Trying Times

I do not condone the use of sexual violence against anyone. This story is NOT about that. What I am hoping for here is to conflate a national psyche with that of the individual to produce a psychological study of the motivations of a submissive woman. I am submissive myself, and so have drawn heavily upon my reflections about my reasons for embracing the lifestyle while living in a country as conservative as Jamaica. Obviously, I do not mean to disparage sexually submissive people in any way, and I make no claims that my views are universally applicable. -- Cinner

*

I remember those days well. It was the beginning of the war crimes trials against the Yluki, the civilisation of invaders who first visited Earth in 3035. It was the beginning of seven years of tales, recounted in detail about enforced public nudity, floggings, slavery and other sexually free expressions seen only in the perverse days of Ancient Rome and the 1960s in America. I am exhausted by the fear and uncertainty in which I live. The bulk of the trials are over, but occasionally, one emerges to sensational global media coverage. No one gets off from this if it reaches so far as a trial. Ylukis have been expelled from Earth and told never to return. Those who try to be reunited with their mates are executed! Despite centuries of trying we have not relieved ourselves of our bloodlust.

The official histories say that the Yluki appeared to come in peace, but very quickly showed us that they meant to enslave us all. We have been advised officiously that it is really not the stuff of fantasy for everyone to be a sex slave.

"It is a horrifying situation in which to find oneself!" I keep chanting in my head, ensuring that I remember the safe line of argument to take if pounced on in the streets for an opinion.

The irony of being told what to think as an antidote to being enslaved is not lost on me. I think about disobeying, but I am a true submissive and do not follow the thought through to its conclusion, consciously.

Radical accounts of the events in those days fifty years ago tell us that at first, we were flattered when these beings, clearly superior to us in every way, made their desire to mate with us known. They told our forefathers that, together, we could form a new species that would rule the universe. They said that it would make us ready to defend our little solar system against all comers.

The ones who came first knew that we on Earth were still driven by ambitions to know for sure what lay beyond our galaxy so we welcome them and their ways. They knew that we respected each other's territory here on Earth only because our planet was too fragile to facilitate another global war over the redistribution of resources. They had already perfected medicine and science and were bored, even with Art. Sex was another matter though. It was not a cerebral activity; though as we have come to accept the very best sex begins and ends with the brain. Freedom of sexual expression was new to them if not to us. It was the intensity of their desire to explore their sexuality that surprised everyone. Most of us were not as bored with life as the Yluki were, but some were already staring down the well of ennui and so were ripe for the plucking. The Ylukis' intellect was capable of reasoning in their favour anything that they wanted, and so they justified using us in a sick chess match of their own devising.

Well, at least the prevailing popular opinion was that it was sick. For some of us it was Heaven on Earth since the Yluki were perfect for our purposes. As sexual submissives, what the Yluki did to us was to make us complete; whole beyond anything that we could describe to someone without these proclivities.

Sadly though, to admit something like that today fifty years after their arrival is to paint oneself as a collaborator with the enemy, much as some European women were seen at the end of World War II in the twentieth century. I cannot condone what those women did. It was clear that what was happening around them was abominable, but I have genuinely chosen to follow one of these Yluki to the ends of the Earth; and I would leave this place with him if only I could survive on a planet outside this one. No one has died in this situation. The Yluki have not set upon a campaign of genocide. No one is being genuinely enslaved here! Well, not in my apartment since I have chosen to be collared by my lover. I have surrendered my will to him. I am his slave.

I slip on the tight white tube top and skin-tight shorts and looked at myself in the mirror. I am 40 pounds too heavy for the outfit and 10 years too old to be playing this game with my Master, Greyson. I know that despite my café au lait complexion the heat in my cheeks and neck as I gaze at my reflection will give a reddish tinge to my skin. Greyson says often that blushing improves my looks. I can't believe that I am allowing this to happen to me. My new Yluki Dom has read me well. He knows that I crave the public humiliation that he prescribes for me.

