by Caroline Wilmot
I guess I’ve known exactly what I wanted ever since I found a tattered copy of The Story of O in the used bookstore near my college campus. From the moment I read it, I understood completely the erotic longing to be thoroughly dominated and utterly possessed. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-thirties and working as a newspaper reporter, however, that I found the imposing master of my dreams.
My master is a theatrical director at our nearby regional repertory company (one of the most prestigious, I might add), and the night I met him he was giving a lecture at the university. It was his eyes I noticed first, though the rest of him was certainly impressive. Those eyes, deep-set and introspective, are a joltingly pure jade green and they compel attention, whether he is looking at you or not. His voice too was authoritative and almost hypnotic, though not the least monotonous. It was a resonant baritone that welled up through his broad chest and could create startling effects. Five minutes into the lecture I would have followed him anywhere. My nipples were rubbing erect against the cloth of my blouse, and my pussy was perceptibly wet.
When we sat down the next day for our scheduled interview, I noticed that he was a head taller than I—a surprise, since I am taller than many women. His skin was tanned and his blond hair streaked with silver. He could have been any age, from forty on up, and he moved like a caged panther, with a soft grace that held the promise of sensuous violence. I hadn’t blushed for years, but twice during that interview something he said or did had my face flushed red and my eyes cast down. Did he see a potential slave in this brash young reporter’s awkwardness? He never told me, but I would guess so because he gave me his card and told me to call. I went home a mass of confused feelings and lay in bed fingering my pussy and dreaming of him standing over me in the role of master.
It isn’t so far from my town to his larger city, and I went there regularly for various reasons. The logical thing was to take him up on his suggestion—it might at least lead to an interesting date, and who knew, maybe more. About three days later I was picking up the phone in trepidation and heard myself accepting an invitation to meet him for lunch at a restaurant near the theater.
When the day arrived, I dressed with care. For some reason I discarded the tailored suits I usually wore and the makeup that had become a part of my professional armor. I wore a light dress in a tiny flower print and sandals on my feet. A little lipstick and a ribbon to hold back my hair completed the ensemble. I wore no stockings and only minimal underthings. For some reason I felt the need to present myself as vulnerable and naive as I really was.
I hardly remember the first part of lunch. We talked about my article and about his upcoming production, which he had wanted to do for a long time. What I do remember is wanting the floor to open and swallow me when he began to turn the conversation subtly in the direction of dominance and submission, saying that it was rare to find anyone with a clear-cut talent for one or the other. Blushing hotly, I forced myself to look up and ask the question that was begging to be asked. “Do you think I might have such a talent? A talent for submission?”
He smiled as one might at an apt pupil and nodded, saying gently that it would be impossible to tell how thoroughly anyone might fit the role until one tried it.
“A sort of audition, you mean?” I queried.
“Of course,” he replied. “How else can anyone know whether the role is right?”
A pregnant pause ensued while I screwed up my courage and asked if he would be willing to give me an audition. I poured out my longing for someone to dominate me totally, and he looked at me and smiled with those deep green eyes. “Shall we begin today?” he asked.
I knew enough to reply only, “Whatever pleases you, Master.”
Approvingly, he took my hand and led me to his car. We were silent on the drive to his house, and when we arrived he came around and handed me out as if we were on a normal date. Once inside the restored Victorian house, he took me into his study. It was an imposing room, with a heavy mahogany desk, a few chairs, a bench, and walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed to bursting with books and play scripts. A few drawings of sets and a couple of framed posters were the only decoration.
He turned on the light and closed the draperies over the tall windows. Then he turned to face me and asked if I was willing to proceed. At my assent, he lifted my chin and looked me straight in the eye, nodding to himself. Then he sat back and told me to remove my clothes. I did so as simply and unaffectedly as I could, revealing myself to his unrelenting gaze. He rose and walked around me, placing my hands on top of my head, parting my legs, and bending me forward at the waist. His hands explored my limbs and torso as if assessing horseflesh at an auction, and he pulled my nipples and opened my asscheeks and the lips of my cunt as impersonally as he might have examined a horse’s teeth.
