Nandita To Nandini
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Pain And Pleasure (la Douleur Exquise) Part 1 free porn video
Chapitre 1
I am a control freak. I know this even though my Master says he sees no dominant qualities in me. He sees the person I want to be with him, the person that seeks solace in and from the psychological turmoil her parents wrecked on her over the years. I did what they said, obeyed, never made a mistake, always made the right choices - their choices - but came out of it a fully-fledged adult. It was a lifetime of being mind-fucked by my own parents whom I love, venerate, and resent.
I am an over-thinker, embattled by my pursuit for control over a life unlived. I had once hungered for it but the control I wish to exercise on my life slips away from me the more I try to hold onto it. Now I am stupendously lost. In my thoughts. In my mind, a consoling labyrinth, in its solitude. Nothing makes any sense and nothing stays in the same place for long. Fleeting thoughts, I am constantly distracted by nothing. That relentless whirlwind of nagging guilt, a hangover from my upbringing, is there to remind me that I need to stop and to continue.
I have always submitted in life. To my parents. I relinquished the volition to rebel without any memory of doing so. It was consoling, the power they wielded, no matter how hard they were on me.
I am that little girl you want to take in, the receptive little girl. In this fashion, I yearn to be a child again and yet, I hated every moment of my carefree childhood.
I have, for a long time, relished my complexity as a human being. I am forever elusive, even to myself. Constant oscillation, and the whirlwind makes its appearance again. Who am I beneath this skin and these bones that seemingly link me to others around me? Who do they know resides there? It excites me to entertain these thoughts. But I am lost.
Lost in a conscious way. Lost in an “I am not lost” way.
I met my Master in the flesh this week. I grew more aware with the subjugation of every logical thought that had tried to rush through my head. There was nothing to decide, only to stop deciding. My senses had never been so fine-tuned. The intensity of the exhilaration that had me in delectable knots, it was a moment of wilful sedation wherein my senses had suddenly stopped being dull. There was an acute sense of awareness, and I went into my submissive state like a child, taken by the hand. I was dizzied by the dissociation that occurred as I simultaneously both lived and witnessed this experience. I submitted to myself and to my Master. I submitted to stop deciding, and to take him in. I took what I could of him in, and played around with it, in my wetness.
I keep telling him I’m no ordinary submissive. I am a natural-born submissive, conscious of her dominant abilities. A coping mechanism that had arisen from a lifetime of conditioning. My parents wanted me to be a submissive from the outside, for them, and a dominant on the inside, for others. A submissive from the inside, for them, and a dominant from the outside, for others. They wanted a submissive, always, disguised as a dominant. A confusing prospect only for those who don’t oscillate like me. In my waking life, I awoke a submissive.
In a phantasmagoria of endless and senseless wandering, I felt I had consciously and skilfully wedged myself between my unequivocal willingness to submit and his domination. The dizzying, constant oscillation again so that I never knew exactly where I stood. Was I being dominated? Was I submitting? And it created a feeling of pure, unadulterated ecstasy which was heightened all the more as I took the time to process it later on. I had taken him in. In his quest to dominate me, I stole what I could of him because I had taken him in. I robbed and used him unlike the way he robbed and used me for his own enjoyment. I owned part of him - only a part of him, because I am not greedy – by giving him all of me.
I have always taken the greatest pleasure in things, in retrospect. The unrelenting thinking and my labyrinthine brain. I oscillate again. I am in a constant dialectic of hating my thoughts and loving them. Pain and pleasure. La douleur exquise.
I want more pain, more pleasure. I want to give him every immeasurable psychological inch of me this time, no wavering, no drifting, no volition. The more I give, the less I will be lost. There will be nothing left to adulterate my self-awareness.
As for my Master, his responsibility is great, onerous, less enviable. It reassures me but I worry for him because it is I he has taken on. I want to tell him that he needn’t crush or deny me the complexity that is my humanity, as I will shed it in front of him. The ultimate disrobing, the veritable nudity. Anything for that intoxication and sobriety I feel around his domination.
