Some Call It Play

SOME CALL IT PLAY

By Charles E. Campbell

This story is dedicated to Master David, for His generosity, and to His slave girl diana, for her openness and candor in researching this saga. It was not written with the intent to portray them in any way, but there were a number of coincidental aspects of the story that turned out to have an uncanny similarity to what they share, both as a couple and as a Master and His slave. It was my intent, however, to attempt to describe the depth of their commitment to each other as they make their mutual journey. I am profoundly renewed by their relationship and all that it signifies. My gratitude to them both is heartfelt and sincere.

I had done her up pretty well. Naked. Wrist and ankle cuffs buckled securely. Her legs spread uncomfortably wide, locked to a three foot spreader bar. Her arms hoisted high over her head, held fast by a steel cable on an electric winch, pulling her into a tenuous position up on the balls of her feet. The cold concrete floor useless in relieving the building pressure in her shoulders. A symmetrical pattern of sixteen thick needles piercing her right breast. The outside of her left breast the current object of My attention. The slap of My hand, the short flogger, the crop, a wooden spoon, all seeking out the same target. What was once pale white, soon becomes pink, then deeper reds begin to appear, raised welts, and even hints of dark blues. She twists and dances, squirming to the staccato rhythms I perform. She sings out, accompanying Me. A duet? Or is it really a solo? Never does she try to duck or dodge, even though I have left her eyes uncovered. She sees/knows, accepts what is to come.

Respites are frequent. Soothing caresses. Kind encouraging words praising her efforts to please/serve Me. Water is proffered. Courteous, I ask if she will accept more. She acquiesces, knowing that each assault will be all that much harder, more severe, than the previous ones. She requests a gag, in order that her screams will not distract Me from My purpose, or even worse, cause Me to hold back. It is granted. It is, after all, her limits I seek to abolish. Her soft tender flesh bearing witness to her devotion.

It isn’t long before tears are freely flowing from her eyes. Her mascara is ruined, streaking down her cheeks, creating a macabre mask that does nothing to hide the expressions on her pain-filled face. Of course none of this brings even the slightest degree of leniency as the attack on that most obviously feminine part of her body continues, unabated. Her mind is wracked by the relentless stabbing pain. “My poor breast,” she thinks to herself. That most feminine part of her, responsible for sustaining new life. The universal symbol of comfort, succor, giving, gentleness, now being reduced to a  battered and bruised swollen source of intense pain and suffering.

She can feel the sweat now running from her up stretched arms. Making it’s way down her sides. No deodorant hiding the smell of fear mixed in. Drool seeps from the corners of her grotesquely open mouth. Leaking past the large red rubber ball invading her, causing her jaws to ache. She can feel her heart pounding madly in her chest, underneath the battered breast. Blood forcing in, engorging the veins and capillaries that lay so close to the hot tender skin.

We are, for a short time, one. She reading me, as I read her. Complimenting. Completing. When it is through, a long heartfelt embrace tells us both that we had met , somewhere between she and me. Connected.

It really isn’t a series of opposites that attract like magnets: Dom and sub; Pain and Pleasure; Master and slave. In actuality, these things aren’t really opposites at all. Rather, they are two sides of the same one coin, joined eternally together to make one. Creating a whole, a different entity, by their acceptance of what role they accept in the greater scheme.

What I do “to” her, I do because I know it is what she needs, and therefore in doing so, through Me, she receives that which she needs, as she gives Me what I need, and that is her sole concern. A completed circle or sorts. She weaves a new being from us together for that short time we spend. Not extracting from one or the other, but in reality, combining the two and creating a one. It’s not giving and taking, or accepting and relinquishing. It’s joining and uniting. Combining. It is Symbiosis.

By now, I’m sure, you must wonder how we got to this juncture. How we arrived at this understanding in our lives. To answer those questions, I must go back in time about seven months, because it was then that all of this began.

It was a quiet Saturday evening. Diana and I were enjoying a light supper. Just the two of us, basically empty nesters now. One had married and moved out of town, the other a Senior away at college. We had spent the day relaxing at a leisurely pace, strolling tree lined streets near the Hudson River. Walking the narrow streets, admiring the nineteenth century houses that had been refurbished as this small waterfront community reinvented itself and revitalized itself as a weekend haven. Here and there,  popping into various shops that piqued our interest: antiques shops, a book store, art gallery, vintage records, coffee shop, that sort of thing. Lunch was outside on the terrace overlooking the river. Spring had taken hold now, summer was approaching, slowly, as it is want to do in the Mid-Hudson Valley. Sailboats gracefully tacking, the light April breezes filling their colorful sails as they glided along. In short, a picture perfect day highlighted by postcard memories.

“What’s on your mind,” Diana queried , a brief lull in our reminiscing about the day. “Something’s bothering you.”

“It’s nothing, Diana. Really. Nothing.” Hurried response. Trapped. Embarrassed. I had been found out.

“After thirty years you know I can read you better than that, David. Tell me.”

She gave me the space to form my thoughts into cohesive words. Our years together had made things like that possible. “I want to go deeper into our ‘playing,’ “ I blurted out. “God, I hate that word.

