I think I told you about Kara, my escort friend. She’s also a highly selective and successful madam; both feared and revered by escorts and clients alike. Kara always calls me when she has something so special or so wild that even her own small crew of beautiful horny escorts can’t accommodate. Kara is beautiful but a little severe; she has several very obedient and fully subjugated men under her whip, both clients and lovers; and she knows that I’m a submissive, with the most famously well-flogged bottom in the city. So--after I had done her favour with Tom, a favourite client whose wife needed a flogging--she amazed me by asking me to do the same to her. Kara is beautiful and scary: short black hair, regular features, big black eyes, small firm breasts, lovely rounded bottom . . . and I’m very suggestible and vulnerable to fantasy. Soon the image of Kara the Terrible bent obediently over her own desk, the skirt of her business suit riding up over her slim waist and her lovely bottom wriggling as I lashed her into crimson-arsed, pleading tearfulness was all I could think about . . .. it kept me awake at night and even took my mind off my job, flashing into my mind in boardrooms and client meetings, making me flush.

I took Kara up on her suggestion at the first opportunity. I had started adding to my new dom wardrobe and kit and had also joined some online forums to brush up on my expertise before meeting her, and really gave her a lot more than she bargained for.

“The only way of dealing with fantasy is to act it out,” I said to Kara afterwards.

“You’ve certainly done that, you bitch . . . I’ll be sitting on a cushion for weeks after what you’ve done to me”, she whimpered, her voice muffled by her face pressing into the desk.

Looking down at the welts my whip had raised on her bum, I had to agree. but she was so lovely . . . her slim arms tied behind her waist with crimson ribbon, her short black hair spiky with sweat, her cheeks streaked with tears, her breasts squashed against the leather desktop, and her arse . . . that glorious firm bell-curved bottom of hers . . . scarlet and striped. At a touch from the tip of my whip, she obediently parted her thighs and showed me her shaven cunt soaking with her own juices, the labia crimson from the strap-on I’d used to fuck her to shuddering climax after I’d flogged her into whimpering submission.

Strange as it may sound, I’ve always believed that sexually, each of us (or perhaps only women?) is potentially everyone, everything; bi and gay and straight, sub and dom, wife and slut, master and slave. And yet until that wonderful moment, looking at Kara and knowing that I could do whatever I wanted to her, I never really knew myself as a dominant; it had always thrilled to surrender myself, to be used, even degraded; but now I felt the erotic delight of power, of domination, and knew that I’d found something deep in me, something new yet always there, waiting to be explored. To the limit. Where else?

I untied Kara, patted her aching rump, helped her find her knickers, and gave her a glass of red wine. Perched gingerly on the desk, looking teary-eyed and well-fucked, she was transformed: instead of her austere beauty and powerful presence, she seemed waif-like, soft, and vulnerable; and it was as though a weight had fallen from her shoulders, and she was able to relax, to let go at last. I knew that feeling well.

“Will you . . . do it to me again soon. .please?.” She was breathless; her eyes beseeched me. To hear Kara plead, to hear her beg for humiliation, sent a jolt of pure erotic joy through my body and my mind. Swiftly I effaced all trace of my delight from my face, and my voice when I replied had no trace of eagerness. So this is domination, I thought to myself . . . keeping power, wearing a mask, never showing uncertainty or weakness . . . never permitted to let go, as a sub can let go, of power and control and responsibility. Be it so, I said to myself. Although I yearned almost with desperation to whip her again . . . to take her further and find her limits, and then take her further again . . . I concealed my need and made her think I was doing her a favour, and I made my approval contingent on her compliance.

“On one condition.”

“Anything.” Her eyes were shining; she looked at me with adoration. I knew that look so well . . . on my own face as I gazed on my subjugator, the Master or Mistress who had newly broken me to their will.

“I want to do this to a man. The next man who comes to you asking to explore his submissive side, I want you to give him to me. For subjugation. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Kara replied. Power, I said to myself. I felt a savage new energy uncoil within me. Wonderful.

A week later Kara found me the perfect man. His name is Alex, he’s a powerful man in the city, a regular client who likes to fuck and spank Kara’s girls. One night Sheba had playfully pulled him across her lap and smacked him, and he was astonished by the thrill it gave him. Alex was fascinated; he had thought he knew all about himself, and this new impulse excited him. He and asked Kara to have dinner with him, and during the meal, asked her to accept him as one of her submissives.

