The Visitor

With this momentous discovery, she became cautious, wanting to seem as if nothing had changed, that she was still the same as she was. She began paying more attention to her appearance... in order to look like she didn't pay attention to her appearance, as she had in the days when she was a free -- if sexless -- woman. She had to be conscious of her posture, to hunch her shoulders when anyone might be looking directly at her. She made a point to temper the impulse to stride quickly and confidently, and occasionally had to feign fatigue rather than expose the heightened levels of energy she seemed to have acquired.

Still, the sexual aura she now projected could not be suppressed entirely. She learned how to be oblivious to the often-ill-disguised lust, as if saying, "I'm just a tired, worn-out, gray-haired old widow-woman -- you couldn't possibly be thinking those nasty thoughts about me?"

In the last few years, the temptation to exploit these lewd, surreptitious inspections for her own sexual and emotional aggrandizement had steadily increased until this last year she could not resist. On more than one occasion, she stooped (literally and figuratively) to torturing these hapless men and boys with an "accidental" views down her blouse, a flash of stocking tops or girdle, even the rare dead-on crotch shot. The hardest part was pretending that she was unaware of the erotic show she was offering her "marks".

She would journal about these incidents, and then relate their details -- especially how wet they made her -- during her Friday night confessions before the camera's all-seeing eye. Naturally, her master was compelled to punish her for behavior that might jeopardize the masquerade he insisted on, yet the punishments meted out seemed somewhat lighter than she had expected, though perhaps she shouldn't have been surprised, as she could tell his strongest inclination was to reward her for showing such a slutty attitude and initiative.

***

Something akin to a sneer came to her lips as she hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her thong at her hips. She imagined her silent and (as far as they knew) secret admirers at school, and elsewhere, probably pictured sex with her as taking advantage of a relative innocent; some love-starved prude whose sexual repertoire consisted of a brief monthly missionary shag with the lights out while wearing a flannel nightgown... and not even that for more than a decade. In their naive fantasies, they probably see themselves as the predator and she as the prey.

Pulling the thong slowly down her luscious legs and stepping out of it, she thought to herself, "I'd eat them alive," as she placed the thong with her other discarded clothes.

When she was done, she brazenly met her visitor's gaze directly, if only for a moment, before demurely lowering her eyes. Rather than anger, her bold move earned her an indulgent smile. She fought not to return that smile as she giddily thought, "I still please him!"

In her next thought, of course, she quickly acknowledged that her disgracefully obsequious efforts to secure the approval and desire of a man who had held her prisoner, defiled, tortured, mutilated and raped her, and has blackmailed her into a life of vile and unnatural slavery, would later return as a crushing wave of self-loathing that would hit her as soon as he was gone. But that was later; if life under his rule has taught her anything, it was to live in the moment.

She paused a moment to reach her arms high above her head, her feet together, treating her master to a delightful rear view of her long, lean torso and limbs stretched lengthwise to their limits. She slowly lowered her arms by her side, and then coyly crossed them over her breasts, reminiscent of a pose from a fashion magazine.

Looking over her shoulder, she smiled wantonly at her master, aroused not only by his sedate but pleased expression, but also by her own reflection in the large mirror behind him. The clean, clear lines of her owner's initials burned into the soft flesh of her right butt cheek, though only a little more than an inch square, screamed volumes about the woman who wore it... about her.

It was last summer, one of only a handful of times he had taken her out of state. Chicago; a warehouse/workshop owned by an associate of her master and a fellow sadist. Nicknamed "the Iron", she had been told this man was known within the BDSM community for his craftsmanship in creating custom branding irons as well as his skill in wielding them. Besides her master and the Iron, there was the Iron's slave (whose name the widow never learned), and some young, dark-haired dominatrix. That was the day the schoolteacher received her mark... or rather, his mark.

Though she was strapped tightly to a rough wooden bench, Iron's slave and the dominatrix still took undue pleasure in pinning her down further, preventing any possibility of movement as the glowing red metal melted into her taut glute.

