Cheryls Passion Ch 01

My story actually begins with a ballet teacher named Ms. Mixon.

I was never interested in ballet, however my mother insisted that I learn, so she sent me to classes for six years. My mother hoped that; if she forced me to go; eventually I would learn to love the ballet. It was a bold plan, but one that failed. After six years of stretching, foot positions, pirouettes, leaping through the air and dancing en pointe, I still wasn't passionate about ballet. I certainly didn't want to turn it into my life's mission.

Ms. Mixon knew I didn't enjoy ballet classes. She knew I was only learning ballet because my mother forced me to learn.

"Ballet isn't for everyone, Cheryl," she told me, "I trained and excelled at ballet because I love it. I'm passionate about it. It's my biggest interest in life. What are you passionate about? What is your biggest interest?"

"I dunno," I said.

And honestly, this was true. I had spent most of my life being dispassionate. None of my teachers in high school had ever inspired me. I had never had never fallen in love with a boy. I didn't dream of becoming a movie star. I didn't dream of writing the next great American novel. I didn't dream of owning a sports car. There was no great interest in my life.

"You need to find your passion, Cheryl," she told me, "Once you do, everything else will come together. Your life will start to make sense and have meaning. It's the first step to true happiness."

Years went by and I never found anything like what Ms. Mixon was talking about. I graduated from high school and I still had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I turned eighteen and I still had no idea. I was a legal adult and I still had no idea what I wanted out of life. I had no plan, no job and no close friends.

My mom was a well-paid executive at a pharmaceutical company and she made certain that I got a job working at her company. It was a boring job, but it got me out of the house, and my mom didn't want me staying home all day long.

The surprising thing is, it was this boring job that introduced me to my great passion in life. It was working at this job that allowed me to discover that thing that Ms. Mixon had been talking about.

I was given a desk to work at, and the last girl who had worked at this desk had left behind a number of personal belongings. Most of these I threw in the trash, however she left behind a paperback book and I decided to keep that and read it on my lunch break.

I didn't recognize the author's name and I had never heard of the book before, however I didn't actually have any friends at work, and my mother was too busy to socialize with her daughter, so I thought I'd read the book during lunch to give me something to do, other than chew food and swallow it.

The main character was a teenage girl from a European royal family. The book takes place hundreds of years ago, when slavery was still a thing they did in Europe and the teenage girl is being led to the slave auction to be sold as a naked slave.

I was hooked from the very first page.

I had never read a book like this before. I didn't even know books like this

existed

before! My panties were soaking wet before I even finished the first chapter.

I took the book home with me and hid it in my room. I spent almost all of my free time reading this used paperback and I finished the book in about three days. Even more surprising was the fact that I masturbated several times a day thinking about that teenage girl who was sold into slavery. I kept imagining what it must be like to be naked and led down public streets on a leash, being openly ogled by the local people. I imagined what it must be like to be purchased by a cruel mistress who spanked me mercilessly the minute she got me home. I imagined what it would be like to be at this woman's mercy and to be tied down and whipped by her.

So, I had found my great passion in life, however I was too ashamed to tell my mother about this discovery. It didn't seem like the sort of thing that my mother would approve of. My mother was a feminist and a corporate executive. I didn't think that she would approve of her daughter craving to be stripped naked in public, tied up, spanked and sexually abused. It wasn't the sort of thing that a proper young lady would want out of life.

I went to the local bookstore and found three more books by the same author, about the same teenage girl and her adventures with spankings, bondage, humiliation and sexual servitude.

As I read these books I noticed a curious thing. When the chapter focused on a male slave, I just sort of skimmed through that chapter. I was much more interested in the female slaves, especially if they were submitting to a female dominant.

I never really thought much about my sexual identity before, however I was very definitely responding better to the female-centric chapters than the male-centric chapters. The male-centric chapters didn't seem to do anything for me.

Was I gay?

I decided that I probably was, and I wasn't going to worry about it. I lived in an area of California where it was socially acceptable to be gay. There were a number of gay-owned businesses near my home, and everybody seemed to be totally cool with that.