“Playing. It’s like some feeble attempt at a codeword. A cliched codeword.”

“What would you prefer to call it,” she countered, not seeming at all shocked at this  new direction in our conversation.

“I don’t know. I just know I hate calling it playing. It’s anything but playing. It’s exploring. It’s delving into ourselves, mutually, consensually. It opens us both up to each other. Nothing hidden. Everything exposed. It allows us to examine who we are, both as individuals and as a couple.

“I don’t know a ‘better’ word. I just know I don’t want to call it playing any longer.”

“That’s fine. We’ll think of some other term for it then. But that’s not what’s on your mind. Not what’s really on your mind.”

While I had rehearsed this speech many times in my head over the past few weeks, I knew it wouldn’t come out right. At least not the way I wanted it to be right.

“We’ve spent a lot of time over the years with you submitting to me,” I began, formulating my thoughts as I went. “We started light, even before the kids were born. And we continued it, as best as we could while they were little.

“We even took a few weekend trips so we could explore ourselves while they were growing up. Well, they’re basically gone now. Grown up. Moved on with their own lives. We have the whole house to ourselves really. And,...........well,..... I want to experience more with you. I want to make it a regular part of our lives. Our daily lives. I know it’s important to you too. I just want to recognize the importance of it to us both, and act upon it.”

Diana’s eyes never left mine, listening intently to each word. “What do you have in mind, David?”

“Well, to start, I want to convert a part of the basement into a dungeon. Notice I said dungeon, not a ‘playroom.’ We can keep it locked so if Jeff comes home, or the boiler man goes down there, or something like that, it won’t be found.”

“And.....?”

“Diana, you know me too well.

“I guess the ‘and’ is that I want to enslave you. I want you to accept your place as My slave, and give yourself over to Me. Totally. No questions asked”

The silence hung heavily in the air. I was afraid that she no longer had the urges we shared when we were younger. After all, we were both near to becoming grandparents. Then, taking My hand in hers, she said, “Build our dungeon, Master, and make me Your slave. I will do whatever You demand.”

After we had finished our coffee, Diana headed for the neighbor’s house to help pick out wallpaper for their kitchen. I cleaned up the dishes and went down to the basement to start some preliminary sketches and collect some measurements. I also wanted began a list of materials the job would require as I drew up the plans.

The finished dungeon would be 20' by 25'. Five hundred  square feet in total. A good and ample amount of space. By excavating the basement floor to a depth of five feet, the ceiling would become twelve feet, more than high enough by my way of figuring. Cinder blocks, concrete, decorative stone and some rental tools should get it going. Using a calculator I did some rough estimates on quantities, erring to the high side, so as to insure that no labor time would be lost once I got started.

Monday morning Diana and I left together for our places of employment, she as a paralegal, and I as a semi-retired college professor. I told Diana that the basement was off limits to her until I told her otherwise. I could see she was about to ask why, but something inside her told her not to. So, with a quick peck on the cheek and a fast ‘good-bye,’ we parted. I called the department secretary at my University and told her a made up story about having car trouble, and to please cancel my student appointments. She was to reschedule them for after spring break. That taken care of, I headed for the local masonry supply with my list.

The people at the masonry supply were extremely helpful. They were able to get my materials estimates much closer than I had done, and they had all the tools I would need available for rental. They were even able to give me contacts for some local laborers to help with the heavy work. I wrote them a check and got it all set up for the following Monday, when I would have a week off for spring break.

Monday came, and Diana went off to work. Six laborers arrived less than an hour later followed by a truck from the masonry supply with the tools and materials. I had already set down the chalk lines on the floor where we would use electric jack hammers to break up the concrete floor. While two of the men did that, the other four dug a deep hole in the ack yard to bury the broken concrete.

By noon we had the floor broken up and removed from the basement. Having a door that leads from the basement to the yard was a monumental aid in easing the work load. After lunch, they started digging. Three men dug and three men ran wheelbarrows removing the dirt that was excavated. Every half hour or so the men would switch jobs. By quitting time, they had excavated down about two feet.

The following morning they returned and set right into the digging. They had it dug down to five feet by the time we broke for lunch. Next we set up the steel grids to reinforce the new concrete floor. Two of the men began mixing the concrete in large rectangular troughs. The work was arduous and slow, but gradually the floor was poured and smoothed out.

Wednesday we began putting up the cinder block walls and the staircase that would lead down to the dungeon. Thursday that was finished and the men shot some metal lath into the block to help hold the decorative stone to the blocks. By Friday afternoon, all the masonry work was complete.

Diana had made previous plans to go out to Pennsylvania to visit her sister over the weekend, so I got the lumber yard to deliver the rest of the materials. My laborers came back Saturday and Sunday. We built a heavy wooden door with iron hinges that could be locked from both inside and outside. Using two 12 by 12's for support, we hung another 12x12 beam across the ceiling. The beam was supported by a pair of 12x12's bolted to the wall, and another pair standing vertically, eight feet apart in the middle of the room. We packed the ceiling with fiberglass insulation and put up a suspended ceiling that looked like an old fashioned tin ceiling.

