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.
*
"Oh, no, Master, please, Master, no. Master, I'm freezing," I continued begging, the words becoming a chant on which I focused to try to escape the cold in the only way possible to me.
I was writhing helplessly, naked under an icy shower, chained by my wrists to a pipe above my head. At this point, I had been serving as Master's slave for three days, and I was being confronted yet again with a cold reality of life as a slave. Master was sitting on the edge of the bath, watching.
"Please, Master," I moaned. "Let me down. It's too cold." Master let me babble on, waiting for my words to die down to whimpers, and my whimpers to be replaced by silence. I had begged Master to stop the moment he dragged me off to the shower, but I didn't say my safe word then or during the seemingly interminable frigid shower. I might even thank Master afterwards as my body dried in the air without the benefit of a towel, shivering. To me, being clean, even with cold water showers, was so much better than being dirty, that I might even manage to be contrite, pristine and penitent. In any case, I definitely would be ready to be hit and fucked and made dirty all over again.
Early on, Master explained to me that large quantities of icy water are all he needs to keep a slave clean. He does not bathe a slave in ass's milk. He does not soak a slave in a bubble bath. He does not buy her perfumed soap or shower gel. He comes all over her, and washes the semen off with cold water. To Master's way of thinking, this is yet another advantage of keeping a slave compared to living with a straight woman: they even save on fuel bills.
What Master had not explained, but that I had worked out on my own, was that the cold showers were more than just another excuse to make me uncomfortable: a slave needs tolerance to cold. A lot of time a master spends with his slave, she'll be naked and he'll be clothed, and it wouldn't do for him to be uncomfortably warm in her presence.
Master watches a slave all the time she's under an icy shower: not just because it is fun, but also because he knows it would not be safe to leave her alone. And, of course, even a slave does not tolerate the ill treatment if it does not come packaged with hours of attention from the Dominant she serves!
Strangely enough, Master's rough handling already was making my skin softer, more supple and glowing with health -- more so than when it was the skin of a woman who pampered herself with creams and lotions. Master had promised that, in a month or so, he would bathe me in a tub of hot water, with bubbles and oils, patting me dry with big fluffy towels. But, as Master made clear to me, even that wouldn't be for my pleasure: that would be to remind me that Master has the power to be kind as well as cruel.
Just as a master has to clean his slave, so a slave has to attend to bathing a master, at the master's discretion, of course. Master usually takes quick showers, but every few weeks, when he has an hour or two to spare, he indulges in a long, leisurely bath with a slave (me, in other words) in attendance. Master's bath employs a simple ritual, but its rules are very strict. When Master decides it is time to bathe, I have to drop whatever I am doing at once and run his bath. When Master get to the bathroom, I must be waiting, properly dressed in a French maid's outfit with the bodice pulled down to show off my breasts. I have to get the temperature exactly right: if it is half a degree too hot or too cold, I am beaten.
I undress Master respectfully, and fold away his clothes.
I shampoo Master's hair and wash Master from top to toe, scrubbing him down with a variety of sponges, loofahs, and soft brushes. Sometimes Master pulls me into the water on top of him and fucks me. Sometimes Master drags my head underwater to suck his cock. If Master's spunk ends up floating in the water, I have to dip my head and suck it up, not wasting a drop.
Then I pat Master down with towels, all except for between his toes, which I dry with my own hair.
From the start, Master gave me a series of rules. Most of the time I spent with Master, I stood upright, legs apart, hands behind my head or folded neatly behind my back so Master could finger my cunt and slap my face or breasts whenever the mood took him. When I was not standing, Master made me lie absolutely flat on the floor or crawl around with my head lower than Master's cock.
Whenever I crawl into a room, I have to stand and curtsey, then drop to my knees again. As time went by, Master trained me to curtsey deeper and deeper, and then introduced me to the Cunt Curtsey. To perform a cunt curtsey, I take my inner lips between finger and thumb of each hand and spread them as I dip my knees.
Sometimes Master allows me speak freely, and gives me the benefit of his lively mind. Some days I could say anything I liked, but only if I used the word "Master" in every sentence. Some days I was only allowed to thank Master. Some days I was not allowed to talk at all, or if Master was feeling particularly strict was not even allowed to moan, no matter what Master did to me.
One unexpected lesson from my service was the new understanding that rules are fine as far as they go, but they're just words; a slave must be obedient to the bone. During those early weeks Master had been vigilant, making sure that each new experience became part of my training. For instance, the first time Master came home after I moved in with him, I came running up for a kiss, the way women do when they are in the early stages of a love affair. I was happy to see Master, and I was in a loving, sexual relationship with him, so old habits just kicked in. Later, Master explained that this was a crucial moment: if he let a slave get above herself in small things, she would take advantage in the big ones, and he would no longer be the Dominant. As I reached Master, he held up his left hand, palm forward against my chest. I came to a stop, a questioning expression on my face, still in the early bliss of a homecoming lover. Master drew back his right hand and hit me gently across the cheek.
And even being slapped by Master was a learning opportunity. I had to be taught how a slave should react when her face is slapped. Does she draw back, startled? Or should she stand unblinking, eyes downcast, ready to be slapped again? Master taught me that the well-trained slave does both: she finches, because it is her duty to show appreciation for every attention a master pays her, no matter how harsh, then as quickly as possible she recovers her composure, lifts her chin, ready for him to strike her again. Then, when she is sure he has finished abusing her, she kneels and thanks him.
I wish I could say I did all that perfectly, without having to be told, but in a way I am glad I received the lesson, for it helped me not only behave as Master expected, but to understand why that was the behavior Master sought from me. Often throughout my service, understanding the "why" was infinitely more difficult for me than performing the act of service desired by Master.
Once I understood about the manner in which I properly should greet Master upon his arrival at home, I thought I could not fail to perform as Master wished. So, the next evening when Master came in the front door, I still ran up to him for a kiss (should Master deign to grant me one), but stopped at the last moment, steadying myself, expecting a slapped face. Of course, Master never gives a slave what she expects - Master does, however, try to (and usually does) give her what she needs.
Master placed his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to my knees. I inclined my head towards Master's fly, lips parted, waiting for precise instructions.
"Undo my zip," Master ordered. Then, "Take out my prick." Then, "Kiss it." Then, "Go ahead and suck." I went about the task with care and enthusiasm. When Master came, he did so in a series of flicks: onto my eyebrows, down the left side of my nose, into the corner of my mouth, down my chin, closely watching the slide of his fluids across and down the angles of my face. As I continued kneeling, Master took my hair firmly with his left hand whilst slapping me, forehand and backhand, over and over, and then pushed me to the ground.
As I lay on the floor, I was grateful to remain there for what seemed a long time. First, it gave me a chance to collect myself: I never had my face slapped repeatedly before, and it was a startling and disconcerting experience. Second, I began to understand why Master behaved as he did, and to appreciate the thought and care he took in choosing a course of action to advance my training in submission. Overcome with gratitude and love, I began to gently kiss the toe of Master's shoe whilst he stood silently, evaluating my reactions, and, of course, finding something else to teach me. As he zipped his fly, Master growled, "Next time, remember to thank me."
