Memory of the Hound

With this story I complete the Hound trilogy.

I will share the diary of her encounters with a foreign Master, where, together with her body, she bares her nature of unrepented pain-loving slut. As often happens, reality is more intense than fiction.

If I had known that the first time we met would be the longest time he would give me - three hours in total - I would never have wasted it that way.

Nearly two years have passed and I still regret it.

It had started with a strange twist of destiny.

One day my husband announced to me suddenly that his work was going to take us to NJ.

I looked at him, trying to hide my shock.

This was the city where, until seven years before and for a stretch of four years, while he was absent from home, having been assigned to a project out of town, I had flown to meet X, a rope master.

X had helped me release my inner spiritual pain by administering restraint and physical pain; but when my husband returned home, diminished freedom made me realize that those encounters had lost sparkle and they had repeated, worn patterns.

When I returned to NJ, I met again X, and I slipped into a sort of routine.

He told me that, paradoxically, he felt that he, the Master, was the one who had suffered the most when we stopped meeting.

In any case, he was willing to restart to tie me --- it was going to be like a therapy.

He had rented a two-floor white house in a village in the city's suburbs.

The remote location, the shiny white gravel ground, and a small pond in front of it were not without charm.

X's true passion though was photography.

He took pictures not only of me but also of many other girls who were happy to pose for him, not only in bondage but also in other submissive poses; he was able to seduce them simply warning them that their beauty was not eternal -- such is the power of female vanity, at least in China.

Once he expressed his conviction that foreigners might appreciate, more than locals, his work and could be convinced to buy it. His dream was to live out of his creative work, appreciated by a group of faithful supporters and sponsors.

He mentioned an SM-oriented social network, based abroad, which he thought could be the right place to explore this possibility.

I loved his evocative pictures, so I promised to help, and a few days later I opened an account.

At the same time, I secretly hoped that I could meet new, exciting partners who could quench my thirst for pain and submission.

I started sending messages to foreign men living in the province and I received several answers.

One of those that caught my attention was by a man who called himself Bonsignore.

His answers were prompt and captivating.

His characteristics seemed outstanding, the words he used were elegant and restrained, even when speaking of his darkest desires.

The contrast between the refined words and the raw desires confused me, somehow there was something familiar but inexplicable.

There was no personal picture in his profile, but he was willing to share one in a private chat.

He had declared to be Italian, but somehow I wasn't convinced.

He challenged my idea of how a foreigner should look: I felt that in him Caucasian deep facial features mixed with Asia's soft shapes; at a second look I realized he was good looking and well-groomed.

Looking at the picture deeper, I detected a cloud of depression and melancholy that made his eyes deeper.

"He looks blue, not a fun guy..."

The brat in me felt relieved as I thought it was going to be an easy job to make him fall for me and create the same addiction that had hooked X.

Once again the sub would control the dom.

After a few messages back and forth he gave me a time and place to meet: two o'clock, in front of the city's Art Museum.

It was a Saturday afternoon of bright sun and scorching heat, I felt the skirt glued on the skin of my bare thighs.

I got there ten minutes earlier and started to look around the main gate where he had set to meet.

From here to the Museum's buildings there was a large, 300-meter long square, and, like schools of fish, crowds of people were walking in both directions, heading to or returning from the visit.

"Why choose this place to meet? A strange foreigner," I thought.

I stood still by the right side of the gate and looked around, scanning the crowd, and the nearby streets, jammed by buses and cars, but I couldn't see any foreigner showing up.

Exactly at two pm, I turned to my left, and then I saw him.

Had he arrived just now, exactly on time, or his inconspicuous appearance had made him unnoticed in the crowd?

He didn't seem interested in looking for me; he just stood there quietly, holding a backpack.

Still, I had the impression that there was a strange and solemn splendor around him, like if a beam of sun rays was hitting softly above his head.

Not only; it seemed that the tourists' crowd dispersed around him as if they felt insecure to get closer to him so that he seemed at the center of a circular open space, about eight meters in diameter.

