The Red Bride Denuded

The setting is a solicitor's office. Present are a young woman in a pretty red dress, early twenties ('The Red Bride'); a female legal assistant, formally dressed, late thirties; an older man, handsome, greying temples, well-dressed in a fine business suit, red tie ('Master'); the solicitor, well-dressed in a fine business suit, blue tie.

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Legal assistant

My boss has told me we'll have a novelty to deal with today. Sort of like marrying two people. But he said I might be shocked. The woman would more or less sell her soul to the man, who also is a lot older.

Why always the woman in the giving, inferior role?

He hopes I can stomach the shock.

'It is all legal', he says with a smile.

Now this is her, the would-be bride. Beautiful. Not stupid. Naïve, certainly. Dressed like a girl in a pretty red party dress. She is young, but not a girl. A fully developed young woman and well endowed. She could get any man she cares to have. But she is not the conqueror's type. Or perhaps it is just the nerves of getting married that makes her nervous, servile... Although she is suddenly alert, studies me back with intensity. In her eyes I see a flicker of spirit... She is not stupid.

The bride

I look at my Master with tears in my eyes. I cannot disobey his very first order. I cannot. But I die with embarrassment when I reach to the back of my dress and tear down the zipper. Master, he has sat down and watches me push the dress off my shoulders, the beautiful red dress he gave me upon my surrender, yesterday, and let it fall to the floor. I step out of my shoes and dress, loosely fold it up and put it and the shoes to the side. I feel very, very cold in my underwear and stockings.

And I stand there. Still.

Embarrassed especially in front of another woman. I feel she will judge me all the harder. She will feel I am letting the side down and throwing it all away. And she is right!

The command 'Go on!' shocks me back to the here-and-now. I bend over and strip down the left first and then the right stocking, neatly fold up each of them in turn and put it on the dress. I am so cold! But I go on and undo the clip of my bra behind my back, naturally with my shoulders curved back and my breasts pert, slide the shoulder straps down with my back curved forward and my breasts pressed together and let the pretty bra fall off. It follows the way of my stockings. My breasts are now evicted from their safe haven and exposed for all to see. In an office!

Should my nipples not be erect? Should I not be aroused by these moments? I am ashamed! When I finally remove my knickers, I am stark naked. I don't even have pubic hair to protect me. I mechanically fold the knickers up and put them down with the rest.

There I am. Open to three pairs of eyes. Two that leer at me and one that judges me.

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But we'll come to this part of the story later. Let's start at the beginning, a few months earlier...

I MEET MY MATCH

Yes, very much so...

I am in love!

Oh, how could I not be! That man! He oozes class, force and authority. Oh, and he is beautiful...

He is older. That too. I have always kept been open to older men, but this time marks the first instance when I am actually with a member of that age group. Daddy complex? Maybe.

I said he has authority. Well, I fear him. Almost. But I have nothing to fear. I am a good girl.

Ultimately what redeems me is that I love him.

I truly love him!

To you, if you are new to the eccentric universe I inhabit, it must seem wrong: the large age difference between him and me and our clear inequality. He commands me. Yet through him I am free. Freedom through submission.

I like strong men and have always done so. I never was one for young boys. Here is my luck: I developed early from child to woman and became well shaped, quite the looker. Therefore, I had the pick of boys at high school. When I was still a sophomore, I had my first boyfriend, a senior. He was a football player and strong indeed. But within a few months I was no longer impressed by his brawn. Behind his big mouth he depended on me more than I could suffer. Well, there is only one way to learn - to get it wrong sometimes. I am sure you will agree.

I found another boyfriend before long, a less wholesome, all-American rebel, a senior to my junior. He was the James Dean type, moody, enigmatic. This impressed me at lot at the time. He was very, very sweet with me, meanwhile, especially whenever we were alone. In public, he made sure everyone knew that I was his and he protected me when I needed it. That suited me fine and I was with him for a year. What made us finally break up was that, going from a senior at school to a lowly freshman at college, he lost his air of self-reliance. Within a few months he had changed his tack and became as straight as the rest. After that, as a senior, I had a few boyfriends of various descriptions in quick succession. None of them stuck.

