Before the Fall

By Lisabet Sarai

I know I please him. Before me, he never kept a sub for more than six months. I’ve served him nearly two years now, and he’s never suggested he’s tiring of me. Of course, why would he? I’ll do anything he asks―absolutely anything. When it comes to my Master, I have no limits.

His training has refined me, perfected my submission, to the point that I can usually anticipate his desires even before he articulates them. A mere arch of an eyebrow and I’m on my knees, awaiting his next command. A flick of his finger and I present my ass, cleansed, lubed and ready for whatever evil incursion he has planned―his cock or his fist, a dildo or a cucumber, a beer bottle or a baseball bat. He knows very well that all my holes are his.

Master’s a true sadist, delighting in the pain he so expertly inflicts. I take everything he dishes out, willingly―gratefully. He’s taciturn and sparing of words, but even so he can’t help but remark on my tolerance for abuse. Tonight he used his belt, the crop, the single tail and the vicious cane he adores, while the audience gasped and applauded. I’m bruised and striped in the aftermath of his assaults, every inch of skin raw and burning.

I think I amazed even him this evening. “You’ve earned a rest, slut,” he told me, rare tenderness in his voice as he draped the blanket over my blood-and-cum smeared body and handed me the water bottle. He’s not done, though. The erection jutting from his sleek leathers and the manic gleam in his eyes tells me he wants more. I’ll give it to him―give him everything, more than everything. I know it sounds like hyperbole or some sort of romantic crap, but it’s true. Every instant, every breath, my only goal is to surrender completely, to be the slave of whom he has always dreamed.

The mood in the dungeon has lightened considerably after the intensity of our scene. Master circulates among his dominant friends, cracking off-color jokes, offering words of advice or appreciation, landing a random swat on some sub’s bare butt or flicking the weights hanging from someone’s clamps. He’s not far away, but I miss him already, miss the focus of his attention and the breathless uncertainty about what he’ll do next.

He stops to talk to a petite, brown-haired girl huddling by a spanking bench. He’s so tall that he has to stoop in order to look into her face. Her silly schoolgirl costume identifies her as a sub, presumably unclaimed since she wears no collar or other insignia. I sniff. I can’t help it. She’s pretty enough, though she doesn’t seem to have much of a body - certainly her breasts are much less opulent than mine – but what really annoys me is her aura of uncertainty. She only half wants to be here, drowning in the scent of sweat and cum, surrounded by gleaming, punished flesh, hearing the slaps and the screams. Part of her wants to flee. The extreme activities unfolding here in the club both draw and repel her. She clutches her left wrist with her right hand, as if imagining bonds, and gazes up into my Master’s eyes.

An inexperienced newbie, obviously, probably someone who read Fifty Shades and wanted to sample the real thing. Why is Master wasting his time on her? Clearly he’s turning on the charm. He can be lusciously seductive when he wants, as I remember well. When he touches her shoulder, apparently casual, I see the shudder of lust coursing through her skinny frame.

I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can imagine. He’s wooing her, seducing her, telling her of the exquisite pleasures to be found in submission. He won’t mention of the agony she’d have to endure to earn those pleasures.

The tilt of his head indicates he’s asking a question. She nods and drops to a kneeling position. God, but she’s awkward! I recall the hours I spent practicing that move, until my muscles screamed and the skin scraped off my knees, determined to demonstrate the perfect grace my Master expected. How can he even look at this clumsy creature?

Yet he’s feeding her his rampant cock now, and she’s opening wide, clearly eager to receive it. He begins with a slow, shallow rhythm. I know he won’t keep that up for long. When it comes to fellatio, Master likes it hard, fast and rough.

