The Beribboning of the Gift

How had it come to this?

The words resounded in her head resonating deeply as if seeking pale-echoed form deep in her very soul.

The question might well have been some ancient jest formed for rhetoric’s celebration of its own teasing nuance. Of course, she knew exactly how she had come to this.

She knew the road down which she had travelled to arrive at this moment, this sweet predicament.

Words.

Simple words.

They had woven this snare, this sweet captivity.

Words had stormed the tedium of life's cliché,

and a ‘librarian’ stepped free of self-wrought, bookish, restraint. Restraint bound by words in bonds of fantasy's deceptive captivity.

Yet she had stepped free to soar, joyous, on the rising waves of pure feeling, richest sensation.

Inwardly she danced in praise of liberation. Yet, that dance showed as a simple tremble, a glimmering, emotional frisson expressed as what seemed a physical shiver that rippled through every cell of her craving body.

Appetite,

hunger,

satiation,

craving,

yearning,

fear,

ecstacy.

These were words she had read and processed, written and reformed. Over and over she had seen them, absorbed them, prayed for a salvation in their realisation. Now they were wrought real, as if forged white hot on the so soft anvil

of her flesh.

They were writ vastly on the virgin vellum of her secret soul. In other moments, more bookishly hidden moments, she may well have sneered at the hackneyed alliteration of her words.

The hand jolted her from thought as, unannounced, it cupped the down hanging fruit of her  breast. Swelling under its own urging her nipple offered rubber hard resistance to the fingers that lay either side of its swollen awareness.

The fingers squeezed, never soft, and slow growing harder.

Her teeth pressed down on a full lower lip as the inbreathed air sounded,

a low 'Hfffffffff  sound.

That one touch, such a simple contact, almost made her legs collapse under her.

"Tell me why you are here." His words so quietly spoken,

low in tone,

but deep in a resonance  sounding through her with a reverberating insistence bound to shame any great gong or ancient temple bell.

"You told me to come." She also whispered, but her sound was a tremor.

The hand moved away, and there was silence.

Her silence, for she knew SHE had made it grow.

"Please." She murmured. This, a delay cast in to buy time with which to explore raging thought. The silence seemed to grow until it possessed a mass, a body of oppressive proportions threatening to crush her.

"Why are you here?" he repeated the question, even more softly than before. That gentle tone’s unimaginable strength locked her in the most powerful grip of control she could imagine. Every word celebrated a simple yet resounding fact. He did not need chains and rope to bind her.

All he needed were his words, and her own will.

"I am here because I wish to learn how it feels to come face to face with my own submission!" A finger traced the curved contour of her breast.  She relished this, her reward.

"I am here," she hurried on,” to submit to you, but also to kneel before my own rights and submit to their self-destruction”.

Two fingers again squeezed her nipple. The sensation, her reward, tore through

her. Its intensity might have been pain, but, if so, it lay wasted amid the storm of her joy at its presence.

"I am here because I want to step beyond my own control." she whispered the words, gasping them as a shadow of fear cast itself across the reality of this moment.

"And what brought you here?" His hand trailed away from her breast, tracing its languid path over the taut, gentle ridges of her ribs.

"Your story”. she uttered as she recalled reading his  words posted on a 'site dedicated to erotic literature.  She had read his words and known they were for her, about her.

He had written of the janus-faced female who hid within herself.

She who was innocent

and guilty,

saint and sinner,

virgin and whore..

She had read a tale of exposed clichés where weak men posed as Dominants and hid their shallow reality, and infantile fears, behind feeble palisades built on the presumptuous high-ground of base deception, falsehood, and sham. Deception, crafted in posturing words, in labels demanded as Sire and Master, Lord and Sir. Their falsehood and sham crafted in paraphernalia and accoutrements, and borne on faltering crutches enacted as acts of trivial torture.

His tale of possession raised her awareness beyond that oft’ plied mirage of assumed BDSM reality. He had offered her fact. Offered a choice, a risk, and abject submission. She had emailed him to say how she had enjoyed his words, adding, 'that she wished she could experience them.'

His reply had been simple. It had said 'she could'.  All she had to do was submit to her own predilection. She was, by her own admission, secretly submissive. She was not unique in this, far from it. Many understood this need lived within themselves.  Many more hid from it, stifled it, and sacrificed its truth to the evil prejudices that had always stalked the free expression of female sexuality and need.

Generation after generation, century after century, had taught the world that 'good girls'

don’t

.

Don’t what?

They don’t want, don’t need, don’t yearn. Not good girls. Oh No , those who  did own such feelings were sluts,

cheap filthy sluts

, weren’t they?

Thus the teaching had unravelled through time. Imagine how  much worse it must be, they would have taught, to seek to revel in being a man’s toy, his possession.

She had known her hunger sought just that as its satiation.

She wanted to be a plaything,

A possession,

A toy,

A cheap filthy slut

.

