Mastering Submission Ch. 12bysdbnnc©
Master typically vacationed in late spring before we met, but I could only get away in the university vacations. Making sure I appreciated his willingness to change his normal schedule, Master informed me that the Seychelles are lovely at any time of year, and, since he was prepared to sail out to the smaller islands, Master was confident that there were many secluded beaches where he could torture me to his heart's content.
In Master's opinion (which, of course, is the only opinion that mattered), the only swimming costume I had was awful, so Master bought me a black La Perla costume with a particularly high-cut leg.
"Put it on," Master ordered. "Don't be shy." Master assured me that I looked lovely, but I was embarrassed at what particularly appealed to Master -- the tufts of reddish pubic hair sticking out on either side at the tops of my thighs. On seeing me in the suit, Master's first words were, "The elegant swimsuit contrasts wonderfully with those wiry animal hairs."
"It's beautiful, Master," I agreed, adding with more hope than I expected to be realised, "I'll get a bikini wax at the salon before we go."
"You won't do anything of the kind," Master replied. "You'll look delicious showing off that fine pant moustache on a white coral beach. You'll be the talk of Mahé for years."
"You wouldn't dare!" I exclaimed - immediately regretting making a comment that Master could perceive as a dare.
"You should know by now that I'd dare almost anything," Master replied. "So long as it caused you pain or embarrassment."
"But you wouldn't want to be seen walking along in public with a woman showing her pubic hair," I protested.
"Who said I was going to walk along next to you?" Master asked. "I might fling myself down on one of those loungers, order a pina colada and make you march up and down, showing the world what a slut you are."
I knelt down in front of Master, and sincerely said, "I am a slut, Master, and a whore, and unworthy of you. But I have my pride."
Master, of course, pounced. "Exactly," Master cried triumphantly. "And that is precisely why I have to beat you and humiliate you all the time."
"But, Master -" I begged.
"Whose cunt is it?" Master snapped. "Yours, Master," I said in resignation. "Everything I own belongs to you." I dropped my head, but not before Master noticed that my eyes were brimming with tears.
"I don't claim your whole body," Master said. "Your liver is yours to enjoy. Your pancreas has no special interest for me. But your tits, your cunt, your arse, and that beautiful mouth are mine to enjoy and abuse any time I wish."
"Yes, Master," I replied.
"Step over here," Master ordered, and I obeyed. Master reached down and tugged a few hairs. I cried out, but did not draw back. Master tugged some more, arranging my muff, making as much hair as possible visible on both sides. "That's better," Master said. "More symmetrical."
"You're a fine animal," Master said, "and you should be proud to look like one." Master grabbed the waist of the suit bottom, and pulled it up into my slit. "What do you think?" Master asked. "Even better?"
"Please, Master, no. I am not proud, Master. I will do anything you ask, but if people saw me looking like this I would be mortified. Please, Master, I'm begging," I could not resist making another plea.
"Hmmm. Walk up and down for a bit while I think things over," Master told me and sat back, enjoying the view. "I suppose you won't want those thighs of yours striped with bruises while you're lying in the sun?"
"No, Master," I responded. "If it pleases you."
"It doesn't please me," Master said. "I like to beat you all the time, and I like to see the results of my hard work on your skin. But I am a reasonable man. For the next two weeks I will not hit you with anything thin. Is that fair?"
"Very fair, Master," I replied.
"I don't want anybody else touching that cunt, mind," Master said. "I'll shave it myself."
"Yes, Master," I said in grateful relief. "Of course, Master."
"With my knife," Master went on.
I looked startled, but I was too well trained to say anything.
"In the meantime," Master added, "I'm going to punish you for arguing."
Two weeks later, we were ready to go. After an hour spent packing our cases in front of Master, I knelt at Master's feet.
"Permission to speak, Master?" I asked.
"Permission denied, bitch," Master curtly replied. I knew my face revealed my frustration and worry. I wondered whether I could ask again, but did not dare. Master let a minute hang in the air.
"It's all right, Meat," Master told me. "I know what's worrying you. You want me to shave your hairy minge, don't you?"
"OK," Master said. "You may ask me."
"Please, noble Master," I begged, "Please shave my unworthy cunt."
"With?" Master prompted. I did not want to say it. "With?" Master repeated sternly.
"With your razor-sharp knife, Master," I responded.
"Get upstairs and draw yourself a bath," Master ordered.
I stared at Master before asking, "A proper hot bath, Master?" I was scarcely able to believe my luck.
Master nodded. "That's right, Meat," Master told me. "With bath foam and everything. This is a very special occasion. You run yourself a bath, and I will sharpen my knife. Call me when it's ready."
Is it possible to be frightened to take a bath? I can affirm for you that it is; as I stepped into the warm water, I was trembling.
