The Legacy Ch. 03

I first caught sight of Gill's advert when I was browsing "Strictly Obeying Her Orders." It had long been one of my favourite websites, largely because it contained galleries of pictures of dominant ladies in pretty some kinky attire. Many of them are very well presented, not at all like the old hazy Polaroids you used to get in the days of rubbishy magazines like Reader's Wives. That gives my age away a bit doesn't it?

Hers was quite spectacular in fact. A slim redhead posing in tight black leather and boots. The text said that she was looking for a full time live in slave, the stuff of my dreams. I set to work once on my reply and mailed it to her that evening.

At forty eight I'm not exactly in my first flush of youth, it takes quite a bit of time to gain the necessary experience and to realise exactly what it is that you want in life. To come to learn and appreciate the true nature of a man's submission to a dominant woman. Anyway, after more than three decades of hankering for a permanent relationship with the sort of women that can put a man firmly in his place, and who see that place as beneath their booted feet I was ready for a new adventure. And I did have a fair bit of experience, albeit with pro Dommes, one of whom In particular I have to say had been very good and personally responsible for my sexual education.

Not all of them were of course. In my early years I had my fair share of bad experiences with women who merely saw it as a way to make money and took little or no interest whatsoever. Eventually though I had settled on this one. Verity was a pretty, petite brunette with the remnants of a mellifluous Edinburgh accent, a superb slim figure, neat, small breasts and long, long legs. Oh, and she was clever too, a university graduate. Most importantly though she possessed a sadistic streak a mile wide and looked incredibly hot in a variety of black leather outfits, always worn with a pair of spike heeled knee boots that boosted her height to virtually the same as my own. Of course that was pretty much irrelevant, we had established from the outset that my place when before here was always to be on my knees.

I had, from the our first meeting fallen for Verity completely. Maybe it was her easy going relaxed attitude that had lulled me into a sense of well being. I won't deny that her physical attractions were part of the package. Although this wasn't essentially a sexual relationship, the exchange of power being far more important, she was an extremely good looking woman. Long limbed and small breasted with a tiny waist that when we were in one of our sessions was normally confined by an obviously expensive laced black leather corset, the bodice of which gave those perfectly formed globes of flesh a well defined cleavage. The deeper pink of her aureoles barely covered by the tight fitting leather, peeped out in a most enticing and teasing manner.

I fell for her completely, delivering myself into her hands, effectively saying "Take me and have fun." That worked surprisingly well for us both. I visited her "studio" every month on the first Sunday.. The attic of the substantial detached thirties house on the outskirts of a provincial city in Eastern England had been transformed into a fully equipped and very atmospheric dungeon. Domina V, as she styled herself, had been married for several years and during that period in her life had worked as a practice manager for a firm of solicitors. She freely admitted that the breakdown of her marriage had been largely due to the incompatibility of her and her husband's sexual inclinations.

"He was a very vanilla man," she had told me. "Just wanted to fuck me every night and for me to give him head every Sunday morning. For me that wasn't what it was about. Luckily he found himself a little floosie fifteen years younger to do all that and left me with the house."

We actually matched up pretty perfectly. I particularly enjoyed the fact that our sessions were so unhurried. She would offer me coffee afterwards and on a few occasions we went out for a post play lunch together. In fact it turned into quite a firm friendship, our conversations often lasted for hours as they ranged far and wide. This was helped by the fact that we shared the same opinions on many areas of life.

On the subject of kink we most definitely did. Those wonderful sessions followed much the same pattern but they never seemed to pall. My mind raced each time I approached the southern outskirts of the city, nervous as to what the next couple of hours might have in store for me, she was sufficiently sadistic to be challenging and I had to steel myself for that challenge. On my arrival I would make my way up to the top floor, undressing in the little ante room next door to the dungeon and taking my place on the floor, on my knees. I felt incredibly vulnerable at this time. We had settled on placing no limits on our play, although we had agreed on one point, that of no permanent harm. In reality that allowed her a very wide range of options and the scope for inflicting a great deal of pain. It was something that I would have no control over whatsoever, and that was what I wanted.

So many men view their submission as merely a form of sexual foreplay. To us however it was something rather deeper than that. For it to work it was essential that it moved deeper, that we explored the wilder shores that only a total power exchange offered. And so this was the form that our sessions took.

