Mastering Submission

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 felt I looked stunning in an outfit by Nicole Farhi that I had chosen myself, and charged to Master at his request: wide-legged Capri pants, camisole, and long-sleeved cardigan with no buttons, all in matching grape coloured silk. It was the first time I had ever been seen by Master in trousers, of which I knew Master disapproved, but this was a very special occasion. My heart was thumping in my chest as I poured Master a glass of champagne. "You're not eating much," I said.

"No," Master admitted. "I'm not very hungry." Then Master gave me a brave grin and took a sip of wine. "Well, Meat, my sweet," Master told me, handing me an envelope. "Your year's contract is up. This is a cheque, drawn on my Swiss account for the balance of the money you owe. From tomorrow, you are free."

I raised my glass. "Thank you," I replied. "Thank you for mastering me. I'm sorry I was so expensive." I smiled. "You changed my life, you know. Before I met you, I enjoyed sex. But looking back, when I was lying there with a man cradled in my arms, thinking I was satisfied, there must have been something deep inside me asking, 'is that all there is?'"

"I want you to stay," Master said.

"I know," I replied.

"But you've made up your mind," Master responded.

"Yes," I confirmed.

"I could beat you into submission," Master said.

"But you won't," I replied with the assurance of my year's service to Master.

I knew Master had been thinking about this moment for a year, as had I. Still the power of my emotions took me by surprise. Although Master was behaving calmly, we both knew he felt he was about to lose a woman Master truly loved for the second time in his life. I knew Master likely was devastated, knowledge that was supported when Master lifted up his glass to shield his face from my eyes before saying, "You're right. I don't want you to go, but I won't punish you for going, or keep you against your will." Master was hiding his eyes, but there was no disguising what the lump in Master's throat was doing to his voice.

In the fantasy world we had built up together, Rebecca Parsons was Master's to do with what Master wanted, but in the real world, I was a career woman with a life of my own. Though the flat was crammed with chains, straps, and padlocks, we both knew Master would do nothing to stop me walking through the door.

Some time tomorrow morning, Master felt he would watch my fabulous arse walking away from him forever, and then Master would be on his own again.

Even though I knew how much Master felt he wanted me to stay, even after my contract was completed, I had no expectation that Master ever would grovel, fling himself on the floor, clasp my ankles and cry for me to stay. One of the lessons I had learned during my year of service to Master was that a master simply could not behave like that: a master who begs is no longer a master; a master who grovels loses the right even to remember that a woman was his slave. I was sure that, as Master sat quietly drinking his wine, his thoughts were racing. I believed Master was looking back over our year together, wondering if Master could have done anything better. Master rightly prides himself on being a skilled master, but Master accepted that there is never any way to tell how that skilled mastering is being received. Master knew he had kept me in service long enough to transform pain into pleasure, to turn my shame at being exposed and abused into pride in my own strength and tolerance. Despite that knowledge, I could see in Master's eyes the thoughts that, if Master had been kinder -- or if Master had been crueler -- would that difference have caused me to become addicted to Master's whips and chains, and caused me to have stayed with Master forever?

Master had taught me it was possible to reach orgasm through pain alone; Master had shown me how to let humiliation make me confident; Master had given me more pleasure and more fun than all the other men in my life put together. But both Master and I knew that, if there was to be any chance that some time in the future I would come back to Master, he had to let me go.

Although Master had never talked to me at length about his experience with slaves before me, I knew that slaves had left Master before: when their jobs took them to other cities or other parts of the world; when they felt Master had taught them all they needed to know; when they fell in love with other masters. And I also knew that Master had thrown slaves out, sometimes brutally. Three of Master's slaves left because Master sold them for hard cash, and Master had been happy to see them go. But I knew that I was different -- and I believed that Master would regret losing me as his slave for the rest of Master's life -- but I was glad that Master and I were having the chance to say good-bye, to make love one last time.

Master tied me up, then, very tightly. Master roped my ankles to the tops of my thighs, and tied them together. Then Master tied my wrists together at the back of my neck, knowing that I was so supple this would only be mildly uncomfortable. Part of me wanted Master to carry me up to the Music Room and have a real go at me, sending me out into the world bruised and bleeding, but Master decided just to wrap some twine round my nipples and fuck me.

Well, not just fuck me. For the first time since we met, Master ate my pussy, slowly and lovingly, getting the smell of me deep in Master's soul, giving Master something to remember in the lonely evenings ahead. And Master slapped me about a bit while Master was fucking me; not hard, just enough to make me come. Even though Master knew it was our last night together, when with real affection Master untied me, Master tucked me into my little slave bed at the foot of Master's four-poster bed.

"Stay out of harm's way, won't you?" Master said tenderly.

"I will," I replied.

"I don't have any right to ask this, but I'd prefer it if you didn't let anybody else beat you," Master said.

I returned Master's gaze thoughtfully. "OK," I replied. "I won't. I can promise you that."

Master looked as though he did not know whether to be pleased with that reply or not.

As I drifted off to sleep, tucked up into my little bed, I thought of screaming while Sally's candle burned my tit. I remembered licking honey off Master's cock. I thought about the experience of being watched by Master whilst I maneuvered my arsehole onto a purple dildo jutting up from a dining room chair. I heard my voice counting the blows of a whip and thanking Master for each blow. I remembered smiling through a faceful of sperm. The memory of my beaten feet was so intense I only had to close my eyes to count the bruises. Memories I would take with me to the grave -- memories I knew Master shared and that Master planned to use to sustain him after I was gone.