Mastering Submission Ch. 13

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.

*

I am not going to describe the holiday itself because this is not that sort of story. If you want to know about the Seychelles, I recommend Beyond the Reefs by William Travis.

However, you might like to know about the third evening of our holiday, when Master fucked my throat for the very first time.

Master had explained to me that he believed training a woman to let him fuck her throat could not be rushed and required gentleness, despite the fact that some masters rape their slaves' throats to open them up for fucking.

Master had been completely open with me about wanting to fuck my throat, and utterly firm. From the very start of my submissive service, Master had told me he was going to fuck my throat. Whenever I sucked Master's cock, he would force me to take it deeper by tugging my hair or putting a hand on the back of my head and pushing. Master would criticise me for not being able to swallow his entire cock; Master would accuse me of being less than a woman, of being untrainable, of being a hopeless excuse for a cocksucker, constantly reminding me that he wanted my throat.

"Take it deeper, inadequate whore!" Master would shout. "I don't just want you to swallow my sperm; I want to push it all the way down. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be able to deep-throat a donkey!" In addition, every time I failed to take Master's cock in far enough, Master gave me a whipping. It certainly helped me understand that every blowjob I gave Master was a step closer to his goal.

When we ate together, especially in restaurants, Master would remind me that he wanted to fuck the throat that was swallowing the food on my plate, making deep throating an obsession for both of us.

As well as the stick of scorn and whipping, Master had carrots to offer. When I asked if we could go to the opera, Master said he could get tickets easily, but only if I would let him fuck my throat.

Another way Master worked toward his goal of fucking my throat was to make his kisses deeper, fucking my mouth rhythmically, as deep as he could, keeping time with his cock pounding my cunt.

Master gave me a long dildo for practise, with a waterproof pen to mark off how deeply I managed to get it down my throat. Once a week, Master made me stand in front of him and push the dildo down as far as it would go, mark it and date it. Then we would examine it together.

"Not much progress, Meat," Master would say.

"No, Master," I would admit.

"What are you going to do about it?" Master asked.

"Apologise, Master," I said.

"And then?" Master prompted.

"Ask you to punish me, Master," I replied.

"And then?" Master prompted again.

I thought for a minute, and then replied, "And then I'm going to try harder, Master - an awful lot harder."

As the marks moved further and further along the dildo, the punishments became extreme, and the promised rewards grew more and more extravagant. The payoff for all of Master's care, training, and attention came on the third evening of that wonderful holiday, when I knelt at Master's feet and asked for permission to speak.

"Permission granted, worthless bitch," Master responded.

"Master, I believe I can take your cock in my throat now," I quietly said.

"Then lie down on the edge of the bed," Master commanded, "on your back, with your head hanging down."

I lay as instructed; watching Master strip off his clothes, and then seeing him kneel directly opposite my head. Master's cock stiffened as Master looked at me, then he touched the head of the cock to my lips, and I opened my mouth.

"Ready, whore?" Master asked.

"Yes, Master," I said.

Master moved forward slowing. As the tip touched my soft palate, I coughed. Master paused, and then pushed forward. My coughing stopped and my throat made a rich, gurgling sound.

Master pushed deeper, squashing my lips against my teeth with the base of his cock, and then he paused, focusing on my throat, pulsing around the rod of his cock. Infinitely slowly, Master began to fuck, watching the progress of his cock in my throat. As Master became more confident of my self-control, Master began to withdraw further until his cock actually left my mouth with each stroke. I could see the underside of the helmet of Master's cock, gleaming with my saliva, watch it disappear into my mouth and then have my vision blocked by the press of Master's body as he seated his cock to its full length inside my throat.

Later that evening, when I knelt on the warm tiles of our tropical hotel room floor and recited the Prick Prayer for Master, I remembered to bring it up to date:

O magnificent prick, I kneel before you to promise you unquestioned access to my cunt, my mouth, my throat, and my arsehole any time you desire. I will deny you nothing.

