Mastering Submission Ch. 20


In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the “wicked” witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe’s narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.


I stood outside Master’s flat at 6:15 a.m., knowing that Master still would be tucked up in his big bed, sleeping soundly, as he was when I quietly left his flat, just after midnight, leaving my little slave bed neatly made and empty for the first time in a year. I left behind all the beautiful clothes Master had bought for me (including the Donna Karan jacket he had replaced after slicing up the one I owned), and wondered if Master would notice or if he would just go about replacing me.

The doorbell rang for a minute, with no response, so I just kept applying my finger to the bell, ringing and ringing away, pressing my body up against the front door of the flat so that I could not be seen, should Master glance out of the windows.

I was not surprised that, after a year of not having to answer his own door, Master jerked the door open with anger, bellowing, “What the hell!”

Once Master’s eyes adjusted to the morning’s brilliant sunlight, Master was able to see that, there on the pavement, I stood, my little Delsey suitcase on the pavement by my side, dressed in the same cheap fawn outfit I was wearing in that Underground train a year before.

“Good Morning, Sir,” I said with a curtsey. “I’m looking for work. Do you have any vacancies?”

Master paused for a moment, and replied, “As it happens, I do have a position for a whore.”

“That sounds very interesting, Sir,” I responded. “What does the work entail?”

“Being beaten, fucked and buggered,” Master replied. “You’ll have to give tongue baths and suck cock. And there will be a little light housework and groveling.”

“I think I’ll be able to manage that, Sir,” I said.

“There are additional duties, too,” Master continued. “You will be expected to love the master of the house with all your heart, and be loved by him in return.”

Suddenly there were tears in my eyes, and my voice took on a strange quality. “How much will I earn?” I asked.

“Fuck all,” Master replied. “Last year the job paid very well, but things are different now. You’ll be expected to do all that for nothing but an occasional mouthful of sperm.”

“Those terms are most generous, Sir,” I said.

“You accept, then?” Master asked.

“Most gratefully and humbly, Sir,” I replied. And this time, even though there were people about in the street on their way to work, I knelt down without being told to and kissed Master’s bare feet.

Master looked down at me, and said, “You bitch! You decided all this long ago, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” I admitted with a smile.

“I’ll make you suffer for putting me through all that,” Master promised.

“Oh, Master, I hope so,” I replied.

And that is how it has been ever since. Each year on the morning of the second of November I knock on Master’s front door and apply for my contract to be renewed. After a little ceremony, the words of which never change, Master drags me inside, and beats and fucks me. Then I sign a new contract, and another year of loving pain begins.

By this time, I thought I knew Master, and I thought Master knew me.

I was utterly wrong on both counts.

Master planned our evening so carefully, buying a luxurious but easy-to-prepare meal of dressed crab, ready-made salad, and a cream gateau, with pink champagne in the fridge. Master had Spohr’s Clarinet Concerto, sophisticated, yet unfamiliar, playing quietly in the background throughout our lovely meal.

When I was sitting comfortably in the main room sipping after-dinner coffee, Master dropped on one knee and said, “Rebecca, I love you. Marry me.”

I was startled enough to respond, “Don’t be silly. Masters don’t marry slaves.” “They do,” Master countered. “Fuckpuppet is married to Dave.”

“Really?” I asked.

“I thought you knew,” Master said. “They’ve got two kids.”

“But how do they arrange,” I began to ask.

“Dave is well-off, you know,” Master said. “They’ve got a big house, and the main play room has one-way video links to both the kids’ bedrooms. If either of them wakes up in the middle of a scene, they break it off at once.”

“But those parties,” I persisted.

“The kids sleep over with Fuckpuppet’s parents,” Master explained. “Not that Grandpa and Grandma know what’s going on: they’re just obliging. Several of the couples we see at parties are married.”

Master took my hand, and asked, “Well, what do you think?”

“About what?” I asked.

“About marrying me, of course,” Master said. “Marry me and make me the happiest Sahabet man on earth.”

“How can you want to marry someone you despise?” I asked.

“I don’t despise you at all,” Master said.

“But you spit on me,” I persisted.

