Friday, 30 November 2012
I think of America as the land of white teeth. Very white teeth. Teeth that have a phosphorescent gleam -- they glow in the dark. White teeth are a sign of good health and are a necessary part of a beautification and grooming regime. The trend has moved over here to the UK; we now have pearly white teeth too.
We’ll go to a lot of trouble and expense to get white teeth. Visits to the dentist are costly, but that doesn’t put us off. We go for porcelain veneers, bleaching with peroxide. Pain isn’t an issue -- I am told that treatment with lasers can leave your teeth with an excruciating sensitivity. Even so, people rush for the treatment in their thousands. Tooth brushes are getting more and more high tech, with timers that give each section of your mouth appropriate attention. You can get high pressure dental washes. For £85 you can get a smile like the one above.
Here’s the blurb.
“Worried about stained teeth? For fabulous teeth cleaning in London which delivers outstanding cosmetic results, our popular High Gloss Diamond Polish is right for you.”
Tempting -- isn’t it?
Perhaps the closest we get to identifying an obsession with teeth is through vampire stories and films. These equate teeth, especially long canine teeth with danger. The vampire will pierce your vein and sip your blood straight from the jugular -- if the vampire takes too much you will die and according to some vampire lore, you will become a vampire, roaming the night in search of prey. Vampires are sexy. Anne Rice, I think, made them sexy. Following the predatory Lestat, came True Blood, Twilight, The Vampire Diaries -- the list goes on.
Centuries ago poor people would sell their teeth.
“The sound teeth for transplanting of course came from the poor, and there was apparently no lack of volunteers, particularly from the young and healthy, who were the preferred source of teeth. The procedure was that there should be several of these unfortunates on hand. If the first person’s tooth did not suit, then one from the next person should be instantly extracted and tried. Once a reasonable fit had been achieved, the transplanted tooth had to be immobilised by tying it to the adjacent tooth with silver wire or silk thread, and with luck, the tooth would eventually take root. Sometimes even cadavers were used, but not surprisingly, they didn’t take.”
There is an erotic obsession for teeth and a sexual fetish too. Odontophilia. Edgar Allan Poe wrote about it in his short story, “Berenice”.
The narrator, Egaeus, is a studious young man who grows up in a large gloomy mansion with his cousin Berenice. He suffers from a type of obsessive disorder, a monomania that makes him fixate on objects. She, originally beautiful, suffers from some unspecified degenerative illness, with periods of catalepsy a particular symptom, which he refers to as a trance. Nevertheless, they are due to be married.
One afternoon, Egaeus sees Berenice as he sits in the library. When she smiles, he focuses on her teeth. His obsession grips him, and for days he drifts in and out of awareness, constantly thinking about the teeth. He imagines himself holding the teeth and turning them over to examine them from all angles. At one point a servant tells him that Berenice has died and shall be buried. When he next becomes aware, with an inexplicable terror, he finds a lamp and a small box in front of him. Another servant enters, reporting that a grave has been violated, and a shrouded disfigured body found, still alive. Egaeus finds his clothes are covered in mud and blood, and opens the box to find it contains dental instruments and "thirty-two small, white and ivory-looking substances" – Berenice's teeth.
“Berenice” was first published in the Southern Literary Messenger in 1835.
I stole Poe’s idea about the death of a beautiful woman with excellent teeth for my short story “Winnat’s Pass. You can read it in M.Christian’s anthology; “The Love that Never Dies"; erotic encounters with the undead”
Here is the final paragraph from Winnat’s Pass.
They called in the visiting preacher. He spoke of the devil and evil. Of the dead being raised for depraved purposes. He spent the night in the room to pray to God, for cleansing. He emerged in the morning, pale and trembling.
When the serving maid cleaned the room for the next occupant, she found six tiny, white, sharply pointed beads scattered on the floor.
She stared at them curiously.
The serving maid, whose name was Emma Louise slipped them in her pocket. The surgeons would pay good money for them. Once she’d worked as a lady’s maid, to a wealthy spinster. The wealthy spinster was toothless. Her surgeon had made her new teeth, fashioned from the teeth of a dead woman.”
You can probably find somewhere in the world a fetish for everything. Odontophilia, may not be common, or something you readily here about; but it is there, I am sure…
Friday, 23 November 2012
Only mid-afternoon and already it was dusk outside. And it was snowing again. Solomon watched the flakes falling faintly against the window pane. Faintly falling and falling faintly. A few flickering flakes were blown onto the glass in the freezing, gusting wind and stuck to the leaded criss crosses.
They were snowed in. Solomon’s heart sank. His stomach churned. He was trapped. There would be no getting away from it this time.
Amber was naked and moving gracefully around his large bedroom. She had disrobed playfully, like a burlesque dancer performing a naughty striptease. She was comfortable in her nudity, throwing him mischievous glances, tossing her hair. She was lighting candles, their flickering light casting shadows across the soft swell of her belly, her heavy, swaying breasts. Her skin glowed golden in the candlelight. Her long curly auburn hair glimmered with golden highlights, one hand gracefully behind her neck holding her hair back. She was a Pre-Raphaelite dream. Rossetti would have killed to have painted her.
The falling snow outside was mesmerising and Solomon stilled his fear and allowed his mind to drift.
He barely noticed Amber as she moved seductively around his bedroom. Any other guy would be turned on by the view. Solomon was not.
In a short while she would come to him and expect to have wonderful sex.
The snowy window, Amber; his gaze meandered around his bedroom settling on a large blue china bowl on a small wooden table. He used it as a place to keep keys, credit cards, replacement batteries, a cigarette lighter from his days as a smoker, a cork screw; all the random stuff that had no home, but you might need to put your hands on quickly. He watched as she scattered the contents of the bowl out onto the polished table and sprinkled in what looked like a heap of pot pourri. She struck a match and set fire to it, wafting out the flames with a fanning hand. She looked like a witch casting a spell.
A curl of lilac coloured smoke drifted up to the ceiling twisting like a magic chant. The room was slowly infused with the heady scent of roses and sweet herbs. The fragrance reminded Solomon of a church he’d once gone into, in Italy. A Catholic mass had just finishing and perfumed incense hung in the air. He remember soft chants and a mesmerising hymn. It had been cool in the church and hot outside. He had thought about the sacred and the profane; he thought about them again and he thought about prayer and sanctity.
He lay naked beneath the feather duvet, his cock persistently flaccid. He closed his eyes. She put on some music; Bolero, by Ravel.
Solomon knew that he was weird. He’d read about guys like him on the Web, and they repelled him. The images, that exploded his fantasies into a very real world, terrified him.
There were times when he felt the weight of destiny crushing him and he wondered that he continued to live. There was something broken in him and he didn’t know how to fix it.
Why couldn’t he be like other men? Normal men? For what must have been the billionth time in his life, Solomon pondered the question. He closed his eyes and thought himself into the place where his cock would start to harden.
He was well practiced at conjuring up the Deity. The Woman, the Mistress, who knew exactly what Solomon needed. His cock stirred. The Mistress always wielded a whip, she’d tie him up, bind him so that the coarse ropes bit into his wrists and ankles. He’d never seen the Mistress’ face. She always wore a jewelled mask. But Solomon knew her eyes. Dark eyes, burning with lust and indignation. Solomon didn’t know her name. He did not dare ask.
God knew how many candles she had lit. She padded around on the polished wooden floor of his bedroom, then stopped to rummage in a drawer in the base of his wardrobe. Oh, that was where she’d found the candles; the pot pourri too. He remembered Justine, his ex-wife raiding the shelves of the local hardware shop, buying all sorts of junk when it had closed down.
Amber placed some candles on the shelf of the wooden window seat. When she lit them he could see their flames reflected back in the dark glass.
He’d been seeing Amber for just over three weeks and so far he’d managed to avoid sex. He hated the effort, the mess, the disappointment. Oh, he always managed to perform, even to complete the process to seeming satisfaction, but it always left him feeling empty and bitter. Knowing that it should be better, it could be better. There should be something more.
But Solomon had a secret.
