Thursday, 24 December 2015
My mind traces, trails the words of her mantra.
“A submissive is to be measured from the inside, for it is his soul that is enslaved, his body simply follows.”
When I know that she is coming, my mind slips, slides away, stealthily embracing the stillness of the hours, the silence; sibilance, shushh. I traverse to a subspace; a phrase used within a Domme sub relationship. Within that concept is a place where the sub knows that he is safe. His Domme knows too; she is pleased and gratified. She knows that her sub trusts her and that is how it should be.
We have talked about subspace, she and I; she hadn’t known that it is a phrase used in mathematics. It’s a space contained within another space; it makes complete sense to me. I am ready to surrender; my whole soul is engaged. If the world were to look, the world would witness a sacred intensity.
My senses are sharpened because of the blindfold. Darkness heightens each sensation. She circles me; I hear the slow tap, tap, tap of her red killer heels on the cold, concrete floor.
She pushes my helpless body; I sway, I quiver. I sense her smile as she sees her work, hanging by the wrists, the cold, heavy chain links hooked to an old wooden beam.
I inhale her fragrance. Chanel; always Chanel. She smells of sex too; I scent my own stinking arousal, mingling beneath the surface. I inhale musky sweat and raging pheromones. My erection jerks; the cold, hard concrete floor teases the very tips of my toes. The chain links chink and rattle as I struggle for purchase. This isn’t the first time that she’s kept me hanging; dangling.
The last time necessitated a trip to the emergency room with a dislocated shoulder.
She is gentle, for the moment. Her fingers circle my cock, a cool hand plays with my testicles; bouncing them lightly. Her long fingers pinch the delicate skin of my scrotum. Her tongue strokes the tip of my cock; licking up the pre-cum, wiggling her hard, pointy tongue into my urethral opening. It amuses her to push the tip of her pinkie finger inside. I don’t know why she does this, she never answers when I ask her; but then it is not my place to ask.
My erection throbs; I moan my arousal; groan my pain. She is involved in a process of pushing me further than I think I can go. I hear the whoosh of her riding whip; my body jerks anticipating the pain of the slashing crack across my erection. But it doesn’t happen; she’s teasing me; teasing my erection. It’s a diabolical teasing because I know that sooner or later I will bellow with a nauseating rage as the pain bites.
What I dread most is when she leaves me hanging in the dungeon.
Sometimes she is away for hours; it seems like hours. There are vast spells of invisible, unremembered time. Sometimes, I think I glimpse eternity.
Is it unreasonable to attempt to call up the sensation of pleasure? To fill in the horrible discord in the black behind my eyelids; to soften and soothe the harsh hard disdain of the clashes and chimes in the soiled darkness.
I breathe…consciousness slips and slides…giddily.
Her name is always on my lips…Jasmine; is that her real name?
I don’t know.
Adrenaline, endorphins and always, always my moaning arousal. A bowel contracting, clenching, heated fear of what’s coming. We have to traverse it. Acceptance is part of the process, a blessing; an article of faith. If she orders me to eat my own shit later I will do it. A debauched, depraved, distorted Eucharist.
My torso, front and back, is a gore of blood, flesh and bone from the lashings; old wounds broken, new wounds opened. The slow trickle of blood dripping tickles down my spine, trickling into my anal crack.
When pleasing pain turns to pleasing pleasure.
I cling to these moments, and replay them; savouring every soft, subtle change…I embrace the gnawing pain, my spirit soaring into a soft cantata, ribbons of colours that you would never believe strewn about my mind…images spliced and sutured, a slideshow in the darkness that flickers behind my eyes…from where they come I do not know…a stately pleasure dome, gleaming in white marble…a woman seated in the front passenger seat of a car, her head bowed, her dark, gleaming hair hiding her face.
A lamp light in a quiet Chelsea street illuminates the interior of the car. Her dark, sleek hair moves as she breathes.
The woman sits very still…thinking about what…I wonder. The question, the question that should have never been asked, goes unanswered.
There’s a stuttered attempt at conversation…she says his name…Eli…she turns to face him; she smiles. It’s the same smile she’d hit him with across a crowded room; a quiver tingles.
I’d pushed and pleaded until she divulged her secrets; and on that night, the night that I had begged to be her submissive, she had told me of what would be expected of me; the heights that a Coterie slave must aspire to. She did everything she could to dissuade me; to make me go away. She spelt it out explicitly; I would be an owned creature, beaten, whipped, forced to endure every, and any perversion that she threw at me. There would be humiliation too, when I would be an object of ridicule; there would be intimate examinations in public. There would be pain; searing pain that I could never have imagined possible.
I would be property and nothing more.
