Mastering Submission Ch 10

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.

*

One of the most normal things we did was hold a dinner party at Master's flat for the professor who ran my department and a record producer Master knew. I chose food for the party that was safe rather than sophisticated, but Master seemed to be satisfied with the menu, which of course he approved in advance. Of course, Master generally approved of any menu I offered to cook for him, since my cooking was done wearing nothing but a spatula tied to one nipple by a length of thread, and a pair of white platform sandals, my hair peeking out from beneath a chef's hat. According to Master, that's how a slave should dress for cooking. If hot fat splashes onto naked skin, it simply makes the experience more fun.

I would have happily done without the hat - it was difficult enough to manage the platform sandals without always having to worry about the hat dropping off into the food or onto the floor. Master told me the hat made me look tall and vulnerable at the same time; when Master complimented me on the curves of my arse, I decided my decidedly eccentric cooking costume was worth it.

Whilst I was busy preparing the food, Master made sure to be as involved in the process as possible, without actually doing any of the kitchen chores himself. He leaned against the edge of the kitchen table, holding a wooden spoon.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"To make sure you attend to your kitchen duties, my girl," Master said, using it to smack a nipple lightly.

As I worked away, Master livened up the proceedings by gently insulting me, and touching up my cunt whenever I leaned forward to chop vegetables, or bent over to pick up the hat Master kept knocking off my head.

As soon as everything was safely in the oven, Master ordered me to bend over the kitchen table while Master fucked me from behind, pulling out at the last moment and coming on the tiled floor.

"I'll clear it up, Master," I offered.

"You'll lick it up," Master replied. "It'll be the perfect appetizer for the meal ahead."

I dropped to my knees at once, desperate for the taste of Master's sperm. As my tongue lapped at the kitchen tiles, I admitted to myself what I was sure Master had realised for quite some time: I was no longer an unwilling woman paying off a debt: I had transformed into a natural slave performing an act of worship and love. Master untied the spatula from my nipple, pushed my shoulders to the floor, and balanced the chef's hat on my arse.

As he stood over me, Master began to speak to me softly, saying, "When you are groveling like this, Meat, showing off your long back, narrow waist, and fabulous bum, I feel like the King of the World!"

My blushes were hidden in this position, but flamed even brighter as Master continued, "If we weren't expecting guests, I would wipe my cock in your hair!"

Since guests were due to arrive soon, though, Master cleaned himself up with some kitchen paper, then beat my arse with the wooden spoon.

When I had slurped up all the semen, the doorbell rang. I looked up at Master, panic (as well as semen) all over my face. Master glanced at his watch.

"It's later than I thought," Master said. "I'll keep them talking, you make yourself presentable, then I'll be Martin and you can be Rebecca, and we'll be as normal as you like till our guests have gone."

"Thank you, Master," I said, getting to my feet, ready to dash up the back stairs to get presentable.

Master smiled. "You obviously like it on the floor," Master said. "I'll have to think up some interesting things for you to do down there."

* * * * *

More rain and blustery winds, which meant long skirts and long sleeves: ideal for hiding bruises. That was all the incentive Master needed to prompt him to give me some bruises to hide.

"Tonight is going to be very special," Master told me one Friday as he fitted leather straps to my ankles and wrists. Master grabbed me by the tit and dragged me upstairs to give me the full Music Room experience for the first time.

Master explained, as we went slowly upstairs, that the Music Room is the hexagonal turret in the corner flat. When Master had the room fitted out, he told the contractor who did the soundproofing that it was the rehearsal room for a heavy metal group, which is how the room got its name, Master said.

Then Master added, "The name is also because a woman's screams are music to my ears."

When we got to the Music Room, I saw that the walls were thickly padded, and lined with huge mirrors. Master explained that, sometimes he found it soothing for a slave to see what is being done to her. The windows were triple-glazed, Master explained, because sometimes it is good for a slave to observe the real world outside, continuing oblivious of what is happening to her in her secret cave of pain. All the windows and mirrors had dark red velvet curtains; if necessary the room can be turned into a crimson grotto of suffering and humiliation, Master added

Just inside the Music Room, I stopped and asked, "Master, may I speak? Please?"