I look at myself in the mirror and note my erect nipples dangling at the tips of my sagging double Ds. God I want to cry! I know that I am going to do this, even as I plead with Greyson to think of something else with which to amuse himself.

He only laughs at me and sweeps his hand, indicating the burgeoning erection still trapped in his jeans, with a flourish. I know that it is pointless. This has happened before. My begging, and the thought that I am about to humiliate myself at his behest, have excited him to the point where he will have to cum. I am not going to get out of this without serious payback.

I could leave him. In this climate I really ought to do so, but I cannot. We see each other sexually in secret. To the world we are social acquaintances and colleagues at work, but beyond that we are not permitted to engage in our D/s relationship since to do so is against the law now. To do so is to say that a human is below a Yluki on the evolutionary chain. It is saying something that we all know to be true, but it is just not a politically correct assertion to make now. We've regressed to the kind of witch hunts that tormented men who had to have sex with other men centuries ago.

I leave my apartment and walk down the tree-lined street toward my red XKVS3040, attracting disbelieving stares and the occasional wolf-whistle. I look like a street-walker, I'm sure. I am in fact a professional woman of another sort. The way that I look would not suggest that I have a PhD in Electronics & Electrical Engineering and that I teach at the university 40 minutes' flight from my home. I am regarded a disgrace simply because I have chosen not to embrace the feminist political worldview. I am not a criminal simply because no one has actually caught me alone with Greyson. He teaches Interplanetary Anthropology at my university. That was where I met him. I am a throw-back in many ways. I'm an anomaly because I still define myself as a slave and since I still go into the office occasionally. I live two very distinct lives.

I usually see Greyson in my office. This is where I am going now. I am choosing to go into my professional space dressed like a tramp and Greyson loves me for it. I love him for prescribing this for me to stretch my boundaries and for insisting that I reach for his challenges. As always, I revel in the shamed arousal that I feel when I first learn of my tasks.

For me my relationship with Greyson is a complex matter; I really do crave his attentions but punish myself simultaneously for that. I crave the sense of being alive and connection with the elements that he brings to me. I had never been given so much freedom to enjoy my nudity before him. It was a process started before I met him but he has taken me much further along that road than anyone else has. There are some simple things that he does that affect me greatly: telling me to expose myself in my office, telling me to undress there completely, giving me permission to seduce him there, ordering me to be nude at home. I am now hyper aware of my body; and the pleasure that I get from touching my own skin and squeezing my flesh is unbelievable. When I lie naked in my bed at night I want to touch myself because of the fever that he has stoked in me all day. I writhe physically under the strain of obeying him and not exciting myself to much without his permission if he does not visit me.

I know that it gives him pleasure to see me suffer like this because it is truly a woman calling to her phantom lover, begging him to impale her. I beg him to impale me many times for the day: every time I take my panties off, if I was allowed to wear them at all, or when I lift my dress to expose my haunches, my pussy spasms. My moist nether lips smack wanting to grab on to something. I fantasize about milking his cock dry in my cunt. Every time I even THINK about one of the humiliations that he has heaped on me my nipples and clit tighten painfully and I NEED him in those moments. We cannot be together publicly as lovers and perhaps that is a good thing because there are times when I wonder that if he were to touch me just at those moments, even to shake my hand at the end of a meeting, if I wouldn't just explode.

The control is not one-sided though. I celebrate the power that I have to manipulate his moods and his yearning excitement for me. For me, a fat girl, to be told to undress for a man like Greyson because it gives him pleasure to see that she is naked, and because he always wants her that way, caused a profound shift in my psyche. To have him tell me that my body and the shameless fantasies that I share with him cause him to have daily ejaculations and that he misses me when I'm not there has completely blown my mind. He must have me daily just as desperately as I must have him. We are addicted to each other, co-dependent in a good way, I think.