My Master is, to my eyes, an eerily beautiful man – the best kind, and the kind that stays with you forever - with the face of a cherubim, a Lucifer. Yet his eyes betray him; his icy gaze is devoid of affected humanity. I didn’t want to dig. A curious shallow scratch beneath his cool and collected exterior gave away nothing. It made me think of all the men who were oblivious to their psychological nudity and exposure. But not my Master. It reassures me that I found nothing. I trust him more as a result. I won’t be bored and he won’t be reckless. I drink him in through his cold eyes, a pool of icy water, to drown my thoughts in. I revel in that douleur exquise when he pierces me with those eyes. I feel the voiceless part of my vulnerability seeping out -the manifestation of his domination over me- my shameful desire to be undressed, so he can dominate me better. His smile reassures me where it might unsettle others. It also unsettles me where it might reassure others.
The more I give the less I will be lost and there will be nothing standing in the way of my self-awareness. I am a control freak until I am not.
Chapitre 2
Far from the realm of my digested thoughts, this is what happened when I met Master in the flesh. A Patrick Bateman, in his corporate accoutrement, he appeared as if out of nowhere. He greeted me politely, if not coolly. I couldn’t help but notice that his cherubim face jarred with the rest of his presence and demeanour. It was confusing. It only served to make him psychotic in my eyes, as if it were perfectly plausible, nay natural, to expect a moment of kindness immediately followed by a moment of utmost cruelty, exquisite yet frightening cruelty, from that figure that loomed over me. Anything else wouldn’t have made sense.
Only because I can just make sense of it now, he lulled me into a false sense of security as we sipped coffee and spoke about the mundanities of life. Between us was a square-shaped table and his propensity to speak about everything in a calm, composed manner. I couldn’t concentrate. I found myself confused at the tedium of our small talk. I now wonder whether my ennui arose from the false feeling that I was leading our encounter, that I had slipped into my dominant skin, out of habit. How deliciously misguided I was.
And then something lurked in his cyan-blue eyes, not beneath them for I could never hope nor want to reach his core, the more I stared into them. I didn’t realise it at the time but I had been ensnared in his trap right then and there. I had ignorantly, yet willfully, fallen into his gossamer. Mesmerised.
Never at the beginning and middle of our encounter did he let on that he was in control. Its success was in my complete obliviousness and delusion. Seamless, graceful entrapment. We began our walk in the park, which would have been disappointingly romantic were it not for the ominous overcast sky. Though he was 6 feet tall, I wished I hadn’t worn my platform shoes. I wanted to feel ever so small in his presence. The smaller, frailer, the better. My cropped jumper, which stopped fitting me a month ago, kept slipping off at the shoulder, revealing more skin. He had noticed. I had stupidly thought, at first, that it was a seductive move. Seduction was beside the point. Now I am convinced that I enjoyed that exhibition because it made me feel all the more vulnerable.
Our walk and the length of it began to verge on the ridiculous as we circled the park multiple times. A metaphor, I couldn’t help but notice, to my numerous wanderings in my labyrinthine mind. It was aimless from an outsider’s perspective, but the point was to keep walking, to keep falling, underneath that overcast sky. As I tried to keep up with my Master’s pace, my head was swarming. Swarming with questions, thoughts, scenarios, and rebuffs.
It all started when, at the sudden desire to take him in physically through my mouth, I had entertained the thought then accepted that I could never be the one to initiate the kiss. I wanted to kiss him, just as I want anything and everything in my day-to-day life. I desired him to kiss me. He took his time. I was befuddled by my absolute conviction that I could never kiss him first, that I was sure to be rejected. Whence this conviction? It was from the smugness that came with the realisation that I was finally starting to be true to my submissive state.
I wanted to voice that particular epiphany, that I was sure would please him. As I struggled to verbalise all these confusing sensations and realisations, I ceased to recognise myself. I was twitching like a fly on the gossamer. I was ensnared in his trap and it had just dawned on me. The words that I had hoped would set me free were entombed in the labyrinth that was my mind. And my breathing quickened.
My Master remained taciturn the whole time. His eyes and the first cruel smile that I would see etched on that soft, creamy skin of his did the questioning. He pressed me on with occasional, amused “Hmms?” but nothing more. His smile grew crueler until he grabbed my hand. My heart was racing. Not only was this our first instance of physical contact, I could not even pretend to fathom what he was going to do with it. My tiny palm and long fingers in his hand, I thought he was inspecting the size and perhaps delighting in the dampness of my hand – my body’s betrayal. I pulled away and he grabbed it again. I was unnerved all the more. Then he pressed it against his crotch, evidently erect to the touch, while staring at me intently. I was in disbelief. Why and when did he go erect?
