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.
*
As my period of service to Master continued, I learned that, although Master was unfailingly honest and trustworthy when it mattered, he was perfectly comfortable with lying to me shamelessly about things he felt unimportant.
For instance, Master once told me we'd been invited to a party -- not an S&M gathering, but an important event in the rock music calendar. Master painted an elaborate word-picture that held me spell-bound. The party, Master said, would be held in a huge house near Woking that had once belonged to Ringo Starr. Barbarellas were going to sing for us, and there was to be a sumptuous barbecue, followed by fireworks and a display of synchronised swimming in the pool. The glittering guest list included Robert Carlyle, John Terry, Toni Poole, and Nelly Furtado. Master had so many contacts in the industry, I had no trouble believing he knew which famous people were in town and who was hot, filling in the details of a world I only knew through TV and the pages of the newspapers.
I was a bit embarrassed at how excited the idea of the party made me. Academics can sometimes be a bit unworldly, and most of my heroes were poets and authors. However, being on the periphery of Master's life in the music and entertainment industries had encouraged me to develop an interest in the music scene. In the week that led up to the party, I boasted about it to everyone in my department.
"Will we actually meet Eric Clapton?" I asked.
"Sure," Master replied. "Eric and I go back a long way, to when I was a roadie."
I spent the afternoon of the party at a hairdresser, and took hours on my make-up. I even bought myself a new dress.
At seven o'clock, Master came into the bedroom whilst I was putting the finishing touches to my make-up.
"Wondering what Van Morrison will think of you?" Master asked with a smile.
"No, Master," I automatically replied. "Well, yes," I added more truthfully, "I suppose so."
"You little whore," Master responded. "You can't wait to flaunt that sexy mouth of yours. You can just imagine being taken into the bushes and gang-banged by a rock group, can't you?"
"No, Master," I said, aghast.
"You can just picture it, can't you?" Master persisted.
"No, Master," I insisted, beginning to be afraid of what Master had planned for the party's entertainment.
"Can't you?" Master again asked.
I sighed, and responded as trained: "Whatever pleases you, Master."
At eight o'clock, Master and I were in the main room, Master sitting quietly reading a book, but I couldn't settle. I would stalk about, and then flop down into a chair, only to get up to walk around some more. My excitement and nerves had me squirming like a little girl waiting to be taken to a pantomime.
"When are we going, Master?" I asked.
"Be patient," Master quietly replied. "One doesn't arrive early at a do like this."
"I suppose not, Master," I agreed, and back to pacing around.
At twenty past eight, Master glanced at his watch. "I think it's about time," Master said casually. "Come on, let's take a last look at you."
The black Versace dress clung to me perfectly. My make-up was subtle yet attractive. My hair shone, and my eyes gleamed with excitement and anticipation. And then Master frowned.
"If you think I'm going to let you anywhere near Robert Carlyle when you're looking as sexy as that," Master said, "you're crazy. Go over to the window."
"Yes, Master," I said, my tone apprehensive.
"What do you see?" Master asked.
"You mean the car, Master?" I replied.
"Right," Master said. "That big white limousine. That was to take us to the party, wait in the drive and bring us home." Master picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Sorry, Hal," Master said. "I won't be needing you tonight."
Still at the window, I watched the car drive away, stunned. If I had any doubts that we were going to miss a real showbiz party, they vanished down the road with that limo.
"Come over here," Master said harshly. "And take off all your clothes."
"Master?" I asked, my head spinning and my disappointment obvious.
"Do as you're told, bitch," Master said sharply. "You're not going anywhere."
"But, Master," I protested, "What will I tell my friends when they ask about the party?"
"You can tell them you're such a whore you can't be trusted to behave yourself in public!" Master shouted.
My face fell, but I began to unzip my dress. "Can we go to the party later?" I asked as my stockings slipped to the floor.
"Perhaps," Master replied. "It depends on how much pain you can take."
We didn't go anywhere, of course. Master spent the whole evening tying and untying me in various complicated ways, fucking me in a range of positions, and beating me with a selection of paddles and whips. As the evening progressed, my efforts to make myself beautiful became unwound - mascara running down my face with my tears, my lipstick chewed off as I struggled not to scream, and my hair mussed and tangled. I only found out later that, as much as Master loved seeing me dressed up and ready to decorate his arm at a party, Master preferred my appearance after hours of his painful and frustrating attentions.
Master eventually took me to some glittering showbiz parties after that, twice in that big white limousine, but it was the one I never went to that lived in both our memories.
Despite the focus of our relationship, in fact, we went out as an ordinary couple fairly often. We saw "Blackbird" at The Rose Theatre, "A Moon for the Misbegotten" at the Old Vic, and "Wicked" at the Apollo Victoria. Master also took me to see "Romance" at an erotic film retrospective at the ABC Panton Street. It was amazing to me to sit in an audience of strangers, watching a woman who looked a little bit like me having her ankles strapped to a spreader bar, larger than life, knowing exactly what that felt like. No matter where I went with Master, we played our games.
Master made me sew a band of heavy canvas under my widest skirts, which forced me to make small, submissive steps. And I always wore patterned clothes when we were out together, so nobody could see the strands of invisible thread that bound my wrists to my belt, though I'd sometimes catch surprised looks on the faces of people around us as Master hand-fed me popcorn or held a glass of wine up to my lips.
All the time we were out, Master made sure I was constantly thinking about sex, and about my role as his slave. Master made me flash my nipples at him on Underground trains, and even forced me to kneel and give his cock a quick suck in the long passageway between the Picadilly and District lines at South Kensington Station. Master made me take off all my clothes and quickly put them on again in that quiet room full of Rothkos in the Tate Gallery. And Master would talk dirty to me, quietly saying things like, "I love to watch you eat. Want to know why?"
"Yes, Master, I want to know," I said dutifully, after chewing the last bite of crab salad. "Why do you like to watch me eat?"
