The Story of Emma

by Sean O'Kane

  The third room which made a huge impression on me was the dungeon.

  But the rest of that first afternoon and evening passed in a blur of new experiences, new humiliations. I followed Miss Dexter to my room and she watched while I unpacked and hung up my clothes, she also went through every item of underwear and confiscated anything which might incur the master’s displeasure. Most of it passed muster, but any knickers which covered even the smallest part of my bottom went, as did any bras which had much more than half cups. However, she nodded approval at the basques which I had collected up to date but we hit trouble when we got to the diaries which I had always kept hidden at the bottom of my knicker drawer. I had never thought that they would be controversial but Miss Dexter said they would have to be shown to the master and he would decide what to do about them. I wasn’t happy about that but before I could even begin a protest I got a stinging slap which knocked me against the wardrobes.

  “Into the shower with you, slut!” Miss Dexter ordered and suddenly my head cleared. What had I been thinking? That a slave should have some privacy, or some thoughts of her own? Of course not! The man who could prostitute me, beat me - do what he liked with me because he had bought me - he owned all of me. Not even my thoughts were my own now.

  Later that evening Master Gerald began to read the diaries while I knelt at his feet in the library, and that was when he showed me his collection of SM literature. He was intrigued by the journal and allowed me to continue it, so long as I showed it to him every night. So you may imagine that he has read and enjoyed my descriptions of all the beatings and torments I have been through and sometimes I have been allowed to gently masturbate him while he has read my reactions to a beating which he had administered earlier. When he ejaculated though, I was not allowed to take him into my mouth, instead I had to hold a glass and collect it. I was then allowed to sip it as my equivalent of his evening whisky.

  I have to say that cold sperm is an acquired taste, but by dint of much practice I grew to enjoy it.

  But on that first evening I went from the library up to the playroom and duly got my first whipping under master Gerald’s roof. Once I was naked I was put in a simple rectangular frame which stretched me out in an X shape and Miss Dexter took a long thin buggy whip to me. As I had suspected she had a formidable whip arm which had me in difficulties immediately, on top of my marks from only two days previously, it hurt appallingly. She had told me that as I was going straight from there to my master’s bed I was not to come under the whip. But the soundness with which I was beaten and the way my gasps and cries echoed after the snap and crack of each lash had me melting very quickly. Added to that, Miss Dexter was well able to judge her strokes so that they wrapped from the sides of my back, round under my arms and the whip bit and cut at my breasts. I gritted my teeth and tried to concentrate on the pain but the thought of how well marked I was going to be when I went to the master was too much for me; particularly when my tormentor came round in front and laid a few lashes across my lower stomach and thighs. I spiralled helplessly up into orgasm as the pain burst into its strange flowering of pure erotic ecstasy and my groans of delight filled the room even while the whip continued to crack across my body.

  When I was taken down Miss Dexter put a collar and lead on me then led me, still burning and quaking, to the master’s bedroom where I met an item of torture I was to become intimately acquainted with; the bar. At the bottom of his huge four poster bed and slung horizontally between the bottom posts was a thick wooden beam which slid up and down in slots cut in them, the height being fixed by thick pegs pushed onto holes in the slots. Master Gerald was lounging on the bed when I was led in, his robe was open and both Miss Dexter and I could see his flaccid sex lying between his legs. Despite my soreness I was flattered to see how it twitched and began to pulse at the sight of my whipped nudity. He gestured curtly at the bar and I was pushed towards it and made to lean forwards under it. Then my arms were wrenched back and up over the bar, which had me whimpering immediately but then my wrists were joined together by a chain which ran in front of my stomach and dug into it. My hair cascaded onto the duvet below my face and I realised that with admirable simplicity I had been restrained in a painfully ideal position for the cane which was lying directly beneath me. I heard Miss Dexter leave and my master come to stand behind me.

  “You disobeyed me Emma. I left instructions that you were not to come,” he said.

  “I’m sorry master. But it hurt so much I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Ben said you were a painslut. Well I intend to make pain so much a part of your everyday life that you will come to regard it as nothing special and that will help you restrain your pleasure until it is required.”

  And then he gave me the first of the literally hundreds of canings I have subsequently endured at his hands. He worked slowly and methodically, one buttock at a time, using the extreme end of the cane to get every last bit of whip and bite out of it, sometimes striking over both buttocks when I least expected it. And he made sure to really lace the lower parts, just above the thighs, so that I would be able to feel it for days afterwards whenever I sat down. I yelped, screamed and gasped my way through the stages of dazzling fiery agony to the region where I was subsumed by the pain and floated in a blazing cloud - where the crack of the cane landing was happening to someone else and from where I usually went spiralling into orgasm, but I hung on grimly this time, willing myself to feel every increment of agony, counting the lashes to keep me anchored. Twenty-one … twenty-two … twenty-three. And it stopped. At least that time I had done it!

