The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (5 page)

Mistress Sylvie continued to stroke his balls, her touch achingly sensual. Owen drew in several shuddering breaths, praying he didn’t come from her touch. He closed his eyes, willing the rush of sexual energy zinging through his cock and balls to subside. He sighed in relief when she finally stepped back, letting him go.

Mistress Sylvie began to walk around him, moving with the slow, easy grace of a panther assessing its prey. Owen felt her fingers grazing his ass cheeks. “Spread your legs,” she commanded, while at the same time lightly kicking the inside of his ankle with the pointed toe of her shoe. Owen shifted as ordered, which increased the tension on his wrists as the cuffs pulled hard against the chains that bound him.

He heard Mistress Sylvie moving away from him. When she returned to stand in front of him, she held out her hand. “Do you know what this is?” Owen looked at the thick, hinged silver ring that rested on her open palm. It had an eyebolt soldered on either side.

“No, Mistress,” he replied, afraid to even speculate.

“It’s a hinged ball stretcher. It fits nice and snug. Here, I’ll show you.” Grasping his balls in one hand, she pulled down on them and wrapped the cold metal ring around the loose skin above his testicles, snapping it into place. The fit was tight and Owen could feel his balls swelling beneath it. His cock was instantly erect at his predicament, but Mistress wasn’t done.

Leaving him, she returned a moment later with several teardrop shaped lead fishing weights with small hooks at the top. As she attached them to the eyebolts on either side of the ball stretcher, Owen groaned at the painful tug on his balls.

Reaching behind herself, Mistress Sylvie produced a steel-handled whip she must have tucked into the waist at the back of her skirt. Owen recognized it as a cat-o’-nine tails, the leather tails knotted on the ends. It was small, the handle maybe five inches long, the leather tails about seven inches.

“Meet the stinger.” Mistress Sylvie drew the leather tresses over Owen’s chest. “I use this solely to punish naughty cocks.” She brushed the leather tails down his abdomen and flicked them lightly against his rigid cock.

Her nipples were erect, tenting the sheer silk of her blouse. Owen’s mouth actually watered with longing to lick and suckle at her breasts.

Mistress Sylvie cupped Owen’s bulging, aching balls, which were trapped beneath the wide steel ring. “Are you prepared to suffer for me?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he breathed, his eyelids fluttering shut.

“Open your eyes,” she commanded. “You will focus on what is happening to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Owen’s eyes were fixed on hers, his heart smashing against his sternum.

“Count for me. Ten lashes on your naughty cock.”

The first sting of the knotted leather made contact with the base of his cock, sending sparks of pleasure-pain through Owen’s groin.

“One,” Owen managed.

“Louder.” She struck harder, the knotted tips of the cat catching the underside of Owen’s shaft.

“Two!” he grunted.

She struck harder still, leaving a trail of stinging fire over the sensitive, taut skin of Owen’s cock. He managed to keep count as the whip made painful contact with every inch of his cock and constrained balls, calling out the numbers with each stinging blow.

When the knotted leather struck the head of his cock, he cried out, forgetting to count as his jerking body caused the weighted ball stretcher to tug painfully on his scrotum.

“That’s two extra,” Mistress Sylvie said.

Owen could feel the sweat under his arms and at the small of his back as she struck him again and again. His cock was on fire, his balls throbbing, and yet, through it all, his erection never flagged. He was at once in heaven and in hell, the pain almost too much to bear, the pleasure exquisite. The dichotomy of sensation left him dizzy, not sure whether to cry or to come.

Finally Owen gasped out, “Twelve.” His hair, normally neatly combed over to one side, had fallen into his eyes. Sweat covered his body. His chest was heaving and he realized he was trembling. He would have sunk to his knees if he hadn't been held up by the chains dangling from the ceiling beam. And yet, through it all, his cock remained hard as steel.

 He sagged in his bonds as Mistress Sylvie unhooked the weights from the ball stretcher and then removed the apparatus itself from his aching scrotum. When she released his wrist cuffs, he dropped to his knees, though his cock remained fiercely, achingly erect.

Mistress Sylvie reached down, pushing the wet, matted hair from Owen’s eyes. “You took that very well, slave Owen. I am excited by your masochistic potential as well as your willingness to suffer for me.”

