tagBDSMPoint of View: His

Point of View: His


This is the first part of a three-part story that describes the same events from three different perspectives. This is a work of fiction and any similarity to actual persons or events is coincidental.

Dear Stranger,

We've never met. In fact, I picked you at random from one of those white pages sites on the Internet. You may have already noticed that there's no return address on the envelope. I am writing because I need to unburden myself about something that happened to me two years ago. I can't tell anyone I know about it. You will soon see why. I tried to see a psychiatrist, but I found I couldn't even tell him. Just yesterday I found an online site for people dealing with stress and trauma. It advised that people in my situation write a letter reliving their trauma and send it to some random person they don't know. Just writing a letter and not sending it doesn't work. If the site is to be believed, then as soon as I drop this in the mailbox, I'll start feeling better and if I do this enough times, maybe I'll be able to tell my story out loud to a psychiatrist.

My name is Bryce. At least that's the American first name I've taken. My real name doesn't matter. I am Japanese but I live most of the year in the USA and, as you can tell from this letter, I am fluent in English. I own a company that deals in wholesale gem and jewelry trading between North America and the Far East. It's a good business. I net about half-a-million dollars a year. I have two Mercedes cars — a hard top for the cool months and a convertible for the summer. I replace them both every year — new convertible in the spring and new hardtop in the fall. I live in a woody, gated community in a Seattle suburb. A few times a year I go to Tokyo for a couple of weeks at a time. I have an apartment there on the top floor of a skyscraper. It is in the company's name. I rent a Lexus when I'm there.

It started when an old friend, a Korean woman named Kyong, called me. We'd met at a gathering of Asians in Seattle a few years before. She was a beautiful classical piano player and I took her out a few times to social events when it was important that I be seen with great-looking arm candy to impress business contacts. Since I am a very short person, 5 foot 4 inches, I need every trick to appear manly and powerful to potential clients.

She gave piano lessons to other expatriate Koreans in the Seattle area, but other than that, she had no income. She got money from her family back in Korea. They were in the elite upper class of Korean society. Her father had been high up in the Korean government before his death and she had lots of other relatives in positions of power. The money was enough to enable her to live in a one-bedroom apartment in a Seattle suburb. Whenever we went out, I spent a lot of money on her. Sometimes I'd even give her money in advance to buy a new dress to wear on one of our dates.

It was a worthwhile investment, and not just for the arm-candy. I found that after the first couple of dates, Kyong would provide post-date "services" in proportion to how much I'd spent on her. A brief appearance at a client's company picnic would get me a peck on the cheek at her door; but a $1000 evening at the symphony followed by dinner at Seattle's most expensive restaurant would get me laid. We never did anything more than vanilla sex. She refused to give me oral or anal sex; but, heck, she was gorgeous, and she always had loud explosive orgasms, so I had no complaints.

Anyway, she called me out-of-the-blue one day and wanted to get together. We went out to a movie and dinner and afterward, although I hadn't spent all that much, she invited me in to her place and we had sex. She was unexpectedly affectionate. Then, to my surprise, she wanted to get together again the next day. We did, followed by more sex. For five straight days we went out, followed each time by a night of pleasure at her place. By the end of the week, she was calling me "Bry-kun." She had learned that in Japan women make nicknames for their lovers by putting "kun" after the first part of the lover's first name. I was enjoying it, but puzzled as to why she was suddenly so loving.

Finally, she revealed what she'd been thinking.

"Bry-kun," she cooed in bed the fifth night as we lay in the afterglow of passion, "we are both over 35 and we are not getting any younger. It is time we got married."

At first I was almost offended. That's why she is so affectionate, I thought, she just wants to get married.

But as I thought about it more, I realized that she had a very good point. When I was in my twenties and early-thirties, business contacts had looked at with envy at my single life-style and my beautiful dates. But lately, it was beginning to seem weird that I still wasn't married. At social gatherings, sometimes their wives would ask me this point blank. I know that they were beginning to think I was gay and that my dates were just beards to hide my sexuality. At this point in my life it looked better to be married than single and a beautiful wife like Kyong meant that I'd still have the impressive arm-candy at social events.

"You're right," I said. "Let's do it. Let's get married!"