On that same dark summer’s night, when she had confounded me with images of males in bondage; males begging, mouths open in silent screams, imploring for release. A male being raped, the rapist; a woman mounting him in the manner that dogs do when they mate. The woman wears a giant cock. The latex is in the process of almost sliding out of the anus; or maybe the cock was preparing to thrust back in. It didn’t matter, I could see that the cock was slick with slime from male’s rectum.
A large breasted, tightly corseted, dark haired woman stands at the male’s head holding leather straps linked to a metal thing in his mouth.
The male wears a horse’s bridle. A further symbol of property; as if I needed reminding.
And the next photograph in the series; the rapist’s cock, buried inside the male’s rectum. The male’s head thrown back, whether in ecstasy, or despair, I couldn’t tell.
“The photographs only tell half the story,” she said. “Despite the debauchery and humiliation, his swaying erection tells a different tale…the inflicted depravity arouses him.” She paused, “On that night, Joseph was screaming for someone to touch his cock; to let him cum.”
“You were there?”
She told me that she wanted me naked and my fingers trembled as I fiddled with silly buttons, a zip that always stuck, and my belt. “Take your time,” she said gently. She continued turning the pages of the album, a half smile playing around her lips as she glanced up and noticed my erection. She took my measurements; the length of my cock, its circumference at the head and the base. I felt like an animal, a horse, or a bull, being prepared for an auction. I inhaled sharply as she slid back my foreskin; I wished, ah, I wished that she would lower her head and take me in her mouth, but I knew that there wasn’t a chance in hell.
She drew my attention to another photograph; another naked male, this one was caged. His hands gripped the iron bars; his eyes were furious; his long hair streaked with sweat. The photographer had focused the lens of his camera on the tip of the male’s hard cock; a bubble of precum exuded from the prisoner’s urethral slit.
“I deny them release,” she’d told him. “They are denied orgasm; these males that you see, here, in the photographs, are almost through their training programme. They orgasm only at my command. Yes, they are aroused, but they are unable to reach the point of ejaculation, until I give them the sign.”
She’s shown me the tools of her trade; her toys. A huge black inflatable dildo was probably the most useful item in her collection.
“The anus and rectum have to be stretched, a little more each day. At the conclusion of the process some men are begging for more, even though the dildo is inflated to its capacity.”
“But more than anything it’s an aid to breaking down resistance,” she said softly; stroking the dildo. “Many men associate anal penetration and pleasure with homosexuality; they soon learn that the prostate is there for a reason.
“The prostate rewards direct stimulation. Males are physically rewarded for receiving anal sex and anal play…if they can get around the taboo and relax.”
She noticed my attention was drawn to a vicious, spiked stainless steel cock cage.
She noticed my erection.
“It has to be fitted while the cock is flaccid,” she said.
My erection was dealt with swiftly and crudely with a jug of iced water. To demonstrate how the instrument would work, she handled my soft cock gently, pushing it through into the cage; a cock ring, already attached and in place, was secured and tightened behind my ball sac. I watched her, watching me, testing my reaction to her fine, delicate hands fingering my cock. When she snapped a padlock shut, I knew that my fate was sealed; the padlock would serve its purpose of keeping everything in position. It was also a reminder to the submissive that it is the Mistress who owns the cock; the submissive was completely under the Dominant’s control.
“Know that this is the last time that you will be given explanations,” her words were clipped. “If this life is not for you, then I give you permission to leave now; no recriminations, continue with your life as if you’d never met me.”
I did not move.
I did not want to move.
I had to prove myself worthy.
She ordered me to wear the device for the remainder of the evening; it was pure torture. My cock persistently struggling for an erection that could not be; the spikes clawing into my cock. Pain was not a big enough word to describe the ache roiling through my groin, into my tight, trapped balls.
I sense her return. It is her fragrance that I scent first. I hear her breathe. She does not speak; I am bursting to ejaculate, but I am physically unable to; it’s the result of her training. Orgasm is impossible, until she gives her permission. I hadn’t believed her when she had told me about absolute control over a man’s orgasms. I now know it to be true. I now know the meaning of real love.
I hear her cranking the wheel that controls the device; my feet hit the floor, my knees sag, my body slumps. She removes the blindfold and unlocks my chains; her arms wrap around me. She’s strong, but not strong enough to support the weight of a man in his prime and we both sink to the floor. She’s holding me close; skin on skin, my cock trapped between our two heated bodies. It’s that golden, blessed moment when she takes me in her arms, strokes my hair and tells me that all is well, all is very well indeed and that she is pleased with me.
She whispers as she soothes, and in these moments it’s as if her words have magical properties invoking spells of enchantment.
“Why should my endeavour be so loved?” I whisper.
“You think too precisely…” she replies. “Just be…just be…”
Her whispered words have taste, texture, scent, colour… they make no sense; sometimes they make absolute sense, as if she has pondered, selected, tried and tested each syllable.