The fact that my Master was erect suffused me with a false sense of confidence and reassurance. I duly began to stroke it with a sense of accomplishment. My Master, who had his grip on my arm the whole time, suddenly pulled my hand away and smiled disapprovingly. Smiled because he knew I wanted my hand to linger and it pleased him to deny me that. He didn’t want me to stroke it, just to feel and know that it was there. In my obstinacy, I tried to graze his erect member with my behind. I had wished I could steal that moment from him yet Master mocked me, and asked that I face him. He punished me and delighted me with his icy stare.
We resumed our walking when he stopped all of a sudden. He leaned in closer as if about to kiss me and then put his hand on the exposed side of my stomach. He gripped it hard only to let go again. I felt my body buckle under his strong grip and sudden release. All the while he pierced me with his eyes. I averted mine only to be swayed into looking back at them again. I was drawn to them as one is when revisiting a scene of incomprehensible horror, unable to resist the inflicted pain it resulted in. He grabbed me by the side again and this time leaned in and kissed me.
I was suddenly getting what I wanted which filled me with ephemeral joy and dismay. I explored him with my lips, rested my upper lip above his, making a mental picture that mirrored exactly that of his soft, somewhat flat philtrum. He bit my full bottom lip and I felt compelled to rest my hand at the back of his head and stroking his thick, soft hair. All the while, I arrogantly thought to myself, 'He must be enjoying the feel of my full lips. Nobody has yet resisted them or not wanted more.' At the sudden touch of my hand, he pushed me away and gave me a disparaging smile. I averted my eyes, feeling stripped of all my seductive power. I had wanted to impress him but also to take him in through my mouth to extract some information from him that was possible solely by way of labial osmosis. Had I found my Master?
More walking, more falling, I felt my obstinacy to dominate subjugate itself to my will to submit. It was then that I decided to stop deciding. Master would, from time to time, squeeze my shoulder or my arm as if to check whether I would stumble to the floor at his release. I felt meek but grateful. He touched my bottom lip with his thumb and pushed it in my mouth. I hungrily took it only to feel it pulled back from me. He then pushed two fingers into my mouth. This time, I took them in as one takes a letter from a postman. He pushed them in further and the desire to please him overcame me. I took his fingers in a fashion wherein they emulated his penis. A foolish mistake. He immediately pulled away. I could sense that he reveled in denying me his pleasure.
He suddenly said, “You’re a whore, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied.
“I want you to tell me you’re a whore.”
In an act of defiance, I retorted, “I am a whore but I am not your whore, yet!” He gave me a look of amusement. This time his smile was kind.
Our encounter was drawing to a close and as we were walking back to the station, where we were both to go on our separate ways, he fondled my covered behind, squeezing my bountiful cheeks. With every squeeze, he reaffirmed his position as my Master and prolonged my desire to be touched. I felt I was being probed, picked at like an animal on a dissection table. My body was no longer mine. It was his to explore. He then reached for between my legs and pressed his fingers against my pussy, trying to part my labia and push in through my trousers. An assertive yet probing move that left me wanting to expose my nether regions for him.
Probe me more, Master. Explore what you have to and see that I am to your physical satisfaction.
I hadn’t realised I was wet.
It was a game of provocation. A game of seamless mindfucking and projected fucking. In my frustration, confusion, and intoxication, in all my states, I had just had my most fulfilling sexual experience to date. My Master had stimulated an organ that my past lovers had always left out. My brain was left throbbing from so much and so little thinking.
Master took me to the station where I was to catch my train. I followed him a child. He showed me to my platform but I was transfixed; he pierced me again with those eyes. I looked at him and saw a doting father devoid of warmth. “Your train is in five minutes and you’re going to catch it. Yes?” As he said this, he nodded his head, answering for me.
“Yes. I have to leave but I don’t want to”.
“You don’t want to leave?” He wasn’t so much asking as just stating the obvious.
“No, but I know I have to.” I felt anchored to the ground.
