A Pure Heart

For half a decade, the well-to-do of Bishopsbridge Road had envied Aubain his slave Cynthia.

With an allowance of a hundred pounds a week, she cooked, kept house, did laundry and ironed shirts, dressed herself exquisitely, kept in shape, and serviced the sexual and emotional needs of her Master – who none the less was never a terribly nice person.

She had fallen for him as a pretty young blonde in her late twenties, and their relationship had died in 2004, leaving her childless with very few prospects. So she sold off whatever trinkets he had given her over the years, except for a small ring and an Edwardian necklace which together would have only got her about £5,000, and left the fashionable part of town to a small apartment which belonged to her family, south of the river.

Things could have been worse. Not having any current friends, she had pulled herself out of her depression by herself. Tonight now she was going to a party, dressed in a simple black silk cocktail dress, sleeveless, with a daring V plunge at the neck, the skirt of which stopped above her knee. One could just see the hint of her lacy black brassiere at the corner of the V and since it was summer, she had put fake tan on her legs and was wearing a pair of thin-strapped high heeled sandals to match the dress. Around her neck was a small choker of Japanese cultured pearls.

She had looked at her naked 36C breasts in the mirror as she applied her makeup and decided they would still serve. In the bathroom she had taken out her grandfather's old cutthroat razor, stropped it, and had carefully trimmed away the merest suspicions of pubic hair around her vagina. Her hand, after over twenty years' practice, was firm and sure. She preferred this old razor in its tortoiseshell handle to anything else, and the sight of its gleaming blade against the skin near her soft pink lips made her heart pick up ever so slightly even still. Afterwards, she slid her thumb over her mount of Venus to assure herself she was as soft there as the day she had been born.

She paid the taxi driver out of her little handbag (a cheap imitation but stylish none the less), walked up the steps, and with delight found she had returned to her element. With her easy charm and slightly brittle but self-contained laugh she greeted the hosts, and then slowly did the rounds of the rooms of the large Edwardian apartment where the party was held. She kept the names and relationships of who was friends of whom carefully in her card-file like memory: a little rusty from lack of use she realised, ruefully.

There was that awfully pleasant balding American professor who had spoken to her long and earnestly about committment. She smiled to herself as she saw where his eyes couldn't help straying. Too bad he was married. A nice couple from near where she lived both greeted her extremely warmly and she spent ages talking to them about something that she could no longer remember. And there was that French guy, himself doing the rooms in his own style. Suave, a hint of beard shadow on his face (had he not shaved before coming, she asked herself giggling), dressed in an expensive linen jacket and dark shirt. They had exchanged a few words at the start of the evening. As their paths crossed during the party, they would look at each other briefly and then by common consent pass on. Towards the end of the party, yes! She heard someone coming up from behind her and when she turned, eyes wide open, there he was, smiling his tight polite smile.

"I wondered if you would care to come home with me for a quiet little chat" he murmured. "I am by taxi, alas. As are you, I think, yes?"

"I'd love to... yes, you can't go anywhere by car any more... which part of town are you?" So easy! She realised they had marked each other out as soon as they had set eyes on each other.

His apartment, from the moment she stepped into it, breathed Frenchness. A small, neat, extremely stylish capsule of Frenchness in an Anglo-Saxon city. She ran her hand over his books and CDs, all neatly arranged. A book lay open on a reading desk. She flipped the cover quickly: Flaubert's "Un Coeur Simple." She smiled as she saw the start of the second chapter, which she had often read with wonderment as a schoolgirl: "Elle avait eu, comme une autre, son histoire d'amour." She had not known in those days, what her story of love would be. To be "renversee brutalment", thrown over with brutal force?

She took the glass of whisky and soda from him.

"You speak French as well?"

"Only a little, Damien. I can read better than I can speak. You have excellent English."

"A question of practice. Salut, Cynthia, cheers as you say. You were like a breath of fresh air at the party tonight. I'm glad I met you."

She felt the sting of the whiskey on her tongue and savoured the slight frisson of pain it gave her.

"This is... Highland Malt I believe?"

"Of course. You seem to have a keen sense of taste."

She laughed. "My father would drink nothing else."

"Ah. Your father. To drink whiskey like that requires a certain dominance of spirit, no? Have you inherited the trait? Please, may I show you something? It is in another room."