“Perhaps… but only after you’ve been trained”, Kara told him, and then she called me. Without taking her eyes from his she keyed my number and then said into the phone:

“Emma? I’ve found you the perfect man . . .”

Alex is in the hotel room. He knows exactly what to expect; at dinner, Emma has already told him what she is going to do to him, and he has accepted it. He remembers her voice, light and warm, her low tone ensuring that her words did not carry to their sober-looking fellow diners. His foreknowledge, his acquiescence: both aspects of his surrender or power, of control, to a woman.

She has dictated every step of his initiation but his joy and delight tell him that this is what he wants. He is sick of the burden of power, of dominance, or wearing a mask; he wants to let go, to drift, to surrender control. He is tired of the weight of pride; he wants to be humbled, to be knocked from his pedestal, to experience indignity and be accepted. He wants to be free of all expectations, to throw away for a sweet while the rigid burden of masculinity. Being the man.

He waits for Emma and finds his eyes drawn to the objects on the table. There is a blindfold; a collar; a pair of handcuffs; a whip; a dildo; a tube of lubricating jelly. He imagines how they will be used on him. His throat tightens in expectation.

The bathroom door opens, and she enters. She is stunning, transformed, no longer his lovely, elegant dinner companion. Black boots, stockings, a garter belt, black knickers, a scarlet bustier. Her lovely blue eyes are warm but distant. He looks at her body, the long blond hair, wide, shapely shoulders, firm full breasts, slim waist, smooth thighs. He wants to take her, to fuck her; but this is a new situation, and suddenly he feels fear, delight, delicious uncertainty.

She looks at him. She is totally composed. He is afraid, not of pain and what his body will endure, but for the way his mind will be taken beyond its limits. he has used and dominated women all his life and now the boot is on the other foot. He finds that the fear excites him. He cannot wait. She makes him wait and he bows his head in patience.
When she speaks, her voice is firm, peremptory; he remembers such tones from women in his deep past and is reassured by the way his body and mind are instantly obedient.

“On your knees”

His dressing-gown falls open as he kneels before her.

“Hands behind your back.”

She steps behind him and he inhales her perfume as she snaps the cuffs on his hands; she reaches down and bares his arse, pulling the dressing-gown up and belting it at his waist. His cuffed hands and the chill of the air on his bum, his kneeling position . . . a tide of rebellion rises in him and then a tide of submission, surrender to being powerless. His cock rises . . . she moves around to face him and smiles, like the mask of a Goddess.

She stands before him, legs parted. He waits, kneeling. When she is certain that he has understood and accepted his situation, she walks to the table and takes the whip. It’s a cat of nine tails, each a thin braided leather strip.

“Bend over.”

His cuffed hands make it hard to bend and he doesn’t know what to do. He feels a thrill, too powerful to be a relief when she helps him by taking him gently by the hair and cupping his chin and guiding him down until his face is against the carpet. Something in him loves being woman-handled. And he feels so exposed; his fear is not of the pain but of what it means for him to be as he is now. Again she helps him to adjust, her hand stroking his flank, patting him as though he were a nervous horse, and then quickly flicking between his legs and caressing his balls; the shock and delight and intensity of his arousal makes him gasp, and she laughs. It’s the laugh that makes him relax; he feels the tension leave his body, his thighs loosen, his buttocks unclench, the knot in his stomach dissolving into a liquid glow of pleasure and excitement. She knows he’s ready; he feels that she can read his mind, and as the whip comes between his open thighs and lifts him gently for the first stroke, preparing his arse for her whip, he decides to surrender to her totally, to trust himself to her.

“Good boy”, she says, and then she lashes him; the whip falls stinging across his buttocks and he clenches against the pain and the shame; his prick is throbbing between his thighs and she takes it in her hands and strokes it, murmuring softly in his ear, gentling him.

“Easy now, it’ll be fine . . . Ready?” The whip is behind his balls again, tilting his arse upwards for the lash; he relaxes again.

