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.