“The fact that I beat you does not mean I do not respect you,” Master said, with a look of puzzlement on his face. “Nothing could be further from the truth. It takes strength to accept pain and humiliation. The ability to wait patiently for a beating takes a rare kind of courage. If you can withstand a barrage of insults that would make me want to curl up and die, that just shows you are stronger than me. When you ask me to hurt you, it is because you are honest enough to admit what you want. I admire you. I envy you. I love you.”

“That’s nice,” I said with a little sigh. “Marriage is a big step, though. I’ll need time to think.”

Master sipped his coffee, “How much thinking time will you need?” Master asked.

“I’ve thought,” I said harshly, “And I’m sorry, Martin, but I cannot marry you.” “‘Cannot?'” Master exclaimed. “What do you mean, ‘cannot’? Are you already married? Have you decided to become a nun? Has living with Sally turned you into a lesbian?”

“None of those things,” I replied, “but I won’t marry you.”

“Why not?” Master asked.

“I can’t tell you,” I said; “I won’t tell you.”

“Tell me,” Master ordered.

I bit my lip, and then replied, “No.”

“That’s not on,” Master said. “When I laid down the rules at the beginning of all this, I made it clear that you had to be honest with me. A slave can put a stop to a relationship any time she wants, but she has to say why.”

“Did you ask me to marry you as a slave, or as a woman?” I asked.

“Both,” Master replied. “I want you to be my beautiful bondage bride. You don’t have to accept, but if you don’t, you must give me the reasons.”

This edict was followed by a long pause. “No,” I said, “I won’t tell you.”

“Explain, and I won’t bother you again,” Master insisted.

“Please, Martin, don’t ask,” I begged.

“But I love you,” Master said desperately. “And you love me. I’ve heard you say so a dozen times.”

“Only when I had your cock in my mouth,” I said, “only when you were holding a whip.”

“Tell me you don’t love me then,” Master ordered.

I did not reply.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Master’s voice was growing shrill. “I laid down the rules for our relationship. You agreed they were fair, and you accepted them. And now you’re going back on everything. Tell me why you won’t marry me, or I’ll beat you till your soul cries out for release.”

I shook my head.

I cowered back as Master seemed to explode in white fury, shaking with rage.

“You bitch!” Master shouted, “you stupid, selfish bitch!” Master got to his feet and grabbed me by the hair, and forced me to the ground.

I screamed, and it was a new kind of sound: not a slave being taken to the limit of her endurance, but a woman in terror.

Master was deaf to my cries. Master dragged me towards the door on hands and knees. In my heart, I believed that Master knew what he was doing was wrong, and refusing to believe that Master was powerless to stop himself. I struggled, hanging onto doorframes and banisters as Master dragged me by brute strength up the stairs. Master went as fast as he could, bashing my knees on the stairs, driven on by the necessity of getting me into the soundproofed Music Room before the neighbors heard my yells for help.

Half a dozen pigeons on the windowsill outside the Music Room scattered as if afraid they might be hurt, too. Even as terrified as I was by the way Master was behaving, I took note that, outside, people were scurrying about, hats pulled down, umbrellas up, cars with wipers going, with no knowledge of this room or the terrible drama being acted out inside it.

“Please, Master,” I begged. Don’t, Martin. Please.”

“Tell me what I want to know, or shut the fuck up,” Master bellowed.

“Parsnips!” I shrieked, really frightened.

“Shut up, bitch!” Master hissed, “If you can break the rules, then so can I.”

Master punched me in the solar plexus: my mouth gaped open, and my eyes stared forward in shock and surprise. For a minute I was too rigid to be moved, my arms and legs solid with paralysis. Master took the opportunity to buckle leather restraints round my wrists, then as life returned to my leaden limbs Master lifted me up and hung me from the hook in the ceiling. At least, Master managed to hang the left arm securely, but I was getting my breath back, and fought with all my strength to stop Master chaining up my right arm.

All my strength wasn’t enough.

Master kicked the door closed and dragged the curtains across to blot out the normal world from view. Then Master turned the lights on full and looked at me. “This is your last chance,” Master told me. “Answer my question, or take the consequences.”

“Let me down, Sahabet Giriş you bully,” I gasped.