I love trembling for Greyson because it has come to represent yet another wall broken down for me. We now live in a conservative society and it has become even more repressive by the day. I am very repressed myself. I need a wild man to fuck with my mind and body in order to liberate me. I need him to force me to break through my chains. It is ironic that he does that through physical bondage and discipline, but the result is that I am free mentally. With him in my life my inner state matches more closely the image that I have striven to create for the public. I truly am braver when I am doing his bidding and in the celebration that we share together after I succeed.

I have felt no judgement in Greyson and so I have explored my desires and am eager to follow him anywhere. Sadly, that is anywhere on Earth and we're now ruled by the United Government. The laws are the same anywhere we could go here. I cannot survive on too many planets outside of Earth and Greyson has chosen to remain here with me because he loves me. Unfortunately, neither of us is wealthy and so we cannot afford the interstellar travel to where we would need to go for us to be together openly.

I go into my office and a few of the students sitting under a tree nearby come to consult with me during the hours that I have made myself available to them. I can see that I am making an impression. The young women are openly disapproving, the men take in my appearance more coyly. It's amazing how suddenly perceiving me as a sexual being has changed their perception of me. I'm sure that my IQ has dropped in their estimation. I doubt that anyone will learn anything from me this morning.

That we are exercising academic freedom and teaching those around us that it is not a crime to embrace multiculturalism and an alternative lifestyle is one of Greyson's favourite arguments when I express doubt about taking our relationship into the public arena. He does not have a harem of slaves and so he would only be deported from Earth rather than spend time in prison here. For me this is worse since it would mean that I could not even visit him. He would just be cut off from me. We have discussed the possibility of marrying another couple like ourselves, and so offer mutual protection to each other; but neither of us knows how to go about finding these people since most people like us have gone underground.

The day drags, but eventually I can leave for the afternoon with Greyson. We go to the park and after walking around, looking at the lake and feeding the ducks, we slip discretely to our favourite spot. We have not been there in a while; it has become too dangerous to do so often. This clearing is well off the beaten path though, and it is well hidden by thick shrub growth that Greyson clears easily for me to pass through. We by-pass many couples, all human, engaged in all sorts of sensual embraces from simple hand-holding to outright intercourse on our way to our spot. It takes us about half an hour to tramp through the woodlands to find it but eventually Greyson tells me that we do.

Our reaction to coming here is nothing short of Pavlovian. Greyson's jeans are tenting badly and I'm equally ready for him. He grabs me and rips my clothing from my body. My tube-top will be usable again, but the shorts will not. It's perhaps a good thing that we don't plan to return to our cars for several hours. I will need the darkness to cover myself.

"Come here you little whore!" he growls spinning me around to press me over a rock.

He squeezes my naked buttocks joyfully and swats me a few times with his hand. His hits do not hurt me, but the sound of his hand against my flesh is pleasing to us both.

"Tell me how naughty you've been today, my little slut," he demands, leaning into me to nibble my fleshy haunches. "Tell me how it made you feel to have to go to work looking like that! Did you like all the young men looking at your huge body?"

"No, Master, I didn't like it. I was very embarrassed. I only liked the thought that you would be aroused by my humiliation. I didn't really want to do it, but I wanted to obey you."

"Good slave!" he looks at me lovingly. "So tell me in detail how you felt."

I do tell him how I felt and in doing so I feel my nipples and clit harden and my breathing becomes shallow. I feel Greyson's cock harden and lengthen almost impossibly long and I know that we're ready to consummate our love.

For some reason though he makes me wait and I begin to squirm and beg him to fuck me. He looks at me longingly but does not impale me. Instead he barks at me to hold on to a branch of the tree in front of me, and he warns me not move my hands before he allows it. He makes me watch as he cuts a switch from among the bushes next to the tree. He flogs me with the switch until I beg him to stop. He does not. We both love to have me in pain along with my humiliation. I can only cum that way, and Greyson facilitates me often.

He scourges my buttocks and breasts, calling me names, and rubs his hard member on my body teasingly. I dare not let go of the branch or he will increase the pressure with which he applies the lashes.

