tagBDSMA Real Dom's Chronicle Ch. 02

A Real Dom's Chronicle Ch. 02


Chapter 2: Atonement and Purification


The first afternoon's engagement left us exhausted. D giggled at how wobbly her legs felt on the way to the car. Here, outside our playground, there was no evidence of her slutty persona. Her sweetness, the hint of shyness, is endearing. Her self-presentation - post-emo with a penchant for plaid skirts, reminiscent of a Manga character - is suggestive merely of a student freshly out of high-school who has recently discarded her mandatory school uniform but has not yet fully left her institutional identity behind (I should add here, dear reader and co-fucker, that only this morning D confessed she was born at the end of 1996, which makes her still 18, not 19 as she initially told me). And here, then, precisely lies the nub of the erotic tension I feel whenever I think of D, a tension that is almost maddening, makes me obsess about her: she embodies innocence and yet I have had her swallowing my meat hungrily and with great dedication. I have seen her asshole twitch through orgasm after orgasm. She has begged me to fuck her, begged me to let her cum. And I have, since that first engagement, pushed her boundaries considerably, as you will find out in due course. How is this confluence of selves - the sweet, lovely girl and the dirty little slut - possible? How does she reconcile the two halves? On this first trip back to the railway station near the café where I first met her, D gave me enough of an insight into her psychology to enable me to make some sense of her. She has since elaborated on these first divulgences, and so I'm able to sketch a picture that I hope will help you journey with me into the more delicious recesses of D's mind and, alas, her body.

D was raised in a strict Catholic Filipino family and went to a Catholic private school in Manila. Sex was a taboo subject in both institutions. D was supposed to marry her first sexual partner and view sex as nuptial duty only. Her sex education was very basic, birth control was out of the question as a topic and to this day is an issue conjuring some anxiety in her. I know that she was introduced to masturbation by a girlfriend of hers who showed her how to stimulate her clit. I don't know how this took place exactly, and D is not inclined to flesh out the details of that encounter, although I will very soon instruct her to recount the experience in all its nuances. The friendship with her instructress fell apart soon after, possibly due to D's unwillingness to return her friend's romantic feelings. What D did gain from that encounter, however, is the capacity to read her body's longings and to pleasure herself. Later, at age 17, she met a boy and had sex for the first time. Again, I'm sorry to say I don't have any details. I only know that I am her second lover. What is more important, though, than the details of what most likely was a series of fairly standard teen making out and fucking sessions, is that D developed serious feelings of shame and guilt at having lost her virginity at that age vis-à-vis her family, but also vis-à-vis what George H. Mead called "the generalized other those moralizing others - whether known to us or not - that orient what we do, how we think and how we feel.

Add to that her preference for older men, for her teachers rather than classmates. For example, D had a crush on her physical education teacher who one day, when she was about 12, gave her a little slap on her bottom. Later, during the time of her sexual awakening, that incident became a central source of pleasure, pleasure that increasingly turned on the need to be dominated by a "powerful" - i.e. older - male. D also loves literature, especially stories that revolve around vampires, werewolves and other monstrous creatures of the night. At 17 she discovered Kelsey Cole and her erotically charged, fantastic novels. Thus, guilt and shame around what she views as promiscuous behavior, especially when cast against the background of family expectations, her need to be sexually controlled, her need to let herself tumble into unreal, fantastic darkness and there to be taken congeal in a psychological base that makes D an ideal submissive.

But not all of that was known to me before our second meeting. I knew about her need to express and explore her "dirty, dirty little slut" persona. With that knowledge came a searing focusing of my sexual desire into a single objective: to mentor and lead D towards her pleasure, and in so doing set her free and help make her life beautiful. The feeling of omnipotence that comes with one's increasing sense of control over another is checked only by my awareness of her youth and my respect for her as a person in her own right. But time and time again I have had to admonish myself not to break her. Not to hurt her beyond the limits of the pleasure-pain she desired and was mine to give. And to be aware also of my own need for intimacy and the great possibility of a kind of falling in love that would make me - her possessor - the possessed. I was about to enter that fraught zone where the heart was asserting its power over the mind, where the mind asserted itself with rational actions the soul could barely brook. That part of the process began in earnest on May 12, 2015, the day of our second meeting.


