tagBDSMMastering Submission Ch. 06

Mastering Submission Ch. 06


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.


"Oh, no, Master, please, Master, no. Master, I'm freezing," I continued begging, the words becoming a chant on which I focused to try to escape the cold in the only way possible to me.

I was writhing helplessly, naked under an icy shower, chained by my wrists to a pipe above my head. At this point, I had been serving as Master's slave for three days, and I was being confronted yet again with a cold reality of life as a slave. Master was sitting on the edge of the bath, watching.

"Please, Master," I moaned. "Let me down. It's too cold." Master let me babble on, waiting for my words to die down to whimpers, and my whimpers to be replaced by silence. I had begged Master to stop the moment he dragged me off to the shower, but I didn't say my safe word then or during the seemingly interminable frigid shower. I might even thank Master afterwards as my body dried in the air without the benefit of a towel, shivering. To me, being clean, even with cold water showers, was so much better than being dirty, that I might even manage to be contrite, pristine and penitent. In any case, I definitely would be ready to be hit and fucked and made dirty all over again.

Early on, Master explained to me that large quantities of icy water are all he needs to keep a slave clean. He does not bathe a slave in ass's milk. He does not soak a slave in a bubble bath. He does not buy her perfumed soap or shower gel. He comes all over her, and washes the semen off with cold water. To Master's way of thinking, this is yet another advantage of keeping a slave compared to living with a straight woman: they even save on fuel bills.

What Master had not explained, but that I had worked out on my own, was that the cold showers were more than just another excuse to make me uncomfortable: a slave needs tolerance to cold. A lot of time a master spends with his slave, she'll be naked and he'll be clothed, and it wouldn't do for him to be uncomfortably warm in her presence.

Master watches a slave all the time she's under an icy shower: not just because it is fun, but also because he knows it would not be safe to leave her alone. And, of course, even a slave does not tolerate the ill treatment if it does not come packaged with hours of attention from the Dominant she serves!

Strangely enough, Master's rough handling already was making my skin softer, more supple and glowing with health -- more so than when it was the skin of a woman who pampered herself with creams and lotions. Master had promised that, in a month or so, he would bathe me in a tub of hot water, with bubbles and oils, patting me dry with big fluffy towels. But, as Master made clear to me, even that wouldn't be for my pleasure: that would be to remind me that Master has the power to be kind as well as cruel.

Just as a master has to clean his slave, so a slave has to attend to bathing a master, at the master's discretion, of course. Master usually takes quick showers, but every few weeks, when he has an hour or two to spare, he indulges in a long, leisurely bath with a slave (me, in other words) in attendance. Master's bath employs a simple ritual, but its rules are very strict. When Master decides it is time to bathe, I have to drop whatever I am doing at once and run his bath. When Master get to the bathroom, I must be waiting, properly dressed in a French maid's outfit with the bodice pulled down to show off my breasts. I have to get the temperature exactly right: if it is half a degree too hot or too cold, I am beaten.

I undress Master respectfully, and fold away his clothes.

I shampoo Master's hair and wash Master from top to toe, scrubbing him down with a variety of sponges, loofahs, and soft brushes. Sometimes Master pulls me into the water on top of him and fucks me. Sometimes Master drags my head underwater to suck his cock. If Master's spunk ends up floating in the water, I have to dip my head and suck it up, not wasting a drop.

Then I pat Master down with towels, all except for between his toes, which I dry with my own hair.

From the start, Master gave me a series of rules. Most of the time I spent with Master, I stood upright, legs apart, hands behind my head or folded neatly behind my back so Master could finger my cunt and slap my face or breasts whenever the mood took him. When I was not standing, Master made me lie absolutely flat on the floor or crawl around with my head lower than Master's cock.

Whenever I crawl into a room, I have to stand and curtsey, then drop to my knees again. As time went by, Master trained me to curtsey deeper and deeper, and then introduced me to the Cunt Curtsey. To perform a cunt curtsey, I take my inner lips between finger and thumb of each hand and spread them as I dip my knees.

