tagBDSMMastering Submission Ch. 09

Mastering Submission Ch. 09


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.


As my period of service to Master continued, I learned that, although Master was unfailingly honest and trustworthy when it mattered, he was perfectly comfortable with lying to me shamelessly about things he felt unimportant.

For instance, Master once told me we'd been invited to a party -- not an S&M gathering, but an important event in the rock music calendar. Master painted an elaborate word-picture that held me spell-bound. The party, Master said, would be held in a huge house near Woking that had once belonged to Ringo Starr. Barbarellas were going to sing for us, and there was to be a sumptuous barbecue, followed by fireworks and a display of synchronised swimming in the pool. The glittering guest list included Robert Carlyle, John Terry, Toni Poole, and Nelly Furtado. Master had so many contacts in the industry, I had no trouble believing he knew which famous people were in town and who was hot, filling in the details of a world I only knew through TV and the pages of the newspapers.

I was a bit embarrassed at how excited the idea of the party made me. Academics can sometimes be a bit unworldly, and most of my heroes were poets and authors. However, being on the periphery of Master's life in the music and entertainment industries had encouraged me to develop an interest in the music scene. In the week that led up to the party, I boasted about it to everyone in my department.

"Will we actually meet Eric Clapton?" I asked.

"Sure," Master replied. "Eric and I go back a long way, to when I was a roadie."

I spent the afternoon of the party at a hairdresser, and took hours on my make-up. I even bought myself a new dress.

At seven o'clock, Master came into the bedroom whilst I was putting the finishing touches to my make-up.

"Wondering what Van Morrison will think of you?" Master asked with a smile.

"No, Master," I automatically replied. "Well, yes," I added more truthfully, "I suppose so."

"You little whore," Master responded. "You can't wait to flaunt that sexy mouth of yours. You can just imagine being taken into the bushes and gang-banged by a rock group, can't you?"

"No, Master," I said, aghast.

"You can just picture it, can't you?" Master persisted.

"No, Master," I insisted, beginning to be afraid of what Master had planned for the party's entertainment.

"Can't you?" Master again asked.

I sighed, and responded as trained: "Whatever pleases you, Master."

At eight o'clock, Master and I were in the main room, Master sitting quietly reading a book, but I couldn't settle. I would stalk about, and then flop down into a chair, only to get up to walk around some more. My excitement and nerves had me squirming like a little girl waiting to be taken to a pantomime.

"When are we going, Master?" I asked.

"Be patient," Master quietly replied. "One doesn't arrive early at a do like this."

"I suppose not, Master," I agreed, and back to pacing around.

At twenty past eight, Master glanced at his watch. "I think it's about time," Master said casually. "Come on, let's take a last look at you."

The black Versace dress clung to me perfectly. My make-up was subtle yet attractive. My hair shone, and my eyes gleamed with excitement and anticipation. And then Master frowned.

"If you think I'm going to let you anywhere near Robert Carlyle when you're looking as sexy as that," Master said, "you're crazy. Go over to the window."

"Yes, Master," I said, my tone apprehensive.

"What do you see?" Master asked.

"You mean the car, Master?" I replied.

"Right," Master said. "That big white limousine. That was to take us to the party, wait in the drive and bring us home." Master picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Sorry, Hal," Master said. "I won't be needing you tonight."

Still at the window, I watched the car drive away, stunned. If I had any doubts that we were going to miss a real showbiz party, they vanished down the road with that limo.

"Come over here," Master said harshly. "And take off all your clothes."

"Master?" I asked, my head spinning and my disappointment obvious.

"Do as you're told, bitch," Master said sharply. "You're not going anywhere."

"But, Master," I protested, "What will I tell my friends when they ask about the party?"

"You can tell them you're such a whore you can't be trusted to behave yourself in public!" Master shouted.

My face fell, but I began to unzip my dress. "Can we go to the party later?" I asked as my stockings slipped to the floor.

"Perhaps," Master replied. "It depends on how much pain you can take."