She was given a rubber coated piece of wood to bite down on and told to scream, to make no attempt at being stoic when hot iron met soft flesh -- as if she could have stifled the hell-born screech that erupted from her very soul, escaping through her lungs and mouth! She may have blacked out for a brief moment, though she wasn't sure. She had downed two healthy shots of Bacardi 151 when she and her Master arrived at the Iron's Gothic Shop of Horrors and was then promptly stripped and restrained. For the next hour she remembers being teased, taunted and tortured, edged to within a hair's breadth of orgasm by the two other females, although under the direction of her youthful Master. She was denied her climax, again and again, for a full hour... while the Iron tended to the fire and the brand.

Between the alcohol and the edging-induced endorphins, the fallen educator was flying. When she was once again so very near orgasm, the Iron lunged forward, pressing the brand's smoking, glowing end firmly into the mature slave's rump, while in that same instant, her master smoothly plunged his fist into his slavegirl's already greatly dilated vagina. Pain, pleasure, love... Her climax -- at the very moment she received her Master's mark -- was a transcendent act of absolute surrender...

By the time she came around, Iron's slave was rubbing an antibiotic ointment into her wound. Within minutes, her own master was lubricating her asshole with some of the same ointment and was sodomizing her to the cheers and laughter of the others, even while the newly branded slave serviced the dominatrix's furry twat with her mouth.

And the GILF whore had loved it. It shamed her to her core to admit it, even to herself, but God help her, she loved it -- the sheer adrenaline rush of it all; the pain, the pleasure, the humiliation, the attention... the cathartic release of absolute surrender and subjugation.

The experience had crystalized her life's path up to that point. She now knew who she was... what she was... and more importantly, what she wanted.

***

A sad smile blew briefly across her face; some days, it feels really good being damned.

She opened the small jewelry box, also on the mantelpiece, and took out the slim, three quarter-inch diameter silver ring, unscrewed the tiny bead that closed the circle, and slipped it through the hole in her septum and screwed it shut, letting it hang between her nostrils. Pausing a moment to look at her reflection in the mirror in front of her, she smiled. Next she inserted the inch-and-a-half hoop earrings and ran her fingers through her hair, letting it fall behind her ears to better display the jewelry.

Standing straight, both hands placed behind her head, fingers laced, she mused that after the branding, her septum piercing was nothing. Like all her piercings, it was over in a moment.

Somedays, she regretted that she couldn't wear her nose ring more often -- she loved how savage and wild it made her look. But she doubted the principal, or the parents would really be down with the whole Neo-Primitive look. Besides, it would blow her whole "secret identity" charade. She gave a silent, playful snarl to her reflection as she thought, "That's okay; he loves it."

Again, she'd hate herself later for these thoughts, but she had learned many years ago to surrender completely when her visitor was with her, not only to him, but also to the perverse, obscene thoughts of the unrepentant whore she became in his presence.

As she slowly turned to face her visitor, sitting there, now anxiously awaiting his cue to begin his inspection, she caught sight of her pubic mound in the far mirror.

"Now that," she thought, staring at the word "Slave" tattooed in black, medieval script an inch above the cleft of her cunt, "that was a pain that just wouldn't quit!"

Even her branding was much easier to endure compared to her tattoo. As opposed to a few seconds of agony, it took almost an hour of her sweating and forcing herself to breathe through the pain as her discomfort level rose to intolerable, forcing her and the needle jockey to take a break until she felt she was ready to go another round. This happened again and again.

And yet her owner stood beside her the whole time, holding her hand, rubbing her shoulders, comforting her -- even as she had wished her lover of long ago could have done when she was in labor with their son.

She had cried at several points during her inking, but it was only from the pain. She had embraced her fate as a slave several years before; she had wept the last tears for her lost life of normalcy when the last of her pubic hairs were destroyed by the electrolysis needle four years ago.

