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.
*
Long before Sally came to live with us, Master and I had discussed what historical figures influenced the manner in which Master exercised his domination. I was surprised to learn that Master credited Carl Maria von Clausewitz, the great military theorist, as his strongest influence. According to Master, von Clausewitz believed one must gather all one's forces and hit one's enemy where he was weakest. Master, in his inimitable way, had taken this precept and applied it to his practice of dominance, but by standing it on its head. Master did not hit or in any other way attack a submissive at her weakest point. Rather, Master does the opposite: Master uses the greatest force on the parts of a slave's body where she is least vulnerable to damage. Master's belief, honed over years of dominating slaves, is that, when punishment is applied correctly, the human body can take more than most people would believe.
Master was fond of stating, for example, that we humans have an immensely strong rib cage, particularly if it is struck with a relatively large instrument. To Master's way of thinking, this concept naturally led to the boxing matches that made the three of us famous in London S&M circles. It became so popular we did guest appearances in Manchester, Dublin, and Amsterdam. Over one weekend, we even performed at a party in New York.
It took a long time to persuade me to play this particular game, because I did not think women should box and, depending on my brain to make a living, I feared Master might get carried away and hit me on the head. My fears were silly, really, as a good master never gets carried away, and I knew from personal experience just how good a Master my Master was!
Perhaps it'll be clearest if I told you about one of our shows, exactly as it happened. Not the first one, which we staged at one of Dave and Fuckpuppet's torture parties, but later when we'd worked out a smooth routine.
Master drove his two slaves to a big house in North London, in St. John's Wood. Though it was a fine evening, we walked up to the imposing front wood wearing those raincoats you see so much of around S&M parties.
It wasn't a fancy dress affair, though there's an element of dressing up at every S&M function. There were masters and mistresses in fine leathers, slaves wearing collars and leashes, and one gorgeous redhead had her head sealed into a steel cage, but the guests were there for the action, and already you could hear the sound of whips cracking and the moans of slaves in pain.
We weren't the only ménage a trois, either. A stunning, willowy blonde was hanging upside down against a wall while two black men dressed as sailors whipped her breasts and the fronts of her thighs. Another unforgettable sight was a dark haired beauty standing tied to a pillar, everything except her head and her large breasts swathed in cling film, while a scrawny urchin with a crew-cut and a ring through her nose stuck drawing pins into the flesh around each nipple, working outwards to make a complete brass bra. There were so many pins embedded in that soft flesh that the weight of the metal was dragging the breasts down. We stood and watched as the mistress pushed in the last one and grinned. "A hundred polished pins," she told her slave gleefully. "That's a dozen more than last time. You're a shining example to every other bitch in the room."
Sally and I were transfixed at the sight of this pinned slave. With Sally it was pure lesbian lust; what I was feeling was fear and curiosity, wondering what it would be like to be tied up and pierced again and again, on view to the casual partygoer. We stepped up for a closer look. As well as the drawing pins embedded in the breasts, each nipple was skewered with two long needles. Strangely enough, the slave's face looked impassive, as if those tortured globes of flesh belonged to somebody else.
"Can I touch?" Master asked.
"Be my guest," replied the mistress.
Master ran the palms of his hands over the heads of the pins, and the girl winced.
"Smack them," the mistress suggested. "That's what she likes."
Master did so, and the slave moaned.
"They're very beautiful," Master said.
"Thank you. I'm going to make her wear them home and sleep like that," her mistress smugly replied.
Master shrugged. "I was hoping to watch you take them out. You're a lucky woman. You've got yourself a very fine slave."
"Thank you, Master," said the slave through gritted teeth.
"Shut your face," Master growled. "I wasn't talking to you."
Master turned to me, and said, "As I'm always telling you, Meat, no matter how great your tolerance becomes, a way can be found to test you still further."
I nodded, awed.
Both Sally and I kept looking back as we walked away. That sight, I knew, would haunt our dreams.
On the other side of the same room, a sweet little curly-headed blonde was standing on tiptoe by the window, nailed by her tongue to the window-frame, breasts flat against the glass. I later learned that her piercing was nothing more advanced than the stud in many tongues these days, but the effect was spectacular -- of course, the fact that an elderly man in a morning suit was busy marking the woman's shoulders and buttocks with a cane added to the effect!
