The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (3 page)

Mistress Sylvie solved his dilemma by reaching down and cradling Owen’s chin in her hand, forcing him to look up at her. She was staring down at him with an intense gaze. Owen almost fancied he could see bits of green fire sparking in the sea of her eyes. Her lips were full and lush, like ripe strawberries he wanted to taste. Even as this thought occurred to him, he knew it would never happen. Pro Dommes were not in the habit of kissing their clients, of that he was certain.

“Today will be an introduction—an exploration. For this session we will focus on sensation. The feel of being restrained, the sting of leather.” She let go of his chin and stepped back. “Stand up. I want to look at you.”

Owen stood, again resisting the urge to cover his cock and balls with his hands. Mistress Sylvie moved her eyes slowly over his body, her gaze frankly appraising. Owen wondered if she liked what she saw. Once upon a time he would have asked the question aloud. He knew better now and held his tongue.

Mistress Sylvie stroked her chin in contemplation, finally saying, “I think we’ll start with the cross. Come along.” She strode toward the large wooden cross that had been bolted into the wall. It was painted a shiny black and large O-rings were embedded at varying heights along the sides of the X.

Mistress Sylvie directed Owen to stand with his back against the cross. “I want you facing me so I can be sure you’re paying proper attention,” she instructed. “Wait here while I select your cuffs.”

Owen leaned against the cool, smooth wood of the cross while Mistress Sylvie went to the table of toys. She returned with two sets of leather cuffs wrapped in clear plastic. “These should fit you,” she said, slipping the first set from their protective sleeves. “Hold out your wrists.”

Owen did as he was told, aware there was no going back now, not that he wanted to. “These cuffs will be yours and yours alone,” Mistress Sylvie said. She wrapped the first cuff around his right wrist and pressed the small metal D-ring through the second of four slits cut into the leather. She attached one end of a double-sided clip to the D-ring to keep the cuff in place, and then did the same thing with the second cuff on his left wrist.

She nodded in approval as she looked at his cuffed wrists before sweeping his naked body with her penetrating gaze. “That suits you, Owen. Black leather and nothing else.” Her smile was cruel, her eyes glittering. “Extend your arms high against the cross,” she ordered, and again Owen did as he was told, aware his cock was rising as well. Standing on tiptoe, Mistress Sylvie reached up and clipped Owen’s cuffed wrists into place against the top O-rings on either side of the cross, stretching his arms taut. Owen bit his lip to keep the moan of pure lust that threatened to erupt from being audible.

“Lift your foot and place it on my knee,” Mistress Sylvie ordered, the second pair of cuffs now out of their plastic sleeve.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Mistress Sylvie wrapped a cuff around each ankle and then directed Owen to spread his legs against either side of the cross. Kneeling, she clipped the ankle cuffs into place, one at a time.  His cock was throbbing by the time she was done shackling his ankles to the base of the cross.

Standing again, Mistress Sylvie leaned close to Owen, so close he could smell her perfume, something spicy and exotic. He was keenly aware of his nakedness as her leather-covered breasts brushed against his bare chest. She put her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Are you ready to suffer for me, slave Owen?”

An involuntary shudder moved through Owen’s frame. “Yes, Mistress Sylvie ,” he said, though it came out only as a whisper.

Mistress Sylvie stepped away, this time going to the whip rack, from which she extracted a long-handled riding crop dyed the same color as her ruby-painted lips. Returning to Owen, she lifted the crop as if to strike him and he winced involuntarily, his heart suddenly leaping into his throat.

But instead of smacking him with the leather flap, she drew it teasingly over his bare chest, dragging it down his torso and stopping just above his bobbing cock. “I’m going to begin with the crop. I will start lightly and keep going while I learn about your body and your reactions. If at any point the pain becomes too much or you just need me to slow down, or even stop, you tell me, okay?”

“You mean like a safeword?”

Mistress Sylvie nodded. “I don’t really go in for what you Americans call the safeword, because in my experience, more often than not when one is really at the point where a safeword is needed, one doesn’t always have the presence of mind to recall
pickle
or
lemon drop
or whatever other cute little term one has chosen.” She began to tap his skin lightly with the crop, moving it over his chest and abdomen in a steady smacking rhythm. 

