Testing the Submissive: The Story & Confessions of a Masochist

by Al Daltrey

  The Reverend advanced toward me slowly, timidly.

  “Abigail,” he said, attempting to sound more sure of himself than he was, “My my, look what’s become of you.”

  Here I stood. Completely naked. Waiting. Arms bound. Waiting for him to come and whip me. I was deeply blushing, full of shame. Worst of all, he thought I’m the one who arranged all this!

  “Welcome…um, Reverend. I’m...I’m glad you came.”

  As he neared me, it was obvious he wanted to clear the air, “So I guess you heard what happened to me, that they found some books and DVDs, and the rest is history as they say.”

  “It was totally unfair, how it was handled and how they treated you. As...as you can see, I have a rather deep liking for S&M myself,” I confessed.

  “Yes, I can see that Abigail. I would never have guessed it. Sweet Abigail, now a true whore and a kinky one at that. I barely believed Lewis at first. Until he showed me the pictures, that is.”

  I felt even more ashamed. I remembered two clients who had taken photos which were subsequently emailed to Lewis. In one I was kneeling and looking up toward the camera, my tits red from a recent spanking, and my face still covered in the ejaculate of both men. I could only imagine what other images were shared.

  “Thank you for being here today, Reverend. Everything you heard is true, and when I learned of your injustice, well – I just wanted to see you, and offer my body to you as a small respite.”

  “You do realize Abigail, you must be punished for your sins?”

  “Yes. I know this. I agree. I deserve punishment. I deserve severe punishment, to be sure.”

  “What do you suggest I do, Abigail?” asked the Reverend, as he began to remove his own belt.

  “I deserve to be whipped. Whip me, Reverend. Whip me hard. Punish me. It is warranted.”

  I could see by his trousers that the Reverend was getting aroused. The immense bulge was evident. With his belt in hand, he let it dangle, and then moved behind me so he could bring it down across my shoulders. I didn’t want to interfere too quickly, so I let him take a handful of strikes before speaking.

  “Feel me Reverend, feel what you’ve done to me, feel my pussy. You’ll see.”

  He moved around to the front of me and lightly ran two of his fingers along my slit. I was soaked. I knew I would be. His eyes lit up with joy, even though he tried to play it cool.

  “You’re enjoying this Abigail, aren’t you?”

  “Very much Pastor. I’ve wanted this for a long time, longer than you know.”

  “Then we shall continue,” he said, wiping his wet fingers on the side of his leg.

  “Pastor, if I may be so bold…when your fingers are wet with my slime, it would be my honor to clean them with my mouth. I’m quite accustomed to it, and I very much enjoy it.”

  “Like this?” he asked, as he touched me again, this time with three fingers, and this time inserting them into me to gather more evidence of my sluttiness. He brought the dripping fingers up to my mouth, and I reached for them with my tongue – lapping at them, and then sucking each digit one at a time. He went back for more, obviously enjoying the moment. A second time I cleaned his fingers, my smell clearly evident to both of us. I moaned softly as I licked his fingers. Just as he was returning to my backside to resume the beating, I interjected again.

  “Reverend Watson Sir, may I request something of you?”

  “Yes dear, of course girl. Am I striking too hard?”

  It was almost laughable how inexperienced he was, “With respect, I remind you of the pain slut I am. I’ve fucked countless men and have been whipped by many of them. I beg of you, beat me soundly, make me hurt, strike me as powerfully as you possibly can.”

  It certainly worked as the next half-dozen strikes made me arch my back in a futile attempt to avoid the lashes. He was swinging with significantly more force, and my periodic ‘yes, thank-you’ urged him on even more. By the time he rested almost 40 strikes had landed across my shoulders, my back, and my lower waist.

  Then he moved to my front.

  “Reverend Watson,” I asked, mustering up as much courage as I could, “Consider what you did to my back as a warm-up. Now show my whore-tits what they deserve, please don’t hold back.”