This was her life now and she was ... what? Content? Comfortable? She wasn't sure what the proper word was to describe how she had so completely accommodated herself to the bizarre, perverse life he had given her. She supposed the best way to express it was that she was at peace with it. Years ago, she had accepted her own grievous culpability in the chain of events that had made her visitor what he was. So, by extension, she was somewhat to blame for what he had done to her. This made it much easier to forgive him all his outrages against her -- both past and future. She had long since forsaken any idea of revenge, so what possible good would holding on to all that anger and hate do?

Surrender and submission seemed so much like second nature to her now that she allowed herself to believe him when he told her she was a natural born submissive and masochist. How could she deny it when just the memory of the humiliation and pain he had subjected her to would cause her juices to ooze down her inner thighs.

Indeed, in a strange way, she was now actually proud to be her master's property. She had not -- nor, she was pretty sure, would she have ever -- chosen to be some man's bitch for life... especially not this man. But that not having been an option, she imagined that her lot could have been infinitely worse.

He was, after all, an impressive specimen; six foot two with eyes of blue and solid muscle from head to toe. Not only was he well-equipped to be a phenomenal lover, but he had the knowledge, the skill and the desire as well. She was his instrument, and like a world-class musician, he played her with a passion and virtuosity which brought her as close to experiencing the divine as she believed her blackened soul would ever know.

Unlike most men she had known -- including her late husband -- when he was with her, he was with her completely. She never once had to wonder where his thoughts were as he spanked her bottom, or shoved her head down onto his massive cock, or especially as he guided that beautiful weapon deep into her well-trained rectum.

And she had absolutely no doubt that he was there, in the moment with her, when he kissed her -- an act which, she was pleased to note, occurred with increasing frequency (and tenderness) over the years as their relationship developed.

His restraint was also something to recommend him; when disciplining her, he never let his passion or rage carry him away. Even during the intensity of her breaking, he knew when to hold himself in check in order to avoid lasting injury to his beloved future pet.

And since she had fully adjusted to her peculiar form of servitude, she did little to provoke his ire. His spankings, floggings and paddlings had become a form of foreplay, leading to mind-boggling sex so intense the pleasure itself was almost punishment.

She chuckled inwardly, remembering those times when her master seemed to find her blameless of any misdeed worthy of chastisement. It's then she would feel compelled to confess undetected sins -- both actual and imagined -- until his lash brought a glow to her skin even as his stern attention brought a glow to her twisted, corrupted heart.

Then there was the money. No venal consideration, given her modest -- indeed, at times, strained -- financial circumstances in the wake of her husband's death. Her visitor had purchased her home and allowed her to live there rent free. With the money from the sale, she was able to settled all her outstanding debts. He had arranged for a modest "stipend" (as he called it) to be deposited in her account each month. He had her meet with a lawyer and a financial advisor who set up a trust fund for her. Between her salary, her husband's pension and her master's generosity, she enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle, free from fiscal fear.

Nor did he ask her to pick up the tab for any expense his peculiar demands generated. In addition, much-needed (or desired) gifts would often appear during his absences, even a new car once. And always there was an envelope with crisp new bank notes waiting for her once he was gone -- more if he stayed longer than a weekend.

The first envelope was taped to her bathroom mirror. She found it as she stumbled in, bruised, beaten and broken, to clean herself up after a week of her visitor "introducing" himself to her. First, she cried -- well, she was working herself up to that anyway, even before finding the money -- then she screamed and snarled in rage, smashing the mirror with her fist. "Just as well," she told herself minutes later when she had calmed down somewhat, as she couldn't bear to look at herself then... indeed, not for several days.

She was tempted to flush all that cash down the toilet, but instead she threw the envelope in a seldom used dresser drawer and ignored it for weeks. By the time she came across it again, she was convinced she had forfeited any right to moral indignation... along with pride and self-respect. If the money was filthy, she reasoned (rationalized?), what did it matter; so was she.