"Calm down, Meat," Master said. "Or I won't do it, and you'll be showing your pubic hair to the horrified citizens of Mahé."
Master made himself comfortable in the bathroom, cheerily confiding that he loved to watch a woman bathe. Contrary to my usual experience of cold-water showers, Master informed me, he loved to pour expensive lotions and perfumes in the warm bath water, while floating candles bob between islands of foam. Master further expounded on how he liked to make a woman clean her cunt, and then inspect it, asking, "Do you expect me to fuck that?" scornfully, and makes her wash it all over again.
After gazing at me lying back in the suds, luxuriating, my breasts floating slightly in the water, Master glanced at his watch. "You've been in there for half an hour - don't get too comfortable," Master told me harshly. "You're only there to soften up your cunt hair for the touch of cold steel."
I looked up at Master anxiously. "Do you think its soft enough?" I asked.
"Impatient little bitch, aren't you?" Master asked scornfully. "Go on. Feel your cunt."
I did so, frowning thoughtfully. "It seems nice and soft," I said.
"Very well," Master snapped. "Let's get on with it."
Master opened his equipment case, and continued talking. "As you've seen at the S&M parties we've attended, there are a lot of shaven slaves: it's been the fashion for as long as I can remember. I do not actually like it all that much. Of course, even though I feel pubic hair can be exciting and beautiful in its own right, I love the act of shaving a woman, especially with a wicked-looking sliver of naked steel."
Master reached down to grasp a nipple, and urged me out of the tub. He gave me a few minutes to blot my body before leading me by the nipple to the dining room, where he made me lie on the bare surface of Master's big oak table. Master left me for a moment, returning with a flannel, and a bowl of warm water.
Keeping up his instructional patter, Master said, "Shaving foam is only there to keep the hair wet, which is fair enough when I'm working on my chin in the morning before rushing off to work, but when I'm shaving a cunt I don't want anything to spoil the view. Shaving without foam is easy as long as you keep the hair wet and use a sharp blade. And there's no blade sharper than a Whitby lock-back knife, honed on an oilstone and stropped on fine vellum."
Despite Master's reassurances that shaving with a knife is actually an awful lot safer than it looks, no more dangerous than the cut-throat razor your great grandfather used, the knife looked terrifying - probably that was the effect Master wanted.
When I took in the sight of the glistening knife in Master's hand, my eyes narrowed in fear. Master swept the knife through the air so the light caught gleaming steel, remarking that it was a superb blade. I stared at Master wide-eyed. "Permission to speak, Master?" I asked softly.
"Permission granted, slut," Master said, "but only if it's important."
I gave a small smile. "I had a dream last night," I said. "I dreamed about that knife of yours, Master. Somebody was using it to cut up my cunt."
"Me?" Master asked.
"I'm not sure, Master," I replied. "You know how it is with dreams, sometimes you can't see the details."
Master smiled. "Well, my darling," Master said. "I'm about to make your dreams come true. Kiss the blade, bitch," Master ordered sharply. I did so, with quivering lips. "Keep very still," Master barked. "I'm not going to cut you. One day, if you are an obedient little slut and learn to trust me, I will use this beautiful knife to make you bleed. But not tonight."
I looked down anxiously, my eyes flickering between the blade and my own pubic hair. "Don't you dare look at me," Master warned. "This has nothing to do with you. This is my cunt, and I shall do as I like with it. Well, bitch, are you ready?"
I swallowed hard, and then nodded. "Yes, Master. I'm ready."
Master came closer, knife at the ready, and explained that he wasn't going to shave me this way just for fun (although, Master added as an aside, he expected it to be immensely exciting and entertaining). Master said that this exercise would help him take me to a new level of trust and obedience that would make our life together immeasurably richer.
Master went on to say, "Another advantage of not using shaving foam is smell: instead of Gillette Gel, the rank scent of your sexual excitement is filling my nostrils, Meat."
As the damp hairs fell onto the table top, Master picked them up and tossed them into a pile on my belly button that grew higher and higher as he worked.
Master continued his narrative whilst he worked, "You can get just as good an effect by plucking the hair off a slave's muff as you can with a knife or razor. Of course," Master continued. "If you do, tweezers take forever. Pliers do the job much quicker, because they pull the hair out in tufts; I just have to remember to tie the slave up tightly and stick a gag in her mouth to stop her complaining."
"Master, can we stop for a moment?" I interrupted to beg. "Something wrong?" Master asked.
I shook my head. "It's just that my heart is beating so fast it's scaring me."
Master put the knife down, moved to the other end of the table, and kissed my mouth. "I will never, ever harm you," Master reassured me.
"I know, but - " I began.