We didn't go anywhere, of course. Master spent the whole evening tying and untying me in various complicated ways, fucking me in a range of positions, and beating me with a selection of paddles and whips. As the evening progressed, my efforts to make myself beautiful became unwound - mascara running down my face with my tears, my lipstick chewed off as I struggled not to scream, and my hair mussed and tangled. I only found out later that, as much as Master loved seeing me dressed up and ready to decorate his arm at a party, Master preferred my appearance after hours of his painful and frustrating attentions.

Master eventually took me to some glittering showbiz parties after that, twice in that big white limousine, but it was the one I never went to that lived in both our memories.

Despite the focus of our relationship, in fact, we went out as an ordinary couple fairly often. We saw "Blackbird" at The Rose Theatre, "A Moon for the Misbegotten" at the Old Vic, and "Wicked" at the Apollo Victoria. Master also took me to see "Romance" at an erotic film retrospective at the ABC Panton Street. It was amazing to me to sit in an audience of strangers, watching a woman who looked a little bit like me having her ankles strapped to a spreader bar, larger than life, knowing exactly what that felt like. No matter where I went with Master, we played our games.

Master made me sew a band of heavy canvas under my widest skirts, which forced me to make small, submissive steps. And I always wore patterned clothes when we were out together, so nobody could see the strands of invisible thread that bound my wrists to my belt, though I'd sometimes catch surprised looks on the faces of people around us as Master hand-fed me popcorn or held a glass of wine up to my lips.

All the time we were out, Master made sure I was constantly thinking about sex, and about my role as his slave. Master made me flash my nipples at him on Underground trains, and even forced me to kneel and give his cock a quick suck in the long passageway between the Picadilly and District lines at South Kensington Station. Master made me take off all my clothes and quickly put them on again in that quiet room full of Rothkos in the Tate Gallery. And Master would talk dirty to me, quietly saying things like, "I love to watch you eat. Want to know why?"

"Yes, Master, I want to know," I said dutifully, after chewing the last bite of crab salad. "Why do you like to watch me eat?"

"Because all that protein helps to build you up for your next beating," Master said cheerfully. "And besides, I like to see those cock sucking muscles packing away a good meal. Have a sip of wine so I can watch you swallow."

When we went for walks in the country, Master would fuck me among the trees and under hedges. Master made me carry a small knife so I could cut birches from living trees, then Master would hitch up my skirt to expose my buttocks and thighs so he could beat me as I marched along. Master was justly proud of his collection of whips and paddles, but he quietly confided to me, between switches, that he felt nothing quite compared with a springy switch, full of sap, freshly cut by the slave herself and presented to the Master for her punishment and delight.

A towpath just over four miles long runs the full length of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race. On golden summer evenings it's surprisingly quiet, particularly towards the Barnes end.

"This is beautiful," said I, as Master and I strolled along arm in arm. A cyclist went past.

"And peaceful," I added.

"More peaceful than I like," Master retorted, grabbing me by the hair and bending me over. "Let's make a little noise." Master hitched up my skirt and gave my backside a few cheery slaps.

"No, Master. Please," I cried, but Master slapped me some more, hard enough to get a few shouts of pain out of me.

Master let me go, and I staggered back, dazed. "Don't you dare flinch away from me, bitch!" Master snarled. "Whenever we're alone together, you become my slave, ready to succumb to my every whim. Get on your knees and suck my cock."

"But, Master, this is so public!" I wailed. "People could come along any time!"

"True," Master agreed. "So the quicker you get started the better."

"But there are flats on the opposite bank!" I protested. "People can see!"

"Then you'd better put on a good show for them," Master replied. "Let the world see what an expert little whore you are!"

When Master had come in my mouth, and I had swallowed dutifully, he raised me to my feet by the hair, and marched me back to the car with one arm twisted up painfully behind my back.

Next time we trod that path, Master led me along by a chain attached to my pubic hair.

* * * *

Having tried, without success, to put aside an ongoing concern, I finally came, knelt down before Master with a worried look on my face, bowed to kiss Master's feet, and said: "Permission to speak, Master?"

"Permission granted," Master replied graciously.

"Master, my parents were asking about you," I began.

"What have you told them?" Master asked.

"They know I've got a boyfriend, Master, that's all." I took a deep breath. "I don't know how to put this, Master, but - "

"They want to meet me?" Master queried with a smile.