We worked out the details through the night; where the wedding would be (Korea), how big the diamond on her engagement ring would be (2 carats), where we would live (house in gated community), how much allowance she would get after we married ($8,000 per month), etc.

It was not long after the engagement that I first saw him. She and I were walking down the hall in her apartment complex when he stepped out of an apartment further along the hall from her's and came down the hall in our direction.

He smiled and nodded at her and said "Evening, Kyong," as we passed him in the hall.

"Who was that?" I asked, as soon as we were in her apartment.

"No one!" she said, obviously irritated at something. "It's just a neighbor. He hears me practicing piano sometimes compliments me on my playing, that's all." Except Kyong was still learning English, so she would have said something more like "Is neighbor only. He hear me piano playing. He compliment me. That all."

"Ok, Ok," I said, "just asking."

But she remained irritated and thoughtful for a long while as she puttered about the kitchen while I got online to do some business with my laptop.

Thirty minutes later, she came out of the kitchen to where I was working in her living room, and said "He bother me sometimes. It like harassment almost."

"Who?" I said startled.


I just looked puzzled at her.

"That neighbor you see!"

"Oh, right," I recovered. "Well, what exactly does he do?"

"Well, he too much friendly. He act like because he compliment me few times, we have relationship. He call me by first name. Also, I think he watch me."


"If we are both in the parking lot or pass in the hallway, I think he look at me."

"Well, I don't blame him. You are beautiful," I said smiling and reaching out to grab her around the waist.

"No," she pulled away, "I mean creepy looking."

"Maybe I should have a talk with and tell him to leave you alone," I said, trying to be gallant.

"No!" she almost shouted in panic, "Promise me you don't talk to him ever about me. Then he think even more that he has relationship with me."

"Ok, I promise," I said and we dropped the subject.

I saw him a few more times in the next few weeks, walking to or from his car in the parking lot or to the apartment complex's mailbox kiosk where all the mailboxes were, or just walking down the hallway. I passed him on some of these occasions and if Kyong was with me, he would say "Hello, Kyong" as he passed.

Obviously, he thought he had some kind of friendship with her. The idea was preposterous. He was obviously not in her class. He drove a beat up, ten year old Honda. He never wore a suit and the cuffs of his shirts were worn. He was an eta, a peasant.

After he got used to seeing me around, he began to smile and nod in greeting to me, too, even if Kyong wasn't with me. I would always look away and ignore him.

One day Kyong and I carried a large box into her apartment from the parking lot. It was a stereo system I had just bought for her. When we got it inside we collapsed on the sofa breathing hard and kicked off our shoes, leaving her apartment door open.

"Kyong?" we suddenly heard someone call out. It was the voice of Eric, the creepy neighbor.

She jumped up and ran to the door. The door opened inside and it blocked my view of the doorway itself. I saw her go around it.

"The mailman put some of your mail in my box by mistake again," I heard him say. "I was going to slip it under your door, but your door is open."

"Thanks," she said in reply, and then she added in a whisper, "go! go!"

No doubt she wanted this crazy stalker out of there. At that moment, I came around the open door to join them in the doorway. Kyong was more startled than the creep was to see me there.

"Oh!" he said in surprise, "didn't know you were there. I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Eric." Saying this, he held out his hand to me.

I glared at him and said. "No. I won't shake your hand. You are bothering Kyong. Go away." With that, I folded my arms across my chest and looked away.

In no more than a second, I felt a sharp pain to the side of my face that was towards him, my head bashed against the wall behind me. The room seemed to spin and I fell to the floor. It was another second or two before I realized that he'd slugged me. He must have taken a step forward into the apartment and put all his weight behind it.

The next couple of minutes are kind of a blur for me. I remember hearing the door slam shut. I remember struggling to my feet only to be dropped again with another fist to my head. He wasn't particularly tall for an American man, but he was taller than my 5 foot 4 inches and he was much wider in the shoulders and chest. In retrospect, I didn't have much of a chance. I remember Kyong was pounding her fists futilely on his back telling him to stop. I remember him dragging me to the living room. I started to struggle again at that point, but this only brought a couple more blows and the world got even hazier. He sat on me, pinning me to the floor as Kyong continued to hit his back and plead with him to let me go. I remember him tying my wrists to an old fashioned radiator with my own necktie. I was too dazed and weak by then to put up much resistance.