Over the next few weeks, as time would permit, I worked on the dungeon. Alone. I built a Rack, a Pillory, and even St. Andrew’s Cross, which I bolted to the wall. The cross was made from 2x6's. I didn’t sand them, preferring instead form their rough weathered appearance. I did stain the wood, however, which made them look even older still. I installed soft lighting that flickered like old torches. Two heavy duty electric winches with 3/8 inch steel cables running up to pulleys on the main beam would take care of any suspension needs I might have. I constructed racks for the whips, hoods, cuffs, chains, and all the other implements. I wanted these things to be constantly on display, to enhance the visual feel of the dungeon. I also wanted them at arm’s reach whenever I might require them for their primary function, as instruments of torture.

Six weeks after I had begun, the dungeon was completed. I spent one entire evening down there alone, taking it all in. Fantasizing on the possibilities it would afford us, and trying to decide on the most symbolic way to christen it.

After giving the matter a great deal of thought, I finally came upon, what I considered to be, the most appropriate way to consecrate the dungeon. The Saturday after it was finished, I told Diana that I had some errands to run. She wanted to know if I wanted her to come with me, but I told her to stay home and catch up on her reading, a favorite pastime of hers. The weather wasn’t nice, steady rain and gusting winds, dark ominous clouds filling the skies. She didn’t need a second opportunity to stay in.

About an hour after I had left, a floral deliveryman arrived at the front door of our house, with a dozen long stemmed red roses, and an envelope written in my hand. Diana tipped the man and retreated to the living room to open the box and read the note.

Of course she recognized my handwriting immediately, and opened the envelope. Inside, she found a formal invitation which I had printed on heavy stock. It read:

diana

the Honor of your presence is requested this afternoon

at precisely 3:30PM in Our Dungeon

you are expected to be meticulously prepared in all manners.

I Love you,

David

She felt a tingle emanate from the base of her spine and travel upwards like a lightening bolt to the bottom of her neck. Glancing at her wrist watch, diana realized that she had a little over an hour to get ready. And being fully cognizant of what “Prepared” required, she headed hurriedly for the stairs.

The luxury of a bath was not feasible within the given time restraints, so instead, she turned on the shower and got undressed. Loading a new blade in her razor, she got under the hot water, adjusting it to make it as hot as she could stand it. She washed herself throughly. And then shampooed her short auburn hair. Using the razor, she shaved her armpits and legs. Then she lathered up her pussy and shaved herself there as well. Satisfied with the smooth baldness, she spread her legs and went in search of errant hairs along her labia and around he puckered rear entrance as well.

Taking a large soft towel from the bathroom closet, diana dried herself while standing before the mirror. She sized up her image. The fifty-three year old that looked back at her was still pretty good. Belly a bit soft, but still flat for a mother of two, who might soon be a grandmother. Her 34c breasts were sagging, no way around that. Time and gravity working their relentless and inevitable deeds here. Round hips capped by a small, and still very taut butt. Not the body of a twenty-five year old for sure, but not too shabby either, she thought.

3:15. Fifteen minutes to go. Pulling open the door on the medicine cabinet, she found a Fleets, and assuming the position on the floor, she gave herself the enema. The familiar cramps started up right away, but she fought against the urge until she felt she would lose the battle. Squatting over the bowl, she relieved herself. Empty, she used the bidet to freshen up. Knowing My dislike of chemical fragrances and any things that hide our natural scents, Diana skipped her usual perfume and deodorant, opting instead for an unscented powder. She dusted herself freely under her arms, on her belly, under her breasts and between her legs, repeating the process twice, not wanting to miss an inch. Eye liner, eye shadow, mascara, and a deep red lipstick finished off her face, highlighting her chiseled features. Make-up applied tastefully, she knows I don’t want her to appear the tramp.

She selected a long white gown, almost a see through material, more like an ankle length sheath. Thin spaghetti straps crossing her shoulders, holding it up. She tied a pair of tan thong sandals around her ankles crisscrossing up her calf about half way. Then she  stole a look at the clock. 3:25. Time to head downstairs.

Her mind was in a frenzy, wondering what to expect. What was in store for her. True to My wishes, she had not set foot in the basement since I spoke My edict, so she had absolutely no idea at all as to what awaited her.                         

Her feet made little noise as she descended the stairs filled with trepidation. As soon as she had reached the basement, she was overwhelmed by the sight of the cinder block wall which now traversed the once open space, wall to wall. To the right side of the wall she saw the dark wooden door. Moving slowly toward it, her eyes taking in the hinges and hardware, she knocked. “Come in,” I called to her from the other side.

Struggling with the weight of the heavy door, diana pulled it open slowly, gradually revealing the dim candle lit interior to her eyes, which had not yet become accustomed to the darkness. She had not yet seen me, standing in the darkened recess of a corner. But I could see her perfectly from my vantage point, and I relished the look of the emotions that played across her face as she took in the sight of our dungeon for the first time. Crossing the threshold, I called out to her again.  “Close the door and bolt it, slave!”

She jumped at the sound of my voice, her eyes scanning the room for the source, but without locating it, she turned her back to me, and replied, “Yes, Master,” as she slid the thick iron bolt into the latch, locking us both in.

