The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (6 page)

It had been a long time since she’d worked with someone with such potential. What he lacked in discipline, and the lack, she thought a smile, was considerable, he more than made up for in enthusiasm. She’d felt the tremble of his body in her own limbs as the single tail marked his skin. A flush had moved over her own skin as she watched the sweat bead on his forehead and upper lip, his face twisted in agonized ecstasy when she’d tightened the stretcher over his balls.

Sylvie rubbed herself, her breath quickening. As she shifted in the tub, her wet breasts were exposed to the cool air, her nipples hardening. She closed her eyes, letting her fantasy bloom.

He is naked, his head thrown back, the tendons taut in his neck as he gasps with each fiery stroke of her whip. She feels the aching tug in her cunt each time she flicks the leather against his perfect body. He grips the chains above his bound wrists, his breath coming in ragged moans with each stroke of the whip. He is twisting, trying to avoid the lash, but she can see in his face that he wants it. He craves it as much as she does. They are partners, moving together, weaving in a timeless dance of pleasure and pain, give and take, conquest and surrender.

 Only when his body is covered in welts, his skin slick with sweat, his cock a rod of steel, does Sylvie drop the whip and lower herself to her knees in front of her slave boy. Cradling his hot, full balls in one hand, she slips her lips over the fat head of his pulsing cock, savoring the taste of his skin. With her other hand, she grips the base of his shaft, squeezing hard until he moans.

Lifting her head for a moment, she orders, “Don’t come. Don’t you dare come until I say so.” She licks and teases, stroking and suckling with all her skill and love, trying to force him to do the very thing she has forbidden.

When he groans, his hot, salty-sweet come erupting on her tongue, she pulls back laughing, a cruel throaty sound that he well knows means he’s in trouble.

 “
You will pay for that, slave. I will whip you until you’re raw. You will sleep in chains at my feet
.”
Owen sags in his chains, his cock slick with her kisses and his ejaculate, the blush rising on his cheeks as he realizes what he’s done.
It’s a trap she’s set many times before, one he always springs, defenseless against her touch. He is her darling naughty boy, always in need of strict punishment, the training never done.

She rubbed faster, her clit throbbing, her breath coming in small gasps. Her orgasm rushed at her like a wave with a wicked undertow, pulling her down into its vortex. Spent, she sank back in the cooling water, waiting for her heart’s thudding to subside.

After a few moments, she shook her hair from her face and leaned toward the faucet. She turned on the hot water and squirted a bit more of the fragrant oil into the tub. Reaching for her wine glass from the floor beside the tub, she took a long drink, draining the glass.

“Silly girl,” she murmured, shaking her head with a rueful smile. Yes, the man was handsome and yes, he had a natural submissive streak she was looking forward to developing in their sessions, but no, he was not her lover, not even a potential lover. He had served simply as a handy fantasy, a quick way to scratch an itch.

Nothing more.

~*~

“Details, dude. I want details. Was she worth the price?” Jerry took a big bite of his burger, his eyes fixed on Owen.

Owen winced, annoyed that Jerry had to bring up the money, though he wasn’t sure why this bugged him. He lifted his beer mug and sipped while he composed his thoughts. Setting down the glass, he admitted, “Well, she’s gorgeous, like you said. I get an instant hard-on the second I see her.”

“Always a plus, but what’s she like? Does she make you crawl around with a dildo shoved up your ass, squealing like a pig when she shocks you with a cattle prod and tells you you’re nothing but a sniveling, worthless worm?”

Owen laughed, shaking his head. “No, no way. I’m not into that humiliation shit.”

“You’re into whatever Mistress tells you you’re into,” Jerry rejoined with a sly wink. When Owen didn’t reply, Jerry prodded, “Okay, so what goes on? You’ve been to see her, what, twice now?”

“Yeah, and I have a session scheduled for this Friday. I can’t wait.” Owen took another swig of his beer, smiling at the thought of soon seeing the gorgeous and sexy Mistress Sylvie. After their last session, he’d barely been able to contain himself during the cab ride from the Village to his apartment on the Upper East Side. Moving in a daze past the doorman, he’d used his briefcase to hide the erection that refused to subside.

Once in his apartment, he hadn’t even bothered to take off his pants, instead just opening his fly and pulling out his hard, aching cock as he flopped onto the sofa.