Then we reviewed the basic positions of obedience—standing with hands on my head and feet apart, or kneeling erect with legs spread and hands clasped behind my back—and in both instances my eyes cast down. From that time forth I was never to speak unless spoken to and never again to wear an undergarment that might interfere with the availability of my sex to him. My whole body was flushed with excitement at finding myself embarking on an erotic adventure like that of O and her sisters at the Chateau.
He left me kneeling on the carpet for what seemed an eternity until I started at the click of the opening door. He had changed into a long velvet robe of a green several shades darker than his eyes, and I could see that his legs were encased in some sort of dark leather leggings and boots. They were definitely not trousers, because a swing of his robe showed me that his genitals were uncovered. A brief glimpse of balls and a semitumescent cock sent shivers through me, and I could feel the dampness gathering between my legs.
Sitting in one of the armchairs with his legs spread, he beckoned me to come to him, still on my knees. His pale but formidable cock, tipped in mauve, rose from his lap above a scrotum obviously containing massive balls. I longed to take him in my mouth, but I sensed that this was a privilege to be earned. He pointed to his feet and I instinctively bowed to kiss his boots, licking the fine handcrafted leather. After a few minutes he reached down and pulled me up and left me resting my cheek on his thigh.
He asked me what was before my eyes, and I replied that it was my master’s cock and balls, at which he smiled, adding that they were indeed his and that I must never take for granted that I had a right to them, even to give him sexual pleasure. I nodded, not quite understanding. He reiterated that I, on the other hand, was also his, and that my function was to be available in whatever way might strike his fancy, whether for sex or chastisement, and that any pleasure I might derive from our activities was his to give to me or withhold from me.
That said, he held my face in his hands and told me to pay homage to his genitals with my mouth. I kissed the head of his cock, tasting for the first time his unique musk, then bent my head to lick the shaft up and down and bathe his balls with my tongue. One at a time I took each heavy orb in my mouth, inwardly lamenting my inability to hold them both at once, and massaged them with my lips and tongue before returning to his cock. It was majestic in girth and proportionately long; it was, if anything, rather larger than I expected. The blue veins stood out from its marmoreal splendor, and its circumcised head was darkening and purplish as I ran my tongue over the velvet surface, working the tip into its deeply incised slit.
The underside where head met shaft was his most sensitive spot, I soon discovered. I lavished enough attention there to tantalize, but not enough to suggest that I was hurrying him to a climax. I longed to hold his balls in my hand, but he had not said I could use my hands, so I held back, wanting to make the best impression I could. I took him about halfway into my mouth and then tried to deep-throat him, hitting the back of my throat and almost gagging. I managed to work the convulsive movement into a rhythm of my sucking, and soon I was able to relax and let this powerful organ take charge even of my involuntary reflexes.
I felt a subtle change that seemed to indicate impending crisis, but he pulled away from my eager mouth and left me feeling empty and abandoned. From the bench he picked up what I had imagined to be a costume item from one of his shows but which proved to be an old-fashioned Scarlett O’Hara-type corset into which I was hooked and laced with casual and breathtaking efficiency. Even Barbie Dolls are no longer wasp-waisted, and I was a thoroughly modern girl, rendered awestruck by the feeling of constriction and yet of being held like a precious jewel. With the dramatic reduction of my waist, I knew my hips and ass must have taken on a wholly new erotic flair, and indeed my master ran his hands appreciatively over my bottom, which now felt twice as naked with the hard corset above.
He took some rope and tied my hands together before my breasts, as though I should be holding a lily. I had expected them to be tied behind, if anything, but he would prove to be both traditional and full of surprises. He pushed me back down to my knees and then bent me over so my head touched the carpet and my ass was high in the air and totally exposed. I shivered a little, and he explained to me that he was going to give me a taste of the sort of chastisement that would be meted out to me if I displeased him, but which might also be lavished upon me for our pleasure in a more random fashion.