Eventually I break down, however, and have an orgasm through my tears. I beg him to spank me even harder. I turn to embrace him when he does. Eventually, I sink to my knees, and grab at for his cock, my mouth open.

"You little slut!" Greyson roars like a madman, rising up over me.

He grabs my arm, and drags me to a grassy area of our clearing. He throws me on the grass on my back and then sinking down to the ground beside me, he forces my legs apart with his knee, braces my thighs toward my shoulders and pushes his turgid cock into my sopping cunt. He groans as he allows his weight to push him to the bottom of my honey pot. His mouth opens and he latches on to my nipple hungrily.

His orgasm approaching, his thrusting becomes more erratic and he leans back, his eyes closed as if in pain. His groaning and grunting become louder with each passing minute and if I did not know better I would wonder if he were in pain.

"Oh God, Emily! You know I love you!" he howls eventually, music to my ears, even as it strikes me that he has called me by my given name rather than "slave" as he is wont to do.

"You're under arrest," a cold voice informs us from somewhere behind Greyson. "Get away from her, you pervert!"

I stop thrusting up toward Greyson in startled alarm, but he cannot stop the violent pumping in and out of my body immediately, and two men reach down to drag him away from me. He groans again.

"Please," I hear him whimper.

Shit, it's the police! We did not hear them coming; well, I didn't. How long have these five men been watching us? How is it that Greyson didn't hear them? No pun intended, but was he really that into me this time?

I drop my legs and scramble to find my tube top to cover my nakedness. I am beyond frightened because this has been my nightmare for the past four years.

It does not take long for our case to come to trial. Apparently both the fact that Greyson has been in someone's sights for a long time, and the fact that we are 'respected' two university professors has captured the imagination of the public and the court system. We are being charged with the dual charges of gross indecency because of our public sex, beyond the misdemeanour nudity, and for the BDSM aspects of the intercourse that in the eyes of some, smack of sexual slavery, which is the actual crime. I wonder about the other couples that we had passed on our way to our spot that afternoon.

We are not allowed bail and so must languish in prison until our trial. I miss Greyson terribly, but somehow, he seems to be with me. A few of the other prisoners look at me curiously. A few ask why I was arrested and not just fined. Apparently, the system is not as egalitarian as I had thought. It seems that others in my position have not been subjected to this. I do not even know what to think about this revelation. My mind has all but rejected Greyson's conspiracy theories. I see my position as desperate. I will be without him and without friends or career after this. I wonder if a public apology will help to get us out of this. Perhaps a show of remorse will soften the hearts of our judges.

I hear rumours that I cannot believe! Greyson has mounted a protest and has removed his clothing in the lock-up. He is alleged to have declared that he will remain skyclad until he is acquitted! He has suffered the attacks of others and had to be removed after he hurt three men who tried to rape him! I hear that Greyson's antics have sparked an international protest. There are skyclad people supporting his right to live his life as he chooses demonstrating from Barcelona to Brazil and from Johannesburg to Jamaica. There are police having to use water cannon and tear gas on the crowds of protesters from places as far-flung as Los Angeles and London. The lines of the arguments that Greyson is advancing are becoming blurred. Greyson is fighting for the right to live a BDSM lifestyle with me, but there are thousands who are still fighting for the right to appear nude in public, there are advocates of the vegan lifestyle, the economy and persons protesting the use of animals in sport; and they have all used our dual charges to advance their agendas. His nude protest has fuelled the fire for every politically-inspired remnant on the globe and the police worldwide have their hands full with keeping down rebellion in several places at once. The stakes are very high here. From Greyson's perspective we cannot afford to fail, but it is clear that the State cannot afford for us to win.

We are taken to the court house separately though we will be tried jointly. Through the window of the prison van I see throngs of people lining the streets. I realise that I am not the only person who is tired of the way in which things are here. Scores of people have turned up nude on the streets of Kingston today, almost all of them covered in body paint of some sort, and many of them holding their placards strategically to stave off indecency charges by the police. I take comfort and draw strength from knowing that there are people out there who support Greyson and me.