  He didn’t. He lashed my breasts again and again with the belt. I could see Lewis in the background watching the entire time. Lewis was pleased. It was unlike me to top from below, but he knew without my manipulation the Reverend didn’t have the confidence to go full-out. The Reverend was in his glory. This was a dream come true. This was everything he ever fantasized about. He was now striking me without abandon. My receptivity only drove him further.

  One horizontal strike landed square across both nipples, which caused me to pull on my bonds so hard, I almost dislocated my shoulder. I couldn’t hide my expression of pure pain. The Reverend noticed this, and a look of panic appeared on his face. I forced a smile, and it took all my strength to say:

  “Reverend, whew…that was a good one, directly across my nipples. Please give me another, in the same spot, equally as hard.” I could barely believe the words that escaped my mouth. Bringing this kind of pain onto me was worse than simply enduring it.

  My abuser pulled his arm back and repeated the exact same swing, no less hard. I muted a scream. He was killing me, and here I was pretending I wanted more.

  When I heard the belt hit the floor, I knew the whipping was over. We fucked. He actually fucked me, still standing, still bound to the cross. We both came. His cum dripped down my inner thigh, with some of it pooling on the floor, directly below my quivering vaginal lips. He kissed me while he fucked me, and I returned the kiss as passionately as I could. I kissed my Reverend. What a whore I’d truly become.

  Our visitor took a break and used the restroom, which provided Lewis and me the opportunity to have a short private conversation.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said.

  My eyes watered, I was so happy to hear him say that. Lewis continued:

  “When he returns, see if he has any particular fetishes.”

  “Yes Master,” I replied.

  Master?? I had spoken the word instinctively, without thinking. But before I could retract it, Lewis softly covered my lips with his hand to silence me.

  “Shhh,” he said, “I own you now.” He confirmed he was my Master, and I was very much his.

  When the Reverend reappeared, Lewis melted into the background again. I in turn directed my attention to my next task – getting the client to reveal a specific fetish. I decided not to blurt out my question. A fetish can be private, and not something readily revealed. Even though the Reverend had just whipped and fucked me, he might be hesitant to disclose something so personal. Instead, I tried a more measured approach:

  “I’m glad you’re back, Reverend. I dreamed about this day for several weeks, and I can’t believe you’re actually here, right before me, in the flesh. I want to please you, so badly.”

  “You have been pleasing me Abigail. That was the first time I had sex with a woman since my college years, before I entered the church.”

  “Am I the first girl you ever dominated?”

  “You are,” he said, circling my body like a shark circling its prey. “But you know, since the church defrocked me, technically I’m not longer your Reverend. From this point forward, you might as well call me Simon.”

  “Yes Simon Sir, I understand.”

  “I’d never once lifted a finger to touch anyone inappropriately, not so much as a word; and yet they disgraced me with dismissal. That’s why I thought ‘what the hell’ when Lewis approached me and told me all about your secret.”

  Simon, as odd as it was to think of him by that name, was opening up to me. This was ideal. It would allow me to inquire about his kinks: “In the novels you read, or in the DVDs, was there anything that you found particularly interesting?”

  I had chosen my words carefully. By putting my question in the context of the porn mat
erial, it was somehow less invasive, and hopefully easier for Simon to be forthcoming with me. Further, I intentionally used the word ‘interesting’ rather than ‘arousing’ to downplay it further.

  He hesitated but answered, “One story I found intriguing centered on a Master who left bite marks on his slave.”

  “Oh my. I’ve always been incredibly turned on at the prospect of a strong dominant man biting me, sinking his teeth into my flesh; I’ve even masturbated to the fantasy of it.”

  “You have, really?”

  “Yes. Very much so. Oh, please Simon Sir, please bite me. I’d love it if you did. Please bite me anywhere you choose.”