Staring out at the Hudson but seeing only Mistress Sylvie, he’d stroked himself, too turned on to worry about the tender, abraded skin of his freshly-whipped cock and tortured balls. He’d come fast, jerking and shuddering as his jism shot onto the glass coffee table in front of the sofa.

“Jeeze, Owen, are you going to make me wheedle every sentence out of you?” Jerry’s impatient voice pulled Owen from his reverie. “Come on, spill the beans. I want to hear it all.”

Owen looked at Jerry, wondering at his own hesitation. Since college they’d always shared details about their love lives or lack thereof. Jerry had been his best friend and confidant during Owen’s protracted divorce to a woman he never should have married in the first place. Why was he hesitating now? This wasn’t even a relationship. It was just a business transaction, as Jerry had reminded him.

Shaking away his reticence, Owen leaned forward, talking softly though it was unlikely anyone would overhear them in the noisy, crowded sports bar. “It was fucking amazing. The first session she cuffed me to a St. Andrew’s Cross and worked me over pretty good with a single tail.” Owen left out the small detail of his premature ejaculation, nor did he disclose the anal probing. “The second time she used a wicked little cat o’ nine tails on my cock, after locking my balls in a steel ball stretcher.”

“I knew it!” Jerry crowed. “I knew you’d fucking love it. I can’t believe you waited this long to finally find out, Owen. Now admit it, is there
anything
more powerful or sensual than kneeling naked at your Mistress’s feet, your skin just aching with the need to feel her whip, her cane, her open hand?”

Owen sucked in his breath. “That’s it exactly, Jerry. The aching
need.”
He hugged himself, digging his fingers into his triceps, trying to control the physical longing Jerry’s words had engendered. “The sting of the leather woke something in me that I can’t stop thinking about,” he admitted. “The way she flicks her wrist, her eyes glittering as she whips me, her nipples like points under her sheer blouse, her hair flying—it’s like—it’s like, I don’t know. Like what I always dreamed heaven would be, I guess,” Owen finished, embarrassed to realize he was gushing.

Jerry gave Owen a long, appraising look. “It sounds to me like you’re not only smitten with the experience, but with the woman herself.”

Owen started reflexively to deny it but bit his lip instead. Jerry knew him too well. He shrugged unhappily. “I know that’s stupid. Someone that gorgeous is sure to be in a relationship. And anyway, she’s a pro. She’ll give me exactly what I pay for, and not a thing more.”

“Hey,” Jerry said, offering an encouraging smile. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing, especially at this point. You’re still exploring your kink and figuring out what works for you. There’s plenty of time for a romantic relationship down the road. Trust me on this.”

Owen nodded, though he wasn’t altogether sure he could separate his heart and mind so easily.

Jerry signaled the waitress for two more beers and returned his focus to Owen. “So what’s on the agenda for the next session? Do you get to, like, fill out an order form, checking off what you want?” Jerry held an imaginary pen in his hand, making check marks in the air. “Twenty licks with the riding crop—check. An over the knee bare-ass spanking—check. Nipple clamps—check. Pony whip stuck up the ass while permitted to worship Mistress’s pussy for hours—check.”

Owen laughed, pushing away the sudden, hot image of Mistress Sylvie naked and lying back on a bed, her legs spread, her luscious cunt exposed for Owen to lick and worship. He cleared his throat. “Uh, no. No checklist. Mistress Sylvie calls the shots. There was an interview process, and I did complete a detailed checklist about my likes, dislikes, hard limits and stuff like that, but no, during the actual sessions, she tells me what to do, and I do it.”

“Or else.” Jerry grinned.

“Yeah.” Owen snorted but then sobered. “No sex. You know the deal. She’s not a prostitute, she’s a pro Domme. She’s introducing me to submission. She’s testing my measure as a masochist. But like you pointed out up front. It all comes for a price.”

“
Comes
for a price. Good one, bro.” Jerry guffawed and Owen forced the grimace on his face to become a smile.

Chapter 5

Owen was surprised but pleased when the door was opened, not by Isabel, but by Mistress Sylvie herself. “Good afternoon, Owen,” she said in her pretty accent. “Isabel has the day off.” Mistress Sylvie was wearing form-fitting pants and a vest of smooth black leather. The leather looked so soft and inviting it was all Owen could do to keep from reaching out to stroke it. The tops of her creamy breasts were pressed together, creating a deep cleavage. Her feet were housed in the same black stilettos he’d been allowed to kiss at the end of their last session.