In the steaming hot weather, a chilly air rose from the bottom of my heart.

I gathered my courage, I walked toward him, I smiled and I waved my arm.

"Hi!"

He woke up from his stillness and raised his head.

I waved my hand more widely and greeted him with pretended lightness, expecting a welcoming smile in return.

He looked at me coolly, as if I was a stranger who just disturbed his meditation, or, as if he was ready to listen to a low-level worker was reporting to him. Then he walked toward me, expressionless, I felt like he was going to hit me like an iceberg hit a ship.

I didn't want that heaviness to weigh on me; "After all, he is a master looking for a sub, right? I am a good slave, rare to be found, he should feel lucky to be able to have met a sub he can talk to," I thought confident I could win him.

I began my act.

"No no no, not this coffee shop, too noisy, many clients play poker inside. Let us take a walk to the park nearby...go straight on after the next traffic light, " I said, eager to have him follow me.

He nodded, quietly and gently.

In the park the trees looked aged instead of old, somewhat dusty, the grayish sandy walk paths seemed worn, elderly ladies worked out emphatically their pointless routines.

"What a decaying place," I thought.

I could hardly stand it and I sensed he disliked it too, but I summoned my courage and I invited him to with me on a secluded bench.

How could we approach the purpose of our meeting?

He didn't seem to hurry.

We chatted for a while about movie stars in his country, until the strong sunlight and mosquitoes pushed me to leave.

"My car is at a hotel parking nearby, do you want to go there? "he asked.

I didn't really understand his request, but I hurried an answer anyway.

"No, I know a coffee shop nearby, in that direction."

For the time being, I just wanted to soothe my vanity by walking with a handsome foreigner in a crowded street.

He didn't object to my proposal but simply got ready by putting his heavy backpack on his back.

"Why he carries such a heavy bag to see me? Are there toys inside? "I laughed to myself.

Only a few weeks before I would never have imagined that I would be dating a foreigner.

At my age my classmates at the University had given up on their desires; one of them was already a granny, happy to look after his grandchild at home.

I felt emboldened and light-hearted, so I pushed him to the farthest point of eros, or so I thought.

"Do you believe in God? "I asked him on the way.

He thought for a while and answered slowly. "...catholic... " was the only word I could understand.

His serious attitude disappointed me: I felt he was a kind and patient guy, not a master.

"Maybe I am losing my time - I thought - I need cruelty, not a scholar."

Unfortunately, the coffee shop was closed, and the second place I chose was noisy, with people sitting too close to us.

At last, we found the third one, with soft music, lovers chatting in a low voice and we sat down, one in front of the other.

Here I completed my performance.

I told him about my experience with X, my addiction to pain, and the expectation of trying something new, such as the electric prod or the wooden horse.

He drew a wooden horse on a paper towel, to confirm my words.

Yes, I like it, I repeated, and whipping, caning, bondage, but most of all, I like the master who can overwhelm me with power.

His face gave me no clue as to what he thought; moreover, when he spoke I still had a problem understanding; my English was not good enough.

To hide my anxiousness, I kept on talking about myself, while he gazed at me silently, without showing surprise or curiosity.

Suddenly by talking and talking I felt like I was a fish swimming deeper and deeper within a trapping net until it's captured inescapably.

In my case, I felt my work of showing off had gone in vain, and I had only managed to make a fool of myself.

At five we took a taxi to a metro station.

Here again, he asked me if I wanted him to take me home.

I refused; I would have loved to, but I did not want to bother him in such a little thing.

"Ok then, bye! "

Then he turned his back swiftly, with his cool gravity, and started walking away.

I expected him to turn back and wave or smile, as we Chinese always do, but nothing happened, he just kept his pace and disappeared in the crowd.

We continued to chat online now and then, but I realized that the brutal torture I dreamed of could not materialize.

For one part, I had never seen a master as distant as he was, who made me always wonder if I said something wrong or if he disliked me.

His questions seemed pointless.

"Can I leave marks on your body if I whip you? "he asked.

"No, I am not free," I admitted.

How could it be, while I lived with my husband?