"Yes, Master," I said, grateful Master was taking this so calmly.

"That's understandable," Master said. "Call them. Set up a date."

"Will it be all right?" I asked, confused.

"Did your parents object to your other lovers?" Master asked.

"Of course not," I said.

"Then where's the problem?" Master asked. "What we do when we're alone is sex. Making love."

"I suppose so," I was not, and did not sound, convinced.

"What's the matter?" Master asked. "Do you think I'm going to whip your tits in front of your Mum and Dad?"

"No, Master. Sorry, Master. I wasn't thinking," I said.

* * * * *

"That seemed to go well," Master said as we drove home a week later.

"Yes," I agreed. "Dad really liked you."

"And why wouldn't he?" Master asked. "I'm a nice guy."

I squeezed Master's arm. "I guess you must be," I said. "It was sweet of you to take an interest in his record collection."

"I wasn't being nice," Master replied. "I've not seen that much good vinyl in years."

"Anyway, he really likes you." I sighed. "I wonder what he'd say if he knew you beat me." I was surprised at this reaction, playing with the idea of my own naughtiness, savouring the forbidden.

Master seemed unsurprised by my question, but his response certainly came as a surprise to me: "Are you sure your father doesn't already know?" Master continued mischievously, "Parents can often see what's going on in their children's minds just by looking in their eyes."

I considered the point, my excitement piqued by the idea, but then I shook my head. "No," I said at last. "I'm professional educator. All the experiments in mind reading have proved to be frauds or outright failures."

"I'm not saying anything mystical is happening," Master responded. "All I'm saying is that it would do your dad's heart good to see the way his baby girl laps up semen. To know what a filthy little slut his daughter has become."

"You're horrible," I said, but I was smiling.

"And cruel," Master agreed. "And heartless. And exactly what you need."

While I thought that over, Master took the thought a stage further. "Perhaps I should take some Polaroids of you in bondage and then show him. You look so pretty when you're tied up, it's a shame nobody else gets to see you."

"You wouldn't!" My thighs moved together; I was surprisingly aroused, delighting in my own shame.

"We could always invite your parents round to stay at my flat for a weekend," Master suggested, "and wake them at midnight with your screams."

"Stop it, Master," I said, "Please." Although I was finding that parents and S&M go well together in fantasy, I had no doubt that they must be kept apart in real life.

* * * * *

My birthday was the sixth of May, which that particular year was an ordinary working Thursday. I woke to find Master bending over me with breakfast on a tray. There was coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice and toast with a circle of tiny candles stuck in it. It's the kind of charming gesture most women love, but I knew my face showed Master the truth - I hated being waited on, and seeing Master serving me was disconcerting at the least.

However, the gifts Master presented me with next put him back in charge. While I was drinking coffee, Master reached under the bed, and pulled out a giant carrier bag he apparently had made himself huge sheet of art paper. On one side was a blow-up of a black-and-white drawing by Bishop, the head and shoulders of a girl who looked a little like me, gagged, with her wrists tied to the back of her collar and her breasts tightly bound. On the other side were the words, "Do as you're told" in bold black lettering.

I dipped into the bag greedily. Inside were twenty-seven wrapped gifts, numbered so I didn't have to decide which to open first. I took them out of the bag, excited as a little girl, and laid them in a semi-circle across Master's big double bed, had I but known it, making an arc of pain to come.

"May I open them, Master?" I asked.

"You must open them," Master replied. "You have no choice."

I found that difficult. There was no knife or scissors in the bedroom, and Master had deliberately used too much sellotape, so I let out small exasperated sighs as I wrestled with the bindings.

When I had finally unwrapped the last gift, the bed had been transformed into a masochist's treasure trove of whips, clamps and restraints. Most wouldn't have looked out of place in a Victorian brothel, but there were also a couple of interesting electrical gadgets designed to bring pain kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. I ran my fingers over them: to a slave, these things are more exciting than the contents of Tiffany's. "Oh, Master, this is the best birthday I've had since I was - no, it's the best birthday I've ever had!" I exclaimed, my eyes shining with excitement. "I've never even seen stuff like this before! It's like being a child all over again."