“Come in and see what awaits you, My slave.”

“Yes, Master.”

Diana glided down the cold hard steps very slowly, looking at the flickering lights that illuminated the whips and crops, chains and shackles,  that hung. from the wall. These things all waiting patiently to bring her senses alive. Her head looks up, and I watched as it followed the steel cables dangling from the pulleys and back down to the pair of winches. Their use, she knew, would be to hoist her from the floor. The St. Andrew’s Cross was illuminated with a spotlight, making it the focal point in the gloom. Eye bolts running along each beam of the cross at six inch intervals so that she could be completely bound to it, unable to even flinch in response to whatever she was to endure.

“Put your back to the cross!”

“Y...yes, Master.”

She walked to the cross, never taking her eyes from it, and turning her back to it, she leaned against the rough wood. I watched with rapt intent as diana leaned back against the cross, her nervous fingers softly caressing the splintered wood. Her eyes closed, shutting out that sense and allowing the pressure of the wood against her spine to envelope her.

Patience is one of my better attributes, so I allowed her to remain like that, awash in her own thoughts and images for a number of minutes. I know her well enough to know where her mind was taking her now. My hard cock straining inside my jeans. “I hate to disturb your fantasies, slave, but you have broken a cardinal rule.”

“I...I have, Master?”

“Yes, My pet, you most certainly have. You have entered our dungeon clothed. A slave must always be naked in a dungeon. Nothing is to be hidden from view. Every part of her is to be exposed.

“Remove that gown at once!”

“Yes, Master. Right away, Master.”

Diana is well aware of My preference for slow and sensual, so her hand motions, though liquid and graceful, are equally slow and deliberate. Reaching up with her right hand, she slowly pushes the strap of the gown off her left shoulder, allowing it to hang limply across her elbow. She repeats the move with her left hand, so that the only thing keeping the gown up is her bosom.

She drops her hands to her sides and gradually shimmies the gown down, revealing more and more of her soft pale skin to the harsh spotlight that is bathing her in bright light. The gown is snug fitting, and doesn’t fall freely to the floor until it has been pulled down past her hips. Her naked beauty is no longer hidden. The gown, a pile of wrinkles puddling around her sandaled feet. She doesn’t move. She knows where My eyes are, and she too has been blessed with patience. I am pleased with the smooth freshly shaven cunt, the thick inner lips dangling down from the slit, no longer hidden in the tangled forest of her pubic hair. Openly on display, as per My wishes.

“Shoes as well, cunt. Naked is naked.”

Leaning over, she lifts a foot and unstraps the sandal. Then the other foot, and she is barefoot as the well. The cold of the concrete seeping into her feet instantly. She leaned back against the cross, as if for self assurance.

“Open you eyes, My pet, and tell me what you think.”

Diana’s eyes open at the same speed she divested herself of her gown, gradually, allowing the entire diorama to register. I watched as her eyes panned the room, left to right, right to left, ceiling to floor. All the while clutching the cross behind her with her hands, a security blanket of sorts.

“It is incredible, Master. I feel truly blessed that You consider me worthy of such a place. I hereby vow, that anything, anything at all that You desire from me in this room shall be Yours. I will strive to have no limits placed upon You. No safe words. In this place, our dungeon, I place myself completely into Your hands, to do with as You please. For your pleasure and enjoyment, only.

“I love You, Master.”

“I accept your vow, and I thank you for it, slave. Know that I fully intend to test it today!           

“I have given a great deal of thought as to how we should appropriately dedicate this dungeon to us both. To find a suitable way to christen it. And, after much consideration, I have decided that the only way to do this properly is for us to mark both you and the dungeon, permanently.” I see the quizzical look in her eye, not understanding what I mean by “permanently.” But, she knows better than to ask. She knows I will explain it to her in My own way.

I stood up at this point and walked to her. In my right hand, concealed behind My leg, I held a branding iron. I stopped right in front or her. Mere inches away, and leaned in to kiss her long and hard on her eager mouth. Our tongues entwined, probing, searching, exploring, yielding. This kiss was one of the most memorable of our thirty year marriage. Neither one of us seemed willing to have it end.   When at last we broke the kiss, I took a step back and lifted the iron up before her eyes, watching as they opened wide in recognition of the iron and it’s pending significance.

“I am going to brand you with this iron, and then we will together, as one, brand the cross as well. Marking both you and the cross as Mine. Forever.”

Beads of sweat appeared on her brow, but true to her word, she mustered the courage to say, “I am truly humbled and honored that, after thirty years together, You wish me to bear Your mark, symbolizing Your ownership of me. I am deeply indebted, and thank You for giving me Your mark. I will be proud to display Your brand.”

Taking both her hands in Mine, I kissed her once again, and said, “Come, my Pet, and let’s explore.” I lead her by the hand over to the rack .I waited as she looked it over, giving her time to take in the rough wooden bed,  the large wheel, the heavy aged rope,  and the rusted old chain. “On your back, slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she replied, sitting down on the rack.

I had used old pieces of discarded wood that I had scrounged to build the rack. Solid as it was, the surface was scarred and nicked, even deep gouges in some places. I had stained it a dark color, but no sanding or polyurethane finish to even it out.