“I should tell you,” she continued, shifting her focus to his thighs, “it’s very rare that anyone gets to that point with me in a session where they feel the need of a safeword, because I pay attention. I’m as aware of what you’re experiencing as you are, in some cases even more aware, because I don’t have the fog of lust or endorphins confusing the issue.”

She drew the leather slapper in a circle around Owen’s erect shaft and lightly tapped his balls, making him jerk in his restraints. “So, as I was saying…” Mistress Sylvie smacked the side of his cock and again Owen jerked, drawing a sudden sharp breath. “You don’t need a specific word. You just talk to me, okay? And if you aren’t in a position to speak, open and close your hand, like this.” She demonstrated, closing her free hand into a fist and then opening it again. “Is that clear, slave Owen?”

Just as he started to say, “Yes, Mistress,” she struck him suddenly, a sharp sting to his left nipple. “Ah!” he ended up shouting instead, as much from surprise as pain. She struck his right nipple even harder and Owen bit his lip to keep from shouting a second time.

“I asked a question…” Mistress Sylvie continued to smack him with the crop while Owen struggled to catch his breath.

“Yes, Mistress Sylvie. Yes!”

“You feel the pain, and it hurts, and yet it’s perfect, is it not? It’s as if your skin has been asleep, and now suddenly it’s awake, wildly awake, every nerve tuned and sharpened, waiting to be played like a musical instrument. You’ve been silent all this time, your whole life, waiting to be taught how to sing your pleasure and your pain.”

Mistress Sylvie’s voice was lilting, her accent adding music to the poetic words, but beneath the poetry was a truth that resonated with something deep inside Owen’s soul.

Yes, he’d been waiting, all his life, for this—precisely this.

Again, do it again.

The Domme complied with his silent wish, cropping every inch of available skin, though she avoided his bobbing cock and aching balls. The cropping hurt, and yet it didn’t. Or rather, it hurt, but the pain wasn’t anything like stubbing your toe or bumping your head. There was a fierce sweetness to the pain, a pleasure so sharp and strong it took his breath away.

“Is it good, Owen? Is it what you hoped for? What you dreamed of?” Mistress Sylvie’s voice was a low, sensual purr.

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered devouring with his eyes the beautiful imperious woman standing before him, eyes flashing, hair flying as she cropped him. “God, yes.”

A part of him wanted to be let down from the cross. He wanted to push Sylvie Dubois to her knees and thrust his rigid shaft deep into her throat. He wanted to take her into his arms and kiss that luscious mouth. Mentally he shook his head at these thoughts. They were not lovers. She was being paid to do this, and there were boundaries neither would cross.

Owen closed his eyes, letting the sensation of stinging leather mingle with the thrill of the cuffs holding him fast against the smooth wood. He was naked and fully restrained, at the mercy of an incredibly sexy woman who didn’t question his need for this. On the contrary, she understood completely.

“I’m going to increase the intensity now, slave Owen. Are you ready for that?”

Owen swallowed and nodded, hastily adding, “Yes, Mistress,” when she started to frown.

“Yes, you are,” she pronounced. “And so—” Without warning, Mistress Sylvie smacked the head of Owen’s cock with the crop.

“Ah!” Owen shouted, as pain exploded through his nerve endings. He could have said
stop
. He could have said,
enough!
But Owen said nothing more. He felt sweat beading along his forehead and upper lip. He was clenching his hands into fists and his heart was going mad in his chest.

“Good boy,” Mistress Sylvie murmured, leaning close, the intoxicating scent of her perfume again reaching his nostrils. She brushed her lips over his cheek, the movement so light and quick that he wondered if he’d only imagined it.

Stepping back, she began to smack his inner thighs with sharp, stinging blows. “Slow your breathing,” she said, though she didn’t stop hitting him. The crop moved past his rigid shaft, landing instead on his stomach. “Take in a breath and exhale it slowly.” Owen tried to obey, drawing the air into lungs that felt constricted by his wildly beating heart.

“That’s better. In…and out. In…and out. Yes.” The flat of the crop struck his nipple again, even harder than before. Owen winced. His balls felt tight and he could feel sweat rolling down his sides. He expelled air in a long, shuddering breath and was suddenly aware his body was shaking.