What I

was

worried about, was my new and unexpected fascination with slave auctions, naked slaves, sexual slavery and punished slaves. Why was I fascinated by this stuff? And what would people think about me if they learned of my new obsession? I was reasonably certain that this wouldn't be nearly as socially acceptable as being gay.

Masturbating to fantasies about bondage and spankings were incredible, but eventually I came to crave more and I came up with ideas to make my masturbation sessions far more intense.

I bought a couple pairs of handcuffs from the home security superstore and had them in my room for those occasions when I was the only one home.

My mother worked much longer hours than I did, and would often go to aerobics or Pilates classes after work and on the weekends, so I had plenty of occasions where I was all alone in the house.

On those occasions I would take my handcuffs down to the basement, along with a handcuff key, a chair and one of my paperbacks about the princess that was reduced to serving as a naked slave.

We had large iron rings embedded in the walls of our basement. I'm assuming that at once upon a time tools hung from them.

I would lock one handcuff strand from each handcuff onto an iron ring approximately six feet above the ground. Then I would strip naked, place my clothes on the chair and find a truly erotic scene from my book. I would masturbate slowly and leisurely, while reading from the book, but not all the way to the point of actual sexual climax.

Then, I would place the book on top of my clothes and the handcuff key on top of the book.

Finally I would lock my left wrist into the strands of one of the handcuffs (although in my fantasy, both of my wrists were locked and I was helplessly chained to the wall with no way to escape).

With the illusion of helplessness firmly planted in my mind, I would use my right hand to spank my naked buttocks and sometimes the backs of my thighs. Each time I did this I spanked myself harder and harder and within two weeks I was leaving my poor bottom an angry red color.

Sometimes as I spanked myself I would rub my bare breasts against the hard cinderblock surface of the basement wall. The cold, hard, unforgiving surface of the cinderblocks was harsh against my poor, sensitive nipples, but was exactly the sort of thing that I thought a naked slave-girl would have to endure.

And when I decided that my poor buttocks had been spanked enough, I would spread my legs as far as I possibly could and masturbate myself to a furious orgasm.

Sometimes once wasn't enough and I would masturbate myself to two or three orgasms before I unlocked my left wrist from its stainless steel prison.

This system worked out pretty well for me for about three weeks, but then I ran into a little snag.

One evening, panting and sweating, after having fingering myself to three furious orgasms, I reached for the handcuff key, and my hand accidentally knocked the paperback book onto the floor and the handcuff key with it.

I was in a horrible panic and realized in an instant what a situation I had just put myself in. There was no way I could possibly reach the handcuff key with my left wrist chained so high up on the wall, but I couldn't unlock my left wrist without the handcuff key.

My only hope for getting free was to wait for my mom to get home and pick the key up off the floor, but before she could get the key for me, she'd see me naked, chained to the wall and with a severely red ass from my highly aggressive hand spanking.

I groaned and tried to think of a less-humiliating way of getting out of my predicament, but no ideas presented themselves. I tried yanking the iron ring from the wall, but twenty minutes of struggling, pulling and yanking accomplished nothing other than chafing my wrist and leaving me in a fine sheen of sweat.

It may have taken my mother twenty minutes to come home or six hours. I was in such a feverish panic, I couldn't possibly be expected to keep an accurate measure of time...and at any rate my watch was on the chair, along with my clothes.

The walls of the basement are pretty thick, so I was unable to hear her car pull up, or the front door open, however she eventually opened up the door that led to the basement and began to descend the stairs.

My stomach was in knots and my heart was beating like a Patty Schemel drum solo. I didn't want my mother to find me naked and chained to the wall, but here she was coming down the stairs. I could hear her footsteps, then I could see her feet, then I could see her legs.

Eventually my mother and I made eye contact and I felt a new and extraordinary type of shame as my deepest, darkest secret was revealed for her to see. I could feel my face, my ears and my chest go feverish with heat and I'm sure I must be blushing.