All I could do was to be a model for X's bondage pictures, a favor I did for an old friend; sessions of "rope yoga". where there was no sparkle of desire.

Then, at the beginning of August, my husband informed me that he had to leave NJ for an urgent matter, and this, after seven years, gave me at least two months of freedom.

I was like a prisoner that, condemned to life imprisonment, was suddenly announced two months of release on parole.

Now, my desires rose again, all-powerful.

I immediately called X asking him to make me taste his most merciless whip.

But fate was against me: his country house had been robbed and all his equipment has been taken away; besides, he had family matters to take care of.

He was not in the mood to indulge me.

I still had Bonsignore.

I was confident that, while he was still aloof, someday he would appreciate the depth of my submissiveness.

Finally, he set the time for the next meeting, some time at the end of August.

I promptly agreed; it was my duty to accept a dom's conditions, and the truth was that the strength of my endurance serves me not only to endure pain, but also to endure Masters and that when this endurance is not tested I feel bored, and I feel compelled to leave them, as it had happened with X.

I was counting down days with pride and wonder.

Then, right the day before, he canceled abruptly explaining that he couldn't give the type of relationship I was looking for.

"What? What is a relationship by the way? " was my reaction; however, what could I say except for: "Ok, I understand"?

At night, though, I cried with great disappointment and anger.

He had teased and then humiliated me, so I deleted all the conversations we had to protect my remaining dignity.

I wanted whipping and torture so much ....I was ready, I had the time, but nobody to play with.

"Is there something wrong with me? Or am I over-enthusiastic? Or am I arrogant?"

Then I realized that I was so focused on what I wanted that I had never stopped to consider what he wanted.

Maybe he needed more than just an empty canvas.

So far I hadn't read the stories he had posted on the social network where I met him.

When I started to, it was like a big hit on my head.

Their plots were rich with imagination and extreme situations, developed fluently, construction, words elegant and concise.

The masters were cool, unmovable like a fixed star, with its rules and orbit, and the subs were no more than a piece of meat or a domestic animal.

The tortures were severe and inhuman, beyond my wildest expectations.

How could he write so many different kinds and styles of novels?

His stories didn't seem to receive much attention. Was he happy just with inner satisfaction?

The image of the star, alone, aloof, distant, rotating on his orbit, made now even more sense.

He was on a solitary inbound path, in between a material world and an imaginary world, striving to achieve in the real world the uncompromising vision of his imagination.

This fruitless quest led to the exhaustion derived from the continuous tension of self-discipline.

The well of desires had dried up in his eyes.

His presence was becoming more and more intoxicating.

Among all the Chinese men I had met in my life, I had never met anybody that sophisticated, deep, and intellectual lonely.

I was ashamed at my silly exhibitionism when I had met him, I felt like a peacock with long feathers stuck in my ass, parading around him to impress.

Now I just wanted to run to him, and kneel under his feet, begging him to forget and forgive my wrongdoings.

I wanted to be one of his slaves, with or without whipping.

I wrote a letter of apology from my heart.

One morning while I had breakfast in a fast food near my apartment after I had waited anxiously for an answer, I received his message, where he agreed to see me again.

I wonder what the couple of young lovers, who were eating in front of me, could make of my happy tears.

I calculated that there would be forty-five days more ahead till we meet.

At night, alone at home, each time I walked in the toilet, looking up the mirror, I discovered on my face a bitter expression, ready to cry out.

How could I fill the gap between me and him? I was simply driven by desire, while he seemed to master and restrain it, purified by the flame of his knowledge.

The only way was to sacrifice my body, hoping that he would bother to accept it.

I believed that sharing a walk in life with him would help me grow and become more independent for the future; and the proof was that from the moment I started to read his stories, I had never been the same.

Summer passed and a windy and chilly autumn arrived.

It was an afternoon of mid-October, and following his orders, I was waiting for him in the lobby of a hotel in one of the recently expanded suburbs.

Nervous, I stood still and stared at the gate. He appeared twenty minutes later there, handsome and dressed elegantly, he walked acknowledging me, I smiled and followed him in the lift, silently.

