“O-o-o-o no,” I whined quietly. I had been shown the video early on in my redemption, of the woman, so submissive and subservient, on her back, head against the chair, a naked man using her mouth and throat like a cunt. Deep, slow, prolonged, all the way down, as he enjoyed the fucking immensely. So many comments on the video on-line that indicated a lust for her and for her 'talent'. My Owner had sent me the video with the message: “This is what I want to do to you”. I had watched in horror-tinged fascination, knowing that my throat, in all our years had never opened like that, but knowing also that, come hell or high water, he was going to train it to do so.
Starting now.
I wasn’t cooperative. Try as I might, I panicked and turned my head from side to side. I felt the deepening thrusts and the choking that brought tears to my eyes. I gagged to near retching, but it was mostly because I was simply not obeying. Not at all.
I resisted to the point that I actually put my hands up, put my hands against his thighs to slow his entry into my mouth! It was automatic, but just as automatic was his command:
“Take your hands down!”
Oh my god, did I ever, and fast. I apologized profusely, because I knew that the next second, and in a flash, he could and would bind me to continue. I had to have been crazy reaching for him. I didn’t do it again. But after several more thrusts, he stopped. I had failed.
But he didn’t admonish me verbally; instead he very thoroughly whipped my ass for me. First he had me stand and bend over the chair where he peppered my cheeks and upper thighs until I gasped and clawed the chair. I wasn’t permitted to cry out, and the hard welts beginning to rise, I knew would be lasting. He whipped my ass soundly for what I had, and for what I had not done. I was ashamed, accepting my punishment, and determined absolutely not to do it again.
He turned and dropped down on the thick chair. I didn’t wait to be told; I spun around and immediately crawled to him, eager to please with an ass-burning fire.
He offered his thick cock to my mouth and hungrily I descended on him in a flash. My status was reinforced. I shivered with closed eyes at the seriousness of where I was and to whom I belonged
I felt his hands in my hair, encircling my head, pushing it down upon his cock. I sucked and rolled my tongue lovingly on its head. Sir allowed me this for several long minutes, still admonishing me with the ever needed: “Don’t make a mess... ”
I had to curb my enthusiasm, especially on his clothes and on this beautiful rug.
Sir finally stood and took off his clothes, which I, kneeling before him, helped him to do. As always, the ritual, I lined up the shoes correctly, socks tucked in; this time, his pants and shirt he hung upon an easel beside me. Then he generously and so god-like, stood stark still and let me continue pleasuring him on my knees.
Again, I was totally awe-struck that I was even before him, here in this sacred place where paintings and Art, and now hot fucking memories were made. I was on fire from the whipping, and the pain/pleasure was reverberating everywhere.
He had me stop as he descended the stairs, turning on some bright lights, and getting a drink. He offered me one, which I declined, and then he bade me come down with him.
He had me kneel, both before him and then by myself; I heard the camera click as I, in awe, gazed at the myriad paintings displayed all around me there. I stared, fixated. I couldn’t believe my eyes; for what I was seeing I had seen before, on his website, but it had paled in comparison to this grand exhibit. It was like a miracle of miracles: I was here; I was here in his presence; I was here in the presence of his Artwork, of his paintings, of his music, of the Magic, and surrounded by the sacred scent of oils and pine.
He came to the front of me as I knelt and used my mouth as he snapped photos of me doing it. I was oblivious of anything going on, and simply obeyed what I knew to do—to pleasure him.
He took photos—I was shown later—of my black-stockinged feet, of my stripped, flame-red ass cheeks, and my overlapped feet and toes from above as I sucked him. I still have all of these photos. What a rush to look at them over and over and remember, and to cum to them.
Terribly delicious.
Then he put me on the stairs. He placed the restraints on each wrist, and on each ankle, and in total silence, with the beautiful, sultry music pounding from the Upper Room over my head, he strung the lengths of white rope with which he tied me securely.
The old 'push/pull'—I watched in morbid fascination as he worked expertly to stretch my arms to the max, tie them ever so tightly to help me to obey.