Before we enter the apartment I turn to D and ask her if she is ready.

She nods and utters a soft, "Yes."

I turn the key, let her enter first. She takes off her shoes and goes to the bathroom. (This is the last time she will do so without permission.) I take a quick glance around the playground to make sure everything is in good order. My Noguchi coffee table holds the tools required for today's proceedings: a large, red, thick penis-shaped dildo, a rubber gag, a cigar case about one and a half times the size of my middle finger, a pair of padded leather handcuffs, lube. A stool holds my laptop, its screen showing a document.

D enters the room. Her face is flushed, her eyes bespeak anticipation, she is awaiting instructions. I take her by the hand and lead her to the stool, ask her to kneel down and to read the following:

atonement |əˈtōnmənt|


reparation for a wrong or injury: she wanted to make atonement for her husband's behavior.

• (in religious contexts) reparation or expiation for sin: an annual ceremony of confession and atonement for sin.

purify |ˈpyo͝orəˌfī|

verb ( purifies, purifying, purified ) [ with obj. ]

remove contaminants from: the filtration plant is able to purify 70 tons of water a day | a group of 19th-century German painters who set out to purify art | (as adj. purified) : purified linseed oil.

• make ceremonially clean: a ritual bath to purify the soul.

• (purify something from) extract something from: genomic DNA was purified from whole blood.

D's voice trembles slightly. That tremble is contagious. It finds iteration in my tingling spine, spreads to my heart and cock. I then ask her to face the coffee table.

"I want you to contemplate some of the tools I've prepared for you."

Her eyes wander from the imposing rubber dildo to the gag to the handcuffs and back again. I pace up and down the room, the heels of my Fratelli Rossetti clearly audible as I walk the parquetry floor. I take my time. I want her to feel the approach of the immediate future, the future of her pleasure. And suddenly that future arrives. It arrives with a fistful of hair in my left.

"Stand up!", I command as I lift her from the ground.

Now I work swiftly. I place the satin eye mask on her face, tie the silk tie to ensure utter darkness. I undo the black dress and, to my delight, discover D is wearing a beautifully embroidered black corset. I take off her bra and panties but leave in place a pair of fishnets. I smile at D's efforts to package herself as pleasingly as possible for her Sir. She opens her legs about shoulder width without me having to ask. Corset, stockings, closely trimmed triangle and shaven cunt, pert young breasts, flowing black hair, a cupid's mouth, flushed cheeks. Just here. Just here right in front of me, for me to enjoy, to have. What would you do? Think about it for little while. What would you do? I can tell you what I want to do: caress her and kiss her and whisper to her that I like her just as I did the first time around, show her that I am actually developing a major crush on her. That's the heart. The care is the soul. But I know better. I need to pull back, and I need that distancing of the heart to be clarified and distilled in action, with a kind of defilement.

"How many fuckholes do you have?"

"One ... I think".

"What do you mean by 'I think'?"

" I don't know."

I shove two fingers in her mouth. And slowly move them to the back of her tongue until D rewards me with her gag reflex.

"That's Fuckhole number 1", I say. "Now, spread your ass cheeks."

D reaches back, grabs a good handful of her ass in each hand and spreads it. I walk behind her and reach for the tub of Vaseline I keep on the bookshelf somewhere between Philip Roth and Toni Morrison and dip my finger to retrieve about a hazelnut sized glob of jelly. I place my right hand on her throat, my left hand on her anus and, backed by the sounds of her little sweet moans, slide my finger inside her ass as far as it will go. D gasps.

"That's Fuckhole 3. Clearly, I don't need to ask you where Fuckhole 2 is located, or do I?"

"No, Sir. It's my kitty", says D confident that she got something right. Leaving my finger in its tight, warm place I say,

"You are only half right, my dirty little slut. You got the location right. But here in this place the other term for Fuckhole 2 is 'cunt'. Let me ask you again. How many fuckholes do you have?"

"Three Sir. I have three fuckholes, Sir."

