Twelve Steps To Hell

Chapter 5

At last I grasp the wicked relish in Aiko’s looks, and the vicious satisfaction she’s no doubt taking even now in the certainty of my acute and interminable suffering. Compared to having to endure this terribly maddening torment for an entire year – a year – being forced to sexually pleasure someone you hate and then lick up the mess seems piffling. Finally the true scope of the challenge ahead of me becomes apparent, and I groan and whimper and squirm in place, feeling insanity threaten as my caged c**k throbs and screams in its confinement. And I’ve only been locked up an hour! How many more to go?

The mental arithmetic required is impossible in my current frenzied state. I hurry to my computer and call up the calculator application. Twenty-four multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five equals…eight thousand seven hundred and sixty!

I barely restrain myself from weeping on the spot, but nothing can stop me from wrenching futilely at that implacable steel. Of course this gains me nothing but excruciation and even more maddening frustration, and I burst into tears at last. These stream down my face to mingle with the blood from my punctured lip, and I carefully remove the rose from my teeth. Cradling this reverentially, I collapse onto my bed and sob my heart out. Still my c**k throbs on like an infected tooth. And like you can’t help but compulsively poke at one of those with your tongue I free one hand from that limber stem to foolishly and pointlessly rub the bloated, protruding, ultrasensitive head of my inaccessible p***s.

Driven to derangement I seriously consider returning to Mistress Kimiko against orders, begging her to free me and giving up on this mad quest to be her mate already: the pitifully undisciplined Dale Daley ascendant forever. Picturing the gloating smirk of triumph on Aiko’s face causes a fresh bout of miserable sobbing. But it’s the thought of Mistress Kimiko’s disappointment if not withering scorn after all my earlier promises that finally steadies me.

She is so limitlessly beautiful and desirable! And did I not know that earning the almost inconceivable honor of being her mate would be hard? How many other men have failed, and where was my determination to move heaven and earth and barter my proverbial soul in order to succeed? Bit by bit I stop crying and relax. Eventually the throbbing in my groin subsides as well and my p***s returns to quiescence. Recognizing that I need to distract myself from thoughts of carnality while keeping the ultimate prize in mind I set myself the task of using my imagination as ordered to come up with an appropriate gift for Mistress Kimiko on Monday.

As my resources are miniscule and hers astronomical it makes no sense to think in terms of jewelry or rare delicacies. And those are nearly as trite as flowers in any case. No, it has to be something uniquely personal and from the heart, something bespeaking the immense love and devotion I feel toward her and that speaks as well to what is uniquely special about her.

Judging by her kimono and maid, Mistress Kimiko clearly values her Japanese heritage far more than her public persona betrays. That’s a start, but where does it lead? It’s been years since I read James Clavell’s Shogun, and my only other exposure to Japanese culture has been World War Two movies and a few trips to Japanese restaurants as a child…

Suddenly the proverbial light bulb goes on.

I recall the clever little swans of folded paper on each place-setting. Isn’t it called origami? A wholly Japanese craft no doubt difficult to master but requiring only patience, dedication, and (surely) a good supply of paper seems just the ticket. And the possibilities are clearly not limited to swans. I can find something meaningful to craft for Mistress Kimiko if it takes me all weekend. To the internet!

Back to the computer I go. Finding the right figure to create takes me about two minutes. What does take me the entire weekend is learning how to create it properly, so that I can do it on demand. It won’t do to just show up with a folded-paper little doo-dad I could have obtained anywhere. What I need is to convincingly demonstrate the results of my devotion, determination and yes, discipline personally.

Unfortunately I soon find that it’s very difficult to learn origami from two-dimensional diagrams. It’s really something you need someone actively showing you how to do. And the pattern I’ve chosen is a moderately difficult one. After several frustrating hours of attempts I finally find a website that features a how-to video in addition to over a dozen little numbered drawings. By three o’clock Saturday morning I’ve at last achieved a passable success and go to bed exhausted but provisionally satisfied.

All day Saturday and Sunday I continue to practice, working my way through about a ream of paper. But finally I’ve mastered at least this particular figure to the point where I can craft it swiftly and well every time.

The other good news about my weekend’s endeavors is that the concentration required succeeds admirably in distracting me from a far worse frustration than finger cuts and getting a stubborn little paper sculpture to finally come out right.

Like most men my age I’m used to m**********g nearly every day. And never have I had more incentive for arousal. Every shift of position reminds of the damage Mistress Kimiko inflicted on my ass. More, it brings back the bizarre, incomprehensible way being whipped by her while that lovely if hate-filled little maid viciously yanked the skin off my crank impelled me to the best and quickest orgasm of my life. Even the chafing of my wrists from being so tightly bound fills me with nostalgic excitement. I even find myself aroused by the necessity of sitting down to go to the bathroom. Mistress Kimiko’s coercion can reach out to affect my behavior from miles away and days before. So every time I feel the madness of my stymied lust building toward a panic attack I throw myself ever more fervently into my task. Picturing a look of surprised delight and beneficent approval on Mistress Kimiko’s unearthly beautiful face both steadies me and gives me incentive to master not just this particular chore and my raging libido, but to courageously confront the certainty of far more onerous ordeals ahead.