The moment arrived when I went to college myself. My major was fashion. Far away from home, all the way at the other side of the country. I arrived in NYC, the capital of the free world. I was beautiful and quite self-assured and had the time of my life. My world was that of fashion, the world of make-believe, of fine, funny, moody and mysterious faces and bodies and extraverted but often superficial behaviour. I was not nearly interested in 'relationships', but in making good-looking matches, plural. And in sex, which I had plenty of. I was a fashion queen.

Then, at a party, I met Him. He was a business consultant to a modelling firm that a friend of mine worked for and evidently some fifteen, twenty years my senior. I happened to be on my own and near him just when the dancing started and it was I who took the initiative and asked him to dance. Why not? I was self-assured and liked his mature good looks. My initiative, but it was he who grabbed the reigns and led me dancing, smooth, yet forceful and without hesitation.

We talked a little throughout about my course and my ambitions and his area of work and where it had taken him. I had a ball. But nothing had prepared me for the words he spoke when we parted ways. I had been considering whether I would engineer having sex with him. My first older man! When I had decided I would, I managed to share a taxi with him on the way home. When the taxi approached my place, during those final few seconds before the taxi came to a stop, just when I took a breath to offer the invitation for him to come in, it was he instead who spoke.

'No. It is clear what you are thinking. I will not come up with you.

'But this time next week, you will have called me,' and he handed me a business card, 'and you will be mine.

'On my terms. Now leave.

'Goodnight.'

He reached past me to open my door, but did not kiss me. Astonished, I complied and got out of the car, which swiftly zoomed off. I stood there on the curb, stupefied and frozen, holding his card. Rejected! When I finally got to my senses, I stamped off inside. I was fuming! The arrogant bastard! Who did he think he was! Yes, I would call him and be his, on his terms! In his dreams I would!

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During the next few days, I often found myself thinking of Him. Yes, in a dismissive way to start with. But the point was that I could not dismiss the thoughts, no matter how hard I tried. As the anger wore off, thoughts of him kept on creeping into my consciousness. I found myself daydreaming about him all the time but did not realise that my mood had changed. Then the epiphany took place. When I surfaced from the depth of a daydream, I found my hand doing its dirty work in my crotch as if with a mind of its own. I was interested in Him - in love - no, in lust! - and wanted one thing only: to see him again.

I called him within the hour. He was very sweet to me. I had braced myself for more bluntness and assertion on his part. But it was clear that he was taking nothing for granted and was genuinely very happy that I had called. He, nor I, referred to the brazen claim he made on the first night - that I would be his within a week. I might have done so and flung his claim far away, in his face. Why didn't I? Was I afraid? He might have and reel me in from the word go. Was he that confident that I would come to him of my own accord, didn't need any reeling in?

Could any move from either of us have me prevented the drastic change of direction that my life was about to take? A pointless question! Water under the bridge.

We agreed to meet in a bar downtown.

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I am early and sit at the bar with a drink, looking fine in green and being stared at by many of the patrons. I am impatient. Oh, come, my man! It takes close to half an hour before he turns up, by which time I am so nervous. He strides towards me, stands still for a few seconds, his gaze piercing through my eyes into my soul, utterly disarming me. 'Come,' he says, grabs my wrist with one hand and my coat with the other and ushers me out of the bar, oblivious to the heads turning in our direction.

A taxi is waiting. We enter and it drives off immediately, apparently under instructions. He still holds my wrist. 'Kiss me! Oh, kiss me!', I whisper. And he does! He embraces and kisses me with such passion yet finesse that I know that I am his for the taking, unconditionally. The kiss and embrace last minutes and minutes and could have gone on forever, but the taxi reaching its destination terminates our little eternity. He pays the driver and once more grabs me by the wrist and practically pulls me out. He guides me into an apartment building, past a doorman, with whom he briefly exchanges greetings. In the elevator I once again try to kiss him, but this time he will have nothing of it. I am greatly shocked. What am I in for?

'Wait!' I mutter. He turns to face me.