  He moved behind me. Then reached around my body and took hold of my breasts, still very tender from the lashing they had just received. I could feel his cock against my lower back and ass as he leaned into me. He was getting hard again. His strong fingers now squeezed deeper into my breasts. I felt his warm breath on my shoulder and knew exactly where he was contemplating sinking his teeth. All he needed was a tiny bit more encouragement:

  “Fuck, yes. I beg of you….bite me, bite my shoulder, I want to feel the pain of your teeth digging into me. Bite me as hard as you want.”

  He bit down into my shoulder, sending shivers through my spine, just as his hands mauled my breasts. The pain engulfed me. He let up on the bite for a few seconds, and then I gasped as he bit down a second time, even harder! My skin didn’t break, but his teeth indentations were clearly visible when he moved two inches further down. Then he clamped down again. He was enjoying this. His cock was now rock hard at my back. His hands continued pulling at my tits, with his fingertips digging even deeper.

  I wanted to tell him to stop. Other clients had bitten me, but primarily during sex. This was different. This was deliberate, methodical biting. He was working his way down my shoulder, the same way people work their way down a cob of corn. I wanted to ask him to stop, but instead I found myself saying something entirely contrary:

  “Bite the hell out of me.”

  When he finally reached the end of my shoulder, he paused. I took the moment to catch my breath. I prayed, funnily enough, that he was content. The Reverend released my breasts, and shuffled back to the front of me. He was smiling. There was a little dribble of saliva running down his lip, to his chin. I don’t know why I said what I said.

  “Do my tits.”

  In a way, I was glad to be bound on a St. Andrew’s cross. Otherwise, I fear I might have pushed him away when I felt those sharp teeth bite into me. That said, I almost pulled my arms out of their sockets it hurt so bad. He nipped at my tits, and especially my nipples. Meanwhile, I was biting my own lip, using all my energy to stifle my cries.

  “Aaaaaiiiiiieeee,” I squealed involuntarily.

  “That was good!” he replied.

  Strangely he then cupped the underside of my breasts, and pushed them upward. He wanted me to see his handiwork. My tits were a mess. First, they were bright pink all over; with unmistakable welts and lashes from the belt. There were scratches sporadically from where his fingernails dug in. There was a consistent pattern of teeth marks throughout, including on my raw tender nipples. Lastly, there were a few random wet streaks, from where my tears fell. Tears I tried to suppress, but which flowed regardless.

  “I like the things you do to me,” I said, the tears still running down my face.

  Simon glanced toward Lewis with a question, “Can I try anal with her? I’ve never done it before.”

  Lewis’ reply was cold and emotionless, “Dude she’s a cunt…and today she’s your cunt. Do whatever the fuck you want with her.”

  The former Reverend did fuck my ass, without removing me from the cross. Now I knew why Lewis had expertly elevated it earlier, so my height was right. When my intruder achieved orgasm, he grunted and gripped my already aching tits; nearly ripping them off my body. This time there was no pleasure for me. It was pain and nothing else. He stayed in my backside until his cock started to soften. When he pulled out, some of his seed leaked down my inner thigh, while some of it dripped out in dollops, landing on the floor between my legs where much of his earlier load still remained.

  I was exhausted and hung there with as much of my weight supported by my aching arms as my wobbly legs. The two men left me while they talked. I don’t know what they discussed. They were within hearing distance, but I simply did not have the strength to listen. I was spent. I smiled softly when Lewis returned to untie me, sometime later. Had I slept? My Master then lowered me to the ground, and I took a moment to rub my wrists, feeling the rope burn; rub my shoulders, feeling the ache; and very softly rub my breasts, feeling the frayed skin and bite marks.

  Lewis whispered to me, “Simon is done for today. I’m going to walk him to the door.”

  “Thank-you Master, I only hope my performance was satisfactory,” I whispered in return.

  “You were enchanting as usual,” he said very quietly, leaning in. But then Lewis looked over his shoulder at Simon, and spoke quite loudly, “Simon – the slut here has something she wants to ask you, but is too shy to do so.”

  I do?? I don’t have anything to ask him? Uh oh, I suspected Master was setting me up again.