Before I began submissive service, my only personal experience with piercings was having each ear lobe pierced once, so the piercings I saw at parties usually took me aback. Not just because of my conservative professional image, I was relieved to have Master explain to me that he does not care for permanent slave piercings -- Master believes piercings spoil the line of lovely breasts, noses or cunt lips. Of course, this did not mean that Master could not employ temporary piercings when he felt they were useful in immobilising a slave with a ring or a hook.
Anyway, to return to that St. John's Wood party, our host (a young man wearing slave trousers with holes in the back to show off his already beaten buttocks) greeted us enthusiastically. "Thank you so much for coming," he said, leading the way. "Everyone's dying to see your performance." This was clearly true: masters and mistresses broke off from the action to watch us. When we got to the room set up for us, Sally took our coats and piled them neatly on the windowsill.
Sally was wearing nothing but a bow tie and a pair of white cuffs on her wrists. Master had black boxing shorts, with high black lace-up boots.
As we arrived, Master leaned over and told me he thought I looked glorious. I was lightly made-up, my hair done in soft curls. Sally laced lime green boxing gloves onto my hands, which matched my boots and the silk dressing gown over my shoulders with the word "champ" embroidered on the back in purple silk.
Master strode about the room, laying a length of scarlet cord into a square. Then Sally helped Master put on his boxing gloves.
By now the sounds of whippings and moanings had died down; everyone crowding into the one room. Even the brass-breasted girl with the drawing pins in her chest was there, and the girl with the pierced tongue had been set free to enjoy the show. I knew that Master was well-acquainted with many of these people personally, and most of the rest by reputation. Master murmured to both Sally and to me that, to have so many respected masters and mistresses gather round to watch, was an honour indeed.
"Listen up," Master told the crowd. "This cord represents the boxing ring, so stay outside it. Someone get me a stool for the corner."
Master hit his gloves together, and I shrugged off my silk gown. I had many humiliation outfits, but this was far and away Master's favourite. I was wearing nothing but those boxing gloves and boots, with a fair imitation of the Lonsdale Belt slung round my hips. The only thing on my as yet unmarked chest was a touch of lipstick on nipples that were already hard with excitement. I had come a long way from that first party when I wore the beekeeper's outfit. I stood, proud and virtually naked, accepting the admiring glances of the crowd. We met in the center of the room with our Assistant Cunt acting as referee.
"I want a good clean fight," Sally told us, "with lots of pain. Shake hands and come out fighting."
Master adopted a boxer's crouch and Sally rang a bell to announce the start of the first round.
I raised my gloves above my head and danced towards Master, ready for the first blow to fall, reveling in the knowledge that a whole room full of people loved me with their eyes. After shuffling around the ring a little, Master caught me in one of the corners. A straight left flattened one breast; a right hook set the other one swaying.
The action was tough and violent, but every movement was utterly controlled. The blows that landed on breast flesh were hard enough to sting, but no more. The punches on the ribs were much fiercer. Now and again Master would land a really hard one between the tits that would send me staggering back into the crowd. Strong arms grabbed me and shoved me back into the ring for further punishment.
All eyes were on the loser. When I grunted at a particularly savage blow, women in the crowd let out little cries of sympathy.
Sally walked around us, pretending to referee the match, watching my face in case the combination of pain and the attention of all those masters and mistresses made me come. If a sudden orgasm made me lose my balance and fall, Sally would step forward and catch me. I, of course, never attempted to hit back at Master, and Master didn't hit below the belt or lay a glove on my face, though my chest was taking one hell of a beating.
After a few minutes Sally rang the bell. I sat on the stool as Sally fanned my face with a towel and Master danced around the ring, hitting his gloves together and threatening the slaves in the crowd. Now and again, if Master thought it would be welcome, Master would punch a proffered breast, but mostly Master just dazzled us all with his footwork.
Then Sally rang the bell for the next round.
When I rose from my stool, I knew it gleamed with my juices. Another slave, a little Chinese girl, dropped to her knees and deftly licked it clean. By round three, the crowd was beginning to get into it, calling out shouts of encouragement:
"Hit the bitch!"
"Whack her tits!"
"Show her no mercy!"