'That is for me to decide, my dear,' he says. 'We are proceeding on my terms, as you are mine. I told you last week. The matter is simple.

'Here is what you'll do. When we get to my floor, the seventeenth, I will release you and step out of the elevator. You are then free to take the car down again and yourself out of my grasp forever. You know as well as I do what choice you will make.'

I should laugh at him. Then the elevator stops, he releases me and steps out without looking at me.

He does what he said he would do. It is only when the lift doors close and separate us - almost - that I decide I will accept my fate and follow him. I quickly order the doors open again and then freely trail his back by some twenty paces, finally following him into his apartment.

His world! The apartment is furnished simply, but with immaculate taste. The dominating colours are black, white, red and chrome. A few chamber palms in red pots scattered around the hallway and living room present the only different tones. Three large-size black & white Helmut Newton photographs form the only decoration. I am well familiar with Newton's work and have admired the women, the men and the general mood. Without exception they show Newton's trademark stark-naked women in urban settings, accompanied by men wearing evening clothes and studiously ignoring the women. Then I spot it; one of the men is he. I might just have seen him before we even met!

He surprises me yet again by greeting me with a warm smile. Why this rollercoaster and why do I put up with it? A broad welcoming gesture by his left arm invites me to sit down on the settee.

His voice, only now... 'A drink, surely? What can I get us? May I suggest champagne?'

My voice is so small... 'Yes, I'd like that.' My power of speech reduced... I am a girl again. He is playing a game. My subconscious realises this but I can only play along. His rules.

He leaves, fetches an ice bucket with a bottle and two glasses and sits down beside me. I watch his actions, as if we are in a film. The lover uncorking the dripping bottle with a bang! A metaphor for what will happen later, I hope. The stuff films are made of. A man who looks at me sweetly hands me a glass. We toast and drink.

Gradually I thaw and reconnect with him as the man on the night we met. Our conversation continues where we left off and I rediscover my original attraction and a hint of my self-assurance. We shall fuck later... In this mood I finish the bottle with him. I am doubly intoxicated and ready to reap what I sowed...

He gets up, my heart jumps and I follow suit. He says, in a soft, low but clear voice, 'No, on your knees.'

I am shocked back into fear...

'Please, I beg you... Kiss me and take me! Simply take me! I am yours to take.'

My eyes look up to his. I don't see a smile, see no irony. I don't see anger either. Above all, I see authority, one that leaves no room for hesitation. A calm authority that has no need to use force to make me stay and do as he commands.

'On your knees,' he merely whispers. I find myself getting on my knees and see him undo his trousers. They fall to his knees, as do his underpants. There is no doubt about what he wants, but I have become a statue, tight with nerves. The thought drifts by that I must be disappointing him. Like a virgin, unsure what to do.

His suddenly booming voice shatters me, 'Now, you slut, take my cock and do the business. You have no choice in the matter and will comply and please me, you hear?!'

I tremble as I reach out and take his cock, still half-limp and quite small. I uncertainly start massaging his cock, which grows all the same and becomes a more formidable member. I open my mouth, yet still hesitate... He then grabs the back of my head and thrusts his cock forward into my mouth, all the way to the back, my lips touching his pubic hair. I almost gag and lose it. Then I shock into action and get a grip, drawing on the significant experience that I possess after all. I do the magic with my tongue, my lips, my nimble fingers, sucking, stroking, handling his balls... until with a mighty burst he ejaculates in my mouth. Once again, I have to brace myself not to gag.

We are a double statue for a minute, he, with his eyes closed and head thrown back, and I, holding his balls and cock, which slowly grows flaccid and shrinks small.

He moves and pushes me off. I see him turn his back to me and readjust his clothing. Without looking at me he says, 'Now go. A taxi is waiting for you.'

I cast him a look, conclude that there are no options and then get up and go without a word, tears welling up. I am his and will sing to his tune now. I want to stay. I want to be loved, cuddled, kissed, fucked here and now and to stay with him, but accept that he lays down the law, not I.

Do you understand this, my old friend?