  Simon approached us as Lewis elaborated, “She wants your permission to cum. She wants to rub herself to orgasm, while she laps up the mess that dripped out of her.”

  I turned a deep crimson red and couldn’t even imagine how depraved I must have appeared.

  “What a dirty little thing you are, Abigail - a very degenerate little brat.”

  I felt deeply humiliated. I wanted to explain that I didn’t really request this, but of course I’d never betray Lewis. Instead I slowly bent forward, like a three-legged puppy eating out of a bowl. I say three-legged because my right arm was reaching between my legs. The cum was cold, and utterly disgusting. There was one main pool of it in the middle, surrounded by random globs. I couldn’t support myself properly and decided to lie right down on the floor. This was much easier. I lapped at the biggest spot first, just as two of my fingers found my clit. I was keenly aware of the two men, standing over me, looking down at me. I felt pathetic. That said, my clit was responding. In fact, it was responding big time. I was hotter than a firecracker. I felt so ashamed and yet, I did want to cum. Maybe Lewis wasn’t so wrong after all. As I licked-up the mess on the floor, I gave myself a thundering orgasm that left me breathless. I didn’t dare look up at the men, but I knew they were smiling at my insatiable need.

  The last thing I felt was something landing on my shoulder.

  The once respected and former Pastor of my church, Reverend Simon Watson, had spit on me.

  CHAPTER 17: REVERSE INTERVIEW

  The next morning…

  It was so wonderful to wake up at Lewis’ suite the next morning. The only other time I slept there was the infamous night with Veronica. We had a lovely conversation in bed, very much reminiscent of our mornings in Paris. We talked about the session the day before, and then Lewis examined my body to see how the wounds were progressing. My tits had taken the brunt of it, and the evidence was there. The bite locations were already turning an angry purple, with tiny imprints from individual teeth easily visible.

  We reminisced about the past year, and how things were unfolding between us.

  “I want to ask you something?” Lewis said, in a tone of voice I had never heard before.

  “Of course Sir,” I replied. For a second I got worried. He had never once sought permission to ask me anything.

  “It’s nothing bad,” he reassured me. It was obvious he’d noticed my look of concern and wanted to put me at ease. “But first, is there anything you want to ask me?”

  “Um, no Master…I think I’m good.” I was lying. There were a million questions I wanted to ask Lewis along the way. It’s not that I was afraid; it was that it was not my place. I trusted him implicitly. I was in good hands. I was in his hands. Any questions I had were pushed to the back of my mind. Until now.r />
  “Abby, just as you have always been honest with me, I will be completely honest with you. Go ahead and ask me anything you want. The door is open.”

  “Are we going to do a reverse-interview?” I joked.

  “You could say that,” he chuckled. “This is the closest to ‘switching’ we’ll ever get.” We both laughed again.

  I sat up. I did have one burning question and I thought I’d start there: “Sir, when you share me or pimp me out, and other men fuck me – does it make you think less of me?”

  “Not at all, hun. Why on earth would you think that? I would never do it if it made me think any less of you.” Lewis’ comments lead to a tangent conversation. He explained very rationally how he did not equate a woman’s level of sexual activity with her morals, or integrity, or values, or ethics. He went on to suggest that a woman’s loyalty, or devotion, or intelligence isn’t measured by the number of cocks that have fucked her, but rather who she is as a person.

  “So, when I stayed behind to fuck Victor, you didn’t lose respect for me?”

  “Quite the contrary. I am incredibly aroused and attracted to women who have a high sex drive. I didn’t lose respect for you, if anything it made me desire you all the more.”

  “Does that include Grekko, Sir? I mean I fucked his foot for God’s sake. You must think I’m a freak.”

  “I’m the one who sent you there, and I’d think you’re the freak? I love the fact you’re such a little tramp, you’d shove anything up there for relief.” I giggled and Lewis chuckled. Still I felt relieved.

  “Did you ever worry about me, Sir? I mean, I know everyone was pre-cleared by the network and all that, but did you ever think I might break?”