She raised her eyebrows. "You have etchings in your bedroom?"

He paused in mid-stride and looked back at her. "Etchings?"

She coloured briefly. "A stale joke... sorry, Damien..."

"It is not my bedroom, I assure you, Cynthia." Opening an unusualy heavy door; the click of a light switch; he ushered her in before him. She caught her breath and stopped dead.

The walls and ceiling were covered in mirrors. Silver and black were the predominating tones. At one end of the room a large bed with an elaborate wooden headboard. On the other side, a chest of drawers, on the top of which were arranged objects which gave the impression of something between an altar and a bazar stall. Several riding crops... chains... cuffs and belts... small clamps, weights... candles, a large stainless steel dildo standing proudly next to a row of butt-plugs.

Cynthia gulped, feeling the colour rise to her cheeks. "Oh my goodness!" she turned round to look at Damien. "You... er... USE all this stuff?"

"Maybe not each night, or, all at the same time, but, you surely guess I do."

She looked at him, eyes wide open, feeling her pulse rise. She quickly drew her glass up and swallowed the rest of her drink, burning down her throat. "I think... I might better... be on my way, Damien..."

"...and I can tell it isn't just only scaring you." He caught her eyes and stared into hers, calmly, blocking her exit by the way he positioned himself.

"Well.... ummm..... this is rather serious stuff, isn't it?" Her best cut-glass British accent.

"You dont really want to leave now, do you Cynthia?" She bit her lip and lowered her head, trying to keep her emotions under control. "Serious... it can be very very much fun my dear"

Fun! The last thing she wanted was mere "fun." She remembered what her beloved Colette had written near the end of her life "Ces plaisirs... qu'on appelle legerement 'physiques'" These pleasures, which one lightly dismisses as the merely physical. She took a deep breath.

"Are you.... careful?"

He reached out and held her chin up. "For your first time, I am gentle... but don't expect just a vanilla night."

She looked up at him. "No, of course not, Damien. Maybe I'd better tell you..." she exhaled a shaky breath. "I was... in this kind of dom-sub relationship before.... ended last year... I think.... our type can smell each other out... I didn't say 'gentle,' Damien. I said, 'careful.'"

His thumb played on her lower lip. "Ah. You're not a real novice. Funny, you looked so surprised."

She smiled a little crooked smile. "It's a matter of playacting. A real dom doesn't let go... a play one would have let me pass seeing my indignation."

He lowered his finger down her neck, tracing her skin down to the start of her brassiere. She exhaled as she felt his finger on her skin. "Do you know about 'safe words,' Damien? You must do of course..." She knew he could feel her heart beating, his hand was touching her above her left breast. It slid down her body and she felt its warmth over her tummy.

"You wouldn't need safe words Cynthia, I can read the language of your body..."

"... I was going to say.... I don't believe in safe words."

"...and can tell which 'no' is a real stop one." He stepped a little closer to her. She shook her head.

"When I give myself, Damien... it's completely..." she smelt the sharp odour of his body.

"I wasn't expecting anything less from you, Cynthia."

"I only ask one thing, Damien..."

"...yes?"

"Never spare me. Never let me come between you and your enjoyment of me, if that is what you want."

"Is this how it is always with you?"

She nodded her head, imperceptibly.

"And you give yourself, freely, without reserve?"

She nodded again, almost not moving her head. This it had always been. Her ideal, her holy spirit, no matter how battered or corrupted, what she still held before her as cherished. He saw her eyes brim with tears.

"Then it is my solemn promise to you." He wiped away some moisture under her eyes and put his finger to his lips. "By these."

His hand slid round her side, over the back of her thighs, and up again over her bottom, stopping at the base of her spine. He turned her round again, facing the room, the bed, and the table. She let herself be guided by him, savouring his easy mastery. Cynthia felt her heart was racing. She knew that suddenly, against all her better judgement, and against all the odds, she had found a Master.

"Do you want me... naked, Damien?"

He pressed against her back, a hand on her hips. "I'd rather keep that mystery a little longer, ma soumise." That word! His submissive, his slave. 'Soumise' sounded so much better, softer, more yielding.