“Yes, you have to.” He kept nodding, answering for me, as if to say, nothing I said would matter or affect the outcome. I could have swooned. He was a picture of sadistic mirth with fatherly eyes that sought my hurt and helplessness.
As if to ease the pain that my eyes betrayed, he kissed me, ever so furtively. He left and I ran to catch my train. I looked back again to catch sight of him one last time, to take what I could of him, but he was already gone. Sitting amongst strangers on my way home, I experienced an ineffable sense of euphoria, a prolonged state of orgasm that left its physical source, my brain, painlessly throbbing. My breathing strained, my heart racing, my underwear wet, nobody could have known. I had given myself and come back with more.
Chapitre 3
My Master, at my request, has ordered me not to get in touch with him for a while, until he contacts me. Oh what relief, what respite! I am left with delicious yet unnerving anticipation for my next order, a chance to be in his presence, a moment to bask in the lull of his assertive words. In its unequivocalness, I find solace in his command. He has taken away my anxiety, a part of his onerous responsibility.
As I enjoy a slow immersion into this world, I have chosen to educate myself about the nature of the relationship I wish to entertain with him. I can imagine him telling me that I am doing this to impress him, to please him. He would be right. He would also be wrong to forget that I am a smart, wilful individual. I am the embattled submissive.
I want to tell him, reassure him, that it is not him I fantasise about, but all those ineffable qualities about him carried through by the power he so gracefully exercises over me.
Sometimes, I worry that I may be trying to outsmart Master, or worse, that I am smarter, deceiving not just him, but myself as well. I am wary of reverting to my dominant disguise. I delight in wielding power that only serves to confuse and frustrate me. I am the embattled submissive, a self-saboteur.
I will find myself in the role, in the man I submit to. The more I give of myself, the more self-aware I am.
I do not desire Master. I desire his approval as I have desired others’ approval of me. I wonder if others I tried to please desired my desire for their approval as Master does. Master wants to see me try to please him. In my attempt to achieve that, I gain the satisfaction and fulfilment that comes from knowing my desire for approval is wanted. And the mirth it results in, I have been denied for far too long.
I feel no shame, only trepidation that Master cannot, in his capabilities, take me there. Will he be a good Master?
I am a control freak. I know this even though my Master says he sees no dominant qualities in me. He sees the person I want to be with him, the person that seeks solace in and from the psychological turmoil her parents wrecked on her over the years. I did what they said, obeyed, never made a mistake, always made the right choices - their choices - but came out of it a fully-fledged adult. It was a lifetime of being mind-fucked by my own parents whom I love, venerate, and resent.
I am an over-thinker, embattled by my pursuit for control over a life unlived. I had once hungered for it but the control I wish to exercise on my life slips away from me the more I try to hold onto it. Now I am stupendously lost. In my thoughts. In my mind, a consoling labyrinth, in its solitude. Nothing makes any sense and nothing stays in the same place for long. Fleeting thoughts, I am constantly distracted by nothing. That relentless whirlwind of nagging guilt, a hangover from my upbringing, is there to remind me that I need to stop and to continue.
I have always submitted in life. To my parents. I relinquished the volition to rebel without any memory of doing so. It was consoling, the power they wielded, no matter how hard they were on me.
I am that little girl you want to take in, the receptive little girl. In this fashion, I yearn to be a child again and yet, I hated every moment of my carefree childhood.
I have, for a long time, relished my complexity as a human being. I am forever elusive, even to myself. Constant oscillation, and the whirlwind makes its appearance again. Who am I beneath this skin and these bones that seemingly link me to others around me? Who do they know resides there? It excites me to entertain these thoughts. But I am lost.
Lost in a conscious way. Lost in an “I am not lost” way.
I met my Master in the flesh this week. I grew more aware with the subjugation of every logical thought that had tried to rush through my head. There was nothing to decide, only to stop deciding. My senses had never been so fine-tuned. The intensity of the exhilaration that had me in delectable knots, it was a moment of wilful sedation wherein my senses had suddenly stopped being dull. There was an acute sense of awareness, and I went into my submissive state like a child, taken by the hand. I was dizzied by the dissociation that occurred as I simultaneously both lived and witnessed this experience. I submitted to myself and to my Master. I submitted to stop deciding, and to take him in. I took what I could of him in, and played around with it, in my wetness.
