Mastering Submission Ch. 11bysdbnnc©
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.
At the very start of our relationship, Master told me that he was going to sodomise me. A good master always keeps his promises, and Master was very good.
Long before the weekend when Master determined the time was right to fuck my arse for the first time, he took every occasion to prepare my mind for what he was going to do to my body. Master explained that, when a woman likes to be fucked in the arsehole, it's a window into her very soul.
Master explained, "There is only one way to find out whether or not you like to be fucked up the arse, and that is to grit your teeth and get someone to fuck you up the arse. You cannot tell just by taking a crap. You cannot tell from heavy petting. You have to be buggered, preferably by a skilled practitioner in the art, such as yours truly."
Not only the experience of being fucked up the arsehole was new to me -- I had never really thought about anal sex before beginning my submissive service to Master. One of my first thoughts about the process was how embarrassing it would be to be fucked up the arse when it was full of shit. When I finally screwed up my courage to ask about it, Master explained, "Although I'm very fond of anal sex, I don't actually like the shit. A lot of masters don't mind; some actually enjoy it, but the way I see it, why fuck a dirty arsehole when you can fuck one that's squeaky clean?"
When I nervously asked if that meant I was going to have to experience my very first enema, Master went on. "Some masters like to give their slaves enemas to prepare them for buggery, but I say why waste time and effort cleaning an arsehole yourself when you live in one of the world's great capital cities, one that provides colonic irrigation services (so they say) to movie stars, media celebrities and members of the Royal family?"
At that, Master presented me with an engraved appointment card for an expensive clinic, and I made sure to be at my appointment on time, although I was far from prepared for the experience.
When I rang Master's doorbell, I knew I was suffused with a pink glow -- whether of rude good health or deep embarrassment, I was at a loss to say. Still standing on the stoop in front of the door, I slipped my hands under my skirt, and gave Master a deep cunt curtsey.
"Well?" Master asked coldly, standing in the doorway with an imperious expression on his face.
"I kept the appointment, Master," I responded.
"Did you enjoy it?" Master asked, surprising me.
"Not exactly," I said, uncomfortable not only with the topic of our conversation, but also with the fact that we were having it in public.
"Never mind," Master said with a smile, still not moving to allow me into the flat. "You'll love the next bit. Were there many women undergoing the same treatment?"
"A few, Master, yes," I said, wondering where this conversation was tending, and when I would finally be allowed inside.
"So, a lot of sodomy is going to happen in London this afternoon," Master replied; "a lot of sweet female arseholes being fucked right now."
"They can't possibly all have been there for that, Master," I protested.
"Grow up, Meat," Master said. "That's what those clinics exist for. You have been in very good company. Just think of it, all those pretty dirt boxes being cleaned up for the cocks of their men and the dildos of their lesbian Mistresses. What a splendid way for a lady to spend a Saturday afternoon. So, is your arsehole clean?"
I hung my head, and replied, "Yes, Master. My arsehole is clean."
"Not full of shit?" Master persisted.
"Not full of shit, Master," I responded, blushing furiously, and glancing around to be sure the sidewalk still was empty except for me.
I knew Master was not mouthing obscenities just for fun -- from the very beginning of my submissive service Master had used language as preparation for new and sometimes difficult experiences he had planned for me. Once again, Master was making my mind ready for what was to come: making the experience more intense, making it filthier, and making it unforgettable. Master had arranged for me to be physically prepared, but Master saved for himself the task of putting me in the right mental state.
"Are you ready to be fucked?" Master asked sternly.
"Ready to be fucked, Master," I replied.
"Ready to be buggered?" Master queried.
"Yes, Master," I replied, my eyes wide with fear. I swallowed, and said "My arsehole is ready, Master. Ready to be sodomised by your big, beautiful cock. But please, Master, can we stop talking in the street, and go inside?"