He did the same with each ankle. Only these he positioned apart and in a fashion to expose the soles of my feet upward to what I knew was coming; what I knew I was due.
He had promised twenty-three on my feet. My feet because it was for punishment, and I had been instructed that punishment was to be received on them exclusively, and I had sinned greatly against him, so I knew absolutely it was coming. I knew there was nothing to be said. It was done.
My sins this time? I had lied to him. Lied openly and blatantly, and wantonly, like a dishonorable slave, and thusly had to be punished, like a dishonorable slave. More, I had to accept it and welcome it because I had earned it, more than earned it; I was horrible in my humiliating lies.
I don’t know what had gotten into me. I thought somehow, for some unknown reason that I was more clever than my brilliantly brilliant Owner; that he would not figure out that I had lied about something he had ordered me to do.
What a nightmare. What on earth? I was playing a game. It was a stupid game, but one that I got caught up and couldn’t pull out of, like a paratrooper who was floating in the air, too late to climb back in the airplane.
Nonetheless it was horrifyingly humiliating when I was found out. I didn’t even do it to avoid the multitude of strokes I was to receive for failure to meet the quota for what he had assigned me. I lied to make my Owner 'proud' of me, to avoid the failure that I was doomed to suffer. I wanted him to be proud of me for obeying him, which I hadn’t done.
So I ended up, not a chance in the world of him in his brilliance not discovering it, and my looking even worse than if I’d just failed.
I more than earned my twenty-three stripes on my feet, the most excruciating place to receive punishment. I knew it was coming; I knew it was long overdue, and I knew, the way he was tying me, now was the time.
I cringed and whimpered as the switch began.
I felt the first of eleven caresses on each sole, plus one. I started tight-lipped squeaking at five; quietly begging at eight; and jerking my wrists to the breaking at ten. I had to be admonished to shut up, and I did, knowing that a dreaded gag would be fitted if I did not. Instantly I ceased. My heart was racing with the pain.
At one point I disobediently blurted out “Oh, please, Sir, please let me go!”
But no sooner had I uttered the words, than I wanted to suck them all back in.
“Please, Sir, what?” He stopped and came to me, leaning into my sweating body. “What did you say?” He asked incredulously.
“Nothing, Sir,” I hurriedly countered. “Nothing! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”
“If I let you go, I let you go forever,” he said.
I shuddered, because he meant it.
I blurted my apology, “No, no, Sir, I’m sorry, please forgive me! I didn’t mean it! Please whip me, please don’t let me go. Please, please!” I begged sincerely.
“You don’t like being Mine?” Sir lilted. “This is when you are truly Mine,” he cooed softly in my ear, his hard body pressing me into the steps.
“Yes, Sir, oh, please, yes, yes, Sir,” I whimpered adamantly through tear-wetted lips, “yes Sir, please, I love being Yours.”
I meant it. Being his meant everything to me, and always did. It always would. It meant everything to me. It was where I wanted to be. But Sir was ultimately lenient, and the strokes on my soles, though painful, were nothing, NOTHING compared to what they could have (and should have) b
een. I was let off so easily. For what I had done, I should not have been able to walk back to my car that night; I would have had to crawl. Had I not had to keep his Others from seeing me, I’m sure that would have been exquisitely arranged. He would have watched me crawl, knowing I would never, ever lie to him again.
I was lucky. That would not happen a second time. He promised if it did, he would take me to a place where I could scream to my heart’s content and he would not hold back. I would not walk, and I would not forget. Ever. This was just a warning.
He released me and I rubbed the life back into burned wrists—red and marked from my fighting so hard. I loved the fight. I’m sure my Owner knew that, but it didn’t make my insubordination any more acceptable. The twisting and fighting was part of the play, the delicious terror/excitement play and that push/pull that I loved almost as much as the whipping. I had to do it. It was lovely and good. I told him so again, but Sir seemed nonetheless dejected by my rebelliousness. He didn’t want it, regardless of how it made me feel.
My punishment over, Sir laid the switch aside and spoke throatily, “Go up,” he murmured. There was an agitation there that was entirely ominous.