As my head began to clear, I realized he was walking to the closet dragging Kyong with him by the wrist.

I tried to pull my tie loose from the radiator but the fabric was too thick and strong. I tried to untie it, but my fingers could not reach the knot at my wrists. Then I tried to untie it with my teeth. I was just beginning to make progress when I saw out of the corner of my eye, that he was back from the closet with a scarf in his hands. He pushed Kyong to the floor, pulled off one of her socks and stuffed it in my mouth. I tried to spit it out, but he slapped me and I stopped resisting. He wound the scarf around my mouth a few times and tied it tight. I was effectively gagged.

Kyong had quieted down. She was sitting on the floor beside me, breathing hard. She was probably trying to think of a way to get to her mobile phone and call the police.

After a minute in which she and the haku-jin (dirty white person) just looked at each other, saying nothing, he suddenly leaned down, pulled her to her feet, and then slung her over his shoulder. He carried her down the hallway and into the bedroom. She should have screamed at that point and alerted the neighbors, but she was probably too scared.

I was sure he was going to rape my beautiful Kyong and I pulled madly at the radiator but it was hopeless. I even pulled my socks off with my toes, and tried to untie the knots with my toes. But they were too tight.

I heard voices from the bedroom. It sounded like they were arguing. I couldn't make out most of it, but I heard the creep say "What have you been telling him?" at one point.

She's been telling me the truth about your harassment, you baka-shiro (crazy white person), I thought to myself.

After a couple of minutes they came out of the bedroom. To my relief, Kyong was still dressed.

Neither of them looked at me. They stood in the middle of the living room, facing each other a few feet apart. Kyong was looking down humbly. Finally, he spoke.

"Get on with it, Kyong," he ordered harshly, "Strip!"

At this, I began to struggle again, pulling and twisting my bonds. They both glanced over at me but only long enough to see that I had no hope of escape. I tried to call out to Kyong not to do it, to run for the door, but only an incoherent moan got past the gag.

Her head down, Kyong slowly unbuttoned her blouse, took it off and tossed it on the sofa. Then she reached behind her back with both hands and unhooked her bra. Her breasts swung free. With a sigh, her hands went to the snap on her slacks. She opened it and let the slacks drop to her feet. She did nothing more for several seconds and then finally, with an audible sniffle, she pulled down her wispy, lacy, white underpants, kicked them aside and stood before him covering her breasts with one arm and her pubes with her other hand.

I hung my head in shame. There I was, lying on the floor, watching helplessly as my fiancée was forced to strip naked for this white cretin.

"Now, Kyong, kowtow to me," he said quietly.

She dropped to the floor and got into the ancient Asian kowtow position, just as peasants had kowtowed to emperors for centuries: she knelt and then bowed to him, leaning so far forward that her forehead touched the carpet. She stretched her arms out on the carpet in front of her.

I twisted in fury to see my high-class fiancée humbling herself before this peasant; but even as I gave out a muffled howl of outrage, she spoke:

"I am your servant, Seonsang-nim."

I know a little Korean from my travels there and I knew this is a standard Korean phrase meaning "honored master." No doubt she was trying to please him and get him to let down his guard; but this ignorant barbarian haku-jin almost certainly didn't speak Korean, so she was degrading herself for nothing by addressing him so.

"Now, come here, Kyong," he said quietly, "and take off my shirt."

She rose and walked to him, her head bowed humbly, then reached up and began to unbutton his shirt. She pulled it down off his arms and tossed it aside. He was well-built with a wide hairy chest and shoulders and a flat stomach.

Then he took her by the hand and led her over to the sofa. He sat down facing me and pulled her down and over so that she was lying over his lap, face down. She didn't resist, out of fear, no doubt.

Suddenly, he raised his right hand up high and brought it down with a smack on Kyong's bare bottom. She jerked and gasped.

He proceeded to give her a thorough bare-assed spanking. His palm came down again and again flattening first one cheek, then the other. And each spank made me sink deeper in agony. I twisted madly at my bonds, even though I knew there was no point to it. If only I could get free, I would kill the keto-shiro (hairy white creep) with my bare hands.