"Good. But we have another problem", I retort. "The problem is that Fuckhole 1 and 2 have already lived up to their names. Fuckhole 3 hasn't. So let's get the nomenclature right. Until further progress is made, you will refer to your mouth either as 'mouth' or 'Fuckhole 1'; to your cunt as 'cunt' or 'Fuckhole 2'; your asshole is really just your 'asshole' until such time when I will redefine it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

I slide my finger from D's asshole and turn her face towards me. I gently place my lips on hers and let mine read and respond to the quivers of hers. Her tongue darts. She cannot control her hunger. I give her space to nourish herself and push my own tongue into her mouth, let it dance with hers, suck, nibble her lower lip, kiss her again, push my face hard against hers, listen to her delightful whimpering - and drop to my knees.

I've always loved eating cunt. In addition to a fully developed oral obsession, a professional career as a woodwind musician, which I've long left behind, has afforded me excellent control over my tongue. Staccato on the clit. First on the little hood. Then, hood pulled back with my right thumb, underneath the pleasure button. Only later, sometimes much later, staccato directly on the clit, but with the tongue touching only very softly. Alternate with rapid flicking of the tip of the muscle. Sometimes rolling the clit - if fully flushed - like an olive, gently. All that for eons. All that just part of the repertoire. I don't tire. And yet, I know dear reader - as must you - that it always takes two. I cannot simply say I have mastered the art of cunnilingus. Every going down is a diving into the unknown. I will never tire from eating cunt.

And so I work D's delicious slit.

"Push your cunt towards me", I instruct her.

She obeys. Now D has very little experience being licked. Her previous 'relationship' had no room for her pleasures. But D has also spent much time thinking about what it might be like to be licked, sucked, eaten, and during masturbation such thoughts have always brought her the desired results. Now she moans. Now she bucks her hips towards me. Now she trembles. Now she asks,

"May I come?"

I don't answer. I continue flicking her clit and run my finger through her wet slit. I don't push inside. I just slide my finger back and forth from asshole to Fuckhole 2. Sometimes I push upwards, sometime I don't. I might speed up a little, but inevitably slow down again.

"Please, Sir, let me come."

I do not respond. And soon her moans give away her approaching climax. Her begging unanswered, her anus begins to contract and relax and then pulse and then it is all over. D has not yet learned to give her orgasms over to me; to let me control their onset, intensity and end. During the trembling aftermath D apologizes. She says she is sorry. She is sorry for coming. But in between her apologies, probably because her climax has curtailed her reasoning faculties allowing intuitive reactions to bubble to the surface, allowing her joy at coming to be expressed, she giggles. She giggles! She giggles because she is grateful. She giggles because some tension has been released. In the world of vanilla sex the post-orgasm female giggle may be viewed as proof of the fulfillment not of the 'pleasure principle', but of that which orients so much of our practices, our interactions: the achievement principle. It allows us to boast: I made her come so hard she giggled! Or, I came so hard it made me giggle! But here, in this space, the space I share with many of you readers and co-fuckers, the submissive's giggle can only draw the master's or mistress's ire, and draw their ire especially when it tops and tails an unrequested orgasm!

"How dare you?"

"What? ... I mean, sorry Sir."

"How could you disappointment me like that?"

"I didn't mean to ...", D pleads with a hint of panic in her voice.

Silently I step away. And for a long 5 minutes I wait. I wait and let D contemplate her predicament. She looks a little distressed, lost. Of course, I want to console her. Of course, I want to embrace and kiss her and tell her all's alright. Instead, I must use the opportunity to slowly make her mine, move toward ownership.

I step behind D and place the gag collar around her neck, the gag in her mouth.

"It's time to give you your safe word. When your boundaries are crossed, some barrier - physical or emotional - is transgressed and you are not ready for it, you can use it. In time you will not need it any longer. But here it is for now: puppy. Say it.

"Puppy", D whispers.

The heavy leather cuffs go on her wrists and are connected with a steel carbine. I take her by her long hair and lead her towards the sofa. I sit down, ask her to find my thighs and to lay herself across my lap. It is exceedingly awkward for her to move in this way, but D manages. I love what I see. Her round orbs right here in front of me. Easily spread I can view her asshole at my leisure. Circle it with my fingers, poke it a little, pet her cunt. I softly trace her skin with my fingers. Softly. Slowly. Tell her how beautiful my little slut is. How I expect her to learn, to learn about her pleasures, to learn that there is freedom in the transmutation of pain into pleasure, that process she has instinctively known to be the very centre of her. But there is no pain. None given. Just butterflies wandering her skin. Fox tails dragging along her spine. Velvet encasing her skin.

