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