The rough weathered wood against the soft skin of her taut buttocks elicited a startled little yelp, but she lay down on the rack anyway, extending her arms over her head. I fastened on a pair of ankles cuffs and attached them to the thick iron chain at the base of the rack, a wonderful find from a metal scrap yard.  Next came the stout heavy hawser around her wrists, binding them together tightly. This aged piece of rope had spent the past twenty-five years in a school gymnasium somewhere. Checking My knots., I went to the top of the rack and took hold of the handles on the wheel. “Ready to begin,  My pet?”

“As it pleases, You, Master.”

There wasn’t much slack in the stiff old rope, so it only took one turn before she could feel her arms being pulled up. She slid a bit on the wooden bed, a few splinters forced into her, adding to her pain.

I didn’t stop turning the wheel until diana was stretched tight between the chains and the rope. Then, I gave it one more quarter turn before I locked the wheel, preventing it from slipping and easing her suffering. I leaned over and caressed the skin of her breasts and belly, feeling how tight is was. Her breasts had been pulled flat against her chest under the strain, making her chest look like that of a young boy. The muscles in her groin and arm pits were sticking out under the strain as well. Checking her cunt, I was happy to find her soaking wet. I knew that she enjoyed this as much as I, but this was a surefire method of making sure. This she couldn’t fake, it always gave her away to Me.            

Using a soft leather flogger, I warmed her up, chest to knees. Her belly and thighs receiving the bulk of the lashes. Tears were flowing from her eyes and she was crying out loud, but never once did she beg or plead with Me to stop.

Pleased with her color, I loosened the wheel, undid her ankle chains, and told her to flip over onto her stomach. Then I reattached the chain and stretched her out again. Her warmed pink skin chaffed on the rough splintered wood. In mock courtesy, I asked, “May I continue, slave?”

“Please, Master, do as You will. Have no regard for Your lowly slave,” came her reply, as she steeled herself for more.

Shoulders to ankles I flogged her. Harder this time. Much harder, putting My weight into it. With each lash she would strain against the restraints, trying to lift herself off the rack. Futile efforts, of course, but instinctive. Unavoidable.

I released her from the rack, and helped her sit up. I offered her water, and watched as she sipped it. Gently I massaged her shoulders, easing the cramps that I’m sure she had. Her head rolled as she relaxed. I didn’t proceed until she had consumed the whole bottle.

The Pillory was next on our exploratory tour. I am very proud of this device. It looks just like what we used to see in our junior high school social studies books. I built it out of a 4x4 post, that had, at one time, supported our mailbox outside. Gluing together 2x3's and 2x4's, I made the upper and lower sections and cut holes in it for her hands and head. I found an old hinge from a barn at a garage sale and cut it in half, attaching it to the upper and lower sections. A hasp with a bolt bent in the shape of a U was all that was needed to hold it in place. Her hands would be useless in trying to get free. Simple, but very effect. Her position would be slightly bent at the waist, thrusting her ass out for the whip.

She looked so inviting bent over in the Pillory. Her tight ass sticking out, beckoning, no begging for the cane. I hadn’t bothered lining the wrist and neck holes with any padding. The unsanded holes should add to her experience, I felt. The marks would be difficult to disguise for her at work. Too late in the season for turtle necks and long sleeves. But that would be her problem.

I allow Myself the luxury of caressing her flanks. Smooth skin, still tight over firmly defined muscular thighs. How often I have languished here, but this time it is different. This time she is presenting to Me herself as a gift. I detect a slight twitch as My fingers explore the deep cleft between her cheeks. I let a finger linger at her puckered rear hole. Not her favorite thing. Not at all. She’ll tolerate it whenever I want it. But if she could avoid it, she would, at any cost. In an instant.

I choose a cane form the wall. Rattan. I’ve always preferred natural materials to acrylic. They feel better in My hand somehow. Even seem to sound different slicing through the air. Gently, deliberately, I rub the cane along the back of her left thigh, knee to cheek. Then I switch to her right leg and allow the sensations to flood that one as well. Letting the anticipation build. She hates this part. I know she does, for she knows that once the softness ends, the burning begins.

Pulling the cane back from her leg, I pause. Making her wait. Thinking about the white heat she will endure for us both. The first stroke is hard, very hard. No warning. Nothing held back. She screams. Not a short chirp, but a long blood curdling scream from the depths of her soul. She twists in the stocks, wrists and neck abrading so soon. The welt from the cane is already swelling and bright red. She fights to control her breathing and the screaming stops.

“Nineteen more, My pet. Or, if you wish, I will allow you to opt out. Instead, you will give Me pleasure in your ass. Which do you choose?”

She absolutely hates to have to make these choices, feeling very strongly her stature is not high enough to allow her to make them. Only the Master has the rank and privilege to decide these things. But, the quandary is, that she knows she must answer Me. “If it were to please You, Master,” she begins softly, “ please give me nineteen more strokes, and then my ass should be pleasantly warm for You when You fuck me in my ass.”

“A wise choice, slave. Very wise indeed.

