Embracing Surrender

But the main event, oddly reminiscent of the old days in school, was a thick leather strap, about an inch and a half wide and two feet long. Maurice brandished it with the reverence of a sacred artifact--before proceeding to demonstrate that he knew how to use it. It landed, first stroke, on her butt, with a startlingly loud crack, followed by a stabbing, searing pain that radiated and echoed--much the way thunder follows lightning--still seriously throbbing at the next stroke. By the time Maurice ceased, Pauline's ass felt like it was on fire.

That strapping, punctuated as it was with sharp cries and sharper cracks, was, Maurice assured her, somewhat short of a real, honest-to-goodness thrashing--which would be studied, but not vicious--as, he quietly pointed out, she would find out first-hand, in the not-too-distant-future. That being said, this, her first taste of a real comprehensive flogging, had not just brought her to tears but had knocked the stuffing--her pride and I-can-handle-this smugness--right out of her.

Maurice, almost solicitously, unhooked Pauline, and let her down slowly, supporting her until she regained her sea-legs. He, then, helped her get seated--as comfortably as possible, given the circumstances--on the love-seat on one side of the coffee table. After throwing an afghan over her shoulders, and pouring her a dry sherry, he took a seat himself, in the easy chair at the end of the table. At that point, he began to chat as if nothing out-of-the-ordinary had just occurred.

As Pauline recovered, a subtle smile crept to her lips. She felt a pleasant sense of satisfaction enfold her--she had, ultimately, endured; and that, oddly enough, felt good--really good. Sipping her sherry, she tuned in to what Maurice was saying. "Well, P, how was that?" It was obviously rhetorical, as he went on without giving her a chance to respond. Pauline lost focus, again, for a moment, and as she brought her attention back, Maurice was pontificating; "...and pain directs ones consciousness, narrows their awareness to just the here and now, focuses their mind; ...until the pain completely fills their being--your being, P--leaving room for nothing else. If I, for example, start you off with a wee bit of erotic arousal, then add just a sprinkling of pain as the stimulus increases--as both pleasure and hurt build together, the intensity of the sensation will confuse your brain; which will be left to decide for itself if it is experiencing agony or ecstasy. But you, P, can learn, through experience and/or inclination, to choose. And that's where I come in. I can help--guide you, in your quest."

Maurice paused; and when he spoke again, following a spell of comfortably contemplative silence, he had, it seemed, completely changed tacks. "You know, I think it's time you began dressing the part--wearing the 'uniform' as it were, of your current, chosen position; not just here for tutorials, but as everyday wear. He suggested--subtly, almost incidentally--what to wear; something recognizable to other subscribers to The Lifestyle--short, short skirts and sheer or gaping blouses, with ridiculously high heels--in short, the unmistakable costume of a submissive slut. And Maurice commented on her garb at every meeting, making suggestions on how to make her suggested, suggestive dress increasingly outrageous.

Pauline tried to explain away her wardrobe changes to office colleagues: "I was feeling unattractive, and felt that I wanted, not actually to be seen as sexy, but just to be seen--as more than part of the furniture--to be seen as a sexual creature. I am just trying to dress a little more up-beat, a little more with it." Notwithstanding, she sometimes felt rather embarrassed at work, by her new style. She figured, though, that the whole business was some kind of a test Maurice had set for her, and she didn't want to fail. Eventually, someone from HR told her about complaints with her inappropriately tartish new look. Apparently, colleagues had said she looked more like a twenty-something street-walking hooker than a professional banker, and that made many of them extremely uncomfortable.

Hearing this, Maurice laughed, saying it was probably not so much uncomfortable as envious. He suggested that the line between sexy and slutty is not just fuzzy, it moves depending on who's looking--and when. However, the immediate solution was simple--she should change from her boring work clothes into her costume right after work, especially on tutorial days. While it had not been said explicitly, Maurice's intentions were, among other things, to keep P constantly aware of her own sexuality and sexual attractiveness. "Remember that 99 of 100 men who give you a second glance would fuck you given half a chance. On second thought, having, I think, made my point, I believe we can now dispense with the costume altogether on tutorial days." Hence, the prescribed garb required for arrival at Maurice's townhouse, for what was still, rather euphemistically, called training, changed from miniskirt and tarty blouses to nothing but a robe and slippers--with pockets to allow for a small wallet: driver's license, charge card, car keys, and apartment key. Also toys and accoutrements as needed.