Mistress Sylvie set the crop down for a moment and drew her hands softly over Owen’s torso. “Shh,” she murmured as she stroked him, drawing light circles with her fingers over his heated, stinging skin. “You can do this. I know you can.”

It wasn’t a question and Owen didn’t answer, but he knew she was right. He could do this. Not only that, he wanted to do this. He never wanted it to stop. He felt as if he could stay here forever, bound in leather cuffs, spread eagle against the wall while this beautiful, sexy woman worked her magic on him until time itself stopped.

Mistress Sylvie dragged the leather tag of the riding crop lightly over his stomach, drawing it in a teasing circle around his raging erection before sliding it up his body. She slapped at his biceps with the crop.

“You’re strong,” she said. “I like that.” She smacked him harder, the blows like tiny leather bees up and down his arms and along both sides of his body.

Finally she set the crop down and reached up to unclip Owen’s wrist cuffs.
No!
he wanted to shout.
Don’t stop. Not now. Not ever.
But somehow he managed to keep his mouth shut. Had the hour already passed? Could it be possible? He’d have to get ninety minutes next time.

But instead of telling him to get dressed, she said, “Turn toward the wall and assume the same position against the cross. We’re not done.”

Owen’s gratitude must have shown in his face, because Mistress Sylvie laughed, shaking her head. “Greedy boy. Go on. Do as you’re told.”

Owen did, lifting his arms high and allowing himself to be cuffed into place. She knelt behind him, her hair brushing his bare legs as she leaned to cuff his ankles to the base of the cross. Owen’s erect cock was caught between the intersecting midpoint of the cross and his body, pressing hard against his belly. He turned his head so his cheek was resting against the cool wall. He could feel his heart, still beating fast and high in his chest.

“We’re going to use this for your ass and back.” Mistress Sylvie held up a flogger for Owen to see. The handle was tightly braided in a red and black checkered pattern, the dozen or more tresses hanging from it made of black leather.

Just looking at the flogger made Owen’s cock go even more rigid, if that was possible. He could see Mistress Sylvie in his peripheral vision. With a flick of her wrist the leather tresses of the flogger made contact with Owen’s ass. He jerked forward, the wood of the cross rubbing against his shaft as he moved.

She struck again, harder this time. The pain was more diffuse, easier to take than the crop, which landed in such a concentrated area. But to make up for this, she hit him harder, the leather tresses flying, some of the tips curling cruelly around his side, the skin of which was already tender from the crop.

She flogged his ass, his thighs, his back and his shoulders. With each blow his cock was pressed against the wood and he realized he was inches, seconds, away from shooting his load.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, his hands clenching into fists as he fought the familiar tug in his balls that signaled an impending orgasm. Maybe she didn’t realize what she was doing, or maybe she did, but Mistress Sylvie didn’t stop. If anything, she struck him harder, focusing on his burning ass, forcing his body against the wooden cross with each stroke.

She struck him again and again, and yet again, a rain of stinging leather slapping against his ass, punctuated by his own involuntary grunting, pulled from a place deep within him.

“You
need
this pain. You were born to this, weren’t you, boy?”

Owen couldn’t answer, unless his gasping grunts could be considered a reply. He was doing everything he could to keep the jism pulsing up through his shaft from erupting against the wooden cross. All at once he felt her moving close behind him, her leather-clad breasts touching his back, strong fingers kneading his welted ass.

He couldn’t help it. Her nearness, her touch, her scent, his burning skin, the leather cuffs tight around his wrists and ankles, the vulnerability of his position—it all conspired to send him over the edge, helpless against the torrent of his orgasm, which was as powerful as any he could remember. He felt the gush, and his body shuddered in its aftermath as he sagged in his cuffs and struggled to catch his breath.

He felt the cool air on his back. Mistress Sylvie had stepped back. She said something in rapid French and gave a small, trilling laugh. “Oh dear, dear, dear,” she continued in English. “Do you know what happens to slave boys who come without permission?”

Owen felt his face scalding and he closed his eyes. He could feel the sticky ejaculate against his stomach and found himself wishing he could disappear. But bound as he was, he wasn’t going anywhere. Not only that, she had asked him a direct and very embarrassing question.