“Is that your answer?” Master asked.

“Parsnips,” I said. “That’s my answer.”

“Forget parsnips,” Master said. “I am giving you a new safe word — a whole lot of words. I will stop torturing you when you tell me why you will not marry me.” Master stepped forward, and went on, “Don’t make me hurt you, Rebecca. Tell me what I want to know.”

I kicked Master in the balls.

Master staggered back into one of the vises on the bench by the window, and then sat down with a thud on the floor. Even before the noise of Master’s arse hitting the floor had faded, I was saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again.

Master stood up, and said, “I don’t mind you hurting me. Well, I do. But not as much as I mind you not saying why you won’t marry me.”

“It’s none of your business,” I said with resignation.

Master knelt behind me and strapped my ankles to a spreader bar. Master took out his lock-back knife and cut the clothes off me, leaving them where they fell, then picked up a whip and lashed out at my arse.

When Master paused for breath, an agonizing, eternal fifteen minutes later, the whip was broken in his hand. Master discarded the whip, and then reached into the equipment case and took out his lock knife and held the blade to my right nipple.

“Tell me,” Master insisted

“No,” I replied.

Master held the knife to my throat, and repeated, “Tell me.”

“No,” I responded.

Master swapped the knife for a dressage whip, a truly awesome weapon that had no business ever coming near human skin. The other beatings Master had given me in this room were nothing to what I was getting now. It was not erotic whipping, it was just whipping. Master stepped forward, lashing my thighs, breaking my spirit. Half an hour later, Master was dripping with sweat, and the reflections in the mirrors throughout the room made my condition all too clear. My shoulders were covered in red and purple marks, my breasts criss-crossed with welts, the curves of my arse a horrible dimpled confusion of welts and bruises, oozing blood in a few places.

Master dropped the whip, took my face in his hands and kissed me, tasting tears.

“Tell me,” Master begged me, desperate to avoid inflicting any more pain.

“All right,” I said. “I give in.

Master could not do enough for me then. Master unhooked me and laid me gently on the floor, where he gathered me into his arms. As Master held my sobbing body, Master was crying, too.

Master unclipped my wrist and ankle straps, the skin beneath them pale and unbruised, like the marks left when you have been wearing a watch in the sun. They say there’s nobody as kind as a good master. Well, Master had proved them wrong – his beating had spread onto the forbidden areas over the kidneys and the backs of the knees.

“Tell me,” Master said. Tender, but still insistent.

And it all came out.

“It’s my brother,” I began. “He died when I was nineteen, of Muscular Dystrophy. It’s a terrible disease. Do you know anything about it?”

Master shook his head.

“It was dreadful,” I went on. “It wasn’t just what it did to Philip, it was how it affected Mom and Dad. They had to watch him getting worse day after day, having to get that wasted body into action every morning, knowing there was no hope.”

Master took my hand.

“It was especially tough on Dad,” I went on. “He put his heart and soul into it, collecting money for a special Muscular Dystrophy charity, organising holidays so Philip could see a bit of the world. I remember Dad taking us to Disney World, and the pilot letting us go onto the flight deck. They do that sort of thing when children are dying. After Philip died, Dad sort of lost the plot for a bit.”

I shuddered. “He had a stroke six weeks after the funeral. Only a small one, but he’s never been the same. He came back from the hospital looking like somebody else altogether. He still does, a bit. He still sounds like my dad most of the time, but he drifts off sometimes when you’re talking to him.” I paused for a moment, lost in thought. “Anyway,” I said, rousing myself, “when I was fourteen, the family doctor took me to one side and explained what it meant for me. The gene is carried in the female line. He didn’t actually force me, but he made it pretty clear he thought I ought to be sterilised.”

Sobs rocked my body, but whether I was crying for my brother, or my father, or just because Master had beaten me so incredibly hard, I could not say.

“You didn’t agree to sterilisation, though,” Master said, prompting me to continue.

I shook my head. “I’ve always been interested in science, so I did some reading and found out what they were doing in gene therapy for inherited conditions. Every woman has a biological clock ticking, but for me there’s a second clock to think about. There’s a slight chance they might find a Sahabet Güncel Giriş treatment before I’m too old to have children.” I gave Master a sad smile. “They’re taking their time, though.”