At the end of the day, this is why. Because I am hooked on him now and feel I'd perish without him. I trust him to love me and cuddle and fuck me, when he sees fit. Or declines to do so.

This marked the start of our power exchange relationship. I would see him several times a week, evenings and nights, whilst continuing my courses and social life as normal.

The universe was waiting for a sign.

THE CEREMONY AND TWO WITNESSES

He made his move on a Monday, this last Monday. Approximately three months after we started our relationship. I prefer to use that word, rather than 'dating'. That sounds frivolous and gay.

We saw each other mostly at his home. Never at mine. Only occasionally we went to social occasions together. Once or twice, we met friends of his, to whom I was simply introduced as 'my new girl.' I didn't notice any meaningful glances passing between Him and his friends.

This last Monday, we were together talking, me at his feet, naked, when he said he wanted me to be his full-time slave and explained in broad terms what that meant.

Did I expect it? I cannot say 'no'. Yet the gravity of the suggestion astounded me all the same. The deal was: 'All or nothing.' 'Nothing', to say goodbye to him and let go of my love for him, was unthinkable, worse than death. 'All', to give my all to him, body and soul, to possess, use, share at will, his will, in keeping with or against my will, my only rights being to be well cared for or to walk away from him forever... This 'All' was so radical!

Our relationship had in effect become true BDSM. I was still a fashion student, however, and away from his side a fair bit. Above all, there was always the illusion that I could modify the nature of our relationship or tell him, 'No, not today, dear. I am tired and want to sleep.' Or 'No, my love, I am meeting a friend at the movies tonight.' Or 'I have fallen out of love with you. Let's stay friends.'

He saved me having to decide there and then, but allowed me a couple of days to think it over, talk to some friends, until Thursday night, 20:00. I was not allowed to see him during those few days. The longest time I had not seen him ever since we started out. I was beside myself.

Those couple of days were hard. I talked to a few of my closest friends, all of whom were aware of the kinky nature of my relationship with him. Well, bondage and accepting pain were all the rage, a common way to sexually play. In fashion dressing rooms, quite public spaces, I had seen girls point out welts or bruising with pride, before being camouflaged with make-up. None of my friends, however, had ever imagined the ultimate consequence: absolute submission. (Like me! It sounds silly, but neither had I.)

There were those who would not try to understand me and distil what really was right for me. All they could do was argue against it. 'Giving yourself up, passing your destiny to another, when you are only twenty-two with a world of opportunities ahead of yourself, becoming effectively a prisoner, a puppet of a sadist no less, a plaything of his every whim, robbed of any will of your own, a thing...!' A thing, they were right. But they were wrong as well.

Some of my friends understood me and who I was. A submissive, born to serve a man as a Master, to make the ultimate sacrifice, to even suffer for him, not for the purpose of rescuing him or any such emergency, but simply because it would please him...

Anyway, I thought, what value is that 'will of my own'? As if I had great plans or ideas for myself and my future. But my motivation was not simply selfless. Passing control over to him, being restrained, being chastised turned me on, the pain had become addictive. I got off on his ways, OK? Ecstasy and fulfilment though annihilation and denial and other paradoxes. Ach, those rationalisations...

Those other friends then, they listened to what I said and really wanted and helped me reach the obvious decision and formulate the answer to his question. 'Yes, I will.'

He had instructed me to call him Thursday night, 20:00, and declare my 'yea or nay' once and for all.

My best friend holds my hand as I call him. She has seen me through the evening in a see-saw state of elation or distress. I know what I want. Of course, I know what I want. It is inescapable. But it is like having to pass through death in order to be reborn.

I am relatively calm when I finally dial his number. Almost... almost done!

His voice: 'My dear, it is you. I cannot assume what you will answer. This is not the time to pressure you. So, I ask you, humbly for once, my dear, will you accept me as the Master of your body, mind and soul for as long as we chose, on the solemn condition that I will respect and sustain you? My dear, please tell me, what is your answer?'

I grasp my friend's hand and she presses firmly back.

My voice: 'Yes, I will! I will accept you as my Master and be your slave, 24/7.'

It is done. My heart jumps.