He begged for forgiveness, but not for mercy. He was so clearly pent up from having to display himself to the public and his wife as a dominant public force that he gave her boots a 45 minute tongue bath before asking permission to speak.
Mistress wound up and her right hand came speeding towards the side of his face with speed, accuracy and follow through. “Yes, slave, you may speak,” she answered.
He stuttered his need for discipline. He begged her to use him in any way she saw fit, and to train him to comply with her every demand, to mold him and leave him in any form she desired. And he begged her not to leave any marks that would last more than an hour, because he would have to undress in front of his wife later that evening.
In subsequent sessions, he would enter her dungeon and immediately drop to his knees and begin to kiss her boots without her having to say a word. As his training progressed, through his deepening submission to her, Mistress peered into his mind, and led him through the realization of fantasies that had lain dormant for his entire adult life. She discovered in him a fetish for bondage, sensory deprivation and breath control, and would tie his wrists, knees and ankles with rope, then wrap him in layers of plastic and black duct tape until he was completely immobile, unable to move a finger. As he lay cocooned on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, she would stand over him, slowly walking around him, sometimes resting her boot on his chest as she described to him in a low and steady voice how she would soon be torturing and violating him. Dressed in a black latex catsuit, she would sit on his head, the latex warmed to match her body temperature pressing tight against his mouth, nose and eyes to block out all sound, light and air. She would sit there for thirty seconds and rise for a moment to look into his eyes and measure the deepness of his recovering breath, then sit again. This time a minute passed before she lifted and knelt next to him, staring into his face, telling him that they would repeat the process until his mind held nothing but the memory of her full body’s weight constricting all of his senses.
“Concentrate on the remaining air in your lungs,” she whispered to him. “The air I leave inside of you is a gift, so think about that as you hold it. Savor it, and understand that you are no longer in control of your body’s most basic functions.”
His eyes focused on her, he whispered, “Thank you, Mistress.”
In their more actively physical training sessions, hours would pass as she had him tied stretched out and splayed on the wall. She had measured his arm and leg spans in a previous meeting without telling him why, and had one of her handier slaves bolt eyehooks into the wall at the farthest points possible. He was strapped into leather wrist and ankle cuffs, holding him still and tight, with his cheek, chest, stomach, cock and thighs pressed flat and nowhere to go as she stood on the other side of the room with a single tail whip. She took plenty of time to warm him up, softly flogging him at first to condition his body, allowing his blood to rise and skin to thicken in preparation for her next implement. His eyes closed, he sank deep into subspace and let the pain carry him away from his mind, further into his body as he imagined transcending physicality. She wrapped plastic around his torso, this time not as bondage but as a buffer against the initial sting of the whip. He felt every crack with increasing heat and sharpness, until eventually the plastic split, and she would stop to pass her cool hands over his skin to sooth the raised pink welts.
The only words that ever came from his mouth were, “Thank you, Mistress.”
During quieter times, he would kneel naked on the floor at her feet as she smoked, holding his hand out for her to use as an ashtray, and they would talk. Mistress would explain how well or how poorly his training was progressing in a particular area.
“You must learn to completely submit to me,” she would say. “There are times when I see you completely submerged, but there are too many other times when you say you’re devoted to me, you say you’ve given in and that you’re mine, that I can do anything I want to you, but I only hear the words. Sometimes there’s nothing behind those words, and you realize, don’t you, that I always know when you’re not being sincere?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he would mumble, eyes down at the floor as she had taught him to show respect.
“You’ll speak clearly to me and you’ll apologize for your poor behavior,” she’d say.
And he’d reply, “Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry. You see into me, you know me better than I know myself. Thank you for helping me. I need you to make me a better person.”
He had admitted to her once during an interrogation that he often masturbated in the bathroom thinking of their time together, and as a result was unable to function when it came time to have sex with his wife. He often had to face another argument as to why he was never “in the mood.” She usually allowed him to release himself towards the end of their sessions, on his knees as she stood in front of him, taunting him, calling him a pervert for exposing himself to her, for his pathetic attempt at a performance, and would periodically kick him in the balls if he got too close to orgasm too quickly.
“Look at me,” she said. His eyes had been closed, but he refocused on hers, which were inches from his face. “You have only one thing to do while you’re here, and that is to focus on me. You are not allowed to close your eyes unless I close them for you. You’ll remain present and you’ll look at me and you won’t have any other thought than you exist to please me. You’ve got ten seconds to give yourself the last orgasm you’ll have for three weeks.”
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