This follows 'Coming Home for the Very First Time' and 'The Submissive is tested again'. Please read them first.
Dedicated to PMS and M and all women who refuse to be confined by stereotypes.
*****
7.00am Thursday
His phone pinged. He woke, grabbed it and looked at the screen. It was a message from Mistress: "The weekend is on. Prepare yourself. Details tomorrow. M"
A chill swept over him.
He began his daily routine. He threw back the covers. His hands fumbled around on the bedside table until they located the nipple clamps. He fixed them on. They bit his tender buds and ice seared through his nerves, wakening his cock. His hands moved downwards. One cradled his balls. The other began to tease his stirring member.
He closed his eyes and saw a vision of Mistress, naked, save for her signature Doc Marten boots, flogger in hand, her lithe body cloaked in a sheen of sweat. It glistened in the dim light. As she turned towards him, the lips of her cunt were outlined at the top of her slender parted thighs. She was looking at him and through him. The image was almost too much.
His cock continued to harden and he began to move his right hand up and down. He slid back his foreskin then moved two fingers to his mouth. He moistened them with saliva and they returned to tease his frenulum. It felt very good. He let out an involuntary sigh.
He was fully hard now and moving inexorably towards release. His right hand weighed and squeezed his pleasingly firm member and he began to stroke in earnest. His breathing quickened. Sensations were building. His left hand squeezed his balls gently.
They felt swollen and ready to explode. The climax was fast approaching. He felt the nerves in his stomach begin to sing in sympathy. The image of his mistress had taken him right to the edge. His hand became a blur. He was at the point of no return.
He stopped and pushed his cock downwards, almost painfully. The orgasm was aborted. That had been close, perhaps too close. The twice a day teasing regime was beginning to get to him. Orgasm denial was one thing. Edge play on top of denial was something else, but he had to do it. He gazed down wistfully at his shrinking penis.
They had discussed forced chastity control. Mistress refused.
"I need your will to work for me." She said. "Devices make it too easy. Any fool can be locked into a cock cage. I want you to struggle and conquer your libido - mind over matter. This will make you stronger and more dependent on me. If you fail, you will tell me and I will punish you. This is what you need - the possibility of failure and punishment and the opportunity to transcend your feeble male psyche. Submission to me is your road to salvation."
"I am the instrument that can make you whole. I have chosen you. I will perfect you."
"True submission can only be achieved when your will is broken and you can no longer fail me. I will break you down until you know nothing but my will. Then I will reconstruct you in my image. Have faith and you will become the perfect submissive. Then I might make you a slave."
"Look at me." She had fixed him with a firm stare. "Believe in yourself and I will believe in you."
That was a month ago, after Mistress had rekindled their relationship. They had met in a pub near Victoria - an odd place to discuss the future of your life, but probably as good as anywhere else. Between the jokes and the laughter, the office workers and the tourists enjoying London hospitality, he looked at Mistress and began to think that there might be a future for him in her world.
Her words lived on inside him. He lived for her. The weekend could not come soon enough. It was going to be make or break time.
He got up and strode naked to the bathroom. His cock pointed downwards; this morning's crisis had been averted. The shower refreshed him and self-flagellation prepared him for the day. His body was beginning to look toned and firm in the right places. The gym membership was paying dividends.
It was almost six months since their last session. For four months he thought their relationship, such as it was, was over. Then she emailed him. Her circumstances had changed and she was beginning to rearrange her life. Kink could become a lifestyle instead of a hobby. She was making a big step.
They began to learn more about each other. She now knew almost everything about him. He knew only what she was prepared to tell him. It was enough.
Mistress was in her early thirties. She had been privately educated, followed by university at Oxford, where she graduated with a 2.1 in philosophy and psychology. She had followed this with a stellar career in public relations and marketing. Earlier this year, she was the beneficiary of a substantial inheritance. After considerable soul-searching she had decided to quit her job and devote her life to her first love - domination.
She was well known on the scene, where her psychological insight proved invaluable. She knew how to train and how to reward. She knew how vulnerable some people could be and she understood the importance of assessment and the power of suggestion. She liked to think that she could judge a subject's motivation and suitability for submission in half an hour. She had not made a mistake yet. Her new full time lifestyle would allow her to indulge her passion for sex and control and take a small carefully selected group with her. They would become her compatriots and some would be slaves. They would become a very special poly family.
Once she had made her decision, she moved quickly. She would need a house and equipment. A playroom had to be fitted out and soundproofed. She would stay in London because that was where her friends and contacts were. She could always relocate later, if there was a good reason. Meanwhile, she would assemble her team.
She quit her job and began to contact people she thought might join her. She devised regimes for them to follow. When the house was ready she chose a weekend for each one and began to send out invitations. Two men were on her list.
7.00am Friday
His morning edge play was reprised. Orgasm was averted once more. The shower followed. He shaved his balls, perineum and around his anus and followed up by pumping a butt plug in and out. This had become a familiar and comforting habit. He was ready for the weekend.
As yet there were no further instructions.
At 8.00am the phone pinged. Mistress had sent him an address and a message.
"7.00pm. Bring toothbrush only. Be punctual or be punished."
He liked that - her touch of humour. Punishment was the point. Severe punishment was the point - perfection through submission. They both knew that and the symbiosis was perfect. He mentally abased himself. He would be punctual.
In the preceding weeks she had been training him online via email instructions and had been monitoring his progress. She had total control of his orgasms which she allowed only once a week. Daily anal play was mandatory. He was working his way up through a series of plugs that became progressively larger. His nipples had become extremely sensitive and were clamped twice daily. He was in a permanent state of near arousal and nervous sexual tension.
He entered the address into his map app. It was a suburban location, not far from a tube station. If he left work at 6.00pm, the journey would only take around 45 minutes. Perfect.
The day passed too slowly. The tube was overcrowded and delayed. A passenger had been taken ill on an earlier train. He arrived at her station with ten minutes to spare. He alternately ran and walked and reached the door on time. He was in an unremarkable London street of large Victorian terraced houses. Nothing stood out.
He rang the bell and after a few seconds the latch clicked and the door opened.
He stepped over the threshold. The door closed behind him. She was wearing jeans and a loose grey T shirt with the words "The future is female" written in white capitals on the front. Her well-worn boots clad her feet. He knelt down, arse up, head on the floor, arms outstretched.
Mistress placed a foot on his back.
"My boots are part of me."
She removed it and said, "Follow me. I will show you your room for the weekend."
The interior of the house was plain, simply furnished and tidy, but fetish posters had been fixed to the staircase wall - black and white photographs of muscly oiled nude men in bondage, some with their cocks encased in strange devices, others suspended or fixed to St Andrew's crosses. The works of Robert Mapplethorpe came to mind.
