tagBDSMMastering Submission Ch. 17

Mastering Submission Ch. 17

bysdbnnc©

In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.

* * *

We were all a bit nervous when the day actually arrived.

Master was trying to read. I was pacing. Sally was so still she didn't appear to be breathing, sitting on the edge of a sofa, her pretty blue Marks & Spencer dress falling round her in peaceful folds. There was no anticipation in Sally's face; nothing but peace. I'd never seen her like this. I'd never seen anybody like this before. Clouds scudded past and I, unable to restrain my restless impulse, walked across to the window to look out at the grey and thickening clouds. I glanced at my watch, "They're late," I said.

"Shut up, Meat," Sally said.

I began to pace the room once more, glancing down to the street each time I passed the window. Suddenly I froze, and announced, "They're here."

Master walked over and stood beside me. A black stretched Mercedes had pulled up at the curb on the opposite side of the street from Master's house. Three extraordinary-looking women were getting out. An old lady with a shopping trolley was staring at them open-mouthed. I could tell that Master didn't like that, knowing that he takes pride in the fact that nobody in his street has any idea of the sophisticated things that happen above the dry cleaner's on the corner.

I went down to answer the door. A moment later Katrina swept into Master's living room like a queen. She took off her leather trench coat. Under it, she was wearing a midnight blue leather leotard with a silver zip that ran down between her breasts and disappeared between her legs. Katrina also had on black, high heeled, thigh-length boots with the tops folded down like a principal boy at a pantomime, showing off midnight blue linings. The flashes of thigh between leotard and boots showed skin that was surprisingly firm for a chubby woman in middle age. Katrina's earrings were lightening flashes, blue enamel over white gold. Two Chinese girls I had never seen before, wearing identical black leather skirts and silver tank tops, their faces cold and expressionless, flanked Katrina, and took up positions on either side of their mistress.

One of them carried a long, velvet-covered box.

Katrina glanced at the bondage pictures on Master's walls and smiled. Whilst Katrina was scanning her surroundings and making eye contact with Master, I took the opportunity to observe her. Katrina was the most ordinary of women, mousy brown hair, and the wrong side of fifty, short and plump. However, there was something about her. Not just the clothes, but also the way Katrina held herself. Katrina was not the kind of person you read about in the tabloids, or even in the financial papers, except for the time Katrina had won the businesswoman of the year award, but she was the private brains behind dozens of celebrities and well-known brand names. Katrina also was a legend in the S&M community. Master welcomed Katrina to his home while her girls stood in silence, looking at the floor. Katrina knew the names of the rock groups Master handled, and commented on the way Master publicised them. Master does not like to have business conversations in front of slaves, but I could see that he was impressed at Katrina's grasp of his business experience and activities.

Soon after Master contacted Katrina about placing Sally with her, he explained to me that, in the S&M world, girls like Sally are bought, sold, swapped, lent, and/or given away all the time. Master told me that he had paid good money for the Red Cow, and could have sold her at a profit when people saw how far Master's training had taken her. Katrina looked at Sally and me, and asked: "Which of these whores do you want to off-load?"

"M-me, Mistress," said Sally, a tremor in her voice. I was dumb-struck -- Sally hadn't stammered since she was at school.

"Then why aren't you naked?" snapped Katrina. "Why aren't you kneeling?" she added, as Sally hurried to pull her dress over her head.

Katrina walked round her prospective slave, running cool eyes over her trembling body. Master had never managed that, although he had beaten and tortured her. We both knew Master never had made his Assistant Cunt tremble.

"Good," Katrina said, "no brand yet." She opened Sally's mouth and looked inside.

"You didn't pull her teeth?" Katrina asked Master with a smile.

"No," Master replied, startled.

"Lots of delights await her then," Katrina said. "Does she take it up the arse?"

Master nodded.

"Has she taken a fist up the arse?" Katrina inquired.

"I don't know," Master admitted.

"She will," replied Katrina. She looked at Master as if weighing up Master's qualities as a master and finding Master wanting. "You don't seem to know how to show a girl a good time," Katrina commented.

I watched all this, pale-faced and silent.

Katrina lifted Sally's face with a finger under her chin. "Lick Ang-Sun's cunt," she ordered. "There's a good girl."