"Cheryl, who did this to you?" my mother asked, "Are they still in the house?"

Of course my mother wouldn't get it right away. My mother was a very intelligent woman, but I had never done anything like this before. I was always a very quiet and unadventurous child. Her first instinct wouldn't have been to assume that I did this to myself.

"There's no one else in the house," I confessed, "I did this to myself."

"What? Why?"

my mother asked, and she strode deeper into the basement, taking it all in. She caught sight of the chair with my clothes, the two pairs of handcuffs, cuffed to the basement wall, my paperback novel and probably the reddened color of my ass as well.

"Well, it's kind of embarrassing. Could we maybe not talk about this? Just say that you caught me doing something I shouldn't be doing, and I'll promise never to do it again?"

My mother didn't answer. She silently examined me, my handcuffs, my paperback novel and she eventually even found my handcuff key.

"This is something sexual, isn't it?" my mother eventually said, "You've got some sort of bondage fetish?"

If possible, my face seemed to grow hotter and I was probably blushing an even deeper color of red. How could I possibly tell my mother I had sexual fantasies about being bound, made helpless and punished by cruel women with paddles, whips, straps and other cruel instruments?

"Please, just unlock me from the wall so I can get dressed," I pleaded. Having my mother see me naked and bound was easily the most humiliating experience of my life.

Holding my paperback novel and the handcuff key, my mother said, "Oh, I don't think so. You've been keeping secrets from me, and I think you're going to stay exactly right where you are until you answer all of my questions."

"What?

You can't be serious," I protested.

"Oh, I'm serious," my mother insisted, "I had no idea you were into bondage. I certainly had no idea you were chaining yourself up in our basement. What other secrets have you been keeping from me?"

"Mother,"

I protested.

Then she opened up my paperback novel and began to read from one of the pages.

Her sex was unbelievably swollen and wet.

"Now listen further, "Mistress Lockley went on. "When this paddle comes down, you're going to move for me, Princess. You're going to twist and you're going to groan. You're not going to struggle to get away from me. You wouldn't do that. And you're not going to take your hands from the back of your neck. And you're not going to open your mouth either. But you're going to twist and groan. You're going to bounce under my paddle, in fact. Because with every blow you are going to show me how you feel it, and how you appreciate it, and how grateful you are for the punishment you're receiving, and how much you know it's what you deserve."

"That's from one of the most dog-eared pages," my mother informed me.

"I'm guessing that's one of your favorite passages from the book, seeing as how you've quite obviously read it over and over again."

"Fine,"

I confessed,

"It's a sex thing!

I get a sexual thrill at the thought of a cruel woman like Mistress Lockley forcing me to bend over for her, and spanking my bare bottom until I'm raw! Now that you know, you can give me a lecture about what a pervert I am and what a disappointment I am and how you didn't raise your daughter to be like this!"

My outburst didn't seem to faze my mother in the slightest. She stood there silently for a few seconds, a thoughtful expression on her face and finally replied, "Why would I say that you're a disappointment? There are quite a few women out there who get a sexual thrill from corporal punishment. That doesn't make them bad people. And it doesn't make you a bad person either."

I opened my mouth to retort, but for a few seconds no sound came out. For a while I couldn't seem to form any words.

"How could you of all people approve of your daughter being into the sort of thing?" I finally asked, pulling against the handcuffs to emphasize just how helplessly I was bound, "You're always telling me how important it is for young women to be feminists, but you're okay with your daughter being a submissive, who wants to be bound and punished?"

My mother sighed softly and said, "Cheryl, feminism isn't about females always being in positions of authority. Feminism is about women being able to choose what to do with their lives. If you truly want to be a submissive, you should be able to have the freedom to choose to be a submissive."

I must admit, my mother caught me totally flat-footed with her response. Never in a million years would I have expected she would come out with that position. I thought she would be outraged if she learned of my submissive tendencies.

"So, we're cool?" I asked.