I keep telling him I’m no ordinary submissive. I am a natural-born submissive, conscious of her dominant abilities. A coping mechanism that had arisen from a lifetime of conditioning. My parents wanted me to be a submissive from the outside, for them, and a dominant on the inside, for others. A submissive from the inside, for them, and a dominant from the outside, for others. They wanted a submissive, always, disguised as a dominant. A confusing prospect only for those who don’t oscillate like me. In my waking life, I awoke a submissive.
In a phantasmagoria of endless and senseless wandering, I felt I had consciously and skilfully wedged myself between my unequivocal willingness to submit and his domination. The dizzying, constant oscillation again so that I never knew exactly where I stood. Was I being dominated? Was I submitting? And it created a feeling of pure, unadulterated ecstasy which was heightened all the more as I took the time to process it later on. I had taken him in. In his quest to dominate me, I stole what I could of him because I had taken him in. I robbed and used him unlike the way he robbed and used me for his own enjoyment. I owned part of him - only a part of him, because I am not greedy – by giving him all of me.
I have always taken the greatest pleasure in things, in retrospect. The unrelenting thinking and my labyrinthine brain. I oscillate again. I am in a constant dialectic of hating my thoughts and loving them. Pain and pleasure. La douleur exquise.
I want more pain, more pleasure. I want to give him every immeasurable psychological inch of me this time, no wavering, no drifting, no volition. The more I give, the less I will be lost. There will be nothing left to adulterate my self-awareness.
As for my Master, his responsibility is great, onerous, less enviable. It reassures me but I worry for him because it is I he has taken on. I want to tell him that he needn’t crush or deny me the complexity that is my humanity, as I will shed it in front of him. The ultimate disrobing, the veritable nudity. Anything for that intoxication and sobriety I feel around his domination.
My Master is, to my eyes, an eerily beautiful man – the best kind, and the kind that stays with you forever - with the face of a cherubim, a Lucifer. Yet his eyes betray him; his icy gaze is devoid of affected humanity. I didn’t want to dig. A curious shallow scratch beneath his cool and collected exterior gave away nothing. It made me think of all the men who were oblivious to their psychological nudity and exposure. But not my Master. It reassures me that I found nothing. I trust him more as a result. I won’t be bored and he won’t be reckless. I drink him in through his cold eyes, a pool of icy water, to drown my thoughts in. I revel in that douleur exquise when he pierces me with those eyes. I feel the voiceless part of my vulnerability seeping out -the manifestation of his domination over me- my shameful desire to be undressed, so he can dominate me better. His smile reassures me where it might unsettle others. It also unsettles me where it might reassure others.
The more I give the less I will be lost and there will be nothing standing in the way of my self-awareness. I am a control freak until I am not.
Chapitre 2
Far from the realm of my digested thoughts, this is what happened when I met Master in the flesh. A Patrick Bateman, in his corporate accoutrement, he appeared as if out of nowhere. He greeted me politely, if not coolly. I couldn’t help but notice that his cherubim face jarred with the rest of his presence and demeanour. It was confusing. It only served to make him psychotic in my eyes, as if it were perfectly plausible, nay natural, to expect a moment of kindness immediately followed by a moment of utmost cruelty, exquisite yet frightening cruelty, from that figure that loomed over me. Anything else wouldn’t have made sense.
Only because I can just make sense of it now, he lulled me into a false sense of security as we sipped coffee and spoke about the mundanities of life. Between us was a square-shaped table and his propensity to speak about everything in a calm, composed manner. I couldn’t concentrate. I found myself confused at the tedium of our small talk. I now wonder whether my ennui arose from the false feeling that I was leading our encounter, that I had slipped into my dominant skin, out of habit. How deliciously misguided I was.
And then something lurked in his cyan-blue eyes, not beneath them for I could never hope nor want to reach his core, the more I stared into them. I didn’t realise it at the time but I had been ensnared in his trap right then and there. I had ignorantly, yet willfully, fallen into his gossamer. Mesmerised.