"Please try to call me 'ton Maitre,' Cynthia. It is my language, and it speaks to me as it were, under the skin, you understand?"

She smiled and nodded again. "Oui, Mon Maitre."

She supposed that now he had become her Maitre that she should henceforth address him in the polite plural form of "Vous" when they spoke his language. She felt his hands wander over the silk of her dress, cupping her breasts. He knows exactly what I'm wearing under this dress, she thought wildly. She realised that his trick was that as he moved through time, he caught what was to be and savoured it so that every moment was doubly precious: once in anticipation, and then in the reality of it. Did he ever think back and regret, she wondered.

He turned her to the table. She saw all the familiar objects: riding crop; cuffs; chains... she felt a light kiss on her neck as he brushed her long hair to one side and took off her necklace. His hands went to her shoulders, and then slowly with infinite care, she felt him slide her zip. It went down, revealing the catch of her bra, opening out slightly to him, showing him the pale white of her back and the indentation of her spine running down the centre. She felt her skin crawl with goosepimples and realised he was watching her reaction from the mirror in front of her. She saw her dress fall to the waist, catching in her arms at her sides. The strapless black bra was a black bar across her body.

"You are of a rare beauty and a fine elegance, Cynthia."

She turned to him slightly and smiled. "You're very kind Damien... you know... these French gallanteries can turn my head completely?"

"Kind? You don't know a thing yet." And he loosened her dress and let it fall, shimmering down her legs and ending in a pool of silk at her feet. He turned her away from the table. "Stay."

The bed.... she looked at the bed and her thighs clenched involuntarily. This, she realised, was going to be the bed on which he would take her and play with her. It looked innocuous enough.

Something dropped over her field of vision. A black velvet blindfold! She raised her head to enable him to fit it to her better, and he tied it firmly over her eyes, ensuring her blonde hair didn't get in the way of the knot. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly as she felt him brush the hair off her neck and plant a kiss at the top of her spine. Her nipples felt hard, and her tummy was beginning to churn and her vision was utterly black. Not a chink of light. She realised this was an extremely well-made blindfold.

She felt him turn her round, and his lips on hers. She opened her lips for him and his hands began to caress her smooth almost naked body. Her brassiere... was quickly undone and she felt it fall at her feet. His hands slid down her sides, over her ribs, and eased into the waistband of her panties... she felt as if her pussy was on fire... he followed her panties, tracing a line just at the top of her thighs where the panties ended. She felt his finger, so close, and yet... ahhh... back to the waistband, pulling it out in front, she was sure he was looking inside and she felt his fingers slip in, touching her bare shaved pussy.

"You have shaved, for long, soumise?"

"Since I was sixteen, Maitre."

"Let me see." She felt her panties pulled down and his breath on her body. "You are very meticulous."

"Yes, Maitre.

"It is a compliment." Her panties were pulled down her thighs... she felt them slip down her long legs to the floor.

She was pushed backwards, and she let herself be moved by him, already trusting him to look after her. She felt the high bed against the back of her knees; a kiss on her lips, her nipple tweaked, and then she was pushed back brutally, landing with a sprawling bounce on the bed!

She cried out, and he came on her after her, quickly, grabbing her ankle and raising it... "Mmmm... good taste in footwear, soumise. I was watching you in them all evening." Her shoe was undone. Then the other. "I will have the pleasure again, I hope. Now. Knees bent a little, legs apart."

"Yes, Maitre."

"You are truly delicious. I am now going to prepare you for my repast. Raise your arms over your head."

She obeyed and felt him fasten soft cuffs to her slender wrists as she shivered in anticipation. Her wrists were attached to the headboard, raising her breasts.

In her blindness every other sense was heightened. She heard him walk around the room a little, start to slide off his clothes; the clink of a belt. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, she could feel the seconds slipping away, so helplessly exposed to a man she hardly knew. She heard the slight swish of a riding crop which brought her back to the present. He caressed her left thigh with the leather tip, sliding it over her skin, a small slap! Against her inside thigh.

"You know what this means..."

She gasped. She felt the crop leave her skin and come back down, harder in the same place.

"Open wider."

She cried out, more from the shock of it and parted her legs, knowing her pink pussy was wet and gleaming.

"That is much better. I think it is time."