Sensing that I was wound up like a spring, too tense for kind words to help, Master drew back his hand and slapped my face, hard enough to sting.
"Now, Meat," Master said. "Master knows best." By the time Master returned to the cunt end of my body I had calmed down, my breathing relaxed and regular, an expression of trust on my face.
Master damped my minge with the flannel and worked his way down from the flat planes of my stomach to the intricate folds between my thighs, stretching the skin to get a close shave and giving my passion flaps an extra tweak for fun.
"Spread your legs wider," Master told me. "Don't you want me to see what I'm doing?"
"Yes, Master," I replied. "Sorry, Master."
Most people live their whole lives without razor-sharp knives coming anywhere near their genitals. Most people have never experienced true fear, or true excitement. Yet here I was in that very experience -- I quietened down, but I knew Master could still hear me breathe.
When the shaving was over, I wanted to look at Master's handiwork, but instead Master tossed a slip of paper into the air and cut it in half as it fell. Master tapped me on the nose with the flat of the knife's gleaming blade. "You held yourself still very well while I was shaving you," Master told me. "But now I want you to show even more control. Tonight you lose your virginity all over again. A woman who has never been fucked with a knife has never been fucked." Master trailed the tip of the blade down my throat, across the swell of my left breast and down my belly.
I gasped, and I could feel that my cunt was open, welcoming, dripping. As Master's hand dipped out of sight between my thighs, I could feel it penetrating into my gaping cunt.
"Master, I'm scared." Although I could no longer see the knife, I could feel it in my cunt, although there was no way of knowing which end of the knife Master was using to penetrate me. Still, I had no reason not to believe Master's edict that the time had come for him to fuck me with that razor-sharp knife.
"I can see you're scared, but you're excited, too," Master said.
"Yes, Master," I replied. "Scared and excited."
"Don't speak," Master said. "Concentrate on keeping still. If this cuts you, no surgeon will ever be able to put all those complicated working bits back together again." Master pulled the knife out; the moment it left my body I started to shake. "When you're ready," Master told me, "I'll shove that blade up your cunt again."
I calmed down. "I'm ready," I said quietly, my eyes reflecting my wild excitement.
Master slipped the knife in again, then out, then in, building up to a good fucking rhythm, terrifying me. My fingernails began to claw the tabletop. Master paused for a moment, leaving the knife jutting out of my freshly-shaven folds, and slapped my tits about.
As consumed as I was by the heady excitement Master was building, my peripheral vision showed me that Master had a raging hard-on.
"Listen, Meat," Master told me. "I'm going to fuck your mouth, now. But I am going to leave the knife where it is. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master," I replied.
"It's very important that you control your desires. If your cunt starts twitching, you could cut yourself open," Master patiently explained. "Apart from anything else, that would ruin the blow-job."
"I'll be very still, Master," I said quietly.
And I was. As Master built up a rhythm, I lay motionless as a corpse, though a film of sweat began to glisten on my belly and tits.
Master came. I swallowed. And I thanked Master for the gift of his sperm.
Master went back to the knife in my cunt, turning it through 180 degrees. I yelped in fear.
The semen in my throat had compounded my excitement. As Master again built up the rhythm of thrusts, I began to approach my climax. "Please, Master," I was babbling now, incapable of telling Master what I wanted desperately Master to know.
"I understand, Meat," Master told me. "You're going to come, and you're afraid that will make you cut yourself. Well, you'll just have to control yourself, won't you?"
I tossed my head from side to side, whimpering. Master ignored me, plunging and thrusting with the knife, forcing it as deep as it would go.
Master said, "I like to watch you come, and I love to see your face when you are frightened. Now I am going to see both things simultaneously. There's nothing like sheer terror to make a woman concentrate on her cunt."
I did not want an orgasm. I was afraid to have an orgasm. I was doing everything I could to stop myself from having an orgasm. But a slut is a slut, and a delicious combination of fear and excitement was dragging me inexorably towards my inevitable climax.
I was saying, "Please, please, please" repeatedly, but not specifying whether I was asking Master to stop or to fuck me harder. Master plunged the knife in deeper and faster. I was beginning to lose control altogether.
"Master, I must come," I warned.
"The French call orgasm the little death," Master said. "If you come now, you'll experience a full-scale death. You'll slice yourself open like a melon."
"Please, Master," I begged. "Please."
"All right," Master said grudgingly. "You can come next time I take the knife out."
Master slid the handle from its velvet sheath, and called out, "Now!" My fear and excitement brought me to orgasm, making me howl.
As my breathing slowed, and my body began to relax, Master presented the knife, holding it just above my mouth, the razor-sharp blade gripped between his fingers, and the handle coated with and dripping my cunt juices. Master had fucked me with the handle, not the blade!