"Not entirely," my mother responded, "This self-bondage you're doing is dangerous. If you don't have some sort of backup person to set you free, you can end up with disasters where you end up bound and helpless for days. What if I had been called away to New York City for a few days and you chained yourself to the wall like this? "

"Um," I said, not really having a ready response.

"Two or three days with no food, water or a bed to sleep is not an experience you would enjoy, believe me, Cheryl. If you're going to continue with sort of thing, you're going to need a trusted individual to check up on you and make sure you haven't locked yourself into a bondage situation you can't get out of. And if you ever venture into suspension bondage, there's always the risk of dislocating your shoulders. I understand that can be extremely painful. And just who will untie you and rush you to the emergency room, if nobody even knows that you've tied yourself up?"

Again, I had no ready response for my mother.

"Okay, young lady," my mother said imperiously, "I'm confiscating your handcuffs and any other bondage paraphernalia I find in the house. Your bondage games are over until you bring home a bondage partner that's trustworthy and that I approve of."

"Mother,"

I protested loudly,

"No! You can't!!"

"Oh, really?" my mother asked calmly, "This is

my

house. You're

my

daughter. I'm legally responsible for your safety. Exactly

why can't

I confiscate your bondage gear?"

I was in a panic. My mother didn't understand that I

needed

to experience these feelings of helplessness and harsh discipline! Finding a bondage partner my mother approved of could take days, weeks or even months! And I didn't even know how to go about

looking

for one!

"This is my passion,"

I insisted to my mother, "

This isn't just a hobby or a game to me!

This is something I need! If you take it away from me for even one day, it's going to be like taking medication away from somebody who's arthritic and in chronic pain!"

My mother folded her arms across her chest and silently stared at me for a long time. I think she was trying to determine if I was serious or if I was just being an overly-emotional teenager.

"I'm not certain what to tell you," my mother finally said, "I can help you find somebody to be your bondage partner. I know a few people at work who are in the B&D community. With their help, we can speed up the process of finding somebody that both you and I could find acceptable, but in the meantime..."

Before she could finish her sentence, I was struck by an inspiration. My mother probably wouldn't be thrilled with my idea, but it was practical, and my mother loved practicality.

"You could do it!"

I snapped, interrupting my mother in mid-sentence.

"Excuse me?" my mother asked, obviously confused by my outburst.

"In the meantime; while you and I search for a permanent bondage partner for me; you could fill in and make certain I don't lock myself into a bondage predicament I can't get out of!"

My mother actually took a step backwards and gave me a troubled look.

"Cheryl, I'm a single mother with a respectable job in the pharmaceutical industry

. I am not a dominatrix!"

I raised one eyebrow and asked, "What's a dominatrix?"

"A dominatrix is what you want," my mother explained, "A dominatrix is a woman who will force you to strip naked so that she can spank you, punish you, humiliate you and all sorts of things that your mother is

so

not going to do!"

"It would just be a temporarily arrangement," I said timidly.

"Cheryl," my mother said firmly, "Even

if

I was into tying girls up and hurting them, I'd find somebody my own age to tie up! I wouldn't be doing those sorts of things to my teenage daughter! It'd be too much like incest, and I'm really, really not comfortable with that!"

Okay, my mother was utterly against the idea. It seemed too much like incest to her, but I re-worded my argument and made her look at it from a different perspective.

"Mother, let's just take sex out of the equation completely," I finally said, "Lots of mothers spank their children as a form of parental discipline. You've been my mother for over eighteen years, and you've never spanked me once. There's a backlog of bad things that I've done over the past eighteen years that you could punish me for. Every day, I could tell you something bad I've done from my past and you could punish me for it. How does that sound?"

My mother was resistant at first, but I just kept hammering away at her resistance, and eventually I got her to agree to it.

Every day I would send my mother an e-mail, telling her something bad I had done. Most of my misdeeds were from when I was in the eighth, ninth or tenth grade, but according to our agreement they still counted. And occasionally I could come up with something much more recent she could punish me for.