Sometimes Master allows me speak freely, and gives me the benefit of his lively mind. Some days I could say anything I liked, but only if I used the word "Master" in every sentence. Some days I was only allowed to thank Master. Some days I was not allowed to talk at all, or if Master was feeling particularly strict was not even allowed to moan, no matter what Master did to me.

One unexpected lesson from my service was the new understanding that rules are fine as far as they go, but they're just words; a slave must be obedient to the bone. During those early weeks Master had been vigilant, making sure that each new experience became part of my training. For instance, the first time Master came home after I moved in with him, I came running up for a kiss, the way women do when they are in the early stages of a love affair. I was happy to see Master, and I was in a loving, sexual relationship with him, so old habits just kicked in. Later, Master explained that this was a crucial moment: if he let a slave get above herself in small things, she would take advantage in the big ones, and he would no longer be the Dominant. As I reached Master, he held up his left hand, palm forward against my chest. I came to a stop, a questioning expression on my face, still in the early bliss of a homecoming lover. Master drew back his right hand and hit me gently across the cheek.

And even being slapped by Master was a learning opportunity. I had to be taught how a slave should react when her face is slapped. Does she draw back, startled? Or should she stand unblinking, eyes downcast, ready to be slapped again? Master taught me that the well-trained slave does both: she finches, because it is her duty to show appreciation for every attention a master pays her, no matter how harsh, then as quickly as possible she recovers her composure, lifts her chin, ready for him to strike her again. Then, when she is sure he has finished abusing her, she kneels and thanks him.

I wish I could say I did all that perfectly, without having to be told, but in a way I am glad I received the lesson, for it helped me not only behave as Master expected, but to understand why that was the behavior Master sought from me. Often throughout my service, understanding the "why" was infinitely more difficult for me than performing the act of service desired by Master.

Once I understood about the manner in which I properly should greet Master upon his arrival at home, I thought I could not fail to perform as Master wished. So, the next evening when Master came in the front door, I still ran up to him for a kiss (should Master deign to grant me one), but stopped at the last moment, steadying myself, expecting a slapped face. Of course, Master never gives a slave what she expects - Master does, however, try to (and usually does) give her what she needs.

Master placed his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to my knees. I inclined my head towards Master's fly, lips parted, waiting for precise instructions.

"Undo my zip," Master ordered. Then, "Take out my prick." Then, "Kiss it." Then, "Go ahead and suck." I went about the task with care and enthusiasm. When Master came, he did so in a series of flicks: onto my eyebrows, down the left side of my nose, into the corner of my mouth, down my chin, closely watching the slide of his fluids across and down the angles of my face. As I continued kneeling, Master took my hair firmly with his left hand whilst slapping me, forehand and backhand, over and over, and then pushed me to the ground.

As I lay on the floor, I was grateful to remain there for what seemed a long time. First, it gave me a chance to collect myself: I never had my face slapped repeatedly before, and it was a startling and disconcerting experience. Second, I began to understand why Master behaved as he did, and to appreciate the thought and care he took in choosing a course of action to advance my training in submission. Overcome with gratitude and love, I began to gently kiss the toe of Master's shoe whilst he stood silently, evaluating my reactions, and, of course, finding something else to teach me. As he zipped his fly, Master growled, "Next time, remember to thank me."

One of my favourite games is called "Bird on a Wire." Master stretches a length of clothes line across the Music Room, and I perch astride it on tiptoe, hands on head, as Master cranks a handle, forcing the wire higher and higher into my snatch; the higher the wire, the squeakier my voice becomes. When Master sees I am at the limit of my tolerance, Master orders me to sing: like a bird, like a woman in extreme discomfort.

I always start with Madonna's "Hanky Panky," slightly flat in spite of Master hitting my legs with a ruler to encourage me to keep in tune. I follow that with "Kiss of Fire" and "It Hurts So Good," but there aren't enough songs with an S&M flavour for a long session, so Master has rewritten the words of some classics. I sing, "And Then He Whipped Me," with lyrics that include, "A whipping was a thing that I'd never gone through before, but he whipped me in a way that I want to be whipped forevermore." I sing, "You Always Hurt the One You Love," and "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time" with the words only slightly changed. And I round the performance off with "Red is the colour of a slave girl's arse in the morning, when we rise. That's the time, that's the time it hurts the most."

