Shadows of a Painted Lady

Chapter One-3

“Push out your ass,” he ordered.

She answered him, dutifully offering the plump rounds for his inspection. While one of his hands continued to explore the messy folds of her cunt, the other fondled her bottom, squeezing the skin he’d just burnished with his flogger. The erection burgeoning in his pants begged release. It begged to prod her hymen until she screamed. He imagined the shudder as she waited for that first exposure to womanhood, then the clenching burst as she took the first stabbing shot; and finally, the gentle surrender that he would force from her as she became accustomed to having her cunt wrenched wide.

He could wait no longer. His rod was hot and fully extended.

Undoing her restraints and setting her free, he led her to the wall of scarlet drapes, and opening them wide, revealed a bed tucked into an alcove, which was cut into the stone wall. He laid her down, looking into her scared eyes.

“This doesn’t have to hurt, my dear. You’ve done well so far, I’m sure you’ll find this bliss.”

He could tell that his words were not totally reassuring. She remained clenched and fearful, but she did not resist him. Carefully parting her thighs at the knees, he stared down at the perfection of youth, the virginal opening lightly covered with wisps of fair hair and a film of moist juice that begged him onward.

Alice remained wary but totally focused on the deed, as though she was bound by her station in life to please this man. That was the object of her existence, there was nothing more important than this task. She was bred to play the role and she’d play it well, knowing that in this hour her future would be written in her spilt blood.

Alice had never seen a man’s p***s, let alone one fully erect. The hefty thing amazed and confused her—especially as her mouth became wet with desire, as though she craved a taste of this strange muscle of flesh. The pointed head made her think of a spear—the kind used by wild savages she’d seen in old encyclopedia pictures. Not only did she want to taste the odd looking thing, her hands itched to touch it, and fondle the swinging package of testicles at the apex of Sir Haliday’s thighs. Despite her fear of this throbbing organ, she needed to love it, for it was her Master’s avenue to pleasure.

Descending on her, Sir’s complexion changed. Something feral exuded from his eyes. His grimace was dark and earthy. Consumed by lust, he moved between the virgin’s open thighs and aimed the rod at the tiny opening; then with the head pressed to the tiny aperture, he thrust, shoving the entirety of his hungry prick into Alice’s fresh fertile home.

Her back arched, her breathing ceased and her heart seemed to stop for just an instant, while she shuddered, crying softly.

“Relax, little one, you’re doing fine,” he softly scolded her fears, and the girl breathed deeply again…

The colors in my imagination faded, the pictures began to drift. The bedroom was lightening with morning having reached the far ends of the Eastern horizon. I began to awaken, trying at once to shake off my sleep while retaining the memory of my dream. There was the house, and Alice and Sir Haliday, and if I really concentrated, I’d remember the scene in the dungeon and the rape of a virgin housemaid.

“Will?” I tried shaking him awake.

“Something the matter?” he pulled up quickly, almost as though he’d been waiting for me to interrupt his sleep.

“I had the most amazing dream.”

“Oh?”

“About Haliday House.”

“And?” He looked at my awed face suspiciously.

“From some time in its past… there was a girl, a virgin. She was a servant of the house…” Though my memories were fading, I retained the gist of the dream. It couldn’t possibly reflect the present reality of Haliday House… but then, maybe it did?

“What happened to her?” he pressed.

“She was a servant to the Halidays, and… I guess you could say she was a slave to him. You don’t suppose it’s actually true?”

He considered for a minute, “There may be more truth to your dream than you suspect.”

“You think so?”

“Just a guess.” He wasn’t guessing at all—Will’s intuition was rarely off, and that was what I was afraid of.

In two days, I’d be at Haliday House myself, walking those corridors, entering those gracious rooms and descending to that dank cellar. After sharing my dream with Will, he brooded as well. He didn’t say so, but I could tell that his imagination was as stirred as mine had been by the choice we’d made to spend our weekend in a place so closely aligned with our fantasies.

The next two days I thought of little but the adventure waiting for me. I thought mostly of Alice—I didn’t have to work at remembering her submissiveness; her surrendering presence stayed with me—as though she’d been real, and was now an angel whispering in my ear.

Could I be as submissive as she was? Would surrender feel that natural? And was her relationship with Sir Haliday the kind of arrangement I wanted with Will? This would all sound silly to a sane world, but I’d already given up believing that my life was sane—or at the very least, normal.

I’d had sadomasochistic s****l fantasies since I was very young. I’d loved, hated, embraced and tossed them aside. And by the time I reached my 30’s decided that I couldn’t live without them in some form.

Ten years ago, when I finally confessed the truth to Will—sure that he would think I’m crazy—he became as excited about my fantasies as I was.

Apparently, what aroused me aroused him. I’d made a trap for myself as soon as I shared those secret passions. He wanted more of my dark side tales of Dominance/submission, and he wanted details. Of course, I had plenty of detail to offer since there was scene after scene in my fertile imagination. Still, it wasn’t easy for me to talk about bondage and being punished—the attitude of surrender and how much this affected my s****l arousal. I didn’t need to tell him how aroused these ideas made me—he could feel what happened to my body when I mentioned dungeons, racks and being whipped, or the fantasies of being caged in the dark, tethered on a leash, or auctioned to other men for them to use. He could feel the fire in my body speaking as if I were telegraphing the message—or better yet, he could read the vibrations of lust emanating out of my excitement.