I could barely navigate the stairs. My feet were on fire. The soles were numb for now, but still an icy heat blazed through that told me they were sweetly bruised. I limped my way up the stairs with Sir hot on my heels. My stinging feet screamed with each step I gingerly took on the solid wooden planks, and involuntarily my teeth sucked a hiss on every one.
Sir walked to the overstuffed chair and dropped down once again. His sigh was heavy as he leveled an accusing stare at his belligerent piece of property.
“So I can’t fuck your throat, and I can’t restrain you. What else can’t I do to you?” He stated, frustrated.
“No, no, Sir,” I whimpered, “my throat will open to You, I promise, I just need training. I will fix it.” I was pleading now. “Fighting the restraints,” I struggled to explain, dropping my head in submission, “… it’s just what I do... ” My voice trailed off to a whisper.
Yes, the struggle is the thing. It is what I do, what I have to do. But he was not going to tolerate it…I had to comply.
I had to find a way to comply like the woman in one of my favorite cum videos. A video I often masturbate to. Surely I loved Sir as much as this submissive loved her owner. Surely I owed my man/god as much as she owed her surly, brute of a master. Sir deserved much more, and yet, here I was, after all these years, still not O-like enough to honor him.
The video?
The woman was bent over and restrained, naked except for a silly-looking skirt around her middle—less a skirt than a fringed, beaded string, but it stretched over her ample ass, tickling dimpled thighs in a tease. Bizarre thrumming music drummed a delirious beat as the tall, thick Australian rubbed his huge hands in anticipation over her quivering ass and thighs.
He had a wild, crazed look in his eyes while he paused slowly to select from the several objects lying on the couch beside him. He didn’t look sane, but that look coupled with the chest shaking 'Diggery Doo' music only added to the intrigue.
They were impossibly large, the dildos, each fatter, thicker, and longer than the next. He chose the fattest one, solid black and firm; it had to be at least four inches in diameter, and longer than from her wrist to her elbow. I gasped as he spread her cheeks and blithely rammed it in—all the way. Her cunt was stretched to bursting as he forced it, but as the camera spun to her face, she was unemotional except for the slightest wince at the corners of her eyes. Not one word emanated from her lips, which were drawn into a thin, tight line, and she did not resist in the slightest. Not…in…the…slightest. She was totally and completely submissive.
He worked it in her with a look of pure delight, that donkey dildo, placing an oversized hand on her rump for traction as he repeatedly shoved it in. He took his time.
My clit always spasmed, watching this video—the chaotic music pounding in my brain as his plowing, plowed on.
The camera caught her face once again as her owner stepped beside her to attach tortuous-looking clamps to the tits of each of her pendulous, swinging breasts. Again, not a sound from her. No resistance. Just complete, utter, eerie, and sensual compliance. I watched her eyes intently: a trace, a blink, just the slightest flicker of pain. Nothing more.
Her hands were bound out in front of her, but her arms were slack. The woman-slave was not resisting her treatment at all. The metal cuffs rattled as the crazy-eyed man violently pounded her battered cunt with the black monstrous dildo, but she didn’t defy. At all.
The music played on.
He was enjoying himself immensely, ignoring the slave completely who was separated into body parts now: a sloppy wet, fuck-stretched cunt, tits bobbing and swaying with their painfully elongating weights hung from the biting clamps, and butt cheeks, spread, ass forced at will by the huge instruments. The bobbles decorating the metal screws that sunk the tit-clamps deeply into her flesh, again, like her string-skirt, seemed comical against their intent. Pretty little glass beads like shimmering jewels swayed to the beat as their metal teeth dug agonizingly in.
He used several instruments in both her ass and cunt. The camera close-up was maddeningly erotic. So sexy watching her glistening little asshole expand and re-pucker, stay open like a dark cave for a moment then close, before another onslaught of the fucking rammed home.
Yes, he knew what he was doing all right.
Still she did not make a sound.
He brought out the whips and flayed her naked back with one hand, all the while working the donkey-dick-sized dildo up her cunt with the other. Dexterous. This elicited a biting of her lips, a squinting of her eyes, but nothing more. She didn’t even raise her head. I suppose she was forbidden.