He had to strive to be normal, not to let his terrible needs overwhelm him. Besides, how would any decent woman react if he asked her to spank him, whip him until he was bruised and bloody? Fuck him with a giant dildo?
Solomon could already see the sneer of disgust, or worse, the ridicule, the spiteful laughter when she told her friends. He imagined the scorn in Amber’s green eyes if he asked her to tie him up.
He remembered the revulsion in his wife’s face when he’d begged her to push a finger in his anus when they made love; was it so much to ask? Apparently it was.
The weather had conspired against him and they were snow bound at least until the morning. Sex with Amber was inevitable; he could prevaricate no longer.
Amber had made no secret of the fact that she intended to have sex with him, right from their first date. In the restaurant, where they had dined, she’d slipped off her killer heel shoe and laughingly reached her stockinged foot out beneath the small table. She’d trailed her foot between his legs, rubbing his crotch as she wiggled her toes. She’d picked up his hand and sucked hot and sweet sauce from his fingers. On the drive home, she’d placed her hand on his cock and stroked him into an impressive erection. Outside her home she’d unzipped him, marvelling and exclaiming at the size of his cock, rubbing her thumb over the weeping slit. She’d lowered her head and lapped at the fat head, playfully bouncing him from side to side with her cheek. She’d even got a little rough and burrowed beneath his cock, nipping at the delicate skin of his scrotum with sharp, white teeth. The evening had ended with her taking his cock into her mouth, lovingly nuzzling and licking the moist head. She wiggled her tongue into the little slit. She had showed no squeamishness at sliding him into her throat. She had a trick of contracting her throat muscles, massaging the underside of his cock. When he exploded, and pumped his seed into her, she took it into her mouth, gulping and swallowing. Spunk drooled from her lips; her small, pointed tongue licking up the drips as if she didn’t intend to waste a drop. It was an intensely erotic image for Solomon to hold in his mind. Her kiss afterwards had ravenous; she fucked his mouth with her tongue and teeth, biting and plundering. Solomon tasted the heady cocktail of his seed mixed with her saliva.
Her sexual assertiveness had aroused him, but he knew that it was just a game; the next time she would want him to take the initiative. He’d been there before; he could write the script. It always ended with them wanting to know what he was thinking. He hated that.
The room glimmered in the flickering candlelight. He watched her through half closed eyes as she swayed to the rhythm of Ravel’s lovely music.
Solomon knew that her little display was intended to arouse him. But it wasn’t what he needed. He needed the Mistress. He needed the crack of her whip across his shoulders.
He closed his eyes and in the blackness he could see Her. Black, thigh high boots with killer heels. She stood astride, glaring down at him. She wore a soft red leather corset which laced up the front; her large breasts all but spilling out of the brassiere. Her pussy was shaved, framed by the edge of the corset and the tops of Her boots. She clasped Her whip in long red opera glove clad hands.
His cock hardened.
He shifted beneath the feather duvet, the fabric rubbing deliciously against the oozing head of his erection.
In a minute, Amber would join him in his big four poster bed. She would think his erection was for her; it wasn’t. Solomon’s arousal was for the Mistress in his fantasies. The Mistress who had been with him for as long as he could remember and it was to her that Solomon dedicated his erection. His Goddess; the Deity for whom he would submit to any amount of pain, any humiliation.
When Solomon flagellated himself with the braided leather bull whip, it was his Mistress who was delivering the lashes. When his cock exploded, after She’d finally whispered her permission into his ear, his seed was dedicated to Her. Even his tears were an act of devoted benediction.
And there were always tears.
He opened his eyes. Amber was walking slowly towards the bed, a sultry smile hovering on her lips. She paused, motionless, looking down at him.
When she spoke her voice was husky.
“Let’s get things straight.” she said.
If ever Amber had ever seen a submissive in need of taking in hand, it was now.
The state that these males got into, holding back on their orientation never ceased to amaze her.
She felt not sorry for them, but sad. All of their lives, expected to take the initiative, to seduce, romance, be sexually assertive, when they craved, needed a different, another sort of attention. So easy to confuse need with want. But what the hell? It made her raison d’etre easier. When a man of her choosing realised what, and who she was, he fell at her feet babbling his gratitude. And Amber had never been wrong.
The music throbbed its sensuous rhythm.
She stood, silently, one hand on a slender hip, the other, caressing her left breast, teasing and squeezing the erect nipple. She leant over him, lifting and pulling back the duvet. He moved nervously, his eyes locked to hers; his erection sprang from its sturdy root and swayed like a tree in a breeze. He was certainly a magnificent specimen.
She returned her eyes to his.
“That,” she said softly, “is your first mistake.”
He frowned his puzzlement. He didn’t understand.
“You do not look me in the eye. You do not meet my gaze. Ever.”
Immediately, he averted his eyes. Amber breathed steadily. She had not been mistaken. A natural submissive. His mistake was understandable, giving the strange turn of events. But she had been correct to draw his attention to the error. The reprimand would sting and she would punish him later.
He had a strong face, with clear cut features and dark, intelligent eyes. His dark hair was cut short. Amber would order him to grow it longer. She liked to tangle her fingers in a guy’s hair and tug, sharply, yanking his head back, letting him know who was in control. His jaw line was dark with the need to shave. Amber liked the rugged stubbled look; she would cultivate it.
He lay back against the pillows, his hands above and behind his head. He was displayed for her eyes only. There was no sense of him preening at the attention, more that he was anxiously praying for her approval.
He looked wonderful in the dancing candlelight and Amber’s predatory eyes roved over the long, hunky body. The well formed pectorals covered in dark curly hair. The hard, tight abdomen muscles. She guessed that he worked out. A guy didn’t get a body like that from being a couch potato.
She could hear him breathing. She leant over him, her long hair brushing his chest; she pinched a nipple and saw a quiver ripple over him. She placed two fingers on the pulse in his neck. His heart was racing, pounding against her fingertips. Her lips twitched in a smile.
She returned her gaze to his torso. Dark hair formed an arrow across his belly, signposting the way down to his long, thick erection. She’d known his cock was big, when she’d slid him into her throat; her stretched jaw had ached for days afterwards. His seed had tasted delectable.
But it was a blow job that she had enjoyed. She knew that most women sucked their guys’ cocks because they felt they ought to, or as some sort of reward. Amber sucked a guy’s cock because she liked it.
She wondered if this was the first time a woman had paid him so much attention.
She guessed that he had an Ideal. That he had fantasised for years about being Dominated by a woman. The image of the Ideal would have been the inspiration for his magnificent erection. Amber knew that within minutes she would take the Ideal’s place.
Amber looked like a pornographer’s dream, and she knew it. From her curling red and gold hair, tumbling over her slender shoulders to her narrow waist, to her heavy, swaying breasts which were almost too large for her frame. She’d shaved her pubic mound putting her plump genitalia overtly on display. Her labia were swollen, her clitoris peeping through her folds. She was in a high state of arousal and she teased herself, sliding a forefinger between her labial lips, gasping as she touch the tip of her erect clitoris.
She licked her juices from her finger, watching his face. The air around them was heady with the mixed scent of female arousal and holy incense. She returned her fingers to her genitalia and closed her eyes as she slid into her cunt. She was very wet and when she withdrew, strands of stretchy juice clung to her fingers. She leaned over him and smeared her juices across his lower lip.
“Do not lick your mouth,” she ordered.
It would be unbearable for him, wanting to taste her. Amber guessed he’d always managed to avoid cunnilingus, yet female juices delivered in such a provocative manner would be almost impossible for him to resist.
“Stand up,” she snapped.”
Solomon left the bed and stood before her, his hands submissively behind his back, his eyes downcast.
She took hold of his cock, and using it as a leash, she tugged it and walked him to the centre of the room.