As my submissive service to Master continued, I began to appreciate that straight lovers have it easy compared to Masters: they do a bit of foreplay, in and out, a cigarette afterwards and it is off to the pub. Master's must be tolerant, responsive, and constantly inventive. Master would think up little playlets for the two of us to star in:. Master as the cruel intelligence officer, me as the spy; Master as a jealous husband, me as the unfaithful wife; Master the teacher, me the lazy pupil. Sometimes there would be heavy pain involved, sometimes insults, sometimes I would simply have to obey a long chain of instructions, hundreds of variations on the theme of my not being in charge. Master's ability to strike a balance between real-world man-on-woman violence and the clumsiness of our play-acting and costumes constantly impressed me: although our scenes were far from great drama, they were wholly engaging and kept me guessing, relying on Master to move things along.

Because I was a creative, intelligent, and focused slave, Master frequently complained about how difficult it was for him to ensure that I failed. Because of the fact that Master refused just to let me win, failure was always an option, and it was clear that our games were for adults, not children. Adults understand the importance of losing.

I was not an accomplished cook, but I was perfectly capable of following recipes to produce edible meals. Master made cooking an arena full of failure potential by making computer reprints of recipes with the ingredients or proportions altered to make things absolutely impossible.

"We'll have a soufflé Friday night," Master would say. "And God help your poor bottom if it doesn't rise perfectly."

Some people like to dominate others sexually. Some people like to be submissive. Some like to switch roles from time to time. The idea of switching was difficult for me - my submissive personality made it nearly impossible for me to imagine dominating anyone, and Master made it perfectly clear that he never could submit to anyone for even an instant. His talent for being a Master - being able to read the pain on my face, hearing the subtle messages encoded in each moan and scream. Master repeatedly demonstrated his creativity, inventing games, and finding amazing outfits and implements he could use in ways they never had been intended.

"Which nipple shall I hang it on," Master asked, standing in front of my naked chest, brandishing a clothes peg.

"I don't know, Master," I replied.

"Not true!" Master exclaimed. "Look down, you lying bitch. Which nipple is sticking out?"

"The left one, Master," I admitted.

"Which one is hard as a rock, jutting forward to meet its fate, eager for pain?" Master demanded.

I sighed, "The left one, Master."

"Not true!" Master shouted. "Her sister on the other side is just as stiff now. I think this calls for two pegs. Don't you agree, Meat?"

"Yes, Master," I sighed in resignation.

"Yes, Master, what?" Master prompted

"Yes, Master. Both my nipples want to be hurt. Please hang pegs on both of them."

As Master clamped both pegs on at once, I could not resist adding, "Ouch, Master, that's sore!"

"Of course it is, Meat," Master said with a smile. "And that's why you're so happy, isn't that so?"

"Yes, Master," I replied, "I am very happy."

Ideas for the session could come from anywhere at any time. One evening, we were watching a trash detective series on TV - British cops in London - and one of the villains threatened to give someone a good kicking.

"Why are we watching this rubbish," I asked. "There's no such thing as a good kicking."

"Oh, but there is," Master said, reaching for the remote control and turning off the television.

"I suppose I'm going to get a demonstration," I said.

"Since you asked me so nicely," Master replied, "I'll give you a good kicking here and now. Off with the clothes. Nice and slow. I want you to think about what's going to happen to you."

"But, Master," I protested, "I have no idea what's going to happen to me."

"Exactly," Master enigmatically replied.

I sighed and stripped, throwing my clothes in an untidy heap in the corner as Master had trained me I should. As I removed the last of my clothing, Master removed his shoes and socks.

"You'll need something to hang onto," Master instructed. "Put one hand on the mantelpiece and spread your legs."

My eyes widened as I said, "You can't be serious."

"Master," Master prompted.

"You can't be serious, Master," I said, but immediately added, "You are serious, aren't you?"