Sure enough, within thirty seconds he’s ramming his cock down her throat. She chokes and tries to pull back. He seizes her by her limp, mousy locks and holds her so tight she can’t move. Her face turns an unflattering scarlet as his bulk cuts off her air. Oh, I know what she’s feeling! The terrible fear, the gathering blackness, the weightless sense of release as you trust him with your very life. I can almost feel the swollen flesh blocking my throat as he pounds into her mouth. This girl, though, doesn’t seem to understand about trust. She’s twisting in his grip, trying to escape. Finally he gives in. He pulls out, just as he’s coming, to paint her face and her chest with his cum.

Her expression combines arousal and disgust. She fumbles helplessly with her jizz-stained blouse. Master laughs, leans down, and rips it off, baring her modest breasts. He gestures for her to rise. She scrambles to her feet with all the elegance of a baby goat.

He seems more amused than angry at her willfulness. When he whispers in her ear, she nods again. Isn’t he done with her yet?

He leads her to the spanking bench. She stretches her waifish body along its length and allows Master to bind her wrists and ankles. When he flips up her brief plaid skirt, I see that that she’s naked underneath. I guess she has at least some idea what goes on at a place like this. Master circles her bound form, talking to her in a low voice, telling her, I have no doubt, of all the things he wants to do to her. (But why her? Why?) He’s building suspense, stoking both her excitement and her fear. By the time he picks up the crop, her inner thighs are damp, gleaming under the harsh dungeon lights.

She wails at the first stroke, though it’s light enough that it doesn’t even leave a mark. Master’s trying to go easy on her, at least at first. But once again, he can’t deny his nature. Before long he’s slashing at her creamy ass and the backs of her legs, leaving clean crimson stripes in the wake of each blow.

The girl moans and yells―music, I know, to my Master’s ears. A crop is hardly a severe instrument, yet the wannabe sub acts as though he’s branding her. I can’t help feeling slightly smug. If I were subject to this beating, I’d be completely silent. He’d have to lash me a lot harder to wring any cries from my throat.

“Red! Red! Stop! I can’t bear it!” All at once the girl is screaming at the top of her lungs, thrashing against her bonds and crying real tears. My Master halts the whipping immediately, of course. He’s sadistic but always responsible. I can sense his disappointment in his stance, though, as he unclips the cuffs from the girl’s limbs and helps her to a sitting position. In nearly two years with me, he has never heard me safeword.

She collapses to the floor. He sinks down beside her, cradling her slight body in his powerful arms. After care―it’s just after care, I tell myself. She’s way out of her depth and now she knows it. He’ll send her home, then take out his frustration on me. I glow with anticipation at the thought.

He’s headed back to me now. I gaze up at him, beaming my love and gratitude. He strokes his fingers through my hair and gives me a strange smile.

“Bow your head, Simone.”

Of course I obey. He fiddles with the clasp at the back of my collar. Sudden panic seizes me.

“Master? What are you doing, Master?”

“I’m setting you free, my pet. You don’t need me any more.”

“No, no! I don’t want to be free.” I flail wildly, trying to grab the collar from him. He stuffs it into his pocket. “Please, no―I need you. I can’t live without you! What did I do wrong, Master?”

“Nothing, pet. You never do anything wrong. You’re the perfect submissive.”

“Then why―why...?”

“I’m wasted on you, love. It’s time I trained someone who really needs it.”

He’s already on his way back to the skinny little wannabe slave, who’s still sobbing in a ridiculous pile in the middle of floor. I watch, appalled and disbelieving, as he fastens the collar―my collar!―around her scrawny neck. Then he helps her to her feet and leads her out of the dungeon, in the direction of the private rooms.

I shiver under my blanket. Suddenly the dungeon is freezing. I want to run after him, to beg him not to leave me. I want to choke that filthy slut until her eyeballs pop out of her head and her tongue hangs out like a dog. I want to yell and scream, to throw a tantrum, to curse him for his cruelty and ingratitude.

I don’t do any of those things. I don’t allow myself to give in to those baser emotions. I’m the perfect submissive. I must obey my Master, even if he casts me away. I just sit on the bench, watching the kinky scenes unfold around me, empty, despairing, desolate, with nothing left but my pride.