Owen looked up into Mistress Sylvie’s beautiful face, a hot, sweet rush of pride shooting through him. “I think you deserve a reward for your submission today, Owen.” Mistress Sylvie smiled down at him, and Owen couldn’t stop his own answering smile.

Was she going to let him come? He would kneel at her feet and jerk himself off. He would spurt into his hand and not let a drop spill. His cock twitched, his balls tight and heavy.
Oh, please, oh, please, let me come, Mistress,
he begged silently.

Mistress Sylvie pointed toward her shoes. “For your reward, you may kiss my feet.” She fixed Owen with a penetrating look that dared him to refuse.

Owen bit his lip, all sorts of emotions tumbling over themselves in his head. His cock still raging, he bent until his head was nearly to the ground. When he pressed his lips to the soft, shiny leather of Mistress Sylvie’s shoe, something seemed to crack inside his heart—a kind of seismic shift that sent a rush of warmth through his limbs.

He forgot his aching cock and balls as he licked and kissed his Mistress’s feet, losing himself in the task. It felt so good—so
right
—to be on his knees like this, naked and worshipping this goddess standing before him.

When he felt her hand on his head, he lifted his face toward her, the rolling chant that had been running like a sweet, warm river in his mind escaping into words.

“Thank you, Mistress. Thank you.”

Chapter 4

Sylvie picked up the glass of Chardonnay and sipped it absently as she stared at the television screen. Bogey was lecturing Ingrid Bergman about staying with the right man, reminding the teary-eyed girl that they’d always have Paris.

Absurdly, a single tear rolled down Sylvie’s cheek. “Idiot,” she said aloud, laughing at herself. Since when had she become a sentimental fool? Flicking off the movie, Sylvie stood up from the sofa, surveying her small living room with her usual satisfaction.

The first two floors of her Greenwich Village townhome were devoted to the business and were decorated accordingly—modern, with leather and chrome, the focus on the dungeons, with their state-of-the-art BDSM furniture and gear.

But this third floor was her home, off limits to clientele. In the five years since she’d moved to New York, Sylvie had worked hard to make the place her own, focusing on harmony and balance, and the use of light and airy spaces to make the area seem bigger than it was. She was happy with what she’d done, bringing a flavor of the French countryside where she’d been raised, including the natural wood antique armoire, the deep-cushioned sofas and chairs upholstered in soft pastels, and the functional but welcoming kitchen with its buttery yellow walls, terracotta tiled floor and the wrought iron chandelier hung over the round oak table that easily seated six.

Sylvie's cell phone chirped and vibrated against the sofa cushion where she’d left it. Bending down, she retrieved the phone and read the screen:
Chloé Martin.

“Chloé!
Comment
ça
vas?
” Sylvie easily slipped into her native French. “Is everything okay?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you! I had a premonition that told me to call.”

Sylvie laughed fondly, if with a touch of exasperation. Her best friend since they were five, Chloé fancied herself a psychic, tuned in to the secret vibrations of the universe, and most especially those of her family and friends. The funny thing was, she was right more often than not.

“What is it there, five in the morning? Are you nuts?” Sylvie scolded.

“It’s six, which means it’s midnight in New York and high time you were in bed, young lady,” Chloé retorted.

Sylvie laughed again, settling back onto the couch and reaching for her glass of wine. She had always been a night owl to Chloé’s early bird. Many an evening over the years had been passed with Chloé struggling to stay awake to attend one more party or see the end of the late movie on television, while Sylvie was dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour by her best friend to watch the spectacular sunrise or get an early start to the beach.

“I was fast asleep and you woke me,” Sylvie teased.

“Uh huh, right.” Chloé knew better. Once Sylvie fell asleep, it took a lot more than a ringing cell phone to wake her.

“Seriously, though, what is this premonition of yours? I hope it’s not about me. It makes me nervous when you dig around in my psyche.”

“I don’t dig, Sylvie,” Chloé countered, a hint of reproach in her voice. “You know that. It comes to me. I had a feeling. I had it last night and since it was still here when I woke, I thought I’d better call.”

“Well, no one I know has died. I’m not getting married and I didn’t win the lottery, so what is it this time? Am I going to be elected president?”

