Mastering Submission Ch. 23

In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.

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We had a wonderful April wedding in my home village church, with my beaming parents in attendance. After finding their shared music interests, my father was thrilled to be giving me away to Master. The rest of my family, who had not met Master before, was impressed by his manners and his appearance, both of which were impeccable.

Apart from Master's cousin Antal and his family, as well as the other members of Master's family from Budapest, the guests on the groom's side were all perverts who behaved themselves impeccably. Although the locals cast many a questioning glance at the groom's side of the church, taking in the "sophisticated" and very interesting fashion looks that were modeled by the groom's friends, everyone's primary focus was on the ceremony and the joy of the celebration Master was hosting with his usual flair.

None of the wedding guests was given an opportunity to inventory our wedding gifts, as sometimes is the fashion. That was not just because both Master and I were private people, but also because as well as toasters, china, and linen, the wedding gifts included a tongue depressor, a speculum, and a metal cage just big enough to contain a Ph.D. graduate with a taste for restraint.

All the guests enjoyed our champagne reception, with one of Master's more conservative bands providing music for dancing that kept the dance floor jammed with couples having a terrific time. Finally, after the toasts had been concluded, the generous dinner of lobster and steak (with not a parsnip in sight) had been consumed, and the cake had been cut, the reception was drawing to a close.

When I slipped out of the reception to go upstairs to change, Master soon followed behind me. Once inside the changing room, Master shouted, "You two, out!" And my bridesmaids whirled round, terrified.

"Out!" Master repeated, and they fled. Master locked the door.

I looked down at my dove grey going-away suit, and hoped Master would exercise restraint, but stood, eyes downcast, waiting for and accepting what would come. Master didn't tear the suit off. Master simply motioned for me to kneel in front of him. Once I was in position, Master took some plastic straps from his pocket and fastened each of my ankles to the opposite wrist behind my back.

Master unzipped his fly.

Master's cock pulsed a hair's breadth from my lips. "Say it," Master ordered. "Say it without a cock in your mouth. Say it and mean it."

"I love you," I said.

"Say it again," Master ordered.

"I love you," I repeated, although this time the words were indistinct, formed round a hard gag of flesh.

"Now, hold still, bitch-bride," Master said, smiling. "I'm going to fuck your mouth till your teeth ache."

We went downstairs to discover that none of our straight guests seemed to have noticed anything, though Fuckpuppet gave us a funny look. We were showered with confetti as we got into Master's Mercedes, and then I settled back in the passenger seat with a sigh.

I had left all the arrangements for the honeymoon to Master. All Master had told me was that I should pack light clothes and a passport. Although I had followed that instruction, it would turn out that I would not need anything I had put inside the brand-new Louis Vuitton case nestling in the boot of the car. The only thing I wore during our honeymoon was the beautiful harness I had won at the fancy dress party.

Master had secured accommodations for us for our honeymoon trip at an exclusive club in the country that had been one of England's stately homes. I would spend the next two weeks pulling Master round the estate in a neat little two-wheeled sulky. During these drives, Master would lend me his lock-back knife to cut birches from the hedgerows for Master to beat my arse with. And night after night I joined the other slaves, chained and blindfolded in the Banqueting Hall, listening to one another's screams.

Those runs round the grounds, lifting my knees and tossing the plumes of my headdress, would be the next steps in the long journey we were taking together, a journey that began so long ago with a teary ride on the subway.

THE END