"Cannot wait for it, can you?" Master said with a chuckle. "That pretty little bum hole of yours is itching, and only one thing in the world can scratch it. Well, come on. Let's get going before the next batch of turds come trundling down the shit-chute." My face took on a pained expression, but I followed Master inside and up the stairs, grateful to be indoors, with the entry door closed at last.
"Are you frightened?" Master asked.
"A little, Master," I replied. "I have butterflies in my tummy."
"Impossible," Master laughed. "They'd have been washed away."
I giggled with Master, but my giggle sounded scared even to me.
"I'm worried I won't be big enough," I explained.
"Talk properly," Master ordered, quickly turning back to softly slap my face.
"I'm afraid my arsehole won't be big enough to take your cock, Master," I expanded.
Master took out a monstrous dildo, big as the business end of a baseball bat, and stuck it under my nose. "You'll be surprised how easily that slips inside you," Master reassured me. I would find out later that Master was lying about the dildo, but the shock on my face was real enough.
When I had stripped, Master tipped me onto my back on the coffee table of the main room, and bound my wrists to my ankles. As Master tightened the ropes, I could feel myself relaxing. One hallmark of my submissive training was my knowledge that having a situation utterly out of my control was very soothing to me.
Master rolled me face down, rump in the air; feet splayed out, bent over like a Muslim at prayer, and thanked me for showing off the prettiest little virgin arsehole Master had ever had the pleasure of violating.
Once I was secured to the table, Master began talking calmly and quietly, "Buggery is easy, if you go about it in the right way: every grown woman drops turds bigger than the average cock. The problem is the muscles can react against something going the wrong way, and that's where the trouble starts."
Part of my anxiety about having Master fuck my arsehole was based on my experience of Master fucking my cunt. When Master fucks my cunt, he frequently is disrespectful. Master likes to throw me on the bed like a rag doll, roll me over, lift me onto all fours, telling me to take it like the bitch I am. Master likes to wield a long, flexible whip that will curl under my body and sting my nipples. Then Master likes to fling me onto my back again, and slap my face and call me filthy names.
As if he sensed this part of my anxiety and fear, Master continued speaking to me quietly and calmly, "When I'm sodomising a woman I'm gentleness itself. I use lashings of lubricant, and only move to the penetration stage when she's well on the way to orgasm."
Intellectually, I realised that relaxation was going to be very important to keep me from being hurt or possibly even damaged, but emotional relaxation was not coming so easily. As though he were reading my emotional state, Master began by stroking my whole bum, ticking the hairs on either side of my cunt, and then trailing a finger across my puckered hole.
As much as anyone can who's trussed up like a turkey, I flinched when Master's finger slid over my arsehole -- it didn't hurt, but it made me face the reality of what was about to happen.
Master opened his special anal sex equipment case, unscrewed the lid of a jar of Vaseline, and smeared a generous helping over a thin black dildo. Master touched the tip of the greased dildo to my tradesman's entrance, applying gentle but insistent pressure. Whilst holding the dildo in place with one hand, Master's other hand went back to stroking me, tickling my clit until I relaxed and opened up. My anal ring accepted the inevitable, relaxing and welcoming its rigid intruder.
The dildo slid in an inch, paused, moved another inch and suddenly it was deeply imbedded, a black arrow filling my darkest hole and piercing my very being. Master rewarded me with a sharp slap on the rump.
More caresses. More tweaking of the clit. Master pumped the dildo in and out a few times, and then left it sticking out at an angle, while he greased up another, slightly larger, one. As he applied the lubricant, Master explained, "Unlike cunts, arseholes don't close the moment you pull something out of them." Suiting his actions to the words, Master slid out the black dildo, and as my arsehole gaped for a moment, slid the bigger pink one home. I moaned, beginning to appreciate this rod of pleasure and domination. Master shoved three fingers up my cunt, which was beginning to feel lonely. My cunt was getting a bit messy with all the lubricant sloshing about, but it did not seem to bother Master in the least -- to him, it was all part of the fun.