Completely naked apart from my own collar that I wore, a heavy black leather one with the word "SLAVE" spelled out in silver studs, I waited until I heard the slow, staccato tap of her boot heels as Verity made her way along the hallway that connected the room where I knelt to her dungeon. This was the point where I moved my face forwards and downwards until it almost touched the varnished wooden boards. The door slowly opened and my mistress entered the room. "Good morning boy!"

She always addressed me in this way, despite the fact that we were virtually the same age. It underlined the chasm that existed between our relative status when we were in session.

The polished black leather toe of a boot appeared in my sight line. "Kiss it boy." I moved slightly forward and placed my mouth to her boot, feeling the smooth coolness of the leather beneath my lips. I knew that I needed to demonstrate my obeisance and I spent the next couple of minutes worshipping first one boot, then the other.

Eventually I heard Verity's calm, silky voice as she said "Enough boy." Her black leather gloved hand appeared before my face and the clip of a leather leash clicked into place around the D ring of my collar. She turned and slowly walked from the room. I crawled on all fours behind her, stealing occasional glances of her slim, erect figure as one booted foot before another marked our passage towards her dungeon, the leather loop of the leash wrapped around her gloved fingers. The occasional tug hinted at an impatience on her part as I struggled to keep pace on my knees.

The room was spacious and airy with two large, slanting roof lights. This aspect though had been balanced by black painted walls and ceiling and a polished wooden floor. Against the end wall a St.Andrews cross waited, it's heavy leather straps ready to receive and restrain the limbs of its occupant. This was supplemented by a black upholstered bench again with multiple straps. At the centre of the room a steel hook hung on a sturdy chain from the ceiling, threaded around the metal wheels of a pulley.

After about our third session Mistress told me to remain naked at the end of the session. I waited patiently, kneeling on the dungeon floor. She left the room and returned with a small cardboard box from which she took what looked like a stainless steel flaccid cock. This device fitted over my own cock and was locked into place behind my scrotum. There were, she said, two keys. One of these she retained, the other was given to me. It was frozen inside a half litre bottle of mineral water, the cap of which was sealed by being dipped into molten red wax. Her order was that this was to remain in place until our next session in four weeks time.

It was at this point that we moved from sessions to a more formal Domme/sub relationship. We had discussed this extensively over quite a long period of time. Verity had expressed her wish to move things on. It was her view that a D/s relationship for her embodied far more than a sexual exchange and that the Domme really needed to control all aspects.

Virtually all her other clients were married and, as such, were precluded from wearing a chastity device. In addition a large proportion of them had the requirement not to be marked, thereby limiting the scope for corporal punishment to quite mild sessions. She explained to me the nature of her kink. She freely admitted to her sadism, expressing her need not to be controlled or limited in any way by limits imposed by the sub.

This certainly made good sense to me. It somehow seemed wrong that the sub could, by the use of a safeword, limit the ability of his Domme to fully explore fully all the aspects of the kink that they shared. I agreed completely with her assessment and willingly offered myself to her to use in any manner that she chose. The one and only condition being that no permanent harm should be caused.

And so this situation remained for almost a decade. Some of the sessions were very hard. Verity, as I have already stated was a self declared sadist. She approached this with a cold but firm logic. Towards the end of our sessions I would be bound most securely, sometimes to the St.Andrews cross, occasionally suspended by my ankles from her overhead hoist, dangling helplessly before her as she selected her instrument of punishment from a well equipped rack. I learned over a period how to steel myself for her assaults that invariably came at the end of the session. It's a matter of mental preparation. I knew that the pain was going to be great, I also knew that my feelings for this woman were such that I needed to give her the satisfaction that she craved, it was this attitude that placed me on a different level from all her other clients. They wanted what they wanted from the sessions, I wanted what she wanted.

She often displayed a tenderness that seemed incongruous with what she was about to do. Sometimes her low whispers in my ear explained that she needed to do this to me to satisfy her needs. She always told me, and I believed her, that the thrill she received from beating me wasn't primarily a sexual one. Whilst the situation undoubtedly had a certain eroticism for her the main motivation was that she felt, as a woman, uniquely empowered by her ability to inflict a painful punishment on a man who was more physically powerful.

