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.
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I am not going to describe the holiday itself because this is not that sort of story. If you want to know about the Seychelles, I recommend Beyond the Reefs by William Travis.
However, you might like to know about the third evening of our holiday, when Master fucked my throat for the very first time.
Master had explained to me that he believed training a woman to let him fuck her throat could not be rushed and required gentleness, despite the fact that some masters rape their slaves' throats to open them up for fucking.
Master had been completely open with me about wanting to fuck my throat, and utterly firm. From the very start of my submissive service, Master had told me he was going to fuck my throat. Whenever I sucked Master's cock, he would force me to take it deeper by tugging my hair or putting a hand on the back of my head and pushing. Master would criticise me for not being able to swallow his entire cock; Master would accuse me of being less than a woman, of being untrainable, of being a hopeless excuse for a cocksucker, constantly reminding me that he wanted my throat.
"Take it deeper, inadequate whore!" Master would shout. "I don't just want you to swallow my sperm; I want to push it all the way down. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be able to deep-throat a donkey!" In addition, every time I failed to take Master's cock in far enough, Master gave me a whipping. It certainly helped me understand that every blowjob I gave Master was a step closer to his goal.
When we ate together, especially in restaurants, Master would remind me that he wanted to fuck the throat that was swallowing the food on my plate, making deep throating an obsession for both of us.
As well as the stick of scorn and whipping, Master had carrots to offer. When I asked if we could go to the opera, Master said he could get tickets easily, but only if I would let him fuck my throat.
Another way Master worked toward his goal of fucking my throat was to make his kisses deeper, fucking my mouth rhythmically, as deep as he could, keeping time with his cock pounding my cunt.
Master gave me a long dildo for practise, with a waterproof pen to mark off how deeply I managed to get it down my throat. Once a week, Master made me stand in front of him and push the dildo down as far as it would go, mark it and date it. Then we would examine it together.
"Not much progress, Meat," Master would say.
"No, Master," I would admit.
"What are you going to do about it?" Master asked.
"Apologise, Master," I said.
"And then?" Master prompted.
"Ask you to punish me, Master," I replied.
"And then?" Master prompted again.
I thought for a minute, and then replied, "And then I'm going to try harder, Master - an awful lot harder."
As the marks moved further and further along the dildo, the punishments became extreme, and the promised rewards grew more and more extravagant. The payoff for all of Master's care, training, and attention came on the third evening of that wonderful holiday, when I knelt at Master's feet and asked for permission to speak.
"Permission granted, worthless bitch," Master responded.
"Master, I believe I can take your cock in my throat now," I quietly said.
"Then lie down on the edge of the bed," Master commanded, "on your back, with your head hanging down."
I lay as instructed; watching Master strip off his clothes, and then seeing him kneel directly opposite my head. Master's cock stiffened as Master looked at me, then he touched the head of the cock to my lips, and I opened my mouth.
"Ready, whore?" Master asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
Master moved forward slowing. As the tip touched my soft palate, I coughed. Master paused, and then pushed forward. My coughing stopped and my throat made a rich, gurgling sound.
Master pushed deeper, squashing my lips against my teeth with the base of his cock, and then he paused, focusing on my throat, pulsing around the rod of his cock. Infinitely slowly, Master began to fuck, watching the progress of his cock in my throat. As Master became more confident of my self-control, Master began to withdraw further until his cock actually left my mouth with each stroke. I could see the underside of the helmet of Master's cock, gleaming with my saliva, watch it disappear into my mouth and then have my vision blocked by the press of Master's body as he seated his cock to its full length inside my throat.
Later that evening, when I knelt on the warm tiles of our tropical hotel room floor and recited the Prick Prayer for Master, I remembered to bring it up to date:
O magnificent prick, I kneel before you to promise you unquestioned access to my cunt, my mouth, my throat, and my arsehole any time you desire. I will deny you nothing.
As my submissive service to Master continued, I began to appreciate that straight lovers have it easy compared to Masters: they do a bit of foreplay, in and out, a cigarette afterwards and it is off to the pub. Master's must be tolerant, responsive, and constantly inventive. Master would think up little playlets for the two of us to star in:. Master as the cruel intelligence officer, me as the spy; Master as a jealous husband, me as the unfaithful wife; Master the teacher, me the lazy pupil. Sometimes there would be heavy pain involved, sometimes insults, sometimes I would simply have to obey a long chain of instructions, hundreds of variations on the theme of my not being in charge. Master's ability to strike a balance between real-world man-on-woman violence and the clumsiness of our play-acting and costumes constantly impressed me: although our scenes were far from great drama, they were wholly engaging and kept me guessing, relying on Master to move things along.
Because I was a creative, intelligent, and focused slave, Master frequently complained about how difficult it was for him to ensure that I failed. Because of the fact that Master refused just to let me win, failure was always an option, and it was clear that our games were for adults, not children. Adults understand the importance of losing.
I was not an accomplished cook, but I was perfectly capable of following recipes to produce edible meals. Master made cooking an arena full of failure potential by making computer reprints of recipes with the ingredients or proportions altered to make things absolutely impossible.
"We'll have a soufflé Friday night," Master would say. "And God help your poor bottom if it doesn't rise perfectly."
Some people like to dominate others sexually. Some people like to be submissive. Some like to switch roles from time to time. The idea of switching was difficult for me - my submissive personality made it nearly impossible for me to imagine dominating anyone, and Master made it perfectly clear that he never could submit to anyone for even an instant. His talent for being a Master - being able to read the pain on my face, hearing the subtle messages encoded in each moan and scream. Master repeatedly demonstrated his creativity, inventing games, and finding amazing outfits and implements he could use in ways they never had been intended.
"Which nipple shall I hang it on," Master asked, standing in front of my naked chest, brandishing a clothes peg.
"I don't know, Master," I replied.
"Not true!" Master exclaimed. "Look down, you lying bitch. Which nipple is sticking out?"
"The left one, Master," I admitted.
"Which one is hard as a rock, jutting forward to meet its fate, eager for pain?" Master demanded.
I sighed, "The left one, Master."
"Not true!" Master shouted. "Her sister on the other side is just as stiff now. I think this calls for two pegs. Don't you agree, Meat?"