Master sighed. "Only if it's very important," Master snapped. "I've got an awful lot of things to do to you this evening, and I want to get started as soon as possible."

"It's just that I've remembered a dream I had as a child, Master," I began. "I must have had it more than once, I suppose. It must have been a sex dream, though I think I was too young to realise that at the time."

"Tell me," Master said, with interest.

"I was a prisoner. In a jail, I mean, like Cell Block H," I explained. "They took all my clothes away and made me wear this horrible uniform, and then pushed me through a huge door and locked it behind me. I found myself in one of those prisons you see in the movies or on TV, a big open space with stairs leading up to catwalks in front of cells. As I stepped forward I realised they 'd made a horrible mistake and put me in the men's prison, and all around me there were men laughing and calling me names."

"And then?" Master prompted.

"And then nothing," I responded. "As I told you, I was just a child when I had this dream - I couldn't have been more than nine or ten."

"But now you are a grown woman," Master insisted. "You know how to finish the story."

"I suppose so," I said, blushing and more than a little confused that I had chosen just this moment to confide all this to Master.

"Then finish it," Master said.

I paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts, and Master prompted, "You step forward -"

Taking a deep breath, I began finishing the story: "I step forward, and one of the prisoners grabs me by the tit. It hurts. But another convict, a big, ugly man with a squint, warns the first prisoner off; makes him go to the back of the queue. He tells me he's the toughest inmate in the prison, so what he says goes. He asks me what I'm in prison for. I say I don't know, that I must have stolen something."

"And what does he say?" Master asked.

"He says I'm not in prison for theft, Master," I replied. "I'm in prison for rape. Rape, and indecent assault, because that's all I'm going to get from now on." Once again, I paused. This level of honesty and self-revelation was difficult for me.

"And - " Master once again prompted, giving my nipple a sharp tug.

"And buggery," I said simply. "I'm here to be gang-fucked by any of the men who want me. And then the ugly prisoner laughs and tells me the jail has so many inmates I can expect to be fucked round the clock. He snaps his fingers and the men gather round. He explains that as he's the head convict, I have to suck his cock first, but after that all the other prisoners can do what they want to me, and they cheer. I drop my eyes and kneel down."

"Fast forward a bit," Master ordered. "It's three hours later. What's happening now?"

"It's mealtime," I said. "All the men are in one of those big dining halls you see in the movies, where they fight or bang their knives and forks in protest. Of course, this time they're quiet, thinking about me waiting for them."

"Where are you?" Master asked.

"In a toilet," I explained. "I'm naked, my cunt's sore, my arsehole hurts and my jaw's stiff, because the only way to catch up with the workload is to have a cock in my arse, one in my cunt and another in my mouth at the same time, while I'm jerking off two more men with my hands. Even then I'm bruised where one of the men lower down in the pecking order has punched me out of sheer frustration. My ankles hurt where strong calloused hands have yanked my legs open, and my tits hurt where men have dragged me around by the nipples, throwing me from side to side like a doll. I'm all sticky with sperm: it's all over my chest, on my face, streaked down the insides of my legs, drying and forming a crust. I realise that while I'm allowed to drink out of the toilet I'm not going to get any food, just sperm, so I'm trying to scrape as much as possible off my breasts and the insides of my legs and lick it up. There's protein in sperm and with 1,200 men in the prison I'm not going to go hungry."

"What about sleeping?" Master asked. "What's going to happen to you at night?"

"Oh, they won't let me sleep," I confided. "I'm going to have to spend the long hours of the night kneeling outside cell after cell while men stick their cocks through the bars for me to suck."

Having heard myself tell this story aloud, I was stunned into silence - not only was I afraid at how Master would react to this fantasy, but I was not really sure how I was reacting to it myself, for I never had expressed this aspect of myself so clearly and openly before.

"You really are a slut, aren't you, Meat?" Master asked with a smile.

