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.