“Very well. I shall grant your wish. You shall have your nineteen more stokes of the cane, and then I shall take My pleasure deep in your ass. Maybe I will even deign to fill your ass with My cum. Would you like that, cunt?”

“Only if You wish it, Sir. I am not worthy to be a recipient of Your seed unless You wish it to be so.”

“I wish it. Now, I want you to count for Me. Properly!”

“Yes, Master.”

No light caresses of the cane this time. The wicked swishing sound of the cane slicing through the dungeon air a split second before the impact, and again her screams. Fighting for control, “One, Master. Th...thank You.”

“One? You don’t want the first one to count?”

“Oh, no, Master, please,” she tries to correct me. “Your slave didn’t know if You were starting with one going to nineteen, or two for twenty. Please. I am so sorry. It is my mistake, and mine alone.”

“That goes without saying, you dumb whore. For that, we will start again at one. And for your error, you shall receive twenty-five. Have I simplified it enough for even you to understand?”

“Y....yes, Master. Your stupid slave understands and is truly sorry. Please, give me twenty-five, hard.”

I do not show her the courtesy of a reply. Bending over slightly, I take aim for both cheeks at once, very hard. She twists in the stocks and yells. Tears streak her face. “One..........Master. Th......thank....You.”

The next stroke is right where the buttocks curve meets the thighs, a very tender spot. Dancing and screaming, it is better than ten seconds before she can muster the reserve for the required count. Strokes three through ten rain upon her, and the stocks are scraping her skin. Nasty scrapes, bleeding lightly. Her ass and thighs have been crisscrossed with horrifying welts. I place a wooden box on the floor in front of her and step up on it. She hasn’t watched, her eyes shut tight. My raging cock needs some attention. Loosening My belt, I drop My Levi’s to My ankles, and step free of them, saying, “Thank Me properly, cunt.”

Her eyes open through the tears. She lifts her head as far as the stocks will allow and opens her mouth, extending her tongue. No patience involved here. I drive deep into her mouth. The force of My thrust pushing her head back against the hard wood, her nose buried in the thick mass of My pubic hair. I don’t retreat, remaining where I am, allowing the reality of her oral rape to sink in. Fastened as she is, there is little she can do to pleasure Me, so I start to pull out. Slowly. Then I slam forward even harder. She gags. Spits up. Vomit seeping from the corners of her stuffed mouth. I don’t pull out, trapping a copious amount of the vile liquid in her mouth.

Satisfied, I fuck her mouth, hard and fast. Guttural gagging moans as she tries to time her breathing with my relentless pounding. I feel it building up, and abruptly pull out. Mucous and saliva coating my stiff cock. Stepping down from the crate, I walk behind her and rub my cock in her crack, drying myself all around her puckered rear hole. “What a fortunate slave you are, having a Master who is willing to get you wet so He can enter you with ease.”

“Thank You, Master. I am not worthy of such kindness and consideration.”

“Of course you aren’t, cunt. I’m only doing it to make it easier for me to take you as I please. Now, where were we?”

“It was ten Sir. Eleven is next.”

“Very good. Let’s begin again.”

The final fifteen come in a furious flurry, not taking more than a minute to bring them all. She is out of control now. Her wrists and neck are bloody, tears are streaming down her cheeks. Sweat is running from her armpits and down her heaving udders. A puddle of urine has pooled at her feet. Pure evidence that I have taken away all control of her, even to the extent of her own bladder.

I step back up on the box and shove my hard cock back into her open mouth, efficiently stifling her screams. I don’t pound into her this time, instead, I just stay still, deep in her mouth, letting her tongue work around the thick meat that I feed her. I’m not overly endowed, just under six inches is all, but My cock is better than two inches in diameter, so her mouth is forced open very wide to accept Me.

I don’t pull out until her breathing has slowed. Then, as I pull out ever so slowly, I say, “Beg me, cunt.”

The words I am demanding from her are the hardest of all for her to utter. She hates anal sex more than anything. There is, quite literally, nothing she wouldn’t do to avoid it. But, she is a good slave, and has promised Me no limits. “Please, Master. Please. I beg You. Take this worthless slave, and fuck her in her ass cunt.”

Truth be told, anal sex isn’t My favorite either. Not by a long shot even. I actually prefer oral. Watching her eyes as she strives to accept and pleasure Me. Nothing in it at all for her. My satisfaction. My pleasure. That’s what it’s about. That’s all that matters. But I do anal with her for two reasons. Because I can, and because it is the hardest thing for her to submit to. That’s it, really. And it’s mostly about her submission to it. Accepting it even though she reviles it. Because I expect it.

I position my wet cock at the entrance and spread her cheeks apart with both hands. I look at the hole. She’s trying so hard to relax, but it is puckered up good and tight. No patience here. One hard thrust, and I’m buried deeply in her bowels. She screams, tenses up even further. The sphincter grabbing Me. Caressing Me. Milking Me. “You’d do well to relax, or this will hurt a lot more than it needs to,” I remind her.