"Yes, Maitre." She could feel the trace of tears under her blindfold. It was as if over eighteen months of waiting had suddenly come to an end. She could almost taste the amazing gift that her Master was about to bestow on her.

The crop touched her open pussy, she felt the roughness of the shank of it against her lips, and then she felt a little pat on the top of her slit. She jumped, and she heard him chuckle. "Wait... ma soumise... you must learn to be more patient..." The tip ran up her tummy and brushed over it gently. She drew her tummy in and felt him pat her navel. "So eager to please. Relax your stomach, Cynthia. You do have a truly splendid body."

A slightly harder tap over her tummy. She winced a little, but this time she expected it. She felt the crop wander back down her body, lazily. This was the prelude, the foreplay. He knew exactly how cruel he was. She wondered if she would be able to take the pain when it really started. Her pussy was wide open. Ah! Another tap over her exposed pussy. She gasped. It stung! She felt him lift the crop and it was somewhere out there in the blackness for many long seconds as her legs shifted minutely on the bed, open wide in front of him, the muscles in her thighs clenched and unclenched, her pussy was so sensitive she could feel a small draft of air passing over her lips....

There was a whistling in the air and then the thick sound of an object splattering against something soft and moist. She heard herself screaming with her mouth wide open at the same time as her body registered the blow. The pain shot up her body, over her hips, it was so bitter it almost made her retch. Her legs closed against the crop as she continued to scream. She curled her legs up, pressing the crop into her. She felt him push the back of her knees with one hand and pull the crop out, roughly.

"Stop it!" he cried, and thrashed her over the back of her legs.

This second blow brought her back to her senses. She slumped back flat on the bed, muscles loosening.

"Thank you, Maitre" she mumbled. God, she felt so sick with the pain!

"You will take another, now. Back open."

Whimpering, she opened her legs a little. Every movement was agony.

"More."

She tried again. Her treacherous thighs would not part for her. She felt him tap the inside of her thigh, patiently, gently.

"More."

Her body reacted to his gentle ministration. "Thank you, Maitre" she whispered. "My body.... I can't help it..."

The second blow was just as terrible as the first. She waited, legs open. Then there was the awful whistling sound, and finally the impact. She bucked and writhed on the bed in front of him but this time her legs stayed wide apart. As she howled and pulled at her wrist ties, she felt the crop land over one of her breasts, catching the fleshy part on the side. Another... this time right over the tip of her hard nipple. Time and space had ceased to exist for her. She felt the blows land on her other breast like great flashes of light too bright in darkness. Her breasts, her belly, her thighs. The crop was hard on them. She pushed her body up to him, giving herself to him. She pushed her breasts up to him when he was beating her breasts, her stomach up when he was beating her stomach, and her pussy out and open when she felt the blows landing there. He played her like a well-trained animal. At the same time there was this unearthly screaming and the pulling of the soft cuffs aganist her tender wrists.

An eon of time passed. She realised that the woman tied to the bed had stopped howling, and that she was simply lying there, bathed in her own sweat, sobbing gently. She felt his weight on the bed beside her. His lips over hers. She opened her mouth and his tongue slid in. Their tongues met, his thusting hard into her.

His hand caressed her body... her breasts, her stomach, every place where he had hurt her. She felt his lips over her nipples. They were sore, so sore! His gentleness was like a mockery. He knew that every touch he made sent her into more pain, and yet he insisted on stroking her and kissing her as if his fingers and mouth were really gentle. She groaned, and she didn't know if it was from pain or pleasure. His hand fastened over her bare pussy and held it. The same pussy she had so carefully shaved the previous afternoon! His blows had made her pussy as sensitive as a young girl's.

"T'es mienne Cynthia" he whispered. She shivered at the words as he claimed her.

"Oui, Mon Maitre.... rien ne Vous est refuse." Nothing is refused you. She suddenly understood that this had always been a part of her life even when she had been a little girl, her delicate body made of some precious matter. To be someone's, someone proud and cruel, and to give him everything, not to refuse him anything. His fingers parted her intimate lips, and she felt herself giving to him. Her pussy was utterly soaked and she felt his finger pushing into it, deep... my god, deeper than a finger could go! The pain and the excitement of it drew a long groan from her and she pushed her thighs up for him. The first time he had entered her!