"Yes, Master," I said. "I suppose I must be."

"How long are you going to be in the prison for?" Master asked.

"A year, Master," I replied. "A year of being fucked, abused and buggered seems about right." By now, the sense of humiliation and embarrassment that consumed me during the telling of the story was receding, replaced by a happy appreciation that here was a man to whom I could tell something this revealing. Master noticed that my voice had changed, and I knew he could see that my eyes were twinkling where a moment before they had been dreamy.

"That's enough," Master said sharply, pushing me into the Music Room. "I don't want to hear a sound out of you for the rest of the evening. Except for screams, of course. Make all the noise you want. Nobody will hear you up here. You may beg for mercy all you like. But you won't get it."

"I understand, Master," I said. "You can do anything you want to me."

Master explained to me that a Music Room beating is done with just two implements: a five-tailed leather cat to warm the slave up, and a wicked quirt: a springy rod of hard rubber the length of Master's arm.

Master started by bending me over the bench in front of the window, shackling my wrists and ankles to carefully positioned eyelets, then crushing my nipples between the plates of two vises set into the bench. When I was in position and ready, I braced myself, sticking out my arse, ready to receive the pain Master would add to the agony of the restraints. The sun was setting in a blaze of crimson glory; in the street below people were strolling, dropping into the Red Cow for a drink. I noticed all of that as if in yet another dream - I was sure that, if they glanced up, all they'd see was the vague shape of a woman's face gazing out across the rooftops.

Master struck, the cat singing through the air, and I began making soft moans.

After fifty strokes, I could feel that the stretched skin of my arse and the backs of my thighs was glowing nicely, and I could distinguish a few blushing stripes where the tails of the cat had curled between my legs. Master opened a box of Godiva chocolates and rewarded me with a marron fondant.

Then Master closed the curtains, unhitched my shackles, released my nipples and hung me up by the wrists from a hook on the ceiling. I held my arms up, co-operating all the way.

The beam creaked, and I noticed that Master suddenly looked a bit sad, as if lost in a bittersweet memory for a moment. Almost immediately, though, Master collected himself to padlock my ankles to a spreader bar and attended to the tits. My nipples were still out of shape, flattened horizontally by the vises. Master rubbed them between fingers and thumbs and began to swing me backwards and forwards by the tits. This was, Master explained to me, a nipple-stretching exercise, as well as mildly painful. Then Master crushed my nipples vertically with clothes pegs hung with lead fishing weights.

The pain was becoming a constant in my consciousness; although the pain was omnipresent and was becoming more and more overwhelming, I was amazed by the dawning realization that I loved the pain. It was astounding that, without pretending the pain was anything other than what it was, the feelings engendered by the pain - the freedom, the release, and the relinquishment of all control - were uppermost in my mind.

Master paused to give me another chocolate, and then pulled back a curtain to reveal one of the mirrors so I could see how I looked hanging by my arms. Master insisted that I looked beautiful, which I still could not quite believe, but I was happy for a chance to inspect Master's handiwork.

My buttocks were still cherry-red from the cat. Master switched to the quirt, making vertical cuts on the soft skin of my thighs and calves, far harder than Master ever had hit me before, flinging me forward with every blow. I knew Master could tell from the noises I was making that this was pain on a different scale to anything I had experienced before.

Almost without realizing it, I began to beg, "Please, Master. It's too much! I can't stand it!" Master's response was to strike harder, turning my words to screams.

"Stop!" I was shrieking. "For God's sake, stop!" The sound was pitiful, but Master drove on, knowing that if I really wanted mercy I had only to say "Parsnips" or even just "Red". Instead, Master stepped up the pressure, laying blow after blow, ruthless, relentless.

Master paused to feed a milk chocolate truffle into my mouth, and then ran his fingertips down a livid bruise, as if to reassure me of his love and respect. When I had calmed down, Master explained, "There's a limit to how quick I want to go with a Music Room beating - I savour each scream like sips of fine wine. Standing bondage and a heavy whip combine to produce one of the most beautiful sights a master ever gets to see: a slave's buttocks, no longer stretched from bending over, jump and twitch. As the blows became heavier I can actually see the shock waves moving through the flesh, showing up the muscles beneath the skin."