I feel the muscle loosen just a bit, but I don’t retreat as yet. I wait for her to relax more, make My work less strenuous. Then, and only then, I slowly start to take her ass. Pulling back out, all the way, and driving back in. A steady rhythm follows, set at a slow tempo. Adagio, perhaps. Dragging the anal fucking out, prolonging the act as long as I can. The pressure builds and I can’t hold back, so I drive hard and fast. Five or six thrusts, and I spill My seed deep within her.

I wait until I am soft before removing my cock from her belabored hole. I get back up on the step and dangle the flaccid meat in her face. She doesn’t need to be told what I expect from her. She knows. Her mouth opens, her tongue comes out, tears fill her eyes in total humiliation, and she sucks me into it. Cleaning me, while she taste what she left on my soiled cock. She detects a slight taste of blood, as it has been quite some time since I last raped her anally.

Leaving her in the pillory, I went to the winch and lowered a cable down to shoulder height. I attached a spreader bar to it, and then opened the pillory. Unlocking the pillory I helped ease her to an erect position. Cramps straining her back and neck. Her wrists and neck scratched and bloody. I hug her tightly from the rear, cupping her breasts and covering her chaffed bloody neck with kisses. She feels my cock growing erect once more against her battered and bruised cheeks. I put unlined leather cuffs on her wrists and clip them to the bar. I kiss her again, deep and passionate. My fingers probing her hidden cleft, feeling the total saturation that emanates from deep within. Her own cunt giving her away, pleading for more, begging Me to continue. No mercy.

The winch makes a whirring sound as it pulls her up. A soft moan from her mingles with the  sound of the electric motor as her feet are pulled up off the floor. She is hanging helplessly from her injured wrists and by her up stretched arms. I take a set of heavy chains and bind her legs spread open to iron rings in the bottom of the 12x12's. Taut, bound, unable to move very much to dodge the blows she knows will soon come. I caress her breasts, and ask, “Are you ready, My love?”

“Yes, Sir,” she answers, a mixture of pride and defiance in her tone. A second wind of sorts, as she adds,  “If it will please You, please whip Your willing slave. I am Yours!”

I knew she was following My movements with her eyes, so to increase her anxiety, I made a big display of pondering which whip I would choose from the rack. I took a flogger down, handled it, and put it back. I did the same with a cane, and a few crops, and the single tail, which I’m sure caused her to shudder in silence. Each time, I made it look like I was contemplating the choices before Me, knowing she was mentally experiencing the kiss of each whip in turn.

When I turned to face her, I had the tan leather crop in My hand. Her eyes darted many times from the crop to my eyes and back as I neared her. A few quick swipes through the air to test it’s suppleness added an aural input to her anxiety. I rubbed the crop across her belly and breasts. I slid it between her legs, making it glisten with her dew. “Kiss it,” I ordered, holding it a few inches in front of her mouth.

Straining against her bonds, she leaned as far forward as she was able, lips puckered, but not quite in reach of the target. I admire her perseverance, but she can’t reach it. She doesn’t stop trying, however, and so I reward her by bringing the crop within reach. She smothers it with kisses. Passionate, heartfelt. This is no display for My benefit. She is truly worshiping the implement of her torture.

The object of My attention now is her breasts and belly. I establish a steady rhythm on her breasts. Left, right. Left right. Soft strokes, gradually gaining in intensity. The milk bags dancing to the blows, seemingly  trying to get out of the way by themselves. She is weeping. Occasionally her eyes are downcast, watching her breasts was they are beaten. Dark red splotches are growing on the sides of the fatty tissue. She doesn’t beg me to stop. She cries and screams, and twists, but she accepts it. For her. For Me. For us.

Then I stop. I leave her hanging by her wrists. The time has come. My slave and My dungeon are to be christened in proper fashion. The pain which she is about to bear foe Me will be ten times worse than any she has ever accepted, and the mark she will bear will be permanent. There is no turning back. This is something our relationship has lead us both to, together. It is not with resignation that she will accept My mark, it is , rather, full in the knowledge this absolutely must be. For Us!

I picked up the iron and held it before her eyes, to let her see it one last time. Of her own will, she strained her head forward and kissed the cold iron. Slowly, she nodded her head in assent, then she let her head sink to her heaving chest. I know where she has gone. It is deep into her own mind, the mind  of a natural born slave, accepting a will that is greater than hers. A will she was born to accept, without question.

I place a pedestal table a few feet from the cross, but still within her field of vision. Silently, she watched Me set it down and then place a small Hibachi on the table. Fear shown on her face. The purpose of the Hibachi was clear. I had set the charcoal briquette into the Hibachi earlier, so the strike of a match was all it took to ignite them.

She watched the flames engulf the coals, slowly turning them gray. I set the iron deep into the coals. Twisting it, burying it in the center of the fire.

Pushing the controls on the winch, I lowered diana back down to the ground and undid her bindings. I hugged her tightly, and felt her shaking slightly as she squeezed me in return. Taking her hand I brought her to the St. Andrew’s Cross. I left her facing it and went to get her a second bottle of water. She drank it greedily. Wordlessly, diana turned her back to the cross and I used several long lengths of rope to bind her fast to the cross. I used each and every eye bolt that I had screwed into the cross beams. I also buckled a thick leather cinch around her waist, making her completely immobile.