She stood him on a large, circular Chinese rug and walked slowly around him. Examining him; assessing him, as if he were a stallion, or a bull she was bringing to stud. She spent some minutes studying his broad shoulders, examining the old scars and welts that marked him as a masochist. There were recent wounds too. She guessed that he had flagellated himself, probably that same morning; it wouldn’t take a lot to open up the wounds and make them bleed again. He flinched and let out a small whimper as she dragged a sharp fingernail over a wound that was hardening into a crusty scab; she breathed a satisfied sigh when large speckles of blood appeared. She gripped his upper arms and leaning into him, traced her tongue over the bleeding wound, lapping and licking up his blood like a vampire.
She made no comment and walked around to face him.
The flickering candlelight hollowed out his face, showing the tension there.
“You may meet my eyes,” she said.
He did not falter.
She could see fear in his face, but hope was there too.
“You may speak.”
Solomon swallowed. The words would not come. He coughed and cleared his throat. At six and a half feet he towered above her, yet he was afraid of this diminutive woman. Their eyes locked. Solomon’s heart pounded against his rib cage. He gasped air into his lungs. He had forgotten to breathe. He was a tremor away from ejaculation, yet she hadn’t even touched his cock.
“Please…” he said at last.
She grinned wolfishly and licked her lips. “Please what?”
“I…I don’t know …are you for real?”
The words were stuttered; he was daunted by this small woman who barely came up to his shoulder.
Amber placed her left hand flat against his chest tangling her fingers in his dark, curly hair. With her right hand she trailed over his belly, beneath his cock, squeezing his testicles, hard.
He moaned, a long low moan.
“Does this feel real?” she murmured. “Or this?” digging her fingernails into his scrotum. She wrapped her fingers around his erection and again used it as a lever, this time to pull him towards her.
How wonderful it was to stop struggling. To become her thing, her creature; to be the work of her merciful lavishing hands.
Solomon quivered. That she was simply using his cock as a tool was just as it should be. He felt his cock pulsate with the need to ejaculate and he held his breath.
She was experienced, and recognised the signs. She gave the order that forbad his body to betray him.
“You do not ejaculate until I give permission.”
She teased him mercilessly, rubbing her thumb over his cock head, pushing and pulling, sliding his foreskin back and forth. He could feel her running her fingers over the pronounced veins and his body obeyed her edict; she masturbated him and he did not ejaculate. He couldn’t even if he had wanted to. And he didn’t want to.
Solomon would still not allow himself to hope, but he was content to go with the moment in the hands of this predatory woman. His heart was racing, pounding to the beating rhythm of the music; his breath was shallow and his mouth was dry.
There had been times when Solomon could remember his heart actually hurting with the need for Enslavement and Domination. It was if a giant fist had his heart in its hand, squeezing the very life from him. Harder and harder, until he thought his heart would surely be crushed.
Guilt, fear and shame, these things had always defined his life and he’d been beginning to think that they always would. He did not dare to hope. He was terrified of the consequences, if all that was happening right now was just a sick joke.
One anxiety chased out another, as he wondered if he would be enough for her, this beautiful, predatory woman.
She gave his cock a vicious tug and let go. She laughed; it seemed to amuse her to see it slapping and bouncing against his belly. She grabbed it again and tugged him close into her. Her hand and his cock were crushed between his belly and her rib cage. She was standing on tiptoe and she slid her free hand around his neck, pulling his head down to kiss.
Some inate power told him not thrust his tongue into Amber’s mouth. His instinct told him to follow only where she led. He parted his lips; letting her in, if she desired. She nibbled at his mouth with sharp teeth, biting and tugging at his lower lip. He gave a sharp intake of breath with her bite; it hurt and he tasted the sharp, bitter, brassy taste of his blood. With the pain an electric volt of pleasure tingled up his spine. She licked the stain of her juices from his lips, then she entered his mouth, claiming him with her pointed tongue. Solomon groaned his need; her tongue danced against his, slippery and wet. She tasted divine, there was a hint of the peppermint tea that she’d sipped after their dinner; Solomon tried to hold back, but his tongue slipped against hers and she thrust in harder, fucking his mouth.
He wanted to hold her, but knew that he must not and his hands remained submissively behind his back. She let go of his cock and squirmed her body against him, rubbing him up and down, masturbating him with her frame.
She released him and stepped back.
“Good,” she said. She slipped her arms around his waist and unclasped his hands, placing them at his sides. Solomon cast his eyes down, away from her gaze; she took hold of his cock again.
There was a large chest of drawers by Solomon’s bed and pulling him by his cock, she led him to it.
He watched her as she excitedly pulled opened the top drawer where Solomon kept his neck ties. She rifled through them and found a blue silk scarf that seemed to please her. She placed it on the bed.
The second drawer held little interest for her, just two neat piles of underwear and some folded pairs of socks. The deep drawer at the bottom was the largest of the three; it disappointed her, until she removed the carefully folded sweaters.
Amber exclaimed her delight. Solomon felt himself blushing; she’d found his toys. She took each toy from the drawer placing it carefully on the bed. A long coil of heavy rope; still knotted as he had bought it from the hardware store. It was strong; it needed to be, it was used for towing broken down vehicles. A pair of silver metal handcuffs, still in their box. A ball gag, nipple clamps with tiny sharp teeth, still in their cellophane packaging. A giant purple dildo. A bull whip with spiteful lashes was not wrapped. Amber turned to looked at him, a question in her eyes.
“You may look at me,” she said.
Solomon raised his eyes, his hands again submissively behind his back.
“These are unused?” She waved a slender arm over the packaged toys.
She picked up the bull whip, testing its weight in her small hand.
Solomon watched her. This wasn’t something he’d bought from a sex shop; this was the real thing, bought from a supplier of antique farming equipment.
“But this has been used. You flagellate yourself.” It was not a question, it was a statement; she’d seen the scars from the spiteful, knotted thongs.
“Yes Mistress,” he answered.
Acknowledging her title, sounded like an endearment to his ears. It didn’t matter that she had discovered his disgusting secret.
She seemed deep in thought. Still holding the whip, she absently wound and threaded the braids through her fingers.
Ravel’s music reached its resounding, dramatic climax. Ever after, the music held a numinous resonance for him, tipping him into a dark void of sensation.
She replaced the bull whip reverentially back on the bed and began unwrapping the toys, ripping through the cellophane wrappings using her teeth. Solomon smiled. She was like a kid in a sweet shop. He looked down at her genitals; she was highly aroused. Womb juices drooled, hanging from her cunt.
Ravel’s music began again; she’d put it on repeat.
She unpacked the purple dildo and fellated it, watching his face, assessing his reactions. She straddled her legs and closing her eyes, pushed the head of the dildo into her cunt. Solomon had never seen anything so erotic in his life. Her labial lips were stretched tight gripping the dildo as she pushed it deep inside her. Little moans came from her mouth. Then she withdrew it quickly.
“Fuck me! Now!”
She lay on the bed and Solomon climbed over her, covering her with his weight. The sex toys scattered. His cock was pressed between their two bodies and he raised his ass; he didn’t need to take hold of his cock and guide it to her cunt, his cock found its own way there. He thrust and slammed hard into her hole. Her screams and cries were music to his ears. Solomon had never had sex like this before; it was as if he didn’t matter, all she needed was his cock ravaging her hole. He felt on the threshold of ejaculation, but his body obeyed her order and he did not do so. She screamed and snarled her orgasm, sinking her teeth into his shoulder, biting a hole in his flesh. Solomon battered into her. As she orgasmed, the strong internal muscles of her cunt gripped his cock, devouring him imprisoning him inside her. He was feral, primal; so was she. He could sense another orgasm building in her; she wrapped her legs around him, trapping him, locking him inside her. As her orgasm burst, she grunted and growled a bestial, animalistic roar.
Then she was still, her eyes closed, breathing deeply. And Solomon’s cock was still hard. He gazed down at the woman who had used him. Her mouth was open and bloody. She must have swallowed the lump of flesh she’d torn from him. He could see remnants of bloody skin between her teeth. Blood stained the corners of her mouth. She looked like a primitive priestess after a Dionysian orgy of sex and wine.
He slipped out of her, still painfully erect.
He knelt above her and lifted his hand to the gaping hole in his shoulder, pushing his fingertip inside.