I was tensing up again, but Master applied a few sharp slaps to sort me out, keeping my attention diverted from his invasion of my arsehole by creating pain elsewhere.
Then Master applied more caresses, and more slaps. Master lubricated yet another dildo, this one even larger. Master pulled out the second dildo, and then slipped in the larger one, pumping it in and out, driving me harder.
Master said that he could control my moans by the way he manipulated the dildo, like playing an erotic musical instrument. Master seemed to be loving every minute of this, and so was I, but we both knew it was nothing more than a build-up for the arse-fucking to come.
When I caught sight of the fourth dildo out of the corner of my eye, I was shocked -- it appeared to me to be wider than Master's cock. Grease was building up around its shaft as Master plunged it in and pulled it out faster and harder than I ever believed possible. Another thing that I never believed possible also was happening -- juice was trickling down over my clit, passion flaps weeping with excitement.
I was making yet another discovery about my sexual nature. The stub of the dildo twitched slightly as my sexual excitement continued to build. Master stopped to grease up his prick and wipe his hands on a couple of tissues.
Master eased the dildo out, and slid his cock into my gaping arsehole.
Once Master's cock was buried in my arsehole, he was careful -- careful not to fuck me too hard, careful to listen to what my grunts and moans were telling him. I loved being fucked in the mouth and cunt, but this was a higher level of delight altogether. By now, I was moaning, berserk with pleasure. I was making the throaty sounds of a woman who'd forgotten her embarrassment, forgotten that her body was being crudely abused, a woman lost in excitement that was utterly new to her, her body taking her to places she hadn't known she wanted to go to, her whole being given over to the darkest of pleasures.
I was so taken up by my feelings and reactions to being buggered, that I barely noticed when Master groped for his lock-back knife and cut my right hand free. As I realised that my hand was free, I responded immediately. Panting, whinnying with excitement, I shoved it under my belly and began to tweak the tip of my clitoris.
"This used to be illegal," Master told me cheerily.
"It still should be," I grunted, and Master laughed delightedly.
We came together, the powerful muscles of my anal ring intensifying Master's orgasm.
Ten minutes later, I brought Master a beer, humbly, on my knees. I was wearing one of the T-shirts Master gave me for my birthday, the one with the lettering, "Arse-Fucked Whore."
As Master sipped his beer, I knelt beside him. "May I have permission to speak, Master?"
"Permission granted, you dirty little bitch," Master said.
"Master, I'm beginning to get frightened," I began. "On some sessions when I'm playing the part of your slave I go so deep it seems I may never rise again. I feel as if I could go to work one day and find I no longer have the respect of my colleagues or my students. That my brain is only good for groveling at your feet."
"That's a perfectly natural worry," Master told me. "But the opposite is true. Every time you sink to the level of slave, you learn more about yourself, about the foundation of your own personality and intelligence. That way you can rise higher, with more confidence. Some of the most important people in the country are secretly slaves. You find out about it occasionally when a politician or TV personality gets into the papers because he's been caught with a girl the papers call Miss Whiplash. It's not co-incidence, it is cause and effect."
I nodded. "I can see the logic in that," I said. "But it still seems very strange to me. It's as if everything I've ever believed has been turned upside down."
"Almost anything can be turned upside down and still make sense," Master told me. "Democracy is a wonderful thing, but not when a majority vote is used as an excuse for persecuting a minority. Look at it this way. You see someone running a marathon, going through the pain barrier. Do you despise that person because he or she is too stupid to realise the same distance could be covered quicker on a motorbike?"
"No, Master," I said.
"You are what you are," Master told me. "Masters and slaves live more intense lives than people in the straight world. If you are lucky enough to be one or the other, you should be thankful. Knowing that you are a born slave and accepting it, takes courage and intelligence."
That night, when I knelt to recite the Prick Prayer, I amended it myself:
O magnificent prick.
I kneel before you to promise you unquestioned access to my cunt, my mouth, and my arsehole any time you desire. I will deny you nothing.