One of the Chinese slaves hitched up her skirt, revealing dark stocking tops and a pierced and shaven mound. Sally stuck out her tongue and leaned forward.

"Any good?" asked Katrina a few minutes later.

"Excellent, Madam," Ang-Sun responded.

"I thought as much," said Katrina. "Dyke to the bone. That's enough, bitch," Katrina directed Sally in a soft voice that was impossible to ignore.

"Lie down on that table -- on your back," Katrina ordered. "Now raise your legs in the air. Do not look at me, dear. Keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling until I tell you otherwise."

Still trembling, Sally obeyed, holding her legs at ninety degrees to the top of the coffee table, toes pointed towards the ceiling.

Sally held the pose well, though she couldn't stop her stomach muscles jumping. Katrina snapped her chubby fingers and the second Chinese girl clicked the catches of the velvet-covered case, took out what can only have been an antique rapier, and handed it to Katrina who took a couple of practice swings, making the air sing.

I knew the terror this was causing me on behalf of Sally was plain to see, but, strangely enough, Sally did not look at all frightened.

Katrina stepped up to Sally and caressed her face. "Hold still, my dear," she said gently. "As still as you possibly can."

Katrina stepped back. Savagely, without any warm-up strokes, the side of the rapier struck home five incredible times against the backs of Sally's thighs -- blows really intended to hurt. While, in my experience with Master, narrow implements like canes were used with the utmost care and consideration, this vicious mistress was wielding a metre of toughened steel with all her strength, and with no thought at all for the well-being of the slave in front of her.

I couldn't begin to imagine that intensity of pain, yet Sally didn't move. In fact, each of the five times the blade struck home, it was I who cried out, as if I could feel every blow on the back of my own thighs.

Realising that the blows had stopped, I made myself breathe once more.

The marks on Sally's legs were darker than anything Master had ever left on either of us, three of them were oozing blood, but Sally still didn't cry or move. I knew Sally had a high pain threshold, but to see a woman take punishment like that without even flinching was astounding. Even Master was looking more than a little disconcerted after Katrina's display, despite Sally's stoic demeanor.

Sally sneaked a glance at Katrina, a glance that showed nothing but respect, and then her gaze returned to the ceiling. "Thank you, Mistress," Sally said, quietly and humbly, though her teeth still were clenched.

Having finished her butchery, Katrina handed the rapier to one of her Chinese slaves, who wiped blood from the blade on a silk handkerchief and replaced it in its case.

Katrina nodded to Master, "The bitch shows potential."

Katrina then turned to Sally, and said, "Well, my dear, I think you'll do. Run along with my girls: they will help you collect your things."

Sally's face, when the Chinese girls helped her to her feet, was blotched and pale with shock. She stood up unsteadily, afraid to trust her weight to damaged muscles.

Master looked at Sally, she looked at Master, and I saw a whole conversation take place with their eyes. Master silently invited her back to stay in Master's home forever; she smiled bravely and shook her head, telling both Master and me that she was happy, that she wanted a mistress rather than a master, and that she was ready to take this gigantic step.

Master has nothing but respect for slaves who can take pain, and I could see his admiration for my brave, beautiful friend we might never see again.

I was weeping openly now. I flung myself to the floor and kissed the toes of Katrina's boots.

"Mistress," I begged.

"What is it, my dear?" Katrina responded.

"Please, Mistress, may I say goodbye to my friend?" I asked.

"No, my dear, you may not," Katrina responded. "But you can come and visit her any time you like, if you think you can stand the pain."

A minute later one of the Chinese girls returned and bowed to Katrina, who nodded to Master and swept out.

I knelt in front of Master. There were flecks of blood on my dress that must have spattered there when Katrina's rapier hit a trickle of blood from an earlier wound.

"Madam Katrina is so small, Master!" I said.

"Size," Master replied, "has nothing to do with it."

* * *

After Sally left, Master and I were even happier together, our lives filled with love and care for one another.

