both Renee and Amiko live with me and have their own space, sharing whatever is part of our household. I give them a stipend every month to spend on what they like, and their part-time jobs pay them as well. Their money is theirs to keep. I don't need it and I wouldn't take it if it was offered. I've also put quite a bit of money into trust funds for them. If something happens to me or we break up by my choice, the trust fund money goes to them. I can't say enough that they are not slaves. They know they're safe and protected in my household, and their behavior suggests that they're happy with the way things are going.
Amiko has a mischievous sense of humor and adorable way about her. Renee is charming and witty in her own manner, but Amiko has more playfulness about her. She teases, even taunts. Her eyes sometimes say, "Make me."
My answer to that is always, "No. Go to your room and think about your behavior."
Like a teenager (which isn't much of a stretch for her), she sulks as she walks away. I leave her there, generally for a few hours—once, overnight—and by the time I release her from her room, she's ready to behave. For a while, anyway. If she outright challenges me, she gets punished. I withhold her orgasms, or use a whip on her in a way she doesn't like (that's hard to do as she's very masochistic). I once figged her, and that offended her sensibilities and dignity. It's a good punishment, but I reserve it for the times she's particularly difficult. To make her squirm, we always keep a fresh finger of ginger in the refrigerator. Early in our relationship, I learned that Amiko loves to shop. If I prohibit that for a time, she gets her attitude in shape pretty rapidly.
Playful challenges aside, I find her amusing as well as delightful sexually.
Amiko is as much of a masochist as Renee, but in a different way. Ami likes to show off. If she finds Renee watching, Amiko is much more dramatic with her little screams and moans. At play parties, she wails and cries at the smallest pinch or whack on the rear. When we're alone, she is more genuine. We were together by the pool one afternoon and I mentioned this to her.
She knelt beside me. "I didn't realize I was doing that, Master. Does it displease you?"
"I prefer your honest reactions, Amiko. Even if they're subdued."
She looked a little disappointed at that. "Yes, sir."
I tilted her chin up and made her lock gazes with me. "You must always be honest with me, Ami. Even if you think it's something I won't like. You need to let me be the judge of what's okay or not. Got that?"
Her eyes swam with tears. "I'm sorry, Master."
Amiko's lips are always so tempting. I couldn't resist kissing her gently. "I know, poppet," I said as I leaned back away from her and unzipped my shorts. "Show me."
That made her eyes twinkle with something very unlike tears. "Yes, sir!"
She moved to kneel between my legs and ran her nails gently down my chest and abs, her full attention on making me happy. I reached forward and drew up her long, black hair, wrapping it around my fist and giving it a sharp tug. "Do a good job, Ami." I wasn't hard, but I was definitely interested.
Lips puckered prettily, she kissed my belly and ran her tongue down the thin line of hair that led to my cock. I gave her hair another tug and she cringed. Little movements like that delight me and my prick was an enthusiastic participant.
Amiko licked the underside and swirled her tongue around the head. I was rock hard by this time, and didn't want to play kissing games anymore. "Suck."
She didn't respond verbally, but instead, took me into her mouth, her tongue wrapping around my cock this way and that. Soon I was fully in her mouth, and the head of my cock was against the back of her throat. Ami is not prone to gagging. If she had been, I wouldn't have bought her contract. That was the one thing I insisted on when she was being demonstrated to me. She wasn't allowed to do it to me at that first meeting, of course, but she did it for the man who had her contract. Ami could deep throat, and I didn't need to view more than that. She was mine minutes later. The price was exorbitant, and the contract negotiations tedious, but I haven't regretted it one minute.
As I sat there in the deck chair, with her fellating me, I let the sensation pass over me like a cloud shadow. I was in the shade, the sun, the shade, the sun. Amiko had taken the training I'd given her and knew what I liked and didn't like. My cock slipped deep into her throat and I pulled and pushed on her hair, giving her the rhythm I wanted.
She drew breath through her nostrils, and there were moments I wanted to feel her struggle for air. The stiffening of her spine, tight closing of her eyes and the involuntary fluttering of her hands on my thighs as she fought the urge not to push away told me she was at her limit. Amiko's mouth moved faster, her hands worked my balls gently. I pressed her head down again and waited for the signals that told me she was struggling. I counted to five and let her up again.
My excitement climbed with every stroke of her mouth on me. It started off leisurely, but soon it was urgent. I wanted to come, and I wanted to draw out the moment as well.
Amiko was excited. I knew she loved having her hair pulled, and she was wet; I c
ould smell her arousal, clean and gently musky. I briefly considered fucking her, but my cock and I wanted her mouth more.
"Faster."
Her answer was to obey me, moving on me with the speed I wanted. I pulled at her hair steadily and she moaned. The vibration brought me to the brink. I balanced there for a long moment, finally spilling in her mouth.
My girl swallowed and gently milked me with her hand, until I had no more to spend.
I let go of her hair and leaned back in the chair. "Well done, pet."
She smiled sweetly, proud of herself and truly happy to give me pleasure. That's so important. If they're not enjoying it on some level—even when I am rough with them—I can't enjoy it either. I have meted out punishment as necessary, but that's not my form of sadism. I like it during sex, for the most part. Outside of that, I do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done, and I get it over with as quickly as I can. If either of my girls needed punishment often, they would not be part of my household for long.
At my nod, Ami padded quickly into the house and brought out a washcloth to clean me before I tucked myself back in my shorts and zipped up.
That was a pleasant interlude. A nibble, as it were, for both of us. We've had many such moments together and with Renee.
Memories like that make me smile. My girls are my lights in the darkness that is my sadism. They need it as much as I do. Would I have chosen to be a man less inclined to give pain with his pleasure? I don't think so. It's a facet of me. Giving that up would be tearing out a little piece of my soul and blowing it into the wind like a dandelion's seeds. What else would I lose, if I lost that? What parts of me are attached to that side?
My girls care for me the way I am. They take pleasure in serving me. I don't give a damn what others might think of our relationship. I'm an aggressive man, a disciplined man, and, as it happens, a sexual sadist. I learned a long time ago not to fight myself, but to keep my boxing in the ring where it belongs.