  Master Gerald untied me and dragged me up onto the bed by my hair. My bottom was an inferno which sent its blaze right through my whole body but it faded into insignificance when I heard my master say that my screams of genuine anguish had been very enjoyable - and had been all the more so as they hadn’t become screams of pleasure. Those followed very shortly afterwards though as he bored into me from behind and pushed his weight down onto my backside. I gave him a good ride, bucking and shrieking in my ecstasy as he filled me and pushed right up to my cervix while reaching under me to grind his fingers hard on my clitoris. Then, when he had spent himself inside me and rolled off, I didn’t wait to catch my breath but almost dived down to bury my face in his crotch. I lost myself in the smells and tastes of man; sweat, sperm and woman juice. I was in that frenzy which I had come to know after my night with Guy in the dungeon. I wanted to display my slavishness, my love of utter degradation so I delved deep between my master’s legs and licked and kissed my way up to his anus before coming back and toying with his scrotum, encouraging it to tighten as the sex above it reared into life again. And all the time I was whispering my thanks and saying how much I wanted him to give me all the pain he wanted to. When he pushed me off and positioned me on hands and knees I continued my babble of thanks which rose to a pained cry as he penetrated me and which then continued even more loudly as I savoured the discomfort and humiliation every second he was inside my rectum. And it was the thought of his pleasure which triggered my orgasm as he exploded in my guts and then pulled himself free. Immediately I went back to work with my tongue and I was still hard at it when Miss Dexter arrived to take me away, having been rung for. I knew better than to stop what I was doing and continued to cram as much of him into my mouth as I could so that he could see how eagerly I debased myself for him.

  “A complete slut, Miss Dexter,” I heard him say while I moaned in pleasure at the rich taste of him. “Take her away and chain her.”

  I smiled proudly to myself when Miss Dexter chained my wrists to the headboard of the bed all the while muttering about what a shameless whore I was. Yes, that was what I was all right - and that was what my master wanted me to be.

  There was an awful lot to get used to in those first few weeks. Firstly there were the rules; I was woken at eight by an already immaculately dressed Miss Dexter, and made to rep
eat the rules by which I was to live. I had to bend over the table under the window and recite them. I got one stroke of the cane or crop if I got each rule word perfect; three if I didn’t. By the end of my first week I was word perfect.

  The rules were:

  1.The slave will always obey instantly and without question any order given her by her master or anyone he puts in authority over her. She will not speak until spoken to; unless she asks permission first.

  2.Every morning when she first sees her master the slave will kneel and say the following; “Master, I am unworthy of the time you take to discipline me. So I will always seek to repay you for the honour you do me in flogging me or in any other way bothering yourself with me. I live only to suffer for you or to be fucked by you, or to be buggered by you or to suck your cock.”

  3.When the slave is required for discipline or her master’s pleasure, she will always ensure that she looks her best. If the slave is unsure how to dress for her master’s pleasure she must request permission to speak and then enquire.

  4.The slave’s body is always to be available for her master’s pleasure at any hour of the day or night.

  5.The slave must understand that any punishment she suffers is in her own best interests and she will thank her master for that punishment even if he is too busy to, or does not choose to, administer it himself.

  6.The worst punishment the slave can be condemned to is freedom. She must show that she understands that by her subservience every minute of every day.

  I started my first day of full time slavery with eighteen strokes of the cane on my already badly bruised buttocks and had to shower off some trickles of blood.

  But after the first fortnight I was so thoroughly indoctrinated that we dispensed with the rules ritual and went straight to the gym where I worked out under Miss Dexter’s eagle eye and hair trigger whip hand.

  On my first full day I was taken to see the dungeon. I was still tearful and smarting from the hammering my bottom had taken but even so it took my breath away. It was reached by going down a flight of stairs beside the swimming pool. In the tiled corridor at the bottom were the door to the pump room and the one to the dungeon itself.

  I remember so clearly standing there naked, rubbing my backside and looking about me with stomach-churning fear and excitement. The myriads of chains fell like steel waterfalls from their racks while beside them were nipple and labial clamps of varying severity. There were literally hundreds of needles of varying lengths - going right up to skewers which made me involuntarily clasp one arm across my boobs. There were dully gleaming weights and hooks and breast presses, all pristine and neat and utterly terrifying but so, so erotic. The whipping equipment was not so extensive as in the playroom; but then it didn’t need to be. There was a chair which looked for all the world like a dentist’s but which I knew very well wasn’t - it was equipped with stirrups and shackles. There were padded benches, adjustable frames and fixed frames; all designed so that a girl could be suspended, stretched, racked or pinned down for her master to work on in just about any position that took his fancy. And whichever part of her anatomy he wanted to work on could easily be made available to him. The walls, where they weren’t covered by racks or frames, were quilted leather and the floor was carpeted. All of which made noises muffled and I surmised that that was to stop screams becoming too audible, and Miss Dexter gleefully confirmed that for me. My master enjoyed noise in the playroom, but down here he liked to work in relative peace.