Never at the beginning and middle of our encounter did he let on that he was in control. Its success was in my complete obliviousness and delusion. Seamless, graceful entrapment. We began our walk in the park, which would have been disappointingly romantic were it not for the ominous overcast sky. Though he was 6 feet tall, I wished I hadn’t worn my platform shoes. I wanted to feel ever so small in his presence. The smaller, frailer, the better. My cropped jumper, which stopped fitting me a month ago, kept slipping off at the shoulder, revealing more skin. He had noticed. I had stupidly thought, at first, that it was a seductive move. Seduction was beside the point. Now I am convinced that I enjoyed that exhibition because it made me feel all the more vulnerable.
Our walk and the length of it began to verge on the ridiculous as we circled the park multiple times. A metaphor, I couldn’t help but notice, to my numerous wanderings in my labyrinthine mind. It was aimless from an outsider’s perspective, but the point was to keep walking, to keep falling, underneath that overcast sky. As I tried to keep up with my Master’s pace, my head was swarming. Swarming with questions, thoughts, scenarios, and rebuffs.
It all started when, at the sudden desire to take him in physically through my mouth, I had entertained the thought then accepted that I could never be the one to initiate the kiss. I wanted to kiss him, just as I want anything and everything in my day-to-day life. I desired him to kiss me. He took his time. I was befuddled by my absolute conviction that I could never kiss him first, that I was sure to be rejected. Whence this conviction? It was from the smugness that came with the realisation that I was finally starting to be true to my submissive state.
I wanted to voice that particular epiphany, that I was sure would please him. As I struggled to verbalise all these confusing sensations and realisations, I ceased to recognise myself. I was twitching like a fly on the gossamer. I was ensnared in his trap and it had just dawned on me. The words that I had hoped would set me free were entombed in the labyrinth that was my mind. And my breathing quickened.
My Master remained taciturn the whole time. His eyes and the first cruel smile that I would see etched on that soft, creamy skin of his did the questioning. He pressed me on with occasional, amused “Hmms?” but nothing more. His smile grew crueler until he grabbed my hand. My heart was racing. Not only was this our first instance of physical contact, I could not even pretend to fathom what he was going to do with it. My tiny palm and long fingers in his hand, I thought he was inspecting the size and perhaps delighting in the dampness of my hand – my body’s betrayal. I pulled away and he grabbed it again. I was unnerved all the more. Then he pressed it against his crotch, evidently erect to the touch, while staring at me intently. I was in disbelief. Why and when did he go erect?
The fact that my Master was erect suffused me with a false sense of confidence and reassurance. I duly began to stroke it with a sense of accomplishment. My Master, who had his grip on my arm the whole time, suddenly pulled my hand away and smiled disapprovingly. Smiled because he knew I wanted my hand to linger and it pleased him to deny me that. He didn’t want me to stroke it, just to feel and know that it was there. In my obstinacy, I tried to graze his erect member with my behind. I had wished I could steal that moment from him yet Master mocked me, and asked that I face him. He punished me and delighted me with his icy stare.
We resumed our walking when he stopped all of a sudden. He leaned in closer as if about to kiss me and then put his hand on the exposed side of my stomach. He gripped it hard only to let go again. I felt my body buckle under his strong grip and sudden release. All the while he pierced me with his eyes. I averted mine only to be swayed into looking back at them again. I was drawn to them as one is when revisiting a scene of incomprehensible horror, unable to resist the inflicted pain it resulted in. He grabbed me by the side again and this time leaned in and kissed me.
I was suddenly getting what I wanted which filled me with ephemeral joy and dismay. I explored him with my lips, rested my upper lip above his, making a mental picture that mirrored exactly that of his soft, somewhat flat philtrum. He bit my full bottom lip and I felt compelled to rest my hand at the back of his head and stroking his thick, soft hair. All the while, I arrogantly thought to myself, 'He must be enjoying the feel of my full lips. Nobody has yet resisted them or not wanted more.' At the sudden touch of my hand, he pushed me away and gave me a disparaging smile. I averted my eyes, feeling stripped of all my seductive power. I had wanted to impress him but also to take him in through my mouth to extract some information from him that was possible solely by way of labial osmosis. Had I found my Master?
