In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.
*
The following Thursday evening, almost against my will, I drove my aging yellow Renault 5 into the neighborhood where the address on the business card was located. Approaching from the east, I drove past the building, noticing the butcher's shop and dry cleaner's on either side of a nondescript doorway. Just past the building, I turned left to go around the block before parking my car just across the street from the door, in front of a second hand shop.
Nerves were making me shake so that checking the time on my watch was more difficult than it should have been. I had parked at ten minutes to seven, the hour at which I was to arrive. After a bit of deep breathing, and sternly reminding myself of the financial circumstances that brought me to this point, I got out of the car. I straightened my skirt, and then squared my shoulders for the short walk across the street. I got as far as the threshold of the door, looking up to confirm that this was the correct address. At that point, my nerve failed me, and I went back to sit in the car again. The minutes ticked past, my mind counting them off by repeating, "You're not to be late."
I screwed my courage back up, exited the car, and crossed the street, knowing that there was no way not to be late, but determined to make this effort to save myself. Standing there in my dark suit, freshly washed hair shining, and face lightly made-up, I hardly had time to catch my breath from dashing across the road before the door opened in response to my timid knock. He opened the door wearing faded black 501s, a black T-shirt, and combat boots, making my fears of being met by a stranger in black leathers seem absurd.
"Hi there," I said, with a shy smile.
"You're late," he barked.
"Yes. I'm sorry. I - "
"I don't want to hear your excuses," he interrupted. "Get inside, take off all your clothes and prepare to be beaten."
I felt the fear flooding through me, and the colour leaving my face, and asked, "Can we talk for a few minutes? There's a pub on the corner. Can I buy you a drink?"
Without another word, he stepped out, closed the door behind him, and walked swiftly to the pub. As we reached the bar, he said, over his shoulder, "I expect you want a white wine spritzer."
"How clever of you to know that," I replied.
"You won't get it though," he rejoined, turning to the bar. "Barman, a double Scotch and a mineral water; she's paying."
Whilst I fumbled with my purse to get the money for the drink, I watched him find a quiet corner and sit down. I carried his drink to the table, and put the whisky in front of him. He ignored it.
"Thanks for agreeing to just talk," I said.
"Relax," he replied. "There's no pressure. You're a beautiful, intelligent woman, and it's a privilege to be sitting in the same pub with you, whether this leads anywhere or not."
Given the way things had started off, I was pleasantly surprised by this speech. "That's nice," I said, smiling. "This whole thing is a bit daunting for me. Would it be all right if we just had straight sex - at least in the beginning?"
"Absolutely not," he quietly replied.
"Is that because you can't?" I asked. "I mean, I've heard some men are impotent if there aren't whips all over the place, or rubber boots or something."
"No," he said with a smile. "I like ordinary sex now and again. Foreplay. Missionary position. All that stuff. But I'm definitely a master: I know from bitter experience that if I'm with a woman who only likes it straight, then sooner or later I'm going to start fantasizing about whips and gags, and before long I'm making love to one woman and thinking about someone else, which is bad for both of us. Besides, if you enjoy straight sex you'll get more actual bonking out of me if you let me spank you. There's nothing like the sight of whip marks to make a tired tummy truncheon stand too attention. So it's the full treatment, I'm afraid."
"How about if we take things slowly," I asked. "We could just talk now, and arrange to have another date in a week's time."
"If you think you won't get cold feet again, you're fooling yourself," he replied. "You're not a virgin, at least I assume you're not - "
"No," I said.
"Then it's time to grow up or go home," he said.
"I don't want to go home," I quietly replied. "I want to earn the money to get myself out of the financial hole I'm in. If that means being beaten, then I want to be beaten. But I want it to happen at my own pace."
"You can set your own pace, within reason," he responded. "We'll talk here and now, in this pub, but you must make up your mind before closing time. That gives you more than three hours to think things through, but if you turn me down tonight then it's 'No' forever -- fair enough?"
"That seems reasonable," I said in relief. "What happens if I don't like it, if your demands are too much for me to take?"
"That's what tonight is about," he replied. "You sample a little slavery, and decide if you can stand a year of it."
"And then you'll give me thirty thousand dollars?" I wanted to be absolutely clear about the money, since that was my motivation in this extraordinary transaction.
"After a year, yes," he replied.
"What do I get for just tonight? If I don't want to go any further I mean," I asked, feeling petty and grasping, but needing to know.
"Whatever you think is fair," he said.
"I don't want anything at all," I said after a bit of thought. The fact that he was willing to negotiate with me about this seemed to settle me somehow.
"Having my debts settled is one thing, but I don't want to make a couple of hundred pounds from an evening's prostitution," I explained.
He just nodded, but I felt his approving gaze, and was surprised at how good it felt to know he was pleased with my decision and analysis.
"All this is a bit hard for me to take in all at once," I said. "I've always thought of myself as strong. I tend to be in control of the situations I find myself in."
"Most sex slaves are," he replied. "Ask any professional dominatrix. Her clients are likely to be politicians, judges, even bishops. The more consistent and controlling you have to be during the working day, the more likely it is that you'll want to explore your softer side after hours."
"That's an interesting point of view," I said thoughtfully.
He went on, "It works the other way, too: people who live hard lives need pampering at the evenings and weekends. At the height of the siege, the starving citizens of Stalingrad set aside land that could have been used to grow cabbages or potatoes for flowers. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes; lots of them," I said, frowning in concentration. Then I said, "I can't actually think of any questions right at the moment, not as such."