This time he knew I had already surrendered, and that he could dispose of me as he wanted.

When the lift doors closed, his hands reach for my breasts, while I lowered my head.

He knew that a security officer on duty could be watching the security camera - but he was sure that by now I have chosen to be his obedient slave.

When we step the lift, he grabbed my neck from behind and pushed me ahead toward the room I had booked in advance.

This helplessness was intoxicating- I was there to serve his will, I couldn't resist him.

Immediately after stepping into the room, he unzipped the trousers and his thick cock popped up, hard and demanding.

"Kneel!" he ordered.

I was grateful that I could hide my sluttyness behind his orders: if necessary, I was ready to pay to suck that cock.

Without a word, I kneeled right away, between his legs, and buried his cock deep in my mouth, eagerly and greedily.

I felt it was a test I had to pass, I sucked and I sucked, using all the skills I had, from time to time looking at him, trying to understand if he was happy with my services.

He came into my mouth, and I assumed that the white, thick cream that landed in my mouth and that I swallowed proved that I had passed and I could qualify as his whore.

My reward was his cane.

He checked the thickness of the tools I had taken, and then he tried some on my ass until he settled on one.

I took it bravely - I felt I could take much more - but when he brought me to see my buttocks- by now he had attached a collar on my neck and I was following him on my fours - in the toilet's mirror I could see they were covered in bruises.

There he took a few pictures of my beaten ass and of my nervously smiling face. Why did I let him take these images that let me in his power, free to reveal to the world with indisputable proof that I was a pain-loving slut?

He brought me back into the room, he sat on a chair, and I climbed into his lap.

For a while we stayed like that in silence; for a long moment, there was a time I felt his mind drifting far away.

Then I slipped and knelt at his feet, like a slave ready to be summoned.

However, by now he had started gathering his toys.

He dressed, left half of the hotel fare on the bed, thanked me, and said goodbye, finally leaving the room swiftly, without hesitation, or turning back.

I waited for a moment, I wanted to breathe longer the air of that room; when I left, it was already dark; walking outside, I could hear the pitch of my high heels hitting the step walk.

I reached the subway station and boarded on the line which would take me home, on the other side of town.

I looked at the people around me: how come nobody knew of my bruised ass, that burned under the clothes? Any of the men now could take me to the home, or simply in a dark alley of the city and use me, so much he had unleashed my need to be a sexual servant.

It was pretty late when I got home.

As I stepped in, I felt there was something I needed to do before anything else.

I left the heavy bag on the floor, undressed completely, walked into the restroom, took pictures of the marks he had left on me, and sent him.

I hoped he was happy with what he had done to my body; he didn't reply.

I continued sending pictures every day. Occasionally he seemed to appreciate my body, sometimes required a different pose. I obliged, happy that he cared, until, sadly, the marks faded away.

He was pleased enough to ask me to meet for a second time at the same hotel.

He used again my mouth, and after that, he greased my anus with his seed.

I had hoped to be properly fucked, in my pussy - I would take that as a sign that he truly liked me.

I didn't dare to ask though, and he didn't bother.

He started playing with my breasts, whipping them lightly, and then clamping them, with little bells.

Finally, he had found my most tender spot, where pain arose strong and fast.

He didn't seem to believe my clenching teeth. and stopped playing only when he saw drops of blood spilling from my raw nipples.

Still, he didn't seem to believe that my pain was real, he looked at them calmly, finally cleaning them with a wet towel.

"It's nothing," I said. Yes, it was painful, but my thirst for pain was stronger: I wanted more.

By now he had sat on the chair, and I had crouched between his legs, like a faithful bitch dog, looking up at him, trying to entertain him talking of my experiences of life, of a strange adventure I had with Chinese monks.

I had learned that he enjoyed my stories-I fancied I was his Scheherazade, or he was amused by a silly woman babbling?

Two hours passed, he stood, left the money and the room, without turning back.

The third time we met at a large, cavernous hotel near the North Station.