On training days, during her frequent waiting--whether standing in ready-position, or bound to a chair, or hanging by her wrists from the ceiling--waiting gave Pauline time to think, to muse. And, on one of those times, bent over a bar-stool and fastened securely, with time to anticipate her impending punishment for some transgression, real or contrived, Pauline silently philosophized. "It's oft said that negative attention is better than no attention; but I'm pretty sure I can make a good argument that negative attention is actually better than positive attention. Generally, sexual arousal involves erotic caress, stimulating erogenous zones with warmth and gentle sensation, whereas pain, as often as not, is sharp and intense. Pain is like high voltage sensation--like static electricity; a shock from a spark--short, sharp, and intense, but survivable, while sexual arousal is more of a high amperage sensation--providing a jolting full-body shock; potentially lethal." Although she knew her argument had some holes in it, she felt it was, for the most part, true.

She also knew there were often intense moments--like just before orgasm--where agony and ecstasy became confusingly intertwined. Not only that, but she suspected the ringing, stinging echoes of corporal punishment slowed the sensual descent from climax more so than love or lust. Later on, when she shared her musings with Maurice, she was pleased when he said, "We certainly seem to be on the same page--reading from the same play-book, as it were." Indeed, as their relationship progressed, they repeatedly demonstrated a highly attuned teacher-student rapport.

At the start of another 'training session', Pauline stood naked, 'at ready', facing Maurice, as he sat on the settee in the front parlour, silently sipping a brandy. Carefully putting his snifter down on an end-table, he stood and shoved the settee he'd been sitting on back toward the wall. "Watch this," he murmured as he reached beneath the coffee table at which they'd previously been philosophizing. With an amazing sleight-of-hand he began transforming the table, inverting the top and converting it into a rectangular massage-table-like work-surface--upholstered in black leather. Furthermore, hidden legs slid down from each corner to lock into place at various heights, and heavy anchor rings were revealed on the inside of each leg. Pauline gasped and shivered. In mere moments, a nondescript piece of living room furniture had become a sturdy and imposing discipline frame.

With a wry smile, Maurice chuckled, "Neat, eh?" as he beckoned her approach. Directing her with a calm voice and a firm hand, he positioned Pauline lying prone over the erstwhile coffee table, elbows and knees spread wide and fastened with leather cuffs over the sides to the uprights; positioned, quite obviously for corporal punishment. Skipping the bare-handed spanking and the paddles of previous sessions, the evening's ordeal began with a strap--THE strap, and, rapidly, the intensity of the stimulation increased, quickly threatening to overwhelm her, until, produced, seemingly, out of thin air, leather belts were drawn and fastened across her waist and the top of her back. "Just to steady you," Maurice explained. "To help reduce your writhing--your distraction." And still the stimulation grew, as he resumed.

"I must not pass out! I must not pass out!" Pauline chanted in a mantra to herself, even as the sharp sensation of the strap on her bare flesh peaked.

Later, at subsequent sessions over the intervening weeks, the punishment--the discipline continued to mount--become ever-more intense--more and more a full-blown thrashing. But, no, she would not allow herself to utter the 'safe' word. She would not let herself cry, "Mercy!" Not now; not yet!

Then, that option was removed. A ball-gag was fitted to muffle her involuntary gasps and cries; placed firmly between her teeth and buckled securely behind her head.

Over successive lashings, the strap was replaced with a multi-tongued tawse--something like a light-weight cat-o'-mine-tails, its use interspersed, from time to time, for the sake of variety, with a riding crop or a flexible wooden switch; which really, really hurt, but..., at least he never employed a cane. That, apparently, would have left serious welts, far too obvious, and difficult to hide.

It seemed the more involved the beatings got, the more they became habituated to Pauline. Sometimes, she felt as if she was becoming almost dependent on sensual extremes for monster orgasms. Indeed, her climaxes were becoming not so much clitoral or vaginal, as situational--she could actually cum with the initiation of corporal punishment, even with the anticipation of an imminent strapping! Notwithstanding, by that time, their sessions almost always included Pauline getting fucked in one hole or another, by Maurice's cock or one of the various dildoes in his kit.