“You tease me, but you know I’m right more often than not.”

“Okay, I admit it. So what did your premonitions tell you about me?”

“That you’ve found someone!” Chloé crowed triumphantly. “A man.
L'homme idéal
.
Now, you must tell me all about him.”

Sylvie laughed again. “Sorry, Chloé. You got your psychic wires crossed this time. There’s no one new.”

“Oh.” Sylvie could hear the ripe disappointment in just the one word. “Are you sure?

Sylvie grinned, shaking her head, though Chloé couldn’t see her. “Yes, of course I’m sure,
chérie.
When I find the man of my dreams, you will be the first to know.”

They talked a while longer about family and friends in France, and Sylvie's life in New York. Though Chloé lived a vanilla lifestyle, she knew about and accepted Sylvie's particular bent and career choice.” As they talked, Sylvie found herself thinking about Chloé’s reason for calling.

The ideal man. Sylvie had been sure Jacques was that man, and look how that had turned out. As if reading her mind, Chloé suddenly asked, “Have you heard from Jacques lately?”

Jacques. Just his name was still enough to cause a stab of pain in Sylvie's heart, though it had been over three years since their parting. Jacques’ betrayal had torn something inside of Sylvie she wasn’t sure would ever fully heal. Refusing to go there, Sylvie f
orced brightness into her tone and quipped, “Who?”

“Ha ha, okay, sorry,” Chloé said. “Well, I’ve kept you up long enough. I’ll talk to you soon.”

After they hung up, Sylvie walked into her bedroom, moving past the blond wood four poster bed toward the bathroom, a replenished glass of wine in her hand. She turned on the faucet in the free standing lion-clawed bathtub, added some lime blossom bath oil to the water.

As she stripped, she caught sight of herself in the full length bathroom mirror. At thirty-four, her body was still supple and strong, in part thanks to a daily regime of running and lifting weights, in part due to good genes. Her breasts remained high and firm, her legs still shapely. She understood her body was part of the package, part of the fantasy she sold to her clients.

She smiled as she thought of Chloé, who called every few months to warn Sylvie she wasn’t getting any younger. Married for sixteen years to her high school sweetheart and with four children to boot, Chloé couldn’t understand why Sylvie hadn’t married Jacques, or rushed out immediately after he’d left to find someone new.

As she climbed into the steaming, fragrant water, Sylvie sighed with pleasure. So she was alone. So what? Being alone did not necessarily equate with being lonely. Sylvie had friends, interests and a very lucrative and satisfying career. Early on she had made and kept her promise to herself to keep business and pleasure absolutely separate, and so far this policy had worked well for her.

It was sometimes difficult to keep one’s emotions out of the equation, as the relationship between Domme and sub, even in a pro dungeon, was by its nature so intimate. Yet Sylvie prided herself on never letting her own emotions get in the way of giving her clientele what they needed. She kept meticulous notes on each client, writing in their dossier after each session, noting their likes and dislikes, fears and desires. She would read her notes in preparation for the next session, paying attention to their reactions and body language so she could continue to give them what they needed.

As she soaked, Sylvie focused on letting her mind empty. As he still sometimes did, especially late at night, Jacques slipped unwelcome into her consciousness, his memory reawakened by Chloé’s questions. It was ironic that Sylvie had followed Jacques to the States, only to have him be the one to return to Europe, taking her heart along with him, or so she’d thought at the time. What was Jacques doing now? Was he married? Did he wear another woman’s collar?

The hot, silky water sluiced over Sylvie's body as she crooked one leg over the side of the tub. Arching her hips upward, she dropped her hand to her cunt, moving oil-slicked fingers over her labia. She closed her eyes, waiting for the image of Jacques to slip into her mind—with his scruffy ginger beard, his penetrating, soulful blue eyes and his ready smile.

To her surprise another image appeared, light brown hair streaked with sun-kissed blond. He had good bones with a strong jaw and chin. His eyes were almond shaped, brown with an undertone of green, as if they’d meant to be the deep color of forest ferns, and then at the last minute changed their minds. He was maybe five foot ten, his body lean and strong, the yearning in his face puppy-dog sweet.