I feel her nakedness; our breathing is rapid, sticky sweat covers our bodies, sliding us together. Always assertive, she circles my cock, wrapping her fingers around its girth at the base, guiding me inside her; her strong cunt muscles grip tight…I thrust, we move together, slow, then faster; keeping time, time, time. The exquisite tingle begins, centred within my anus, at the base of my balls surging into my cock, up my spine, even to the very roots of my hair. There are seconds of lurching inevitability she whispers “cum,” and I ejaculate, the warm, golden rush claiming me.
It’s powerful, my orgasms are always powerful since her, and for a few brief seconds; perhaps only three, I am floating above my body.
I gaze down at the two of us joined together.
“I love you slut slave,” she whispers; she nibbles at my lower lip. “Do you love me?”
Such a question; a question she’s never asked before.
I breathe my answer. “Yes Mistress.”
The quote at the beginning is from Tied Moments
Thanks to Jeff Busey and Ed Tomalta for their help with matters concerning male arousal.
Please visit me at my Amazon Author page
Friday, 11 December 2015
To all males that willingly, even eagerly, submit to the dominance of the female, there comes a moment in the life of the id when they, that is, WE, fantasize about a society run by alluring, erotically sophisticated and completely indomitable women. I have no doubt that there are households around the globe where the functional equivalent already exists. For the rest of men, this ultimate state of servitude remains a steamy urge nursed in private.
Perhaps more articulately than any other contemporary female erotica writer I have read, billierosie has fashioned in tight prose just such a realm. Read
her story, Rebellious Slave and you will be swept away by a tide of lust and psychological surrender to a secret society where women rule men with a will and creative genius designed to ensure that Nature is guaranteed to have Her way over vain men who in a more conventional world, hold the illusion of the upper hand.
The plot turns on what has become of Reuben, a natural submissive whose wandering eyes have betrayed him and set him on the path of ruin. But the prospect of calamity does not threaten only this lone weak male; a breach of order in The Coterie might expose the secret subculture to the enmity of the outside world. This, determines Mistress Claudia, ruler of the sect, cannot be left to chance.
In her stern elegance, with European manners and an iron will, Mistress Claudia is native to rulership over any man and fit to raise a generation of dominant women whose long training will shift the balance of power between the genders. She is coolly forceful and strategically brilliant. And she is as revered by her chosen pupils as she is feared by the men whose destinies she shapes with her confident hands and regal words. Her path of conquest is established, following a centuries-old tradition, a lineage of female supremacy that will not be unraveled over a meaningless tryst.
Then there is Melissa, Reuben's wife and a favorite in the court of Claudia. Her story, the fate of the hapless Reuben and the future of The Coterie are interwoven shrewdly by the writer. Raw eroticism is on display too as this story unfolds. The weakness that short-circuits the male mind and goads his libido into fatal mistakes is stripped bare in a seductive narrative that reveals the feverish tension between the sexes. Melissa holds a lot of promise as a dominatrix; Mistress Claudia would not waste her valuable time on a foolish girl, a poseur. But her young charge has erred badly and the implications are ominous for everyone. Bad judgment leads to bad behavior and soon, the damage is done. But is it irreparable? At Coterie HQ, the doyenne of female domination anticipates the threat and responds with her creative and uncompromising will.
Rebellious Slave is a story of the world as countless men and women already feel it in their loins. For them, it is real enough.
Rebellious Slave is at Amazon US and at Amazon UK as Kindle e-reads.
Rebellious Slave is also available in paperback at Amazon US and Amazon UK
Friday, 4 December 2015
“Even if we have not read Robert Louis Stevenson’s novella, “The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde,” most of us are familiar with the concept -- a Jekyll and Hyde personality. The concept connotes a rare mental condition of a “split personality,” where within the same person there are two distinct personalities. The novella's impact is such that it has become a part of the language, with the phrase "Jekyll and Hyde" coming to mean a person who is vastly different in moral character from one situation to the next. In Doctor Jekyll’s case the two personalities are apparently good and evil, with completely opposite levels of morality.
“Written in 1886, it was an immediate success and is one of Stevenson's best-selling works. Stage adaptations began in Boston and London within a year of its publication and it has gone on to inspire scores of major film, television and stage performances.”
The tale is well known. Amiable Doctor Jekyll, invents a potion, which transforms him into the brutish Mr Hyde. There is another potion that changes him back to Doctor Jekyll. In the persona of Mr Hyde, he commits the sort of atrocities that nightmares are made of. But the transformation becomes involuntary, and Doctor Jekyll is unable to reverse it because he has run out of the original batch of the powders. “The brute that slept within me” is now in control.
When he falls asleep as Jekyll, he wakes as Mr Hyde. Could the character of Hyde irrevocably take over? Concerned that he had overstepped his bounds, Jekyll chooses to give up the freedom of Hyde and for two months maintains the identity of Doctor Jekyll. But he is tortured with Hyde's longing to freely take part in evil doings, and he once again he takes the potion. During this transformation, Hyde commits murder.