We were happy on so many levels. I could tell you about a dinner party we went to, welcoming foreign comparative literature professors to a conference in London. I could tell you about another dinner we held when Master was soft-soaping a businessman from Frankfurt and I was hostess, an occasion that I was proud to have used to helped Master cement an important deal. I could talk about walking together in Hyde Park, about rowing on the Thames, about a golden September morning we spent in a hot air balloon over Devonshire, with me pointing down at the house I was brought up in, and my first school. In fact, I could tell this whole story as a Mills and Boon romance, because that is exactly what it was: we went to art galleries together and took long walks in the country, and danced together, and kissed for hours. However, unlike the lovely tales of romance novels, in our romance, Master also beat me and ejaculated over my face, and made me give him my own juices.

"What are you doing, Master?" I asked during one of our sessions after Sally departed.

"Never mind, bitch," Master rejoined, whilst holding one of my breasts in both hands, squeezing towards the nipple.

"I'm not a cow," I protested.

Master crushed my nipple until I winced. "Shut the fuck up," Master told me. "You are whatever I want you to be. Stand still. I've got a present for you."

Master had two presents in fact. I had been spending the afternoon parading for Master in the main room in a variety of perverted outfits, ending up wearing nothing but a long pearl necklace round my waist and a pair of cream stilettos with outrageously high heels. It was the latest in a series of different uniforms I had been modeling over the previous hour.

"What presents, Master?" I asked.

"Stick out your tits and close your eyes," Master ordered.

I tilted my head as Master started the tiny motors, and then gasped -- twice.

"You can look now," Master said.

"They're beautiful, Master," I responded.

"Do you know what they are?" Master asked.

"I think so, Master. I think they are breast pumps. Thank you, Master. You are so thoughtful and inventive. Did you actually go into a chemist shop and buy them yourself?" I asked with curiosity.

Master nodded, and said, "The girl behind the counter was more embarrassed than I was."

"I bet she wondered why you wanted two," I said, grinning.

Master took a pump in each hand and shook them. "How does that feel?" Master asked. "Is it painful?"

"No, but it's very humiliating," I truthfully replied. When Master let go, I swung my body, making the pumps jiggle. "Can I touch them, Master?" I asked.

"Go ahead," Master responded.

I tugged one thoughtfully, and said, "They hang on very firmly."

"They have to, to pull the milk out of your tits. Look," Master directed. There was the tiniest pearl of white on the left nipple: colostrums, the pre-milk every woman produces before lactating, and some have it all the time.

I nodded, and crossed over to the mirror and admired my reflection.

"I love the way they pull my breasts out of shape," I said. "I must look like a real slut."

"A whore," Master agreed. "But then, that's what you are. And they're not just for decoration. They make a lovely outfit, but they're also there to stimulate your milk glands. I want you to use them on yourself morning and night, and in the staff toilets when you're at university. Even if we never have children together, I want to taste your milk."

"It's an amazing idea, Master. And of course you can do anything you like with my tits," I responded. "But it's just a dream, isn't it? It couldn't possibly work."

"In the Third World, women breastfeed one another's children when times are hard," Master said. "Even here in Britain it's not unknown for a woman to breastfeed an adopted child. That's why -- "

"That's why you've been fooling with my tits that way when I'm in bondage, Master," I said, finishing Master's sentence. "I thought you were being a bit rough."

"That's right," Master said. "I've been going through the motions of expressing milk by hand to get your glands going. Well, what do you think?"

"My breasts are definitely feeling a bit tender," I replied. "Oh, I see, Master. You mean what do I think about giving you my milk?"

Master nodded.

"I think it's a lovely idea, Master," I said. "Even if it doesn't work, it'll be nice to have you paying extra attention to my breasts."

Master had some more presents for me. "These are breast shells," Master explained. "If you get the feeling you might be producing a bit of milk, you pop them inside your bra to catch the drops."

I looked doubtful, and said, "There might not be room inside one of my bras for them."

"I've thought of that. I went through your underwear drawer, and here," Master pulled out a carrier bag. "I bought replacements for every bra you own: a set that is one size, and another two sizes, larger than the size you wear now."

"Master," I said uncertainly, "these pumps have made me very excited. Would you please fuck me?"

"Certainly," Master said with a smile. "And then you can get dressed and we'll take a walk with you wearing them."

My eyes widened, and I asked, "But what will it look like, Master, with two huge bulges like that under my coat?"

"What do you think?" Master replied. "It will look like I'm taking my slut for a walk."

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