One evening, well into her training, after a thrashing that was relatively short and mild, while Pauline remained tied elbows and knees to the ingenious coffee-table device, her red, glowing butt still radiating in the breeze, Maurice began to finger-fuck her. First one finger, then two, then, following the addition of the third and fourth, inserting his pointed hand with his thumb, right up to his knuckles, Maurice stopped for a moment, and, chuckling, giving Pauline's still recovering ass a sharp smack, said, "It's designed to push a baby's head out, so it should be able to accommodate this going in!" at which point he abruptly withdrew his hand, curled it into a fist, and began pushing it insistently against the tensed muscle of her vaginal entrance. Applying a bit of lubricant with his other hand, his rounded fist soon began to stretch her pussy more than it was used to being stretched. Pauline's head snapped upright, as whimpers began to emanate from around her gag.

The pain was excruciating; she found herself puffing her cheeks, huffing her gasping breaths around the ball that filled her oral opening. Then, suddenly the torturous stretching stopped, the inward pressure letting up for an instant as she felt the ring of her cunt close around the base of Maurice's thumb and clasp onto his wrist. Gradually, after a pause, Maurice's clenched hand pushed up and in just a bit further, bumping the back wall of Pauline's vagina. She had never felt so full in her life. Slowly Maurice pulled, ever-so-slightly, back against the resistance of the opening, then forward, then back, forward, back--in and out and in and out; bumping her cervix, stretching her cunt. And the pain began to morph, perversely, into some sort of pleasure; tingling in the depths of her fundament. But, before it could actually develop into more than a curious arousal, Maurice put a hand against her butt cheek, and pushed it away with a steady force, until his hidden hand emerged once more into the dim light of the parlour. Moving himself back into her field of vision, wiping his hands on a towel, Maurice gave Pauline an enigmatic smile, before releasing her from her bonds. Finally, he spoke, but only to say, "We'll discuss this next session;" and letting her find her own way out.

After all this time, Pauline still wasn't sure why she kept coming back; only that she did--voluntarily. Whether it was the novelty--seeing what other challenges and variations he had in store; or the pride--testing and extending her own limits; or, perhaps, simply the pleasure--the masochistic hedonism--although she was loathe to admit just how much she delighted in the torture, thrilled to the pain. Like an addict, she realized, she kept coming back for a fix. Deep down, though, she knew it was profoundly more complicated and complex than that. She was, in fact, consciously and deliberately re-shaping her very self-image. She had mused on that idea more than once, but refused to let it concern her. Que sera sera.

Eventually Pauline, P, was introduced--or, more precisely, presented--to one of Maurice's friends, Marcel--another member of the band of libertines that made up the esoteric circle of like-minded sexual dominants, to which Maurice belonged. The two old reprobates sat in easy chairs, sipping brandy, and discussing their current projects--who were, incidentally, standing silently 'at ready', next to their respective masters; hence, Pauline met--although, they were not, of course, actually introduced--a young woman in, virtually, the same position as herself--Marcel's what-would-you-call-her? Pupil? Neophyte? Acolyte? Concubine? A slave, by any other name....

While P and her silent counterpart, Elsie--actually LC for Louise Carter--assessed one another, and though their communication was wholly non-verbal, they began to feel a sort of kinship--a growing mutual respect. Meanwhile, the two men discussed them as if they weren't even present. In chatting about their ongoing training, both masters admitted to being pleased at how well, how quickly their charges were becoming stoic. "I'll bet," said Marcel, casually, "my Elsie can be more stoic than your P."

"And how do you propose to determine that?"

Marcel laughed, like he had just pulled a fast one. "Funny you should ask. I actually worked this out some time ago; though I've never had an opportunity to try it."

Treating the girls like furniture, they manhandled them about, under Marcel's direction, positioning them on all fours, on either side of the carpet, directly facing the parlour door. A cord was run through a pulley attached to the door-handle, running at right angles--connecting the girls. Fastened to either end of the cord was a latex, sculpted penis-shaped dildo. With the dildoes inserted orally and held tight between their teeth, the contestants--P and Elsie--pulled the connecting cord taut. And, indeed, the ladies certainly needed to keep a firm hold on the faux cock, for while they were doing that, each was being lashed with a riding crop by other contestant's master. Oh, they could whimper, but the moment they opened their mouth to cry out, the cord would jerk away their dildo, and they would lose the contest.