What was it? A cat-o’-nine-tails? A strap? A crop? I had no idea, and my position allowed for little in the way of peeking, except for a glimpse of his pacing boots. I felt a flap of leather drawn up between my legs, caressing my pussy and following the crack of my ass. It was the short tail at the end of a leather-covered crop, and I knew without ever having felt one that it was going to sting like blazes. The air split and the leather cut across my white exposed flesh, burning a stripe into it and almost knocking me over. The sensation seared itself into my consciousness partly for the pain and partly because it went directly to my pussy, setting up a reaction more violent than any sort of orgasm.
I waited for the second blow with a mixture of trepidation and lust. How would I react when the stripes began to cross one another? I soon found out. The subsequent cuts of the crop indeed hurt more—and yet the pain was transmuted into a fierce pleasure that raged in my cunt and gave me real pride at my endurance, though involuntary little cries escaped my lips and tears came to my eyes.
The blows ceased, and I felt him move behind me. Then came the last sensation I ever expected, the soft rasp of his tongue along the rising welts that decorated my ass. It was soothing yet verging on intolerable, but also sweetly touching, all at the same time.
I was given no time to absorb this rush of sometimes conflicting feelings, for the next thing I knew he was parting the bruised cheeks of my ass and spearing his enormous cock into my vagina. In one savage thrust, his hips and balls hit my tender burning ass and thighs. Soon he was fucking me to a place beyond intelligent thought, a place where pain and pleasure mingled exquisitely, and orgasm was merely a ripple in a powerful riptide of sexuality. He seemed insatiable, and I didn’t want him to stop, but he pulled out, still hard, leaving me once again empty and bereft, though not for long.
His fingers dug into the welts on my ass, pulling my cheeks apart so I thought he would split me open. And indeed he did. His cock, well lubricated by my juices, assaulted my hitherto virgin anus and stretched it to the utmost and beyond. The pleasure of it was amazing, though it also felt as if I were being impaled on a red-hot bar of iron. When he was in me to the hilt he began to fuck me hard, flesh slapping against flesh, my ass dilating and becoming yet another mouth to suck him in and let him ravish me and claim me as his plaything, his possession.
Just then I felt his thighs stiffen through their leather covering, and he redoubled his assault for a stroke or two before his come shot into me. He left me panting, thunderstruck, as he withdrew his spent cock and wiped himself off with a silk handkerchief. Not knowing what to do, I just stayed there, blazing face to the carpet, blazing ass in the air with his come trickling out of me and the welts of his recent beating cooled by the vacant air.
He came around in front of me and lifted me up to an erect kneeling posture. “Do you want to go on?” he asked. “Is this the role for you?” Thinking his question rhetorical, for a moment I did not answer, but he tapped his toe and I managed to whisper, “If it pleases my master.”
He pulled me to my feet and drew a simple cut-steel chain from his pocket. It was of an Edwardian design and may have begun life as a watch chain, but now it possessed a latch with a tiny keyhole. He held it before my face and I bent to kiss it before he snicked it shut around my neck. “I will collar you with leather and with steel in private, and perhaps even with gold and diamonds in public,” he continued, “but this you will wear at all other times throughout your apprenticeship, until I tell you that you have earned some further mark of honorable servitude. We will discuss the particulars of our contract tomorrow, but for now, to bed.”
With that, he led me through the door and up the stairs to his bedroom. If I had any thought that I would be sleeping in his arms as an equal, I learned differently at once. An equal I would never be, but as a cherished slave my place was at his feet, naked and ready at all times to serve his pleasure. I fell into a heavy and exhausted sleep, too tired to even dream of the longed-for delights that would unfold on the morrow.
I smile as I remember that impressionable, awestruck girl, for though I am still in awe of my master, I have had five blissful years of tomorrows at his service and hope for many more of them.