Amongst the collection of equipment that hung from the wall rack in her dungeon there was one instrument that was to assume great importance in my life. The sjambok was a cross between a cane and a whip. Almost three feet of stiff rhino hide that was a true antique, dating from the nineteenth century I was to be the only one of her clients to experience it's stinging lash.

I first received the sjambok at the end of a session. It was inevitably the finale as the exquisite agony that it inflicts leaves nowhere else to go. That first punishment of six firm strokes took my breath away. I cried out at each one, something that Verity told me later added immeasurably to her satisfaction. On later sessions as the number of strokes was gradually increased I would come to beg her desperately for mercy, something that we both knew was entirely futile. She would briefly lay the heavy braided whip down within my sight as she calmly explained to me why I needed to accept her punishment. Her soft words intermingled with my sobs. "Just another twelve for your mistress." Invariably I nodded my head in agreement as she stood before me, adjusting her leather gloves and picking up the sjambok to complete the sentence. On completion I would be offered the whip to kiss and would thank her for the punishment.

For those who have never experienced punishment by a sjambok it is important to bear this in mind. Canes of the type used for everyday school type punishments don't approach the ferocity of this fearsome weapon. Only the heavy rattans used for judicial style punishments in some far eastern counies come up to the level of this traditional South African rhino hide whip. Those available today are almost all plastic replicas, but Verity's was a genuine late nineteenth century one.

It's effect on my body was drastic and her standard finishing punishment of three sets of twelve strokes was at the very limits of what I could handle. Of course in some ways to talk of what I "could handle" is irrelevant. Her preparation of me for this finale to our sessions was thorough. First I was secured in such a manner that any movement in an attempt to avoid the cut of the sjambok was impossible. I was either strapped down to the punishment bench or bound firm to the timber cross or else suspended from her hoist by my ankles, my arms strapped behind my back to allow full access to my buttocks.

I would start ungagged but as the punishment progressed and I had been allowed my usual protest and pleadings throughout the first two sets she would briefly lay down her sjambok and pick up the leather head harness with the hard rubber ball gag that the tightening straps pulled down further into my mouth with every notch until she was satisfied that I was sufficiently silenced.

Verity would walk slowly around me, savouring my helplessness, the braided leather of her whip teased between gloved hands as she contemplated this final assault. There was not the slightest hint of anger, merely the anticipation of her enjoyment of her power in her ability to inflict the level of pain that most cannot even begin to imagine.

For me it was the reverse. Now I truly dreaded what was to take place over the next few minutes. I would have done anything within my power to escape those bonds, to avoid those final twelve excruciating strokes. Those that had gone before had been bad enough but that the final set would be harder, much harder, delivered with the full force that a fit and strong woman in her prime was capable of generating, and with an instrument designed to be used to drive large, tough skinned animals.

In the aftermath I would feel drained. The raised weals that criss crossed my body now oozed speckled crimson spots where the surface of the skin was broken. Verity, in compensation perhaps for the viciousness of her assault now attended to my wounds, dabbing at them with cotton buds and antiseptic ointment.

When I had recovered sufficiently I was ordered onto my knees as she stood before me, long booted legs set apart. I would then receive my reward, being allowed to masturbate until the skeins of my thick, white seed splashed onto the varnished wooden floorboards or across the toe of her boot before I heard her soft voice. "Lick it up boy."

It was in the autumn of 2017 that Verity dropped the bombshell. I knew that her mother had been ill for some time and, as we sat sipping coffee after our session, chatting and watching the red and amber leaves falling across the long, sloping back lawn that stretched away to the small wood behind her house she told me that she had been to Scotland the previous week for her funeral.

I offered my condolences. Verity went on to say that her mother had left her quite a lot of money and that she was intending to move to France. Somewhere way down south where the winters were warm.

It was the following March that I had my final session with Verity. The weather was bitter that weekend. One month on and my mood was good. I had received a reply from Gill's advertisement and that had lifted me considerably. Only a fortnight before I had been told of my redundancy. I had worked for the company for a long time and although the initial offer of a severance package was not generous I had negotiated rather better terms Shortly after that I drove up to meet Gill for the interview that would be life changing in somany ways. I was about to change from being an occasional sub to a 24/7 lifestyle slave.