There is a manhunt for Hyde, and Doctor Jekyll vows never again to make the transformation. He sets out to try to remedy the evil inside him. But he has given too much power to his evil side. Hyde is an irrevocable part of Jekyll's character, and the many transformations and evil behaviours have only strengthened his power. One night, while contemplating Hyde's deeds, Jekyll spontaneously transformed into Edward Hyde.
Finally, Hyde kills himself, thus finally releasing both Jekyll and Hyde.
Stevenson never says exactly what Hyde takes pleasure in on his nightly forays, generally saying that it is something of an evil and lustful nature; so Stevenson is writing within the context of the times. Whatever Hyde has done, it is abhorrent to Victorian religious morality. Stevenson had to take into account Victorian sensibilities. Hyde may have been revelling in activities that were not appropriate to a man of Jekyll's stature, such as engaging with prostitutes or burglary. However, it is Hyde's violent activities that seem to give him the most thrill, driving him to attack and murder Sir Danvers Carew without apparent reason, making him a hunted outlaw throughout England.
I think that if it were written today, Mr Hyde would be a counterpart to someone like Josef Fritzl. We wouldn’t be talking in veiled terms of evil and lust. We would be talking explicitly about rape, sodomy, torture, incest, bestiality, necrophilia. We’d be thinking about stuff that even Hannibal Lector couldn’t dream up. But I think that Stevenson’s novella is all the more compelling, because of what he doesn’t say. Our own imaginations are more powerful than anything that can be written down.
Realizing he will soon be Hyde forever, Jekyll leaves behind a testament; pointing out that while Jekyll often felt like a charlatan, Hyde felt like a "genuine man" years younger and far more energetic than his more "sociable" self. He also states in his final confession that although Hyde knew people recoiled from him, he, Jekyll, did not.
“The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde,” pre-empts Freudian psychoanalysis. As far as I can ascertain, Sigmund Freud was not talking about the Id, the Ego and the Super Ego, before 1899, when he published “The Interpretation of Dreams.” As I said earlier, Stevenson published his book in 1886.
So, Stevenson was talking about repression, and the return of the repressed and demonstrating the concept through his characters, before Freud had even thought of it. Although the reader of Jekyll and Hyde is led to believe that the threat of evil comes--as in earlier Gothic stories--from without, it is actually within the breast of the good and kind Jekyll that the danger lurks. Perhaps Stevenson himself, was afraid of what he had unleashed in his creation, Mr Hyde.
It is a creepy tale. It has been a long time since I read it, but whenever I think about Stevenson’s novella, I think about the CI programmes on Sky, that I am addicted to. Sky even has “Serial Killer Sunday”. I watch programmes about Ted Bundy, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley. Before Ted Bundy was executed a senior policeman asked; “what’s all this about Ted?” Ted Bundy’s response was; “I like it…”
It seems that serial killers, really cannot stop killing. And neither can Mr Hyde. Stevenson’s creation, revels in the choking ashes of the dark and primal.
I think of Vladimir Nabokov’s “Lolita”, where the monstrous Humbert Humbert, the handsome academic, who hides his paedophilia so well, constantly insists -- “I am not a monster.”
Is there a monster lurking beneath the surface in all of us? When I think about some of the weird stuff that I think about, that I write about in my fiction, I sometimes think -- where the hell did that come from?
The only honest answer that I can give is -- I don’t know. And what is “normal?” Is that knock on the door Mr Hyde rattling to get out?
I read this in the Observer newspaper some years ago.
“We acknowledge the receipt of your order for 5 triple furnaces, including 2 electric elevators for raising the corpses. For transporting the corpses, we suggest light carts on wheels. We are submitting plans for our cremation ovens which operate with coal and have hitherto given full satisfaction.”
So went the estimate from the Berlin heating firm, to the Commandant at Auschwitz.
Who typed it? Who priced it? Who put it in the mail? Nice normal people I don’t doubt.
From Bruce Kent in an open letter to the Observer newspaper. 13th November 1988
“ ‘The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,’ was initially sold as a paperback for one shilling in the UK and one dollar in the U.S. The American publisher issued the book on 5 January 1886, four days before the first appearance of the UK edition issued by Longmans; Scribner's published 3000 copies, only 1250 of them bound in cloth. Initially stores would not stock it until a review appeared in The Times, on 25 January 1886, giving it a favourable reception. Within the next six months, close to forty thousand copies were sold. The book's success was probably due more to the "moral instincts of the public" than any perception of its artistic merits; it was widely read by those who never otherwise read fiction, quoted in pulpit sermons and in religious papers. By 1901 it was estimated to have sold over 250,000 copies.”
Here is Johnny Cash, growling out the lyrics to “The beast in me.” It seems appropriate…