“But you did not try for a career in science, hoping to find the treatment yourself?” Master prompted, putting the conversation back on track.

“I dreamed of being able to find a cure to the disease that killed my brother, but I just do not have that kind of brain. I know you think English literature is a silly career, but it is fascinating,” and there was real fierceness in my voice. “I work terribly hard. I suppose knowing I would almost certainly never marry gave me an edge over the other students in my year: it made me more determined to make something of my life.”

“But you can marry without having kids,” Master said.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I think people who do not want children should just live together, and I’ve done that. I lived with a man – men. However, I think marriage is there to give children a proper home, with proper commitment from both parents. Otherwise, it is just a sham.”

“What about adoption?” Master asked.

“That seems a bit of a sham, too,” I answered. “A lot of adopted kids at school seemed very unhappy.”

“Did you love the men you lived with?” Master inquired.

“I think so,” I said. “I thought so at the time. But I always felt there was something missing. And when you came along and turned me into a slave, I found a new hope to cling to. I thought I might be able to have a really intense relationship without babies and without commitment. That is why I was happy to let Sally come and join us, to make sex more powerful without strengthening our emotional ties to one another. Everything has been so exciting.” I gave a sigh of despair. “It was just what I wanted. And then you ruined it by asking me to marry you.”

“It’s not my fault,” Master protested. “If you had not been so docile, and so fucking pretty, and if you didn’t have the most beautiful arse of any woman in the world, I wouldn’t have fallen for you. Anyway if you think there’s no commitment in an S&M relationship, you haven’t been paying attention. Dave would die for his Fuckpuppet, and she would die for him. They’re good parents, too. And you remember that blonde being whipped by two black men at that party?”

“The sailors? How could I forget?” I asked.

“They’re identical twins,” Master said. “They fell for the same woman, and she fell for both of them and couldn’t choose between them. They decided which one she would marry by tossing a coin. I am not denying they are perverts, but there is a lot of love there, too. It is really tough for them,” Master added. “When they got together, both sets of parents were furious.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said.

“We are all human,” Master said. “Though sometimes you mightn’t think so when you’re standing in the middle of a fancy dress party looking at all those masks and gags and chains. But whenever you see a woman being led round the room by her nipples or a man having his scrotum stapled to a bench, you’re looking at a human being with parents, with opinions, ambitions, intelligence. You’re looking at a skilled worker, a managing director, a mother, a son, a human being who just wants to get on with his or her life. Outside the S&M world, Bernadette and her two men get trouble from just about everyone. One of the men, Luke, was assaulted and blinded in one eye. They think it was a racist attack rather than prejudice against sadomasochism, but you can never tell for certain about things like that. It’s hard enough to be born twisted, and difficult to love across race or class divides, but to find yourself in love with two people as well demands real courage. They had to move out of their house into a block of flats, the kind where nobody knows their neighbors. S&M parties are one of the few places the three of them can go together without people giving them strange looks, or picking a fight. When you’ve got a problem like they’ve got, the S&M scene can become your entire social life.”

“What a sad story,” I said. “And they seemed so happy.”

“They are,” Master replied. “And the rest of us bask in the glow of their happiness. But people are strange. Not everyone likes to see other people having a good time. Love and perversion strike wherever they want to. If you love somebody, or if you’re a born slave, then choice doesn’t come into it. Bernadette and her two men are happy together. And that ought to be enough.” “How come you know so much about them?” I asked.

“Bernadette is a dancer,” Master replied. “I used her in a pop video we made for one of my groups. We recognised one another from the parties we’ve been to, and got chatting between takes. She’s really nice. She says her men are so similar, it’s like being in love with only one person.”

“I expect it’s more tiring,” said I thoughtfully. “They’ve got wonderful bodies, all three of them.”

“Yes,” Master agreed. “I once saw them putting on a sandwich-fuck at a party. People having sex can look ridiculous, but they made a kind of black-and-white poetry. It looked wonderful.”

“I expect it was,” I mused. “All three are beautiful in their own way.” I sighed. “Imagine finding not just one master, but two.”