"A perverted child," Master pointed out.

Here are some of the things Master bought:

Eight different pairs of nipple clamps Five whips Two paddles, one studded with steel bolts A pair of standard-issue American police handcuffs A dog bowl with the word "Bitch" lettered on it A gag that forced the jaws together A gag that held the jaws apart A gag with a tongue depressor shaped like a penis A T-shirt with lettering on the front reading "Arse-Fucked Whore" Another T-shirt with the lettering "I drink sperm" Another T-shirt with the lettering "Have some fun, Beat my bum" Another T-shirt with the lettering "No gain without pain" Another T-shirt emblazoned with this acrostic: Beautiful Intelligent Talented Charming Horny

I picked up a particularly vicious-looking pair of clamps, joined by a short chain. "You can't be thinking of using this on me, Master," I said.

"I'm going to use everything here on you," Master replied, taking the final gift out of my pocket: a gold Piaget watch with an onyx face.

"It's beautiful, Master," I said. "But how does it make me become a better slave?"

"By acting as a decoy, my darling," Master told me. "You wear it on your wrist, and show it to colleagues and friends when they ask what you got for your birthday." Master smiled. "Tonight I was going to take you out to dinner, and on to see 'Deception.' But I decided to hang you upside down from that beam in the Music Room and beat your cunt instead."

"Oh, yes, Master," I said. "That's a much better idea."

"We'll go see 'Deception' in a few days, of course," Master went on.

"Of course, Master," I replied. "Later, when my cunt's really sore."

* * * * *

A couple of weeks later, I could not get out of bed. When Master peered over the edge of his bed to the little slave bed where I shivered underneath the blanket, I whimpered, "I think I must have a cold. There's a virus running round the university."

"Don't worry," Master told me. "I'll beat it out of you."

The next morning the infection was in full swing. "Damn," Master told me, "I suppose you're going to be even less use than usual for the next few days."

I smiled, "I don't mind you fucking me when I'm feeling rotten, Master. Honest."

"Perhaps," Master said grudgingly. "You're only sick at the top end. But what I really fancied was a blowjob, and I don't want to get snot on my dick. Get well soon, or I'll go off to Submission and get a new slave in full working order." I lay back in the pillows, my nose red, my eyes running, blissfully happy.

For three days, I was cared for, kept warm, fed and given plenty to drink, but always with the worst possible grace. Master made a few concessions. Instead of icy showers, Master gave me hot baths and dried me with towels, the central heating turned on full. Master postponed most of his appointments so he could keep an eye on me, but he kept up the verbal abuse.

"Does your throat hurt?" Master asked.

"Yes, Master," I replied.

"Not as much as your nipples will the moment you're better," Master rejoined. "I might make you add a few days to the end of your year. For injury time."

"Whatever you say, Master," I said.

"Or I might just beat you extra hard for a week or two, to make up for all this slacking," Master went on.

"Or both, Master," I replied.

"As you say, Meat, I could do both. 'Speak roughly to your little slave,'" Master misquoted cheerily. "'And beat her when she sneezes.'"

"Yes, Master," I sniffed, dabbing my nose with a tissue.

Master's double flat gets cleaned once a week by a woman from down the road, who also handles his laundry, dropping off and picking up clothes at the cleaners, and washing, drying, folding and putting away his other clothes.

Master has told the cleaning lady not to go into the Music Room because it's full of sophisticated equipment (which is true). It also was true that Master had me lick the floor of the Music Room clean once a week.

As I began to feel better, I offered to do the washing and ironing of Master's clothes, as a sort of thanks for his care during my illness. I was surprised, but Master seemed quite pleased, and quickly accepted my offer.

It never occurred to me that doing laundry could have a sexual component, but I should have known that everything could be sexual to Master. Master made me sit on the washer/dryer during the spin cycle, and watched my face as the vibrations hit my clit. Then Master ordered me to do the ironing, naked but for a pair of high-heeled platform shoes.

"Take your time," Master told me. "I want those shirts to be perfect, and I want the whole business to last as long as possible." Master leaned back in a chair, listening to the hiss of the steam and the slight click of my heels as I changed position, his own body utterly relaxed.

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