At last Monday noon arrives. When I show up precisely as ordered I’m completely empty-handed. Aiko smirks superiorly at this fact when she lets me in. Darting a quick look around to make sure we’re alone then, she hisses at me malevolently.

“How you like first weekend without d**k, disgusting slave? Get used to this, scum! Never have orgasm again!”

Once again I smile widely back at her look of malignant vindication, dismissing this last as a malicious attempt to get me to give up on my quest for the hand of Mistress Kimiko. I believe I’m starting to understand Aiko’s unreasoning hatred of me. She wants Mistress to herself perhaps, and fears having to share her or even being displaced. Surely a husband in the home would diminish whatever intimacy she enjoys with her Mistress. And surely she’ll do everything she can to sabotage my training.

“Shall we go, Aiko? Is the incomparable Mistress Kimiko not waiting?”

The fury and resentment blazing in her eyes try to incinerate me where I stand. When this attempt fails the little maid at last wheels around. Huffily she leads me to the same richly appointed drawing room where Mistress Kimiko received me on Friday.

This time her kimono is a richly figured royal purple. Once again her hair is up in traditional fashion, adorned not with sticks this time but with a decorative fan and a large flower. Botany is not my strong point, but I believe it’s a hydrangea. In any case she is more stunning than ever, even when her expression darkens with censure.

“Do you bring me no courting gift, slave?”

“Actually I do, Mistress Kimiko. I beg you please, give me just a minute to prepare and present it to you.”

She eyes me evenly a moment before nodding stiffly and dismissing Aiko with a wave.

Filled with hope and apprehension I move to an antique table between and to the left of us, withdrawing a square of blank red paper from my sport coat. Stilling the trembling of my fingers with a monstrous exertion, I swiftly (and reasonably skillfully) fashion a perfect origami rose. Then I present this to her on the flat of my hand.

“This is for you, my lovely beloved. I know you have scant need for flowers. But perhaps you have need of the devotion, dedication and discipline of one determined to master any challenge required to please you in the least. Consider this a memento of your own perhaps, in return for the one you bestowed on me. I have slept with that tattered flower in my arms every night, filled with blessedly sweet and exquisitely trying dreams of submitting to you. I will never be at peace until those dreams comprise my entire life.”

Slowly Mistress Kimiko reaches expressionlessly out and claims the fragile little thing. Immediately I’m seized by the fear that she will just crumple it indifferently up and toss into the dead fireplace as before. But then she smiles.

If this is not the surprise and delight I’d pictured, it is at least a genuine expression of approval, and not a sly and minimal curving of those little red lips.

“It is lovely, as well as appropriate, slave. You taught yourself to do this over the weekend for me? This is not something you’d previously learned?”

“It is not, Mistress Kimiko. It took days of difficulty and frustration, with only the internet to guide me. But your smile is a most heavenly reward. Is my gift accepted then?”

“It is.” Mistress smiles wider, and meets my imploring gaze. “I will keep this as a token of your devotion. Come now: let us take a walk outside. We have yet to spend any significant time together. I must evaluate the suitability of your disposition over long hours of interaction.”

********* the house that thick high hedge continues, enclosing an area the size of two football fields. There is a large patio with tables, chairs and umbrellas as well as a pristine swimming pool. Beyond this the rest of that space is devoted to a vast, traditional Japanese garden. Mistress Kimiko leads me into this. Then with that familiar tiny smile and a wave she beckons me closer and hands me her parasol. This is constructed of gaily decorated paper over bamboo spokes with a wooden handle.

“Walk beside me, slave, and keep the sun off me while we talk.”

“Yes, Mistress Kimiko. Thank you for the honor.”

We proceed down winding gravel paths through a profusion of plant life. There are more of the ubiquitous Japanese cherry trees in blossom, plus Japanese maples and wisteria as well as azaleas, rhododendron, ginkgos, and hundreds of other trees, shrubs, flowers, grasses and mosses unknown to me. Dozens of little streams weave among these, emptying into pools full of ornamental fish. We pass strategically placed fountains, statues and benches along with shaded stretches of springy manicured turf where one can also take repose.

Everything is meticulously perfect, and it must take an army of gardeners to keep it so. The only one we pass however is a wizened old fellow who puts down his trimmers to clasp his hands and bow deeply to each of us. Following Mistress Kimiko’s lead I gravely return the bow, whereupon he breaks into a gap-toothed smile and then beams delightedly at Mistress Kimiko when she favors him with a stroke of her fingertips down his weathered cheek. We leave him beaming and bowing anew, and once we’ve moved a few feet down the path Mistress at last speaks for the first time since entering the garden.

“That is Hisao, my only full-time gardener. Other than Aiko and me he is the only one who lives here since my parents’ passing. He is mute, and thus not much of a conversationalist. But he is truly indispensible.”

“I can well imagine,” I tentatively offer, unsure how much conversation I’m expected to provide myself. “Like you this place is stunningly beautiful and perfect in every way.”