  However my abiding memory of that room is not one of noise, but one of almost library-like quiet. There were the occasional groans and shrieks right enough but mostly there was just the hiss of breath between gritted teeth or low moans of pain and pleasure. But they were separated by long periods when perhaps just the click of chains could be heard or the tinkle of metal in steel kidney dishes. The master worked slowly and deliberately, building levels of pain that I was to find the most blindingly ecstatic of experiences.

  I was shaking and ashen with terror and anticipation that first day as I was led up to the dining room where the master was taking breakfast, but I remembered the rule and dropped to my knees beside him to repeat my promise and kiss his hand.

  By ten o’clock that day and all subsequent weekdays we were in the office and hard at work. I had returned to my room to dress as if I was going out to an office and then adopted my persona of efficient PA and PR adviser. I kept my skirts short however as I quickly learned that my master was in the habit of absentmindedly putting his hand up between my legs and fingering me while he was thinking about other things. I learned to classify his moods by ‘fingers’. If he put three or more up me there was a serious problem. Two was nothing he couldn’t handle and one was purely for pleasure and just because he liked the feel of me.

  I quickly came to understand that whether Miss Dexter watched him taking me or not was a matter of complete indifference to Master Gerald. She usually just stood quietly by when he took me or beat me and quite often he continued discussing business with her while he was doing so. And I have to say that hanging in chains while a master whips your back and bottom while he calmly discusses business with another woman is devastatingly humiliating and many’s the time I groaned and heaved my way to orgasm while being completely ignored, except insofar as I provided a target for the whip or a receptacle for his sperm.

  But I soon became aware that she would watch me while I was being put to use with a peculiarly intense expression. It wasn’t hatred or contempt, but just what it was I couldn’t make out.

  In the office I came to understand the function of the strangely shaped desk the master used. At about half past three each day I would be expected to finish my work and resume my role as slave. And inevitably that began with my being strapped down over the desk. The centre of it rose in a curve rather like a barrel which has been cut in half lengthways. Master Gerald’s monitor and keyboard swung out over this on steel stands and when he required me he would swing them aside, push his chair back and beckon. Immediately I would strip to stockings and heels, come around to stand where his chair had been and spread my legs. Miss Dexter would then buckle ankle restraints on and clip these to hoops in the desk legs, then I would bend backwards until my spine was arched over the curved section of desk. At that point Miss Dexter would do with my wrists what she had just done with my ankles and there I was, spread out like a starfish. And that was where the fun really began. Neat little clips with sharp teeth were clamped over my nipples and onto my labia, the wires from these ran to a small box on the back of the master’s keyboard, which he then swung back so that it was over my stomach; the monitor being swung back over my chest.

  The first time he did that to me he asked as he resumed his seat, “Have you ever been scared of a keyboard, Emma?”

  “No, Master,”

  “Then start being now,” he advised me, then he began typing.

  Immediately I leapt and twisted in my shackles like a gaffed fish. As he later explained he had had a sort of amplifier rigged onto the keyboard so that needle-like shocks of electricity were transmitted through me whenever he depressed the keys. It was impossible to ready myself for them because they varied constantly. If he was thinking carefully in the preparation of an e-mail, there would be sporadic bursts of shocks in between prolonged pauses. However, if he was well into his stride there would be long blizzards of shocks which would leave me limp and gasping in their wake, but aware that between my open legs I was seeping irrefutable evidence of my arousal. This was complicated by the fact that he used my wide-open quim as a pen and pencil store. And after two hours of this treatment, I made a pretty messy one and each day would get a couple of strokes with a plastic ruler from Miss Dexter right across my lips when she extracted them and found them wet and sticky. As if it was not enough that I was jerked about by the myriads of shocks to my nipples and labia, they used my breasts as pin-boards and del
iberately wrote each other memos which they pinned onto me.

  By half past five, when I was freed and we all went to supper - myself usually dressed again because the housekeeper served us - I was well set up for the evening. Quite often that would entail a flogging or a bout of breast beating in the playroom stocks if we weren’t going out, and then my master would retire to the library to read or watch television and I would attend him; serving drinks or, as I have already mentioned offering more intimate service. Sometimes he would dismiss me directly from the playroom and Miss Dexter would chain me to my bed. On those nights he would come for me later on and I loved being woken by him and being taken in the dark with my hands still chained to the headboard. More normally though we would go from the library up to his room and he would use me there before sending me off to my own room, where the inevitable Miss Dexter was waiting. Her devotion to him was so obvious that I couldn’t understand why he never seemed to take her or mistreat her at all, although I knew perfectly well that she would willingly give herself utterly to him. Every time she freed me after a beating or chained me for the night, she would examine me all over with her cool hard fingers. She would plunge them deep inside me, even if I was still full of my master’s sperm, and then wipe them over my breasts or bottom, and there was always a look of anguished longing on her face as she did so. She seemed so sad at those times that it almost embarrassed me to look at her. For a long time I just didn’t understand what was going on and can only put it down to the fact that I was head over heels in love with my master.