Master said, "I'm prejudiced, obviously, but I don't think you can claim to know a woman until you've beaten her with something with a bit of weight to it."

The beating Master inflicted was every toothache, every headache, every graze and bruise I had experienced in my life, compressed into one incredible hour of agony. By now I was howling like a dog, like the bitch I was, the pain taking me to a place Master couldn't follow, somewhere only slaves can go.

Slowly my screams died down to whimpers, the only sound the thwack of rubber on skin. Master paused for breath, then said, "This is hard work. Hang on for a minute while I go downstairs to get myself a drink."

"And for me," I groaned. "Please."

Master shook his head. "I've earned a drink," he said. "I've been working. You've just been hanging there."

Master came back with a glass of lager and stood before me drinking it. Master wiped the tears from my cheeks and kissed me. "I'm going to beat your tits now," Master said. "Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Do you give me permission?" Master asked.

I nodded again.

Master put the glass down and picked up the quirt. Master struck out viciously, knocking the pegs clean off my nipples with two powerful strokes, and then slashing across the full breasts, making them bounce. Then Master went back to the nipples, hitting them with the tip of the quirt till they stood out bigger and harder than I'd ever seen before, filling my mind with love and pain, making me sing out my agony until the whole room was a sea of screams.

Master stopped again, and kissed my lips, twisting my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, squeezing so ferociously I screamed into his mouth. Then Master went back to the cat-of-nine-tails for a cunt whipping, whirling the leather strands round and round like the blades of a helicopter and bringing them slowly up between my legs, listening carefully so as to judge how much to inflict by the sound of my cries and the agony distorting my face.

As Master unhooked me and unlocked the spreader bar, he spoke quietly, saying, "Few people ever get to experience pain on this level." I was sobbing hysterically as Master flung me onto the vaulting horse, on my back, with my wrists and ankles chained together and fastened with a huge brass padlock.

Later, Master told me that Dave made that horse, using a blueprint he worked out for torturing Fuckpuppet. I certainly could attest to the fact that it's a marvel of workmanship. Master can unfold it like a magic Black & Decker Workmate to spread a woman's arms and legs out wide, or tilt it, as he did after securing me to it for the first time, putting my feet higher than my head.

I believe that I once read that no pain compares with having the soles of one's feet whipped. When the first blow landed, supporting that statement, I thrashed from side to side.

"Steady," Master commanded. "Hold your feet out flat. Make a proper target."

I refused to obey at first, still trying to process my surprise at the overwhelming pain rather. Master waited a minute or two, and then gave the order again.

This time, I nodded, and then held my feet steady for a second blow. Master struck, my toes curled up, and I rubbed the soles of my feet together. Then, slowly, accepting the inevitable, once again I spread out my feet, the soles flattened, ready for Master to strike again.

Left foot. Right foot. Over and over. By the sixth blow, the silent spell was broken and I was screaming again, even louder. After a dozen more blows, Master rubbed Ralgex into the soles to intensify the pain, and then beat me again. Master hit me a total of forty times on each foot, and though by the end I was bellowing like a child, I co-operated with Master with every blow, the final stroke bringing me to a shattering orgasm.

Master released my bonds, and plunged his cock into my mouth. Master was more excited than I had ever seen before -- in moments, Master was ready. The semen that spattered across my face was thick and plentiful, striping my forehead, nose and chin, and hanging in globules in my hair.

Master put his arms around me, and held me until my sobs subsided. My shoulders looked as if some kid had been scribbling on them with blue and purple crayons. The heaviest of these marks would be with me for weeks.

"Aren't you going to thank me?" Master asked sternly.

"Thank you, Master," I said. "That was amazing." My voice was soft, reflecting my awe at the experience we just shared. I had used up every bit of my strength, but I also had learned that it was much more considerable strength than I had ever known.