He watched her in repose. He put his finger in his mouth and sucked his blood.
She lay quietly, one hand resting on her belly, the other at her side Solomon wanted to pick up her hand and kiss the fingers, but he did not dare.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Fetch me some water, slut,” she demanded.
Solomon rose from the bed, glad to perform a simple task for the Mistress. He went down the iron spiral staircase, his still erect cock swaying, bouncing and slapping against his belly. He glanced at the clock. Seven pm exactly. He’d felt as if time had stood still, but it had raced into fast forward. She’d been torturing and teasing him for two hours. In the kitchen he prepared a jug of water. Iced water, not just tap water for Her. He set it on a tray with a crystal glass. He had no thought of setting out a glass for himself, even though he was very thirsty. His needs no longer mattered.
When he entered the bedroom she had tidied the toys into a row. She fingered the purple dildo again. Solomon’s heart thudded; she seemed strangely attracted to the monstrous toy. He wondered want her plans were for it.
He set down the tray on top of the chest of drawers and poured her a glass of water. She drank, draining it, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
She jangled the silver handcuffs.
Without being asked he held out his wrists. She snapped the cuffs on. Solomon felt a warm flush of pleasure. They were heavy; at last he was to be treated in the way that he deserved. He had transgressed and had to be treated appropriately. He was to be Disciplined and hopefully, punished with a beating.
He trembled, as he watched her, wondering what she was going to do next.
The key to the cuffs was in a small black leather drawstring pouch. She smiled as if she’d told herself a little joke. She straddled her legs.
The pose was crude, but very, very sexy and Solomon watched her as she moved her body in an erotic display.
She jerked her body in a pelvic thrust.
“My submissives always tell me that I am very creative,” she told him.
For the rest of his life Solomon would recall her next movements and replay them in his mind’s eye in a frame by frame series of images. She moved very slowly, taking her time, pausing every few seconds as if she knew that he needed to capture the moment. His eye was a view finder and a shutter, recording each movement with each blink of his eye.
She bowed her head, her curly, red and gold Pre Raphaelite hair hanging over her face.
She bent her knees slightly, and pushing her pelvis forward, inserted the pouch containing the key to the handcuffs, that marked him as her slave, slowly into her cunt.
She straightened up and with a graceful gesture of her hand, focussed his gaze onto the black drawstring hanging from between her wet, shining lips. It looked as if a small snake had entered her cunt in an act of bestiality.
His mouth was dry, his heart slamming. Had it not been for her edict that he must not ejaculate, he would have cum at that moment.
His cock bobbed and twitched. The need to ejaculate was physically painful and profound, but nothing spurted from his slit.
She picked up the bull whip from the bed and the pace changed.
He screamed his agony as she lashed the leather strands across his erection. Red welts appeared on his cock and she brought the lashes up on the underside. That one drew blood; her movements were quick, sudden and vicious. His balls bounced as the lash cut into them; he felt nausea rising from his belly and he had to clamped his muscles down in his bowel. He was a mess of yelping negation and pleadings as she moved around him, the knotted strands cutting into his sides, his belly his buttocks.
The handcuffs clinked and clanged, the music moved into another phrase.
He tottered in an effort to keep his balance. With his wrists cuffed together, he staggered from side to side. He would not fail her, he would not fall.
The beatings he’d given himself were never like this; with them he had a semblance of control. His Mistress was out of control and he was on the edge of fear.
She screamed profanities at him and insults; she spat into his face, hawking the phlegm up from her lungs. Tears streamed from his eyes and he gazed at her imploringly to stop. Yet he knew that if she did, his heart would break and still the lashes bit and stung, his body striped with red, criss cross weals. His cock bounced and slapped with each blow. For such a small woman, she was surprisingly strong and through the brutality of pain Solomon wondered how long she could keep this up for. His erection bounced, always the feeling of orgasm about to burst, but it did not.
And still she lashed him; he was a mess of blood, tears, sweat and snot; he ached with the desperate need to ejaculate; the orgasm hovered with a strange inevitability, but he didn’t cum.
His soul swooned slowly, as he teetered on the edge of a different dimension of reality and the lashes still fell, curling around his arms, torso, thighs, raining down on his erection.
The events of the evening had the strangeness of the transcendental. Endorphins flooded through him. His flesh tingled in a warm rush, beginning at his anus and creeping up his spine, over his shoulders and into his pectorals and down into his genitalia. Everything was profound and golden.
As the final lashes were delivered to his bloody genitals, he finally lost his balance and he tipped over sideways, crashing onto the wooden floor. He lay on his back, then rolled to his side, his wrists cuffed, his knees drawn up in a foetal position of protection. He was a mess of bloodied flesh and gore. He closed his eyes and allowed the warmth of a profane perfection envelope him.
She kicked him in the back, catching his kidneys with her bare foot and lashed brutally with the whip at his back and shoulders, opening up the fresh weals that he’d made that morning and cutting new wounds into his flesh.
She was a furious blur of anger and vengeance, her red hair whirling about her face as she circled him raining down with brutal lashes. Solomon felt reality slipping away. She kicked him again and lashed at his erection, the knotted fronds of the bull whip curling and tangling around his cock, lashing and cutting into his testicles.
“Cum, you sick bastard, fucking masochist,” she screamed, as his cock slapped and bounced against his belly. And Solomon came, jism spurting from his cock and still she beat him. The cum seemed to last forever, draining his balls, pumping, pumping even when he was empty; his were two shrivelled empty sacs. He felt consciousness slipping away; sweet noises filled his head, strange colours, never before seen hung in his vision. He had the sensation of his spirit slipping out of his body. He saw them, very briefly as from above. A naked, whirling dervish lashing down on a bloody mess of flesh and gore.
At last she was sated and she poured herself water, drinking deeply. Solomon lay panting on the hard wooden floor sticky with spunk, blood and sweat. He could hear her moving about the room. He didn’t care what she was planning next; but oh, please, no more of the whip. He didn’t think he could take it.
Her voice took him by surprise; just one word.
His limbs ached. With his hands cuffed he struggled to remember the correct order to place his limbs to get into the position she demanded. He couldn’t stay upright; his torso folded over, his cuffed forearms flat to the floor. He kept his eyes closed; he could hear the rustling of paper. She manoeuvred him, raising his arse, his forearms still flat on the floor. He felt something cold and wet on his anus; she rubbed and circled with her fingers. A lubricant; her fingers slid inside him. Then Solomon knew what was happening. Something hard and thick pushed at the barrier to his dirt hole. She opened him up with the purple dildo. Slowly, slowly, she entered him. He felt a pressure that should not have been pleasing, but it was. He had never thought of anal penetration as a means of control, but in those moments, he would have done anything.
“Please don’t stop,” he groaned, as he savoured the tightness of his stretched rectal muscles gripping the huge dildo.
“I won’t,” she giggled.
His hole was stuffed full and violated. His cock began to harden again. She pulled the dildo out leaving him shockingly empty. He open his eyes, she was unwinding the rope. She reached beneath him and bound his cock and testicles tightly, painfully; then she wrapped the rope around his buttocks, threading it tightly along his arse crack, fixing the dildo firmly in place. She bound his ankles together, then trailed the rope to his wrists. She pushed him onto his side and pulled the end of the rope. She must have used a clever knotting technique, because as she pulled, his ankles were drawn up to his wrists, trussing him like a Christmas turkey ready for the oven.
She straddled him, one foot on either side of his bound body. He smelled the piss at the same time as it landed on his wounds. He screamed at the stinging pain as her warm acidic piss, splashed and covered his back seeping into his cuts, eating away at his flesh.
He sobbed as she emptied her bladder.
She left him on the hard floor next to the bed. She slipped beneath the feather duvet, her head on soft pillows. Within minutes Solomon heard her breathing deeply; she’d fallen asleep.
Solomon blinked away tears of gratitude. How did this woman, who until three weeks ago had been a stranger, how did she know him so completely and utterly? His dry lips cracked in a parody of a smile.
He was a bloodied heap of aching tortured pain and gory stinking sticky flesh.