With the two rather lovely asses presented as targets on opposite sides of the carpet, the thrashings began with the first blows curiously in sync. Looking straight ahead, Pauline could see Elsie in her peripheral vision; as well, she could feel, through the cord, her fellow victim jolt with the sting of each smack. The riding-crops were made up of a very springy shaft, with a golf-club-like handle and wrist thong at one end, and a tiny perforated tongue--like a miniature fly swatter--on the other. Pauline strove to stay focused, very aware of the movements and responses of her neighbour, as the cadence for each of them gradually fell out of unison. She could even feel Elsie tremble, through the connecting cord, as the intensity of her own punishment grew, as well. Every now and again, she heard a distressed whimpering coming from across the way. P was, up to that point, having no trouble enduring the onslaught; however, as soon as she had that thought, the assault on her backside shifted to flex fully around her near buttock, and flick into her bum-crack to cleanly connect with the naked, pink tissue of her anus. That got her attention. The whole of her focus was abruptly pulled off all else to submerge into the incredibly sharp sensation exploding at her ass. She moaned pathetically around the oral dildo for an instant before the cord suddenly went slack--a plaintive cry splitting the air next to her.

With her backside positively glowing, P could hardly celebrate the fact that she'd won, still, some sort of pride and self-satisfaction joined the miasma of sensation that bubbled and roiled throughout her corporeal self. Beckoning her to rise and resume her ready stance next to him, Maurice casually acknowledged her win. The albeit mild praise added its glow to her already flaring arousal. Then, completely out of the blue, Maurice suggested that the friendly thing to do, at that juncture would be to help "Poor Elsie" bear her punishment--which would be, it was decided, a further twenty-five-stroke flogging. Pauline gave him a puzzled look. "Why don't you, P, offer to share Elsie's punishment?" Flabbergasted, Pauline recognized that that was more than a suggestion--she also realized that she didn't mind.

"Let me join you in your punishment," Pauline purred. Elsie's wide-eyed, silent response actually made P chuckle. "I'll take that as a yes." Without any further discussion, both girls were hung by their wrists from same ceiling hook. Straps were connected and arranged to hold the two mouth to mouth. In that position, knees intertwined with knees, and nipples aroused nipples.

Out of the corner of her eye, Pauline could just discern that Marcel brandished a short-ish multi-stranded tawse. She pushed her lips against Elsie's, whispering, "Hang on. Here it comes!" As Marcel landed the first stroke on Elsie's still-glowing bottom, she pushed her pussy firmly onto P's thigh. Pauline was not surprised to discover, as her partner squeaked into her mouth, that Elsie's labia were puffy and wet, and squelched against the front of her leg, leaving a delightful smear of feminine nectar. While the lashing switched back and forth between the two, P delighted in the sensations as the pain crept into that agony/ecstasy gray area. Furthermore, she realized that her arousal virtually fed off Elsie's distress, growing exponentially with each subsequent stroke--whether on her butt or Elsie's.

Abruptly, immediately upon the twenty-fifth lashing, Marcel laid the whip down and began releasing the two women. Both were visibly quaking; Elsie, because of the ordeal, and P, because she was mere milli-seconds from cumming. Maurice stepped up to assist his friend. After a hushed bit of conferring, he quietly ordered the naked subjects, "Here! Get into soixante-neuf--right here; right now. P, bottom, on your back! Elsie, hands and knees, on top!" After a quick bit of shuffling--getting into position--"Wait for it."

Marcel issued a further order. "Make each other feel better. Fingers and tongues." And as the girls tentatively began, Marcel, turning to Maurice, said, "I'll bet Elsie can make P cum before P makes Elsie cum."

Maurice replied with a "Pshaw!" but Pauline, having been left hanging, so close, felt her ignition sequence fire into action the moment Elsie's head dropped into her vee. P detonated at the very first touch of Elsie's tongue to her throbbing clitoris.

Laughing uproariously, Marcel slapped Elsie on the butt. "Nice touch," he chortled, as Elsie rode out P's still-quaking orgasm. Maurice facetiously demanded a rematch. Once the doxies had caught their breaths, they were instructed to top up the masters' brandies, then invited to kneel 'at ease' next to their respective master's chairs. After taking a contemplative sip, Maurice swirled the liquid gold around the bowl of his snifter. "Well, that was rather interesting--and amusing. Wouldn't you say, old man?"