"Deadly serious," Master assured me. "Chin up. Eyes down. I said DOWN, not closed. I want you to see what is happening to you. And keep those hands away from your crotch, idiot. If I kick your hands, I could break a finger. Kicking your worthless cunt will do you no harm at all."

"I am sorry, Master. I wasn't thinking," I apologised.

"That's all right," Master said. "I like it when you don't think."

I was shaking, and Master waited a bit for me to calm down. "Do I have to go through with this, Master?" I asked.

"No," Master replied. "You don't have to let me do it. You do not even have to say your safe word. You can simply put your clothes back on."

"And you'll still pay me?" I asked.

"Possibly," Master said. "You have already put in a lot of work; but when you signed that contract, you agreed to obey every order I give you and savour every experience. Tonight would have been the night you got kicked in the cunt."

"This is more than you ever asked of me before," I pointed out.

"No, it is not," Master replied. "It will be different, but it won't be unbearable. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes, Master," I said. "But I can't help being frightened."

Master nodded, and said, "Everyone fears the unknown. I think we'd better get on with it. Spread your legs."

"I can't," I said, feeling my feet rooted to the floor.

"It's not like you to disobey me," Master said.

"I'd like to do what you say," I told Master. "But my legs don't seem to want to do what I tell them." Master stood there, watching me without speaking. Under his stare, my body began to relax, and I positioned myself, awaiting my fate.

Master swung back his leg and struck, feeling the wetness of my cunt on his toes. It was true that I was frightened, but it also was true that I was turned on as well.

Master kicked me again. I held myself steady, but my breasts rose and fell as the shockwave of the blow went through my body. Master kicked again. On the fourth kick, pain jolted into my face, and then faded away as I calmed myself down, spread my legs a bit more, and prepared myself for the next blow.

As the kicks grew stronger, different parts of my body reacted in different ways: my stomach muscles jumped, my breasts leapt up, and then surged back down as the muscles of my thighs rippled.

Master began to increase the force of his kicks until the room was filled with the sound of the slap of his foot on my skin, a squelching as his toes contacted my dripping cunt and my grunts as my breath was knocked out of me. Unbelievably, my grunts of pain were turning into cries of lust - the reddening between my legs was mirrored by a flush of arousal across my chest, and my nipples were jutting out.

The kicks had increased in momentum, and were lifting me up onto tiptoe, almost causing me to lose my balance, and I tightened my grip on the mantelpiece.

My tits bounced, my eyes went sleepy, and my tips thickened. When I was aroused enough to suit Master (which perhaps also was when he got tired of delivering kicks), Master ripped off his chinos and flung me onto the couch; I came as soon as Master entered me. And then Master continued fucking me, hard and fast - I begged Master to stop, and I wanted Master to stop, but I also kept coming, again and again, my cunt rhythmically squeezing Master's cock inside me, and my thighs nearly crushing Master's body to mine.

"Master, I'm sore," I finally groaned out.

"You'll live," Master growled, and carried on fucking. And I continued to come, a series of intense orgasms. The pain was over, and there was nothing left for me to do but enjoy (or endure) orgasm after orgasm, happening so fast they were overlapping. My conscious mind was losing contact with reality, and still Master would not stop, making me leap from peak to peak with no valleys in between until finally Master came, spurting into me, and collapsing onto me, although I was nearly comatose with lust. When I returned to Master, it was slowly - I was like a traveler who has been on a long journey that changed her forever, and I was a little regretful that I had taken the trip without Master.

Slowly, I came more and more fully back to myself, feeling the sweaty weight of Master along my body. As my awareness reestablished itself, I began to feel the soreness beginning where the kicks had landed, and I was absolutely sure that none of my muscles could be relied upon for movement, despite the journey I had made back into my physical body. Still, I was able to smile up at Master, however weakly - a smile that broadened in response to Master's comment:

"That is what I call a good kicking."