His ruined genitals throbbed.
Humiliation and submission would thus forever be his ethos.
Thank God for what he had become in just a few short hours.
Tears, snot, semen and piss. These were the scents, flavours and textures that would define him now.
How had she known what he needed? Solomon didn’t care.
Solomon was content.
Friday, 16 November 2012
Hendrik Goltzius 1616 The Rijksmuseum
Once upon a time, long, long ago there was a father and his two beautiful daughters. The father’s wife had recently died. Apart from his two daughters, the father was alone in the world. The two daughters got their father drunk and seduced him. Both girls became pregnant and gave birth to sons. No-one seemed to mind; it wasn’t such a big deal.
Even to our media hardened ears the story is shocking. You can just imagine the newspaper headlines if it were to happen today.
Yet, the events happened millennia ago. The story is from the Bible; The Genesis 19 account of father and daughters ensuring the survival of the human species through an incestual act; it is an archetypal story woven into the very fabric of changing social norms and psychological dynamics unfolding over several millennia.
Lot and his daughters, Artemisia Gentileschi 1640 Toledo Museum of Art
The acts of incest are the eventual outcome of the tale of Sodom and Gomorrah; God has decided to destroy the city, because of the corrupt, lewd and licentious behaviour of the inhabitants. Lot, is the one good man in the whole of the city and he offers hospitality to two angels who come to the city. A crowd descends on Lot’s house, demanding the opportunity to rape the (male) angels. Lot tries to bargain with the mob, telling the men that they can have sex with his two virgin daughters instead, but it is the celestial visitors that the crowd lust after. These were dangerous times and Lot is dragged back inside his house for his own safety.
Frans the Elder Floris. The Hermitage, Saint Petersburg. Sixteenth Century.
So God destroys the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah with fire and brimstone; Lot, and his family are the only people permitted to escape. Lot’s wife looks back (against God’s command) to see the city burning and she is turned into a pillar of salt. Lot and his daughters end up taking refuge in a cave where the girls decide to get their father drunk and have sex with him so that he can father their children.
Why did the daughters do it? From a feminist, and twenty first century point of view, it’s a subversive twisting of the reality of incestuous abuse. In the tale of Lot and his daughters, the victims are turned into the victimizers, and the male authority figure is absolved through his drunkenness, which the daughters had initiated, of responsibility.
Lucas van Leyden 1521 Musée du Louvre, Paris. (Lot and his daughters watch the city burn)
Lot's daughters committed incest because they believed that they and their father were the sole survivors of universal destruction; humankind, they thought, depended on their breaking taboo by procreating with their father. The Biblical manuscript gives no indication that Lot initiated this event, nor does it suggest his daughters were drawn to him for any other reason than their desire for children. The turning of Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt, (killing her off) is the story teller’s device to free Lot from an aging wife; her days of fertility are over.
In the earlier part of the narrative, before God has destroyed the cities, Lot has offered his daughters to the men of Sodom to protect his male guests. Lot’s action is an indicator of the idea that the most valuable thing about a woman is her desirability to men.
Lot and his daughters. Peter Paul Rubens 1611
Even today, in the enlightened days of the twenty first century, it is a message that far too many daughters continue to get; a girl’s capacity to inspire longing is her most valuable asset.
A feminist reading of the tale would focus on how the women are defined. They are only defined in relation to Lot. They are Lot’s possession; Lot’s things -- ownership means that Lot can do with them as he chooses.
Also a feminist reading would point out the fact that neither Lot’s wife, not his daughters, are named.
Psychoanalytical theory teaches us that without a name ‘it’ is just a thing -- in naming it, ‘it’ becomes the subject. The subject now has an identity -- in not giving the women names, the Old Testament writers keep the women as ciphers. Lot has a name and identity; the reader knows him as a real character. The women are unnamed; they are simply female. They have no presence in the world.
We cannot, must not judge the past by the ideals of the twenty first century. But it is interesting that the act of incest was taboo and just as abhorrent to people living so long ago, as it is to us now.
Here is the story from the King James Bible.
Friday, 9 November 2012
A while back, I put together a post about John Fowles’ novel; “The French Lieutenant’s Woman”. I re-read the novel at the time of writing the post -- it’s a great book; the erotica is fleeting, but dark, compelling and intense when you meet it. There’s a couple of chapters that intrigued me and I it was something I wanted to go back to.
To summarise the plot of John Fowles’ book.
“The novel's protagonist is Sarah Woodruff, the Woman of the title, also known unkindly as “Tragedy” and by the unfortunate nickname “The French Lieutenant’s Whore”. She lives in the coastal town of Lyme Regis, as a disgraced woman, supposedly abandoned by a French naval officer named Varguennes. Unknown to her, he is married. Sarah supposedly had an affair with Varguennes before he returned to France.
“She spends her limited time off at the Cobb, a pier jutting out to sea, staring at the sea itself. One day, she is seen there by the gentleman Charles Smithson and his fiancée, Ernestina Freeman, the shallow-minded daughter of a wealthy tradesman whose origins are Scottish. Ernestina tells Charles something of Sarah’s story, and he develops a strong curiosity about her. Eventually, he and she begin to meet clandestinely, during which times Sarah tells Charles her history, and asks for his support, mostly emotional. Despite trying to remain objective, Charles eventually sends Sarah to Exeter, where he, during a journey, cannot resist stopping in to visit and see her. At the time she has suffered an ankle injury; he visits her alone and after they have made love he realises that she had been, contrary to the rumours, a virgin.”
Charles Smithson has a long conversation with Doctor Grogan, the towns’ elderly physician, in which Charles tries to make sense of Sarah Woodruff’s strange behaviour. Doctor Grogan offers Charles his analysis of Sarah’s character.
“I am a young woman of superior intelligence and some education. I think the world has done badly by me. I am not in full command of my emotions. I do foolish things, such as throwing myself at the head of the first handsome rascal who is put in my path. What is worse, I have fallen in love with being a victim of fate. I put out a very professional line in the way of looking melancholy. I have tragic eyes. I weep without explanation. Et cetera. Et cetera. And now…” the little doctor waved his hand at the door, as if invoking magic “…enter a young god. Intelligent. Good-looking. A perfect specimen of that class my education has taught me to admire. I see he is interested in me. The sadder I seem, the more interested he appears to be. I kneel before him, he raises me to my feet. He treats me like a lady. Nay, more than that. In a spirit of Christian brotherhood he offers to help me escape from my unhappy lot.”
“Now I am very poor. I can use none of the wiles the more fortunate of my sex employ to lure mankind into their power.” He raised his forefinger. “I have but one weapon. The pity I inspire in this kindhearted man. Now pity is a thing that takes a devil of a lot of feeding. I have fed this Good Samaritan my past and he has devoured it. So what can I do? I must make him pity my present. One day, when I am walking where I have been forbidden to walk, I seize my chance. I show myself to someone I know will report my crime to the one person who will not condone it. I get myself dismissed from my position. I disappear, under the strong presumption that it is in order to throw myself off the nearest clifftop. And then, in extremis and de profundis—or rather de altis—I cry to my saviour for help.” He left a long pause then, and Charles’s eyes slowly met his. The doctor smiled, “I present what is partly hypothesis, of course.”
Before Charles leaves, doctor Grogan gives him a manuscript -- the Doctor wants Charles’ eyes to be opened when he reads the bizarre collection of case studies of other “hysterical” women. It is important to remember that for the Victorians a diagnosis of hysteria in women was a euphemism for sexual frustration.
Through the eyes of his character, Charles John Fowles translates the document (he tells us that it is written in French) Charles reads;
“If I glance back over my long career as a doctor, I recall many incidents of which girls have been the heroines, although their participation seemed for long impossible…
Some forty years ago, I had among my patients the family of a lieutenant-general of cavalry. He had a small property some six miles from the town where he was in garrison, and he lived there, riding into town when his duties called. He had an exceptionally pretty daughter of sixteen years’ age. She wished fervently that her father lived in the town. Her exact reasons were never discovered, but no doubt she wished to have the company of the officers and the pleasures of society there. To get her way, she chose a highly criminal procedure: she set fire to the country home. A wing of it was burned to the ground. It was rebuilt. New attempts at arson were made: and one day once again part of the house went up in flames. No less than thirty attempts at arson were committed subsequently. However nearly one came upon the arsonist, his identity was never discovered. Many people were apprehended and interrogated. The one person who was never suspected was that beautiful young innocent daughter. Several years passed; and then finally she was caught in the act; and condemned to life imprisonment in a house of correction.”