My strongest concern was her head. I feared she might be injured if she flailed her head against the cross as the pain from the iron overtakes her. I decide that using a hood would be the only way to minimize the potential for injury. I take a soft black kid leather hood from the chest. My slave’s eyes are following My movements. Diana is aware that I do not like hoods. Yes, I am well aware that they can add to a slave’s torment with the sensory deprivation, but I like to watch diana’s face as she reacts to the stimulus I give. But in this case, practicality wins out over all else.

I zip the hood on her head. Closing the eye slits with the zippers, making sure the airway to her nostrils is open.

“Please, Sir. If i may make a request,” she murmurs from behind the closed mouth of the hood. “Might I please be given a gag? My screams, i fear, may not allow You the time to brand me properly.”

“Yes, My pet,” I reply calmly. “I am going to allow you the gag. But it is not for the reason you ask. I intend to gag you solely to prevent you from biting your tongue.”

I went to the chest and found a thick penis gag. I unzipped her mouth, and she willingly opened her mouth nice and wide. She didn’t have to be told. Taking the black nubby rubber penis between her teeth, she held it fast while I buckled it behind her bowed head. Once again she nodded in acquiescence, before shutting her eyes behind the darkness of te sweet smelling leather hood. 

I ran two pieces of rope from the rings in the hood to the eye bolts on either arm of the cross. Her head is held up now, secured to the cross. She can move it slightly from side to side, but not front to back. Her head should be safe now. I can proceed.

I looked down at her right thigh, the smooth flawless flesh about to be burned and scarred for me. I bent over and placed a gentle light kiss on the spot, on the outside of her thigh, just slightly lower than her crotch. She twitched reflexively, now knowing where she would bear My brand. I stepped back, taking in the wondrous sight of My lovely, naked submissive. Bound for Me. Offering herself to be branded by Me. For Me. For Her. For Us. My Wife. My Slave. My Soul-mate. I wondered to Myself, ‘How could people in a plain vanilla relationship ever comprehend the levels of trust and love that were displayed here, at this moment,  in our dungeon?’‘ How could they ever get past their Puritanical prejudices and see the pure unadulterated beauty of this moment?’ The story of Abraham portrays this degree of self-giving love. Why could they all not see it? Embrace it? This was the embodiment of devotion. This was two people joined forever as one.This was the epitome of Love!

I removed the iron from the glowing coals and let it cool down a bit. A branding iron can both be too hot and too cold. As the color changed, I approached her and knelt down to line up My target. Bringing the iron slightly closer to her leg, she could feel the heat. About an inch away, I had it lined up as I wanted it, and slowly brought it even closer. She was trying to struggle in the tight bondage, but there was no backing out now. The ropes and cincher held her fast to the cross.

The room began to fill with the sickening odor of burning flesh as she screamed behind the gag that filled her mouth. Her head flailed wildly, even bound as it was, it was still  banging against the cross. I watched, transfixed as the iron burned into her. Deeper and deeper. I kept the pressure on the iron, letting it burn in to a depth of about half of an inch. Looking up, I saw that diana had passed, out. I removed the iron and looked at the mark on My slave. I replaced the iron in the coals and undid her gag.

I strong whiff of smelling salts brought her back to the present. As soon as she got her bearings, I removed the hood and  whispered, “I love you, diana,” and kissed her ever so gently on her mouth. Keeping an eye on her for signs she might faint once again, I loosened her bonds, beginning with her arms. I helped her to lower them slowly to her sides, letting the blood flow back into them gradually. Her legs were next, followed lastly by the leather cinch that encircled her waist. The cinch had left a dark red mark, grim witness to her struggling on the cross.

Taking her by both hands, I lead her to the full length mirror I had mounted on the wall. I knew she wanted to see My mark on her.

I expected a completely opposite reaction from her than the one I got. I had felt certainly that she would gasp in horror at the sight of the angry burn, but that wasn’t what happened at all. Rather, she stared at it for a long time, turning her body to improve the angle. Then, she faced Me, and said, “Thank You, Master, for marking me as Your own.”

We hugged each other and kissed in an embrace like no other we had ever shared. Both of us weeping in each other’s arms. The final culmination came, when I placed the iron in her right hand, and I placed My right hand on top of hers. Our hands together, we placed the brand in the center of the St. Andrew’s Cross, right where her back had been. The smell of burning wood rising in the dungeon, mingling with the smell that still lingered from her burned skin.

I picked diana up in My arms and carried her from our dungeon all the way upstairs to our bedroom. There, I dressed her wound and we made slow and passionate love to each other. Taking our time, exploring each other as if it were the first time we had ever joined as one. Making it last as long as possible, before falling into a deep and sound sleep, entwined as one, My spent cock cupped in her hand.

AFTER WORD

The relationship we have is not a 50/50 relationship. There is no way it could ever be described as that. It would not be possible for us to be who we are, do what we do, if it were. Rather, it is more a 75/25, or better still, a 90/10 relationship. Each one giving to the other much more than receiving from the other, and in that way, sustaining, nurturing, growing in the knowledge that the two are, in reality, one.

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