More walking, more falling, I felt my obstinacy to dominate subjugate itself to my will to submit. It was then that I decided to stop deciding. Master would, from time to time, squeeze my shoulder or my arm as if to check whether I would stumble to the floor at his release. I felt meek but grateful. He touched my bottom lip with his thumb and pushed it in my mouth. I hungrily took it only to feel it pulled back from me. He then pushed two fingers into my mouth. This time, I took them in as one takes a letter from a postman. He pushed them in further and the desire to please him overcame me. I took his fingers in a fashion wherein they emulated his penis. A foolish mistake. He immediately pulled away. I could sense that he reveled in denying me his pleasure.
He suddenly said, “You’re a whore, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied.
“I want you to tell me you’re a whore.”
In an act of defiance, I retorted, “I am a whore but I am not your whore, yet!” He gave me a look of amusement. This time his smile was kind.
Our encounter was drawing to a close and as we were walking back to the station, where we were both to go on our separate ways, he fondled my covered behind, squeezing my bountiful cheeks. With every squeeze, he reaffirmed his position as my Master and prolonged my desire to be touched. I felt I was being probed, picked at like an animal on a dissection table. My body was no longer mine. It was his to explore. He then reached for between my legs and pressed his fingers against my pussy, trying to part my labia and push in through my trousers. An assertive yet probing move that left me wanting to expose my nether regions for him.
Probe me more, Master. Explore what you have to and see that I am to your physical satisfaction.
I hadn’t realised I was wet.
It was a game of provocation. A game of seamless mindfucking and projected fucking. In my frustration, confusion, and intoxication, in all my states, I had just had my most fulfilling sexual experience to date. My Master had stimulated an organ that my past lovers had always left out. My brain was left throbbing from so much and so little thinking.
Master took me to the station where I was to catch my train. I followed him a child. He showed me to my platform but I was transfixed; he pierced me again with those eyes. I looked at him and saw a doting father devoid of warmth. “Your train is in five minutes and you’re going to catch it. Yes?” As he said this, he nodded his head, answering for me.
“Yes. I have to leave but I don’t want to”.
“You don’t want to leave?” He wasn’t so much asking as just stating the obvious.
“No, but I know I have to.” I felt anchored to the ground.
“Yes, you have to.” He kept nodding, answering for me, as if to say, nothing I said would matter or affect the outcome. I could have swooned. He was a picture of sadistic mirth with fatherly eyes that sought my hurt and helplessness.
As if to ease the pain that my eyes betrayed, he kissed me, ever so furtively. He left and I ran to catch my train. I looked back again to catch sight of him one last time, to take what I could of him, but he was already gone. Sitting amongst strangers on my way home, I experienced an ineffable sense of euphoria, a prolonged state of orgasm that left its physical source, my brain, painlessly throbbing. My breathing strained, my heart racing, my underwear wet, nobody could have known. I had given myself and come back with more.
Chapitre 3
My Master, at my request, has ordered me not to get in touch with him for a while, until he contacts me. Oh what relief, what respite! I am left with delicious yet unnerving anticipation for my next order, a chance to be in his presence, a moment to bask in the lull of his assertive words. In its unequivocalness, I find solace in his command. He has taken away my anxiety, a part of his onerous responsibility.
As I enjoy a slow immersion into this world, I have chosen to educate myself about the nature of the relationship I wish to entertain with him. I can imagine him telling me that I am doing this to impress him, to please him. He would be right. He would also be wrong to forget that I am a smart, wilful individual. I am the embattled submissive.
I want to tell him, reassure him, that it is not him I fantasise about, but all those ineffable qualities about him carried through by the power he so gracefully exercises over me.
Sometimes, I worry that I may be trying to outsmart Master, or worse, that I am smarter, deceiving not just him, but myself as well. I am wary of reverting to my dominant disguise. I delight in wielding power that only serves to confuse and frustrate me. I am the embattled submissive, a self-saboteur.
I will find myself in the role, in the man I submit to. The more I give of myself, the more self-aware I am.
I do not desire Master. I desire his approval as I have desired others’ approval of me. I wonder if others I tried to please desired my desire for their approval as Master does. Master wants to see me try to please him. In my attempt to achieve that, I gain the satisfaction and fulfilment that comes from knowing my desire for approval is wanted. And the mirth it results in, I have been denied for far too long.
I feel no shame, only trepidation that Master cannot, in his capabilities, take me there. Will he be a good Master?
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