The document gives another case study;
“In a large German city, a charming young girl of a distinguished family found her pleasure in sending anonymous letters whose purpose was to break up a recent happy marriage. She also spread vicious scandals concerning another young lady, widely admired for her talents and therefore an object of envy. These letters continued for several years. No shadow of suspicion fell on the authoress, though many other people were accused. At last she gave herself away, and was accused, and confessed to her crime… She served a long sentence in prison for her evil.
Again, at the very time and in this very place where I write, the police are investigating a similar affair…”
Charles reads on;
“Professor Herholdt of Copenhagen knew an attractive young woman of excellent education and well-to-do parents. He, like many of his colleagues, was completely deceived by her. She applied the greatest skill and perseverance to her deceits, and over a course of several years. She even tortured herself in the most atrocious manner. She plunged some hundreds of needles into the flesh of various parts of her body: and when inflammation or suppuration had set in she had them removed by incision. She refused to urinate and had her urine removed each morning by means of a catheter. She herself introduced air into her bladder, which escaped when the instrument was inserted. For a year and a half she rested dumb and without movement, refused food, pretended spasms, fainting fits, and so on. Before her tricks were discovered, several famous doctors, some from abroad, examined her and were horror-struck to see such suffering. Her unhappy story was in all the newspapers, and no one doubted the authenticity of her case. Finally, in 1826, the truth was discovered. The sole motives of this clever fraud (cette adroite trompeuse) were to become an object of admiration and astonishment to men, and to make a fool of the most learned, famous and perceptive of them. The history of this case, so important from the psychological point of view, may be found in Herholdt: Notes on the illness of Rachel Hertz between 1807 and 1826.”
“At Luneburg, a mother and daughter hit on a scheme whose aim was to draw a lucrative sympathy upon themselves—a scheme they pursued to the end with an appalling determination. The daughter complained of unbearable pain in one breast, lamented and wept, sought the help of the professions, tried all their remedies. The pain continued; a cancer was suspected. She herself elected without hesitation to have the breast extirpated; it was found to be perfectly healthy. Some years later, when sympathy for her had lessened, she took up her old role. The other breast was removed, and was found to be as healthy as the first. When once again sympathy began to dry up, she complained of pain in the hand. She wanted that too to be amputated. But suspicion was aroused. She was sent to hospital, accused of false pretences, and finally dispatched to prison.”
“Lentin, in his Supplement to a practical knowledge of medicine (Hanover, 1798) tells this story, of which he was a witness. From a girl of no great age were drawn, by the medium of forceps after previous incision of the bladder and its neck, no less than one hundred and four stones in ten months. The girl herself introduced the stones into her bladder, even though the subsequent operations caused her great loss of blood and atrocious pain. Before this, she had had vomiting, convulsions and violent symptoms of many kinds. She showed a rare skill in her deceptions.
After such examples, which it would be easy to extend, who would say that it is impossible for a girl, in order to attain a desired end, to inflict pain upon herself?”
Charles reflects on what he has read.
“Those latter pages were the first Charles read. They came as a brutal shock to him, for he had no idea that such perversions existed—and in the pure and sacred sex. Nor, of course, could he see mental illness of the hysteric kind for what it is: a pitiable striving for love and security. He turned to the beginning of the account of the trial and soon found himself drawn fatally on into that. I need hardly say that he identified himself almost at once with the miserable Emile de La Ronciere; and towards the end of the trial he came upon a date that sent a shiver down his spine. The day that other French lieutenant was condemned was the very same day that Charles had come into the world. For a moment, in that silent Dorset night, reason and science dissolved; life was a dark machine, a sinister astrology, a verdict at birth and without appeal, a zero over all.”
I put up this post firstly, because the case studies interest and intrigue me. The French Lieutenant’s Woman, published in 1969 was inspired by the 1823 novel Ourika, by Claire de Duras, which John Fowles translated into English in 1977 (and revised in 1994).
(That bit of information came from Wiki.)
The case studies are interesting. Women and children stepping out of the roles that are considered “natural”, for their respective gender, age and profession. These days we are used to people shocking us with their behaviour. Myra Hindley, the child abductor and murderess who was more vilified than her partner, Ian Brady. Then there was Mary Bell who at ten years old murdered two little boys; children don’t do such things. And Beverly Allit, the nurse, who murdered little babies on her hospital ward.
There will, I am sure be comparable cases in the U.S.
Are the case studies real in the novel? Or did John Fowles invent them for the purposes of his novel?
Throughout the novel, he introduces each chapter with text from a nineteenth century source; he uses Karl Marx a lot and Charles Darwin to illustrate where the chapter is taking the reader. John Fowles was a scholar as well as a novelist and he cites his sources carefully. He is meticulous.
But a further reason that I find these chapters intriguing, is that John Fowles was a scholar -- he cited everything. Yet with these extracts he gives little away. With the exception of “Lentin, in his Supplement to a practical knowledge of medicine (Hanover, 1798)” as a source, John Fowles is uncharacteristically silent.
Have any of you come across the case studies? Are they factual? I’d be interested to know what you think.
Friday, 2 November 2012
CHAPTER 3: ELI’S TALE
Jasmine sat in the passenger seat of the powerful Mercedes, her head bowed; her dark, gleaming hair hiding her face. Eli watched her, puzzled. What the hell was wrong with the woman? It wasn’t as if he’d asked her to marry him. He’d simply asked her if she was going to invite him in for coffee.
The lamp light across the quiet Chelsea street illuminated the interior of the car. He could see her dark, sleek hair moving as she breathed.
They sat in silence. They’d met that evening at a party, given by a mutual friend, and they’d hit it off straight away.
At least Eli had thought they had.
It was like a bad black and white movie. The interior of the car, lit by one street lamp.
Then just like a bad movie, they both spoke awkwardly at the same time.
“Look…” Eli started to say.
“I’m sorry…” said Jasmine.
“…I’ve had a wonderful evening,” she went on. “But taking things any further would be a big mistake. But thanks for the ride home.”
Eli shifted in his seat. “Just tell me what the hell’s going on. Are you married? Engaged? In a relationship? I ask you for a cup of coffee and you freeze on me, like I’ve asked you to suck my cock.”
She turned to face him and smiled. It was the same smile she’d hit him with, across the room at the party and it made him quiver inside. He loved it that she hadn’t been shocked by his crude remark. That was something he’d liked about her, when they’d talked earlier at that boring party. How she’d fallen in with his silly game of guessing what type of underwear the other guests were wearing. What they’d be like in bed.
“You’re sweet, and funny,” she told him. “But really, you’re just not my type.”
“Well that’s strange,” he said. “Because, here’s me, thinking all night, that you were just my type. I…I’ve never met anyone like you before. I thought we got along just fine.”
“We did …we do. But just leave it at that will you,” her voice was low and husky.
“No,” Eli persisted. “I won’t just leave it at that. I won’t be just left on your doorstep. I want to see you again.”
Jasmine sighed. They were going round in circles. She felt bad, and sad. She did like Eli, and if she were any other sort of woman, perhaps they could have a nice time together. Some fun, some sweet sex. She knew that he would be a gentle, tender lover. He just wouldn’t understand her cravings; her needs. Why couldn’t she be like other women; normal? Wanting a nice home with a kind man. A couple of children too. That had been enough for her sisters and they were happy. But Jasmine knew she needed more than domesticity and vanilla sex.
“Let’s just say I have unusual tastes.”
Eli grinned. “Go on.” He reached out and ran his long fingers through her hair. She gave a barely perceptible shudder. Revulsion, or desire?