Then, if I have put on a good show, Master whips my tits to turn me into a robin redbreast, lowers the wire, and fucks me.

Everything improves with practice. After a few sessions, I became surer of my balance on the dripping perch, and my voice became more confident. And, as my strength and skill increased, I got to love the game, sometimes reminding Master of it when I felt he was not paying me enough attention.

I treasure the quiet Saturday afternoon when, after a particularly long session, Master told me that Celine Dion, Kiri te Kanawa and Alison Moyet meant nothing to him now, and that he prefers the voice of Rebecca Parsons astride her wire, singing out of tune, to any other voice in the world.

I wore the tiara to suck Master's cock a week after our first "Bird on a Wire" game, a game that had made clearer to me the many differences that were showing up in my emotional life, brought into focus by all the changes in my day-to-day life as Master's slave. I was more confident as I knelt at Master's feet that unforgettable evening. At Master's instructions, I had my make-up done by the Dior Studio at Dickens and Jones, my hair was pulled up in a chignon, my crystal earrings sparkled, and the silk of my dress whispered against my stockings as I dropped to my knees in front of Master. Master moved slightly to one side, lining me up with the cheval mirror Master had brought down to the main room from his bedroom upstairs.

There was Debussy on the stereo, and Master had turned three lights on: perfectly positioned to display a slave sucking cock. This classic lighting set fire to the stones of the tiara, and made my chestnut hair glow with life. Master continued to stand, enjoying the sight of my face positioned in front of his pulsing erection, and paying special attention to my fuckable mouth half-open and ready.

I glanced up questioningly. "Would you like me to get you a drink, Master?" I asked.

"A cigar would be nice," Master replied. I rose, went over to the table, trimmed and lit a "Romeo y Julieta" and returned, kneeling once more and offering it up to Master. Master accepted the cigar, took a couple of puffs, and then blew some smoke in my face. I coughed a little, but stayed where I was, happy to be on my knees.

"Ask," Master commanded.

"Please, noble Master," I begged, "Grant this unworthy slave permission to suck your magnificent cock."

"Not yet," Master replied firmly. "Just kneel there for a few minutes, looking beautiful."

"I'm not beautiful, Master," I automatically protested.

Master stood, looking down at me for a moment - long enough for me to wonder if he was thinking of paying me a compliment or was angry at me for contradicting him. Master did not wait too long. One of the basic premises of Master's approach to S&M (in fact, as far as I knew, to ALL relationships) was that honesty is important.

"You're beautiful, Rebecca," Master said, using my real name, breaking all the rules (but then, they were HIS rules, after all).

I was silent for a while before quietly replying, "No, I'm not."

"Master," Master corrected.

"No, Master," I repeated, "I'm not beautiful. I know I'm not ugly, but -"

"But nobody has ever told you you're beautiful before?" Master asked.

"No, Master," I responded.

"Men have told you they love you?" Master asked.

"Once or twice," I replied.

"But they've never made you stand naked and enjoyed the fabulous shape of you, and told you how lovely you are?" Master said with a smile.

"No, Master," I said. "Men have kissed me and cuddled me. But you're the only one who ever stood back and stared."

"What about when you're wearing a swimming costume?" Master asked.

"Well," I admitted, "now and again men have whistled at me when I was on a beach or at a swimming pool."

"There you are," Master said triumphantly. "You've got a lovely face and a truly fabulous body. You look good in clothes, but you're gorgeous naked."

I thought for a moment, and then quietly asked, "Is that really true, Master?"

"Absolutely," Master replied.

I smiled. My head lifted and my shoulders went back. There was a new confidence in the way I held my head, my entire body.

"It's not entirely a compliment," Master pointed out. "You're so pretty I have to keep fucking you. It's going to be tiring spending a year with a woman as beautiful as you. Anyway, enough of this idle gossip. Start sucking as soon as the music ends: I want to hear all the slurping sounds you make."