She craved to drink deeply of the feeling only known when one said 'use me as you will'. She needed to revel in the liberation found only in embracing the soul-cry to damn their puritanical prejudice and fear, to spurn the ludicrous chains of pious sanctimony set to confine any woman’s hunger.

She had told him so, in so many words. She had written of her need to feel, not just think, her desires. Her words admitted the dizzy rush accompanying ideas that offered freedom to remake her imaginings as fact.

Simply, he had said, “such is your choice, and yours alone, So make it.” He had said it so simply.

She had read it,

at first casually,

as suggestion.

But only at first. Reread the words became advice.

Yet, each review shaded their meaning.

Soon a deeper awareness of his statement evolved. It was also a command. In three closing words he offered a depth of learning she would never have imagined. In three syllables he wove patterns of translucid clarity myriad haiku might never achieve.

Perhaps it had been prevarication when she 'mailed him that  'she did not know how'. His next response had  soothed her even as it seemed to laugh at her.

It told her

'she did know,but perhaps she did not dare'

.

It asserted that she simply

'feared what all feared'

.

The Risk,

The gamble,

The Commitment.

The words had sought, and begat, more exchange. It had been she began sending  pictures of herself. She had known her actions had asked that he should voice approval of her. True, there had been online exchanges with others. Several had been with self-proclaimed Doms, self-proclaimed Masters of The N’th degree.

Nevertheless, always the men had wanted pictures. All had sought a frenetic dive into rampant cybersex where her commanded image served as an aid, an adjunct to just another

‘wank’

.

Somehow it always hinted at sad desperation.

"You haven’t asked for a picture." she had written. "That’s unusual."

" No,” he had replied." Maybe for others, but not for me. That is me, my way, and thus usual for me. What matter are the  behaviours of others. You knew images had to become part of our interaction. You knew they would be essential in your journey and your expression of Self. If you were unable to work that out ,you were not reasy to know me. So, if you choose  to send pictures that is fine, but once you send one you will be agreeing to send any image I demand, that is the contract you will have entered into. That will be but one aspect of the power-exchange you seek, and we create."

She had sent a picture. The first 'nude' image she had sent on’net exposing her face , unobscured, unmasked, emblazoned  above her body’s exposed secrets.

His reply had been simple.

" Thankyou". One word. One simple statement that she had done well. Statement , she had moved forwards.

Her sendings had become as he had said. A service she grew to relish. Strangely, he had made no sweeping proclamations of

‘how she was a good ‘lil’ subby learning to serve a potential master'.

.

He had simply ‘mailed her that she had created pleasure in him’.

Her favourite had been a picture she shot whilst wearing an outfit she had never had the courage to wear beyond the walls of her bedroom.

Knee boots, stockings, almost Victorian in their heavy denier and lace tops finished  with   ribbons that tied in bows, suspenders, a short leather skirt (very short), a  bra, and a long over coat, all in black, deeply sombre, yet far from drab, black. The coat modelled on a riding garment, so revealingly snug and tightly tailored to the waist, with a full flaring 'skirt'. Her hair and make-up had been styled to offer a subtle hint of the ‘Goth’ aspect, a celebration in chic monochrome.

"Sorry it is such a cliché," she had written, hoping he would not mock her." but I simply love this outfit, 'wish I had the nerve to wear it out of my room.”

"I love your expression of Goth’chic". His words had mirrored her own thoughts, thoughts yet unspoken. “You will wear it." he had added. "You will wear it the first time you come to me”. His simple statement exploded like fire within her.“ You will wear it the first time you proffer your obedience. You will dress that way the first time I fuck you".

That was all he wrote.

It had stunned her.

The simplicity of the implicit, adamant, meaning shocked her to her core.

Total surrender.

"But I don’t know you. It might not be safe." she had been about to reply. Realisation's dawn broke like a sunrise in the tropics. Truth exploded like a fierce dawn greedily seeking its right of  passage through the day's  new sky.

That was exactly what  many, indeed most, would write. They would write it because they did not understand what it really meant to actually submit. They would play a part. So-called fetishism being a means to camouflage the

normal

games, played in normal ways, so what might have been a rare Napoleon Armagnac was transformed and corrupted into a sorry, bland, vanilla cordial rendered insipid and tasteless by its own predictable recipe.

Thus, she was here.

Thus she had come to the place and time he instructed,

Thus she had been guided to the tree.

There, she had removed that long flowing coat.

Willingly she had taken the

rope and blindfold from her bag.

Preparing the blindfold had been a terrible thrill, for she knew it would stop her from even seeing him. Thus, she would truly taste the secret flavours of the unknown, the risqué,

and therein ,

the risk.

Tying the rope to the low branch had been a series of quaking explosions unleashing expanding knowledge. Then, only then, she had known what submission truly was.

It was choice...free choice that realises Self in the terrible raging beauty of seeking its own downfall. By the very act of looping her wrists in the rope then pulling the loose end into a tight grip,

SHE

had  enacted her own ultimate submission. Maintaining the tight captivity, that she herself could have let go, offered the sweet taste of true submission.