She turned away while Owen dropped his envelope onto the silver tray. “Follow me,” she said. But instead of leading him up the stairs, Mistress Sylvie led him past the sitting room and into the office where he’d first met her. Beside the desk stood a slender rod of black steel soldered to a flat platform base. It had what looked like ankle cuffs attached near the bottom of the rod, and at the top was a kind of vise apparatus with wing nuts on either side.

Mistress Sylvie leaned against a corner of the desk, her cool green eyes fixed on Owen. “You’re forgetting yourself. It doesn’t matter what room you are in. When you are in my presence, you are to be naked.”

Owen glanced anxiously at the open door. What if someone else were to come in? He looked back at Mistress Sylvie, who was tapping her foot and frowning. He would have to trust her. Owen reached for his tie, pulling it free. He stripped quickly, and knelt on the carpet in front of her, his cock already rising.

“Do you know what that is?” Mistress Sylvie pointed to the steel apparatus.

“No, Mistress.”

“It’s a cock and ball pillory,” she said. “It’s adjustable for the height of the user. The vise at the top is called a ball crusher, and with good reason.” Owen stared at the equipment with wide eyes. He began to sweat just looking at the damn thing. Was he really up for this? Could he handle it? Mistress Sylvie let her words sink in a moment before adding, “I think of it more as a little jail for your cock and balls. As long as you stay in position, it won’t hurt you. But if you move…” She let the sentence trail away.

Lifting herself from her position against the desk, Mistress Sylvie walked toward the device. Looking down at Owen, she asked, “Are you familiar with the term
predicament bondage
?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Owen replied, his heart lurching into gear.

“I find it’s an excellent training device. Teaches discipline and endurance. Puts you, what is the expression in English, between a rock and a hard place, yes?” She laughed a small, musical laugh, but her eyes were flashing. “However you move, or don’t move, has consequences. Get up. I’ll show you.”

Owen stood, his now fully erect cock leading the way as he approached the pillory. “Stand on the platform,” Mistress Sylvie directed. She crouched on the other side of the device. Adjusting the height of the cuffs by means of a small lever on the side of the rod, Mistress Sylvie closed the metal cuffs around Owen’s ankles and then adjusted the height of the pole, positioning the vise at the top so it was directly aligned with Owen’s cock and balls.

Gripping his shaft with one hand, his balls with the other, she pulled his genitals forward into the vise. “Don’t move,” she ordered.

Owen watched with nervous anticipation as Mistress Sylvie turned the wing nuts on either side, which slowly closed the metal vise until he was trapped, the metal bars pressing snuggly against the base of his cock on the top and beneath his balls on the bottom. It didn’t hurt as long as he stayed on the balls of his feet. Owen was strong, his legs toned from years of swimming and running, but he knew he couldn’t stay indefinitely in this position.

“Hands behind your back,” Mistress Sylvie ordered. She moved toward the desk and retrieved what Owen recognized as his leather cuffs from her dungeon. Moving to stand behind him, she cuffed his wrists at the small of his back, which forced his chest to thrust out so he was standing at military attention.

Mistress Sylvie sat at her desk, her eyes sweeping Owen’s naked body, lingering on his captured cock and balls in their ‘little jail’. Owen felt extremely vulnerable, at once ridiculous and deeply aroused in his precarious position.

“I have a few things I need to attend to,” Mistress Sylvie said, pulling a folder on the desk toward her. She reached for the pen that lay beside it and opened the folder. With a casual glance his way, she continued, “You will stand at attention until I’m ready for you. I won’t be too long.”

Though the room was cool, Owen felt a prickle of sweat at his armpits. He pulled lightly against his wrist cuffs and flexed his calves, though he remained on the balls of his feet. The vise was tight around his cock and balls, which pulsed and throbbed. He wondered how long he could stay in this position.

A passage from
The Story of O
came into his mind—when Sir Stephen is sitting at his desk, reading or on the phone, Owen couldn’t precisely recall, and he casually whips the naked O, who is bent naked across his desk, mostly ignored by him. Owen understood now, on a personal level, just what the author had described O as going through, at once humiliated and thrilled by the objectifying situation.