As the last chords died, I licked my lips. "Start," Master ordered. I leaned forward and gave Master's cock that crucial first kiss, the seal broken, a promise of more on the way.

I began to trail my gloved fingertips on either side of Master's scrotum where it joined his thighs. Master spread his legs a little wider, giving me access.

I kissed Master's balls -- a fully dressed woman looking like a fairy-tale princess in a long dress, gloves and jewels, kneeling in front of a hairy, sweaty, naked man. I started to kiss my way up to the tip of Master's cock, but Master pushed me down to bury my nose against his balls once more, savouring each moment, drawing things out.

My hands sneaked down and toyed with my own nipples through the fabric of my dress. Master caressed my ears, then held them firmly to force my head higher; this time I didn't kiss the shaft of Master's cock: I licked it with tiny, hesitant movements of my tongue. When I reached the tip, I made a perfect "O" with my lips, not sure whether to move my head forward and suck, or hold myself still while Master took over, fucking my mouth.

It was neither. Master put one hand behind my neck, the other round my chin and I wrenched my head backwards and forwards, using me like some living sex toy, wanking himself off with my mouth. I began to moan, short, panting noises from arousal, or from shame at being so callously used, or from genuine discomfort.

Master did not seem to care. He released his grip, ready to give more instructions for his own pleasure and satisfaction, not out of consideration for me.

"Suck it," Master commanded. "Not too fast. And keep your head tilted back so I can watch my cock going in and out between your lips."

I followed Master's instructions for a minute or two, then broke off, turning my head sideways and sucking my own fingers obscenely, determined to drive Master out of his mind. When I resumed sucking it was with genuine enthusiasm, moving my head with blinding speed, breathing heavily through my nose, coughing a little when Master's cock went in too deep, the stones of the tiara scintillating with the movements of my head. And then, suddenly, I slowed down again.

I knew that Master had his cock sucked by experts, by humble slaves who know exactly how to worship a master's prick, but after a fortnight of Master's training, I felt hopeful that Master would think I could be one of the best. I could not get the whole shaft in my throat yet, but I hoped the enthusiastic way I impaled my mouth on Master's cock would let him know that moving to that stage would be just a matter of time. By now I was sweating, and there were trails of saliva running down my chin and onto my dress. My left hand had snaked under the hem of my skirt, and I was pleasuring myself without permission, making soft moans I could barely hear, moans that turned to gurgles whenever Master's cock touched the back of my throat. My lips still slithered up and down Master's prick, my head still moved backwards and forwards, but lids were closing over sleepy-looking eyes. Possessed by some angel of depravity, I nearly had forgotten Master was there.

Some women never suck a man's cock. Some do it with disgust. Some do it cynically, knowing men enjoy it but trying to get the revolting business over as soon as possible. Master told me that a true slave might enjoy performing a blowjob even more than being fucked, but that level of enthusiasm can have its own dangers. One of those dangers, Master had warned me, was that a willing cocksucker lost in lust can forget the whole thing is taking place for the master's benefit: she may even bite him.

When a slave loses her way like that, a master must put her back on the right track, Master had explained. Suiting the action to those words, Master touched my bare arm with the glowing tip of the cigar, and I winced. My hand slipped quickly from under my skirt, and I made a sound, something that sounded like, "Sorry Master," being spoken round a thick cock.

"That's OK," Master murmured. "You can show me how well you masturbate in a moment. Tell me you love me."

I did so, indistinctly, without breaking rhythm.

"Remember I told you there was a time a slave must look at a master's eyes?" Master asked.

"Yes, Master," I said thickly, my mouth still full.

"Well," Master continued, "that time is when a master is coming onto a slave's tongue, and that means now. Look at me, bitch! Look at me, you little whore! Look in my eyes! Here it comes, you lucky slut!"

There was adoration in my expression as Master's sperm shot into my mouth: adoration, and peace, and pride. Master gave me permission to swallow, and then slapped my cheek so hard it sent the tiara spinning across the room. Then Master waited while I thanked him.

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