All the while the woman did not fight; the woman did not complain; the woman did not rebel.
She was plump, not gorgeous or nubile, but satisfactory, because she was a juicy wet, compliant piece of submission.
Even when taken into the shower stall and chained by the wrists to the shower pipe, and a skinny friend brought in to fuck her with abandon with his equally skinny dick, the bent-at-the-waist lovely bitch made not a grumble or gripe. Not a peep. It was as if she wasn’t human. She wasn’t drugged, she was clear-eyed as a bell. She was just trained. Something, even after all these years, I apparently was not.
She never fought her bindings, even when her owner lashed her back unmercifully with a rubber black snake. Why? Because he could; because he owned her.
Oh, how I had touched myself to those images over the years since first seeing this video online. Oh, how it makes me want to cum right now. And I just did, typing this, re-reading it as I stroked my swollen, thumb-sized clit ‘round and ‘round. My computer keys are wet with my own cum right now.
The lady: her servitude, her compliance, her obedience, always makes me cum. She was not beautiful, she was not thin, she was not youthful, but she was a true submissive and worth her substantial weight in gold.
I was ashamed.
Sir motioned me over to him, as he sprawled, legs wide apart in the chair. I hurriedly crawled between them. I sucked him as deeply as I could, trying desperately to make my throat open to the head of his cock. “Slow and easy” he admonished as I tried to stuff him down my throat. “Don’t try to shove it in,” he coaxed, “just long, slow strokes all the way in... and all the way out... ”
But the hammering I had done was having the opposite effect. It was swelling the back of my throat, not opening it. I was disgusted at myself. This was not progress.
I was able to pleasure him nonetheless; adequately I hoped. He tapped my ass rhythmically with a switch as I sucked his dick, and soon he was murmuring muffled groans and oozing slippery pre-cum from the tip of his cock. He was ready to shoot; the slippery liquid coated my throat and mixed with my profuse saliva.
He exploded in my mouth and it was thick and sticky and creamy. He came deep in my throat and
I accepted it all with honor, only wishing it had been straight down my disobedient whore’s throat with him over top of me fucking my face, unhampered, as had the man in that video with the woman I was to emulate.
I literally limped to my car that evening, my Owner watching with smile of satisfaction of a job well done. I was lucky. It could have been so much worse.
31—Pushing Our Luck...
“Well, there are some things a man just can't run away from.”
There has to be a special place in Valhalla for the likes of a Warrior like Sir.
He knew no boundaries; he reveled in the challenge.
He had summoned me again.
“I want you tonight,” he said, and I was there. This time I had very special instructions. I was to go to my trunk and retrieve my leather and cloth restraints, resting there since just before the five-year abyss. My restraints. Mmmmm.
Sir had used rope on me since, choosing to tie me instead—in the car, in my house, in the Upper Room—tie my breasts ‘round and ‘round with clean white rope making my tits stick out with their hard little throbbing knobs inviting squeezes and strokes, pinches and paddling’s, slaps and smacks. He had tied my hands with that same rope in the Upper Room of his studio, to the block and tackle in the ceiling, raising me up off the floor on my tiptoes to whip me as I spun. He had trussed me up in that rope for hours on the floor, with my hands and feet hog tied behind me, to expose my tits, and so he could whip my ass and legs at will while I helplessly rolled and squeaked and writhed.
I had to break the lock now on the huge old chest that held my restraints, to pry it open; the little key no longer worked. How many years and how many moves?
Oh, the memories that sprang out as I sifted through the records of our secret lives together, stored in this large sturdy trunk; oh how I felt the pull of the Begin. After re-visiting all the pieces, turning them over lovingly and reverently in my hands and fondling every one, there they were—my restraints—squirreled away amid stacks and stacks of spiral notebooks—my diary, parts of which I’m recounting now—and Sir’s photos of me—oh those sensual photos of me—and books he had given me to protect and read. His erotic sketches he’d created and sent to me were there as well, along with objects of mysterious ritual and sacrament. All deep, dark clandestine parts of my life with Sir, the Owner of my body and soul.
Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir Page 42