Will is a powerful, passionate man with insight, intuition, and a flair for the dramatic. We married young, when I was much too young to know myself. He always understood that I was more of a woman than I believed myself to be. With his encouragement, I found substance rather than emptiness. I became a woman with opinions, passions and an artistic career. I filled with desire as I began to understand myself as the s****l creature that I am. But despite my unfolding, I still looked for rules. I was always seeking someone to tell me what to do. Though it’s not politically correct for our generation of women, there had always been something natural about my submissiveness, and I could not ignore that fact.

At first, the words s*x slave didn’t appear in my conversations with Will, but the pictures I painted of my lust were obvious to both of us, whether I named it or not. Nothing would arouse me more than thinking, dreaming, and m**********g to the images of myself at the nadir of life, being a slave, having been driven to the ground, negated, used and disparaged.

The master in my daydreams was an obscure and faceless vision. I could feel his presence and sense the ruthless power he wielded over me. Yet, I had no clear picture of whom he might be. What frightened me, though, was the possibility that Will was exactly the person to master me. He took to the role so easily that I was shocked. Being master was as natural for him as being submissive was for me. It was obvious that my fantasies not only unearthed my s****l truth, but his as well.

I suppose I should have been grateful to discover that my husband could complement my desires—yet that fact made them more real and immediate. I was scared. I wasn’t sure that I was ready for the drastic change these new discoveries pointed to. To go from being equal to submissive—let alone slave—seemed like an astounding step to take in a marriage that I knew was stable and fulfilling. What did we have to gain? What might we lose if we took this step and it proved to be nothing but a messy blunder?

Several years passed without our making any deliberate choice to change the s****l nature of our life together. When we were inspired, we played bedroom games with S&M. Will bought a razor strap, a riding crop and an antique butter paddle—which I’ve always abhorred. When my desires became too much to handle in my mind, we’d spend an evening or a day as Dominant and submissive, Master and slave. Sometimes he touched that surrendering chord in me and all was heaven; but at other times, we tried too hard, and the fantasy played as dry as a desert wind. My body froze. My masochistic fantasies and his Dominant, sometimes sadistic, ones seemed destined to be a place to dabble for a time, but not a place to live.

I think it was a lack of form that kept us constantly bewildered by our imperfect results—and likely why my first excursions on the Internet suddenly stirred the desires again in a way more real than I’d ever known. The forms appeared to me… seemingly concrete and very doable.

Website after website depicted real people involved in Master/slave relationships. Dozens of permutations on the fantasy stared back at me in the words and pictures of women who were living lives I envied. The truth kept knocking at the door to my desire and kept leading me back, night after night to a source of inspiration I could not fend off.

I made up my mind that we had to try. We couldn’t pretend anymore. Both of us wanted a richer more real experience of our driving needs. Our short skirmishes with Dominance/submission were not enough.

Mimicking the general themes and rituals practiced by several of the on-line couples we discovered, we dived in headfirst.

I shared my need, Will shared his back, and the decision was made.

In one bold and determined moment of daring, I gave myself to Will as his slave.

We signed a contract.

He established rules. And the genesis of the fantasy began to take shape.

At night I wore a collar, which tied to me to the bed.

During the day I called him, “Sir,” and asked him permission to perform the simplest tasks—from taking a pee to orgasming to eating even a bite of food. I dressed to please him—from my sexy lingerie to short skirts and heels. In the evenings, I sat on the floor and massaged his feet and legs, letting thoughts of surrender dwell comfortably in my mind. If I displeased him, I took punishment from the paddle, or the cane he loved using to mark my thighs. I took pleasure in the razor strap, enjoying the profound and glorious feel of its sting. The sting turned into warmth and the warmth into sensuous arousal, which sent me into that never-never-land—subspace.

Some days, Will would collar and bind me, ordering me to a closet where I stayed for nearly an hour, experiencing the smallness of being contained. I nestled in a submissive corner of my consciousness, dwelling on the thrilling peace of being alone and at my Master’s mercy.

Time passed, a few days turned into several weeks… the fantasy drifted on with the lamentable effect of diminishing in erotic charge the longer we played the game. From its hotly arousing beginnings, the rituals turned into a string of meaningless habits that began to feel more empty than fulfilling. Weeks turned into months—and without really making a conscious choice, until it was too obvious not to notice—our Dominant/submissive relationship slowly dissolved. We returned to what we understood best—respectful equals.

A few habits lingered on—sometimes I called Will, ‘Sir’. And I usually dressed to please him—because that pleased me too. When he ordered me to show him my ass—or to bare my bottom for a spanking (usually because I was acting bratty—and often it was deliberate brattiness), I submitted. I never orgasmed without his permission, which was the one immutable law that remained from that time. Though we couldn’t make the submission work day to day, these few remnants of our attempts were as natural as the raw desire that spawned them.