This time she lashes him without pause, his arse is on fire and his mind is reeling with arousal and rage until the rage is gone and all he can think of is the pain and the delight and the love he feels for this woman, the fierce urge to be taken all the way, ravaged, possessed; as he has taken so many women before now.

She knows. The beating stops and the absence of pain is a delight, his gratitude to her and his desire to please her are an erotic force which he can taste and feel with his whole body. She strokes his buttocks and runs her hand into the muscular cleft of his arse, then along his anus, his perineum, and finally his aching balls, his stiff cock. The pleasure is so intense that he moans and swears, and she laughs, lightly, and smacks him playfully. He recognises another of the gestures he has used on his women in the past and the inversion of roles once more delights him. She lets him rest for a while, lets him wonder what she’s going to do to him next.

Then she takes him by the hair, her hand behind his neck, and draws his face towards her parted thighs. He sees the swell of her cunt in the tight black panties and then his face is crushed between her strong thighs and he can hardly breathe . . . when she parts her legs to release him he draws in a breath and his head swims, he is intoxicated by the sweet heady smell of her sex, of the juice of her wet cunt.

“Suck me, slave”. Once more his own instant, unthinking obedience thrills him. His body responds to her at once; his will is bypassed, and that is so sweet . . . his tongue probes the lace at her crotch and licks her through the fabric, then she reaches down and pulls it aside and he is inside her, probing her vagina, feeling her hands grip the back of his neck as he finds her clitoris and tongues her, then her shiver of delight as he runs his tongue as far as he can up her cunt, then back to her swollen clit again . . . suddenly she takes him by the hair and pulls his head back and looks down at him and he sees in her smiling eyes the lust he has inspired and her delight in her power over him. She lets him look.

“Not just yet, my sweet slave . . . let’s see how you like it.”

She puts her boot in his crotch and massages his balls . . . on the verge between pain and pleasure, he gasps with surprise . . . he feels her foot glide over his stiff cock and the urge to come, to turn delighted into ecstasy, release . . . then suddenly she stops and he kneels there gasping, so close, in an agony of arousal and frustration.

“You won’t be coming for a while yet . . . you used to take pleasure with your women . . . now you have to earn it . . . with service. Understand?” There is a smile in the voice, and a threat, and a deep satisfaction, almost vindication, as of the restoration of justice . . . in his mind he explores the newness of this and the feelings new and familiar and deeply buried and the excitement and sense of lightness, release, unburdening . . . and the arousal, so certain and absolute, a flood of desire copious, unforced.

“Yes . . . Mistress”

She smiles again at his compliance; over champagne in the bar an hour ago, she told had him how to address her.

“You’ll get used to it. Soon it’ll seem like the most natural thing in the world.”

Again her voice is soft, amused, caressing, with a hint of threat, as though she were another species to which he was subservient. As though this is not just what she is doing to him; as though this were what women do to men. Or would do, in a perfect world.

He remains on his knees before her, hands cuffed, head bowed, mind empty, pain ebbing into peace.


“I want you back here at the same time next week.” My voice is flat and peremptory. He is jerked out of fantasy abruptly and his natural inclination, to complain, to command, rushes back to him.

“What? This is ridiculous! Kara said . . . I wanted . . . “

I cut him off at once.

“I don’t give a damn what Kara said, or what you wanted. Go now, and unless you are here next week, you’ll never see me again. Do you understand?”

I watched his eyes and wondered whether he’d pass the test; whether he was clever enough to realize that only by coming back, by his own clear premeditated choice, could he prove to me and to himself that he had what it took to make his training worth continuing. Without consent, submission has no meaning. Myself a sub, I knew this intimately.

He dressed in silence and I watched him leave and wondered whether he’d be back; but only for a moment, and then the sheer delight of what I’d done to him swept over me, the joy of my new sexual being and the world of possibilities it revealed. I laughed out loud and as I poured myself a self-congratulatory glass of Barolo. I found myself looking forward to next week with fierce expectation. I couldn’t wait . . . so I decided not to. I reached for my iPhone.

“Kara? Hi. Fine. I want you over here now . . . . Now. I don’t care . . . you have 15 minutes. Good. Room 871. No knickers. You won’t be needing them.”

I put the phone down and looked at the distant sparkle of the lights on the far side of the park. Lady of all I surveyed.

(to be concluded)

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