She tilted her head. Her dark eyes were huge, her dilated pupils told him it was desire. Eli persisted; he tilted her small chin with a forefinger.
“I’m only suggesting coffee.”
Jasmine felt strangely wrong footed. She wasn’t used to having to explain herself to a man. She didn’t like it. It didn’t sit easy with her. But she was strangely attracted to this tall, strong guy. That had never happened to her before. Usually, she picked her men carefully; they had to be…well, just not like Eli. He was strong and controlled. In charge of himself; he’d want to be in charge of his woman too.
One thing that Jasmine knew she could never be, was someone’s woman.
“I like a certain type of man, and…”
“I’m not it.” he finished the sentence for her.
“That’s about right,” she said bluntly.
“ So what is this certain type of man?”
Jasmine was quiet for a moment, framing her answer.
“I like submissive men. I like to be in control.”
“Hell, I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Yes, you do…you would. You don’t understand what I’m saying. You think it’s just some sort of kinky game. It’s not. It’s a way of life.”
“So are you saying you want a guy to be some sort of slave to you?”
Jasmine took a deep breath. She looked up into his strong, determined face. She at least owed him an explanation.
“It’s not just that; although it can be like that. It’s more a negotiation of power between two people. The slave gives his or her Master, or Mistress power over him. For some, it may be two women; one of whom is dominant, the other submissive. The same for two men. In a straight relationship, it may be the woman who is submissive. She serves her man, unquestioningly. It’s not always sexual, although that usually plays a big part. With the very best of submissives, and the best of Dominants, the relationship can have an almost spiritual dimension. For me, I am a Dominant; I rule my male submissive in every aspect of his life. Physical, sexual, emotional, social. I tell him when he can orgasm, when he can eat, drink, sleep. He obeys me without question. I might tie him up and whip him. I might loan him to my friends. There is nothing my submissives won’t do for me.”
A quiver ran through Eli’s frame when she’d mentioned being tied up and whipped. It was a long held fantasy of his. His cock was instantly hard.
“Wow,” he said. “Still sounds good to me.”
Jasmine sighed again. He wasn’t going to let it go.
“You better come in for that cup of coffee,” she said.
She waited while he walked around to the passenger door. She took his arm as they stepped out into the warm, summer night.
Jasmine’s mews cottage was deceptive. It was like a tardis; bigger on the inside than you would at first think. She must have had two cottages knocked into one. There was a long sitting room, with a kitchen area at the end overlooking a small garden. She flicked a switch and the room was instantly bathed in a soft, glowing light. She picked up a remote control; the French doors at the far end of the room opened silently. Perfume, from what smelled like an exotic rose garden wafted in.
Eli looked around him. He was shocked; then he was surprised that he was shocked. The Art work that led the eye around the room wasn’t just erotic. It was pure pornography.
It was all huge photographs. Pictures of naked men all being lusciously violated by women. Eli held his breath; then he breathed.
He glanced at Jasmine; she was watching him, as he’d known she would be. He couldn’t meet her commanding gaze and looked away.
Eli was surprised at his nervousness. His mouth was dry. He was still hard.
“I guess I should have asked permission to look at the photographs?” He tried to sound light hearted, but he was anything but.
“Yes, you should have, but you won’t make the same mistake again. Tell me what you think of them.”
Eli stood in front of a large black and white photo. It featured a naked male being raped; but not by a man, by a woman. You could just see the line of her strap-on. She was lithe and muscular, with short, cropped, blonde hair. Her pert breasts were small. Her victim was on all fours and wore some sort of bridle. A metal bit was in his mouth. The same sort of thing that you use to control horses. The woman was raping him doggie fashion. Her cock was rammed into his arse, up to the hilt. The victim’s own cock was huge; the rapist was reaching beneath him, her fingers curved around his erection. He was being held firmly by his head by another woman; she was clothed in a black leather corset and high heeled boots. The male was being controlled and violated by the two women. Eli had the feeling that these weren’t actors, staging a scene. This was an event. This had happened.
He glanced at the next photograph. A different guy; a naked blond was hanging by his wrists. He was chained; his arms being pulled painfully out of joint. His toes were an inch away from the floor. His wrists were taking his whole weight. His body, mostly his genital area, was bruised and bloody; he’d had a thrashing. A woman stood to one side, dressed in a tight corset and high heeled shoes, her arm raised to bring her cruel whip down again. She was aiming her lash at his huge testicles and massive erection. Eli could see the tormentor’s profile; with a jolt like an electric shock, he realised it was Jasmine.
Eli blushed, but he found the courage to meet her eyes. At last he felt able to speak.
“The photos are…alluring.” he said. “But you said that relinquishing power was something the slave did willingly…”
She looked exquisite; her simple black gown enhancing the creamy whiteness of her skin. Her dark hair shone. She was relaxed on a chaise longue, a glass of red wine in one elegant hand. She hadn’t offered him a drink. Neither had she invited him to sit down.
“I didn’t say quite that,” replied Jasmine. But yes, the slave has given over total control to his Mistress. He gave his consent for her to do with him as she pleased. That’s what I meant by a negotiation of power. For a slave to start putting in clauses and safe words, takes away the whole point. Besides, the Mistress, the woman holding the slave’s head, in the rape scene, has paid a lot of money for the slave and spent a fortune on his training. She doesn’t want him damaged. And, yes. The Mistress in the second photograph is me. The slave is Joel; as you can see, he’s enduring a whipping.
“You bought him! You can’t buy people.”
“You can if they sign a contract. The slaves in the photographs signed away all their rights, willingly. They sold themselves. Never have I been asked to put in restrictions on the contract.”
Common sense told Eli, that he should get the hell out. But he was intrigued, he’d stepped into a strange, surreal world. He was also helplessly aware of his throbbing erection. Why was he aroused? He wanted to know more about this elusive woman, and her sinister life.
“Why do they do it?” he asked. “The guys I mean.”
“They recognise that their sexual orientation is submissive. They are happy, they don’t want any other way of life. As Mistresses we are honoured that they give themselves up to us. And it’s better that they make that decision, rather than get involved, perhaps even marry a woman, who can never understand their needs. Both husband and his mate would be miserable. He would never dare to tell her of his urgent needs. Even if he did, she wouldn’t understand. She would run from him, screaming that he was a freak.
“Nothing is done out of force; that would be pointless. They live for the pain we inflict; the humiliation. A good Mistress helps the slave find his limits; we have found that always a slave can go much farther than he had ever though possible. And when the slave orgasms, when he is permitted, it is like nothing you will ever have ever experienced.”
“You really make them hold back their orgasms?”
“Sometimes for weeks at a time. Their ethos in life is to serve; that is their pleasure. Come here.”
Her order took Eli by surprise. He didn’t obey her immediately and she clicked her tongue and snapped her fingers.
Eli stood close to her. He inhaled her fragrance; it mingled with the scent of the roses from the warm garden. She placed her hand on his erection. Eli gasped as she squeezed his hard bulge through his jeans. This was everything he had ever dreamed of; a sexually forward woman, not afraid of taking what she wanted.
Jasmine unzipped his jeans; Eli groaned. He didn’t know where the night was going, but he was happy with the action so far. She pulled his jeans and boxers down to his knees. His erect cock slapped and bounced against his belly.
Eli didn’t know why, but it seemed appropriate for him to put his hands behind his back.
She stared at his cock, absorbing every detail. Eli was proud of his thick cock and large tight balls and he preened beneath her gaze. His erection didn’t fade. Her face was close; he could feel her breath on his cock head, cooling the pre-cum that oozed from his slit. He wished she would suck him, but knew she wouldn’t.
She took hold of his cock, sliding the foreskin back, then she peered at his erection from first one side, then the other. She flicked it, bounced it, pulled at it.
Eli’s heart was beating; pounding against his rib cage. His breathing was heavy. He had to stop himself moaning. He mustn’t come. He just mustn’t. It was suddenly important to demonstrate his self control. He tried to think of something else; anything else. But her long fingers teasing his cock was all that was on his mind.