Then whack! Hard. As hard as I can with my bare left hand. A moan. And whack! And fingertips wander the nooks, the crannies, the folds, the undulations and holes and whack, whack, whack, and more moans, and more slaps, always out of time, no rhythm allowed to congeal, unpredictability being the right hand of pleasure-pain. She moans. I take the gag from D's mouth. Whack!

"What do you say?"

"Thank you."

Whack, whack!

"What do you say?"

"Thank you, Sir."

And on it goes. Marks and streaks appear. D's ass is pink and purple, bruised. Every "thank you" seems to edge closer to tears until finally a sob becomes audible. No safeword. Whack! Whack! Whack! Crying. Grateful crying. Body shaking. I reach for the big dildo and the lube. I veritably drown the big fucker in lube.

"Raise your hips some more and open your legs as far as you can. Tell me you are my dirty, dirty little slut."

"I'm your dirty, dirty little slut."

"Keep on saying it, and say it nicely so I can understand you clearly."

"I'm your dirty, dirty little slut."

I place my dildo against her cunt lips. She doesn't know what's coming. 9 inches, girth unmanageable by my hand. I push in half its head. That much she can take for now.

"I'm your dirty, dirty little slut." Well uttered, clearly stated. Good.

In goes the head. A gasp. A pleasurable gasp.

"I'm your dirty, dirty little slut." A little breathless, but well done.

I begin to fuck her with the dildo's head only. Soon the moans that interrupt D's invocations signal the build up of pleasure.

"Don't you dare, my dirty slut."

"I'm your dirty, dirty little slut."

"Don't you dare come."

And I push in further. 5 inches of fat, veiny, silicon meat. And I find my pace and fuck and fuck, and D's diction is broken. It is broken my the onset of the inevitable. Whack!

"Thank you ... Sir".

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! And fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"I'm your dirty ... slut. Please ... please ... can I?"


"Can I come?"

"You may."

And gripping the dildo with her cunt, making it almost impossible to move, D let's go, walks into her pleasure and melts, sobs through pleasure-pain made manifest for the first time by her Sir.


Unfastened, D stands with her arms dangling, legs slight apart, still blindfolded. I put the dildo in her hand as a reminder as to why her cunt is aching. Her arousal is at optimal level. The orgasm she gave to me did not curtail her excitement, the emotional and physical impact of her first spanking and her first cunt stretching too overwhelming for a climax to return D to some kind of state of equilibrium. It will be easy to make her come, and to make her come over and over. I kiss her. Tell her I'm proud of her. That she seems cleansed, for now. And that I like her. That she will always be a dirty, dirty little slut, and that, for as long as she is mine, she will be whole; whole, because I will fuck her whole. While I speak to her I let the tip of my fingers circle her swollen clit. Just so. Just like that. Neither speeding up nor slowing down. I whisper to her and kiss her neck, then her nipples, suck on them, pinch them lightly, and tell her again and again how proud I am of her, how much I like her, how dirty she is. Soft "thank yous" escapes her lips. I circle and circle and do not push.

"You can come whenever you like", I say.

And she does. My plaything.

"My Sir?"


"Would you please fuck me?"

"You know, my dirty little slut, you've been quite obedient today. You haven't used your safe word. Why don't you just get down on the floor. Get on your back and push your knees back towards your face as far as you can."

Nothing quite like a well presented cunt. Open, strawberry-hued from prior dildo fucking. I insert two fingers, start that beckoning, come-hither movement that, ever since the discovery or promotion of the so-called G-spot has become standard fare for the modern man seeking to please his woman. I can never get away from my self-consciousness about the standardization of 'female arousal', the routinization of the erotic, its reduction to scripts and formulas. So I'm thinking about changing what I do, but D seems to like it so I persist. I persist until she comes.

"Yes, my little slut, that's it. Just relax. Open your legs and just fuck."

I add a finger and proceed to finger fuck her as hard as I can. D comes.

Only now do I undress. I take my time, put my clothes away and adorn my cock and balls with my favourite leather cockring.

"On all fours. Now."

D obliges. I spit on her asshole, then on her cunt. Placing my cock at the entry to Fuckhole 2, I put my left thumb on her anus. And as I slide my cock inside so does my thumb. I love D's whimpering.

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