Keeping her bonds fast, by her own doing, as a hand gripped her hair and bent her further forwards, proved her understanding. Pulling her self-inflicted bonds tighter as unseen, unknown, hands eased the skirt over hips and buttocks underlined the value of her obeisance. Increasing the self-made tension of the rope’s grip whispered of totality even as her bra fell away so her eager breasts  might know   exploration by an unknown, strange, new, possessor.

"So why are you here?" His quietly spoken words  possessed metal for the very reason they sought no sham of false power. She could 'hear' a smile sheathing the  solid  intent in his words. Crazy maybe, but she heard it as an unspoken echo.

'Domination need not be  theatrically stern'

,he had told her in their mails. Now she understood.

"Because I want to be here.” she answered, a gasp stifled in some innate need to…To what?

Resist, a moment she sought?

Defy, an event, a ritual of becoming, she hungered for?

"why are you being

fucked

by a stranger?" his cock  nudged her entrance and

sank deep into her  wetness as uncharacteristic, and thus more sweet, obscenity was stressed and  the sentence closed in sensual finality.

"Oh my god." she gasped, feeling a wave of sweet shock slam through her, even as recognition of cliché failed to dampen feeling, quell that moment.

"Why?” he insisted, hilting his length full in and out, his hand grasping her hair  and  using it like reins to  arch her back more deeply, her down curved  body thrusting her  ass  higher in proffered greeting of his demand made hard flesh.

" have to”.she gasped,

she sighed,

she pleaded,

all in one woven tone.

"have to  know it,

have to do it ,

have to own it."

" Own what?" he insisted, his cock pausing, once more, at the portal of her burning cunt.

"Myself...my desires, my secrets, my truth." she sobbed as her insides were gripped by sweetest entropy. Muscles forgot their function. Bones sought to deny their own form,

their very nature.

Form sought to become void,

and void take fullest form

as the peaking pleasure ripped through new pathways of neural expression and experience.

“And what is that truth, what else is it named?"  He demanded, his cock sliding higher  anointing her buttocks and finally settling poised at her asshole.

"Oh god..” she whispered..."never done that, never let anyone do that."

"But I am not asking to, that is a redundant question, the asking a pointless action. Words wasted in a falsehood of mock posturing." His cock moved a fraction so slight it was merely a feinted hint. “You are here because you sought  to serve my will. You offered yourself in trade for understanding and realisation. What is that truth, what are the desires, the secrets, the hunger, the yearning?. So, what is it you might call all those facets of your Self ?" he persisted, challenging her to retain cogent thought as his soliloquy set itself to test her reason.

"your Will"... she gasped as the cock nudged now, beginning to tear away, shred, the blinding veils of her own inexperience, veils woven from the teaching and bigotry of Victorian prejudice.

"Indeed, my will. But that is of  me. What is my Will, its meaning, to you?" His hands slid up to grasp her breasts firmly.

" Your will is”...she paused...squirming upon the shallow intrusion into her thus far unused ass.

"finish it." his words once more smiled in her perception, as  strong hands dragged her back a further  fraction and the ‘dull throb of contradictory pain heralded the swollen ‘heads’ passing through her resisting ring of muscle.

She felt it stretch her, felt it probe its way by right of access, right of mastery, by his very real enacting of the contracted

droit de signeur.

"your will is  My...my...NEED!” she hissed  as his hips thrust forwards seeking to snare her between themselves and  hard gripping hands that pulled her breasts back so her body succumbed to the opposite actions.

As in all such events, the positive reaction was easy to know. She made no effort to decide whether that reaction was equal or opposite. Such scientific notion belonged firmly beyond her perception’s reach, belonged in the realm of the banal and commonplace.

She felt his cock thrust deep into her, cleaving away the innocence of her ass, laying claim to whatever sham of swift shredded resistance she might have retained. Within this new, and so far unsought, sensation she recognised it's reality as a symbol.

" And what are you, my little whore, my ass-virgin no more, my little slut?” He asked in a, still gentle, voice totally lacking the posturing clichés of arrogance and  false claimed pride. These words, so often used as put-downs and slanders by others, tools used by the weak and pretentious meant to debase and humiliate, did so much more as they flowed from HIS lips . They caressed her, fuelled her. His words, so often mouthed as hackneyed abuse from the mouths of fools, fell like sweetest praise garbed in his knowledge and clad in his  gentle tone.

" What are you that I use you as I will? What are your belly, your cunt, your thighs, ass, tits, mouth, and lips?"

She knew the words were used as tools, deliberately coarse. Their very coarseness reigned over unspoken, blandly medical-sounding, alternatives, fuelling her need and want.

" My obeisance...MY GIFT." she felt a 'smile' possess her own words as his cock sank deep in its enacted possession, and spasmed, laving her with a baptism to a new life.

Her Rebirth.

“And so endeth your first lesson.” he whispered into her ear

.