“How many women have you had?” Jasmine asked.
Eli swallowed, afraid to speak.
“Well?” She pushed the tip of her pinkie finger into his slit.
Eli gasped. He spoke as best as he could, through clenched teeth.
“Four, maybe five.”
“Well what is it four? Five?”
“Five,” he grimaced. Still concentrating on not coming.
“How soon are you hard again after you have orgasmed?”
“I don’t know, I’m sorry.”
She jiggled his balls in the palm of her hand. She fingered his scrotum. Eli felt like a prize bull being assessed for stud.
She slid his foreskin back and forth.
“Are your veins usually so pronounced?”
“It’s because I’m close to orgasm.”
“You have not been given permission to cum.”
Eli was silent. What could he say? All he knew was that this was the weirdest, most erotic experience of his life.
“Turn around. Bend over,” she ordered. Eli turned so that his arse was facing her. He bent and clasped his knees. She parted his arse cheeks with her fingers and peered in at his anus.
He could feel his little puckered hole opening and closing; pulsating as she fingered him.
She allowed him to stand, having finished her inspection. She turned him to face her.
“Men?” She asked.
“What!” her direct gaze was unnerving.
“How many men have you had?”
“None,” he said emphatically.
“Your hole has been used.”
“I use a butt plug on myself.”
“Do you use it continually.”
Eli didn’t answer. He was too embarrassed.
Jasmine punched his testicles.
“I won’t ask you again. I’ll kick it out of you.”
He was doubled over from the force of her blow. “Sometimes I wear it all day.” He managed to croak out the words.
You wear it all day at your work?
Eli was glad she couldn’t see his painful blushes. He had never felt so humiliated in his life. He wanted to weep and apologise for being unworthy. More than anything, he wanted her hand in his rectum, fisting him. Eli had read about fisting in a porn magazine. He’d seen a photograph by Robert Mapplethorpe. A man being fisted by another man. The fist was in the recipient’s rectum up to the violator’s elbow. Eli had thought it the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. The thought of Jasmine’s clenched fist inside him, nearly made him orgasm on the spot. He imagined her violating him in that dirty way; perhaps she’d be wearing a long opera glove.
“Fetch me a tape measure, pen and notepad from the drawer in the sideboard. Top left.”
Eli shuffled across the room as best he could with his jeans around his knees.
“Stand up. Face me.”
She measured his cock from root to tip. She scribbled a figure down on her note pad. Then she measured his erection’s circumference, at the root and near the head. She measured his slit. She made extensive notes. Then she wrapped the tape around his cock and testicles; was she measuring him up for a cock ring?
“On your knees and masturbate,” she ordered, suddenly.
Trembling, Eli obeyed, sliding his foreskin back and pumping his cock. He prayed for release; he’d never needed to cum so much in all his life.
She was still watching his every movement. He was close, very close to orgasm. His breathing rasped.
“Stop.” she snapped.
He groaned in desperation. His confusion showed in his face.
Jasmine ignored him. She sipped at her wine. Then she pulled out a laptop from beneath the chaise. She switched it on and surfed for a while. Eli stood by the chaise, his jeans and boxers around his ankles; he was still confused.
Jasmine was not confused.
“Go and look at the rest of the photographs,” she told him.
“Um, can I pull up my pants? Zip myself up?” Eli was feeling at a disadvantage.
“No, you may not,” she said, curtly.
Humiliation was a useful tool in training a slave.
Jasmine tapped away at the laptop. Did Eli have the potential to be a slave? She knew he would leave soon, he would have seen enough. She also knew that he’d be back. He would be feeling a kaleidoscope of emotions. Revulsion, despair, curiosity, fear.
He’d asked her where the slaves were kept. What happened to them after they had been purchased. How they were trained. The fact that he’d been curious enough to ask, told her a lot.
She’d told him. And that alone would be enough to keep him awake at night. But more than anything he would want to know why he’d got so turned on.
Eli was weeping as he pulled up his boxers and jeans, struggling to shove his still erect cock back inside. There wasn’t enough room to do up the zip, so he left his fly open. He exited with as much dignity as he could muster.
When he arrived back at his house, he poured himself a drink. He needed one. Fucking bitch. What right had she got to make him feel such an idiot.
But she hadn’t done anything, had she? That thought came from the part of his brain that was still rational. She’d explained what she was, what she needed in a relationship and he’d found it quite a turn on. He’d persisted and pushed her.
Eli knocked back his whiskey and shuddered. He poured himself another, splashing the amber liquid into the glass.
He sat slumped on the floor, his back to the soft, suede sofa and started to cry.
A bus drove by, light and shade flickered across the room. Then a car, its horn blaring. He could hear the shouts of drunken revellers in the street. He thought about people leading ordinary lives. How ordinary his own life had been before Jasmine’s extraordinary revelations.
Damn her, and damn him. He’d never felt so humiliated as when she wouldn’t let him orgasm. Up to then he’d been enjoying himself, masturbating for a beautiful woman. His fault again. She’d told him, more than once, how she denied her submissives’ orgasms.
She’d treated him like a potential submissive and Eli was shocked to realise he’d actually liked it. The photo’s had turned him on; he’d imagined himself in those degrading positions and he’d been aroused. He’d wanted to be the slave being sodomised by that slender woman. He’d wished that he was the guy being whipped by Jasmine.
Had a door been opened that could never be closed?
And there was another photograph that had caught his eye. A huge blow up of a naked guy in a metal cage. His strong arms straining in heavy chains. His massive erect cock, pushing through the bars. Despair in his dark eyes. The photographer had focussed on the head of the slave’s cock. Pre-cum dripped from his slit.
God; to be so restrained. But where the hell had all this come from? Why had it turned him on so much? He felt his cock stir again at the memories. His erection, which had faded with his tears, became insistent again.
And another naked male. His arms bound in thick ropes. His erect cock and huge balls tied tightly. Jasmine, beautifully naked, apart from very high heels, leading the slave by rope knotted to his genitals. The slave’s head was hanging. He was weeping.
Eli wondered why the slave was crying. Shame? Pain? Ecstasy?
He thought about what Jasmine had told him about the old Manor house, deep in the heart of the English countryside. The Coterie. A place where wealthy Mistresses, like her, sent their slaves to be trained. Where many of the slaves stayed, after their training, to be used as their Mistresses required. She’d spoken of stables, where the hardier slaves were kept. How they were trained as “pony boys,” pulling a little cart, with one, or two Mistresses driving them hard.
She’d pointed out a small framed oil painting of the very subject. Two naked, exhausted slaves pulling a heavy pony trap. The red haired Mistress was lashing them to go faster. It was set in the chill of mid-winter; snowflakes falling. You could almost hear the slaves’ booted feet clanging on the hard ground. The slaves were well matched; their cocks identically erect. The Mistresses were dressed in period costumes of purple and red velvet; but where in history they were, Eli couldn’t tell. It gave the image a timeless feel.
She’d told him about parties, where the slaves had to compete, to see how many women they could service at a time. There were beatings and brandings. Even a special brand; a seal of quality that was given to slaves of exceptional ability; those slaves would be sold on to Mistresses in faraway countries. Their brand heralding them as one of the Coterie’s triumphs.
Eli’s orgasm exploded. He felt dizzy with its violence. He hadn’t even touch himself. Her whispered tales had done that to him. And the pornography that he had lapped up so voraciously.
His jeans and boxers were soaked, sticky with spunk. He stood and took off his jeans and underwear. He held his boxers to his nose and inhaled the scent of freshly ejaculated spunk. He licked the crotch of his jeans clean. He needed punishment for having orgasmed without a Mistress’ permission.
He would go to his Mistress’ house tomorrow and beg her to have him trained as a slave. To be her slave. To be used. He would be the best slave she’d ever had.
It was fitting.
Eli was afraid.
The next day he drove back to her house. She wasn’t there. He sat on the stone steps and waited. He waited through the night of that day and through the next day too. And another night and another day. He did not move. At midnight on the third night she came home.
Enslaving Eli is available here and here