In the end, she decided his largess was more valuable than her dignity and freedom. In time, she came to think that she had "earned" the greenbacks he left, earned in a time-honored, if abhorrent, fashion. It was obvious her visitor felt the same, and to ensure she never forgot what he had made her -- what she was -- he usually made a point to leave the money on the nightstand next to her bed... a traditional spot to place a whore's pay.

These days, while about her mundane business, when she thought of her visitor, her master, she was often overcome by intermittent waves of guilt and shame, but also, as often as not, joy and serenity.

She remembered how once he had walked over to where she was kneeling submissively on the floor -- naked, sitting back on her heels, her knees spread wide, her hands interlaced behind her neck, her elbows out to her side. Crouching down to face his pet, he softly stroked her cheek, then, while maintaining her gaze, he let his hand travel down her body, gently fondling in turn, her breasts, her nipple rings, her barren mons, her clit ring, the rings through her labia majora, ending his manual tour of her flesh by firmly and deeply inserting two fingers into her sopping slot.

As she was transfixed by the fingers on his one hand, he slipped his other hand around the back of her neck, pulling her lips to within an inch of his.

"Capturing you, breaking you, training you, reshaping you into my perfect slave -- this has become the work of my life. My only regret is that I will never be able to truly display you to the world at large; to share the fearsome beauty of my will-made-manifest through your flesh."

And then he gave her one of those reason-killing kisses.

It was those kisses -- and what they represented -- that had persuaded her to not just resign herself to her fate, but to embrace it.

The fact was, in his eyes, she was always something special, unique and precious, and while he expressed it quite clearly in his words and actions, it was through his kiss that he conveyed this to her most eloquently and forcefully.

True; like a wild mare, she had been broken to the saddle, but while she had been broken to his will, she had been surprised to discover he had never broken her spirit. She had come to understand that he had never sought a mindless, soulless automaton to brutalize and violate, but rather a fully realized, fully functioning woman, albeit one who was ultimately obedient to his will, submissive to his desires. Her master genuinely enjoyed her company and conversation; respected and valued her opinion on most things and gave her latitude to speak her mind, which she did often, sometimes, even when they both really wished she hadn't.

If she got too cheeky, he would correct her with his bare hand, the paddle, the whip or, for more egregious cases of insubordination, the cane. But he was never truly angry, just mostly disappointed, like a parent forced to discipline a beloved, if headstrong child.

No, she was convinced that despite all the alterations he had made to her body, in the end, it was her, as a person, he coveted. She could even see it in his eyes, in his expression, that he cared for her deeply... in his own, sick way... and desired her more than anything or anyone else in his life. It was as close to love as he was capable.

And for her part, as sick and perverted as their relationship was, she knew he made her feel and experience more in a single weekend than anyone else had in her entire life. And yes, she understood she was on a sleigh-ride to Hell, yet she had become so addicted to the thrill of it all, she could not bring herself to jump off... assuming he would ever allow her.

Early in her enslavement, she had tried to convince herself that her growing feelings of attachment to her creator, her shameful desire for him when he was away, were simply the result of an addiction he had forced on her, an addiction to the intense, reality-altering sensations he gave her. He had given her an overdose, so to speak, and now even the thought of withdrawal was worse torture than any she'd received at his hands.

However, over time, she was forced to admit that the truth was even more shameful and damning; she truly loved her master... at least to the extent that she, with her poor, old, scarred and mutilated heart, could ever truly love anyone again.

They were both horribly damaged individuals, bleeding into each other's psychic wounds. They deserved each other, she thought, because no one else in the world deserved to be afflicted by their particular madness.

Not for the first time, she wondered how culpable she was for what they'd both become; did her poor judgment in her youth so long ago make their present situation inevitable? Was this young man truly an agent of karma as he claimed?

***

Her reverie was broken when she saw him stand and walk purposefully toward her to conduct his inspection, banishing all thought of past or future in favor of the achingly urgent now.

Oh, how his touch awakened her every nerve ending wherever his knowing fingers lighted. She fought to control her rapid breathing, though she could not manage to slow the jackhammer beating of her heart... or the increasing flow of juices from her tumescent vulva.