Author's note
: Chapter five gave me a lot of trouble! I rewrote it twice, and I'm still not super happy with it. It ended up more S/M heavy, including bondage, impact play, electro play and branding, and humiliation. It's been a few years since I messed around with a violet wand (and I've never topped), so excuse any inaccuracies.
Sasha
"What the fuck?" I wondered out loud as my rideshare pulled away from the curb in front of the address Blue had given me. What kind of tattoo artist lived in a mansion in the old historic district? The neighborhood was known for Victorian cottages, Craftsman homes, and Neoclassical manors--which I only knew because I'd taken an architecture class to fulfill one of my general education requirements--but Blue's house was a Mediterranean Revival. Or maybe a Spanish Colonial? Whatever.
It was big and a little ugly. The grungy rectangular building had red clay roof tiles, round-headed doors, and helical window mullions. The front door had a vaguely classical bas-relief pediment that clashed with the blind arches holding up the wrought-iron balcony above it. I couldn't find a buzzer, so I used the heavy metal knocker. Blue answered looking like Blue, except he was wearing a t-shirt instead of a pearl-snap button-down. I got a glimpse of a two-story foyer before he ushered me back outside and to a side entrance on an addition that looked original but probably wasn't because it ruined the symmetry of the façade.
The raised-paneled door opened to reveal a dungeon that almost made a medieval torture chamber look like a modern industrial farmhouse. The room had lime-washed walls, flagstone floors, and sandblasted windows. A pergola had been built out of a truss from one of the distressed wood ceiling beams. There was an iron cage hanging from a chain, a steel breaking wheel mounted to a post, and--"Is that a fucking
rack
?" I asked, walking over to the bondage table.
"My dad collected antique punishment devices," he said. "Most of them are speculations and hoaxes from the 17th and 18th centuries, but they made an... impression."
The last two sessions had been so ad-hoc, I guess I wasn't prepared for such serious set up. If anything, I'd expected some kind of medical situation with an eye towards safety and sanitation. Then again, I'd also expected him to live in an apartment complex or maybe a small bungalow. Blue's vintage decor was like his cowboy clothing--styled but understated. He had consummate taste and knew exactly what he wanted. I mean, I'm pretty sure you can't just buy furniture meant to dislocate limbs on the internet.
He told me to undress and I knew the drill by now. "When you are standing," he began once my clothes were folded and set aside, "you will either be waiting or at attention. Your legs should be wide apart enough for me to fit my hand in the space between your thighs." Palm flat and facing upward, he bumped his fingers against the small gap there to demonstrate it's current deficiency. I shuffled my feet outwards until I could accommodate the necessary width. "Chin up," he continued, tapping lightly on the underside of my jaw. "If I am in your field of vision, you will look at me. If I'm not, you will look straight ahead. When you are waiting, you will fold your arms behind your back. Grab your elbows. Good."
He circled around me, issuing commands and applying his fingers in places he wanted me to fix. "Shoulders back," a squeeze of my upper arms. "Stand taller," an upwards nudge between my scapulas. "No, don't lose the arch in your back," a press against my lower spine. Blue was detail-oriented down to the millimeter, and I found his precision exhilarating.
"When you are at attention, you will keep your fingers threaded behind your neck with your elbows up and back. Further back, Red, open up your chest." This was a significantly more strenuous position, and I was trembling from the effort in mere minutes. I'd played soccer for almost a decade growing up; no arm strength required. "We'll have to build more muscle," Blue observed, before slapping my ass without warning. I yelped, limbs flailing as I only just avoided face-planting into the floor. "And stability."
I rearranged myself back into the waiting stance at his order and with his help, embarrassed at my apparent inadequacy, but thrilled at the insinuation that he'd train me to suit his needs. Something had happened to me since last week. I'd taken the chain out of my pussy lips, but Blue had remained inexorably intertwined. I couldn't touch my cunt without hearing
Your orgasms don't belong to you
echoing in my head... and heart.
Blue
M/s is not a more extreme form of D/s. A dominant can just as easily live under someone else's authority as a slave and still remain dominant in bed if that's what their Master desires. It's a distinction between who you are versus what you do. You know that little aphorism about submissives having all the power? The point of being a slave is that you
don't
.
I hadn't owned anyone in a decade. With the way that relationship ended, I hadn't wanted to. I mostly played and fucked masochistic subs. They weren't difficult to find; my dance card filled up fast with volunteers for needle art and corset piercings whenever I attended a private party. Some I'd even tattooed as part of a scene. None of them would dream of giving me free reign over their bodies the way I knew Red would.
I'd managed to disappoint both my politician father and poet laureate mother by becoming a tattooer instead of a painter. Even still, there was no scenario where I was flashing Red in "enter here" arrows or bouquets of cocks or any manner of imagery designed to be humiliating for humiliation's sake. I wanted to ruin her life, but I also wanted to make her a cohesive work of art. Not today, though. Today I could have a little fun.
Inkless bloodlining was my normal go-to for something temporary, but redheads can be hit or miss with scarring. It's not often that someone in my profession encounters virgin skin, and when they do, the person attached to that skin usually wants something small and simple. I didn't want to do anything that would compromise my ultimate vision for Red. Electro branding still carried risks, but burns would be easier to cover.
The rack was fun, but first up was the sawhorse. It was more of an adjustable wooden trestle, really. I could change out the top attachment depending on whether I wanted to use it as a bench or a donkey. Very versatile and very uncomfortable. I made Red straddle it while I warmed her tits up with my hands.
There seemed to be no limit to how hard I could play with Red's nipples, but she flinched when I spanked her breast. The tissue was dense--probably due to her age and weight--which posed complications for impact play. I'd have to keep it stingy and superficial. I grabbed a switch from the cart of tools I'd prepared before her arrival and gave her an experimental strike, pulling back the moment it landed.
"Ah!" She twitched backwards, but didn't move her unrestrained arms to cover herself. Good girl.
"Look how pretty you stripe," I said, running a finger along the ribbon of red that now marred her pale, freckled skin. I added five more to match, finishing with a stroke that caught the center of both nipples. As they began to visibly darken and engorge, I snapped them between the cruel jaws of spiked clover clamps and added eight ounce weights.
Red's tits were so perky the nipples distended but didn't droop. I knew I'd be able to lengthen them by a lot, but I'd have to thicken them for gauges. I didn't want them to look stretched out, just big. I played with the weights until Red was rocking her cunt against the wooden surface, then folded her over the horse width-wise. Feet and hands elevated off the floor, I secured her wrists and ankles to the frame with double column ties. With her hips bent and head lowered, my vantage point reduced her to an ass, a cunt, and a set of legs.
"Let's check if you cleaned this for me," I touched her asshole and she shuddered. Donning gloves, I emptied a syringe of thick, water-based lube just inside before smearing it around her ring. My pointer finger slipped in and out of her easily--and spotlessly--but I didn't want to prepare her too much. I owned several different types of anal dilators; some day Red would take the pear of anguish, but for now I greased up a medium-sized steel butt plug.
She squeaked as I inserted it. Solid and heavy, in her position it was sphincter versus gravity. "Look at this well-used asshole," I taunted. "Must have seen a lot of dicks. My little anal slut can't even keep the plug in, can you?"
"I can keep it in," she said, teeth clenched as tight as her hole.
I swapped the switch for a cane and smacked it against her butt cheeks. Red hissed and recoiled, then arched her back for more. The way she processed pain was a thing of beauty. Alas, her instinct to relax into it caused the plug to slip until it caught on the thickest part.
Sasha
I'd messed around with spanking, and a faux-leather paddle that imprinted the word
PRINCESS