Before long her buns were visibly pink and she was gasping and moaning in pain. Her hips twisted on his lap and her legs kicked.

From time to time he would pause and finger her privates, chuckling to himself as he did so. Whenever he did this she would squirm and moan with disgust at his touch.

Suddenly two or three minutes into the relentless spanking, he spoke.

"Kyong, do you wish your boyfriend could stop me from spanking you?" he asked, even as he continued to spank.

"[gasp] ... ow ... Y-Yes ... Seonsang-nim ... ouch," she stammered.

"Do you wish he was strong enough and man enough to stop me?"

"Errggh ... Yuh- yes, Seonsang-nim."

"I want you to say that after each spank," he instructed calmly.

Smack! He landed an especially hard one on her blazing bottom.

"Arrgghh! ... I wuh- wish my b-boyfriend was ... [gasp] ... strong enough to st-stop you from spanking me!"


"Urrrunnnh ... I wish m-m-my boyfriend ... [sniffle] ... was m-man enough to stop y-you from sp-spanking me!"

You can't imagine what it felt like to hear this. Each time she said it, was like a knife to my heart. Hot tears of shame dripped down my face. I wanted to die. Still he continued.


"ERN! ... I wish [sob] my boyfriend ... [gasp] ... could stop you fruh-from spank-uh-ing me!"


"Ouch! ... oh, please, Seonsang-nim, ... [gasp] ... no more ... I wish Bryce ... [pant] ... was man enough to ... [huh] ... stop you."

I lay whimpering on floor trying to make noises loud enough to drown out the sound.

Finally, it stopped.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was my gagged moaning and Kyong's breathless whimpers.

"Get up, now, Kyong," he ordered, "and take off my shoes and socks."

She hurriedly obeyed, getting up from his lap and kneeling before him to unlace his shoes and take them off. When he was barefoot, he stood up and gave another command.

"Take off my pants and underwear, Kyong."

From her kneeling position, she reached up to undo his pants and pull them down. He stepped out them and kicked them aside. Then she pulled down his boxers and he kicked those away too.

His penis was flaccid, but I could see that, like the white dicks I'd seen in porno movies, it was notably wider than Asian ones.

"Crawl over, here," he ordered, as he walked over closer to me.

He turned so that his flank was facing me. I could see that his thighs and butt were hard and muscular. Kyong crawled after him and knelt, head down humbly, in front of him. Her face and her butt were both flushed pink.

"Now, Kyong," he continued, "put your hands on my butt and use your mouth to get me hard. And don't rush it, just take it slow."

Aha! I thought to myself. He's made a crucial mistake. Kyong has told me many times she has never given anyone oral sex. Her disgust will overcome her fear and now she will scream for the neighbors rather than give him a blow job. They will come running and we will be freed!

Kyong's head jerked up at his command and she looked him in the eyes, her face turning a deeper shade of red. Her mouth opened.

This is it, I thought, the scream comes now.

"As- as you w-wish, Gakha," she said barely above a whisper.

HUH?!? I was stunned. She was going to go through with it? And she called him Gakha, the Korean word that means "Your Majesty," as if he were an ancient emperor and she was a lowly peasant maid.

She reached up and placed her hands on his buns, then she leaned forward and began to lick the inner side of one thigh, just where it joined his crotch.

"No! No!" I tried to yell, "Don't do it. Just scream! Scream!"

But all that got past my gag was a muffled "ohn ohn dohnit shust eeehm eeehm."

They both ignored me, neither of them even looked in my direction. He looked down at her smiling in pleasure. She kept her eyes open and was intent on her disgusting task. Occasionally, she would look up at him, probably to see if she was angering him. Oh, my poor Kyong. If only she had been braver: she could have screamed and ended the whole nightmare right then.

After thoroughly wetting his crotch on one side, she shifted to the other. Then she began to long licks of the hairy patch above his penis, stopping every few seconds to make spit in her mouth. I felt renewed humiliation at the sight of my inexperienced fiancée forced to slather the hairy crotch of this keto-haku-jin brute.

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