Consumer
Elder Statesman
Old story, but not one I published here.
From a discussion elsewhere on "Mastery without Love". Reminded me of this relationship (and the story).
-SB
*****
She knelt, head down, but not in nadu. She wasn't capable of one, not flexible enough, so I gave her this position the second time we met as a gift.
She had her shoulders back, her arms behind her and each hand clasped the opposite wrist. She sat on her folded legs, her ankles under her ass, but not crossed. She sat in her bra and panties, they matched in color and style but that was the only requirement I gave her. They were plain white, utilitarian garments. I thought often of buying her something prettier, but it was not my place. The pieces of herself that she handed to me did not include that. As it was, the barriers to her enjoying being any more feminine were considerable. The fact that they were woman's panties at all was a step she took purely for my enjoyment. A gift in return for the position. It was so hard to actually "give" her anything.
Her head was down, and her dark brown hair covered her face, but I knew her eyes were closed. She was at "meditation".
I gave every girl I trained a set of mantras. Phrases. Each tailored to the woman or girl. But her set had required a great deal of thought. Something more.
"I am beautiful". Every time she said it, it was through locked teeth.
"I am here by choice." I'd never had to put that one in, but in her case, she needed the reminder.
"I will not damage myself, for I have given this body to another." I had lost count of the number of times I'd had to make her say this over the phone to me in the middle of the night.
"I am inherently valuable simply because I am me". Again, this phrase was always dragged out of her, her vocal chords grating at the sound.
She was to repeat these four things, over and over, for a half hour. I was timing her as I sat in front of her. Our rituals took a long time.
The timer gave a soft chime, and she looked up at me, sitting in my arm-chair in front of her.
The ritual continued. The questions always the same now for the last six months.
"Why are you here?" I asked her.
"To serve You." she said. No honorifics. Just the statement.
"How do you serve me?" I asked.
"By giving this body to you for your training and pleasure." she said, and sighed. This was hard too.
"And your mind?" I asked.
"Yours also." she said.
"And your heart?". This was the only, genuine question in this ritual. Although the answer was always the same...so far.
"Belongs to her" she said.
"So Be It" I said, and stood, picking up the cane that had been resting against the side of the chair.
I gave the shaft to her, and she kissed it.
"Rise and position yourself to receive this" I said. More ritual.
She stood, an ungainly un-folding of her body rather than the graceful motion I was more used to. But I knew what was behind it.
She walked over to the swooning couch and bent over it, legs shoulder width apart, her upper body following the rolling slope of the couch, bent at the waist. One arm flowed out in front of her, the other under her body. I watched the white cotton fabric move as her fingers slid under, pressing themselves against her mons. What they did there, exactly, I had only inferred from the movement under the fabric..
Canes are always a "cold" scene. I am not a sadist. There is no heat here...but the cold precision of making the shaft and tip do exactly what I wished. I began. Using just my fingertips I moved the light strikes up and down her thighs, each flick emphasized by the shaft and the flexibility of the instrument. These stung, but did not damage. That would come later. I paused and saw her fingers moving. She was rocking back into the light strikes. I shifted my grip and brought my wrist into it. She gasped a little as I worked the harder strikes over the already pink skin.
I remembered...
She had said she was lesbian. She had said she was a Top. She had said she was one mean bitch.
And then she'd, very quietly, said she had heard I could keep a secret.
I could.
I had.
She needed male energy for this. She needed someone who wasn't depending on her. She needed someone to tell her not to hurt herself. But she also needed the pain. And she needed someone who could let her be sexual without violating her. A submissive, a masochist...but one who could never be touched. She would serve.
She offered me her mouth, but I said "no", that what we would build would not involve that sort of service, and that I understood. Then she smiled and said it was a test. And then she knelt and asked if I would...
That question still echoed for me as I paused again.
"I'm close" she whispered.
"I'm going to mark you." I said.
"yes." she said, panting.
I used my arm. Not a full-strength swing, even through the thigh muscle if I gave it everything I had I might damage the hip joint. And I aimed for the fabric over her ass...that would keep me from cutting her. The sound reminded me of the moment a steak hit a hot grill. She cried out. I adjusted and did it again. She moaned, and cried at the same time. She shifted to get her fingers in a better position, and I adjusted as well, giving a lighter blow over the bare and already sensitized skin of her thighs.
We continued. For a long 20 minutes I worked the skin I could access. She came twice more.
"Enough" I said, judging that there was nothing more I could do with the tools at hand.
I reached over, and helped her stand, my hand on her arm and shoulder. I checked her eyes, she was "floating", endorphins and orgasm racing through her system.
"Thank you, Master" she said softly, the only time she would address me as such.
"Good girl" I said, and hugged her, and for awhile, she was not herself. Sometimes she cried. But not today, she just folded those too long legs up against her body as she sat next to me on the couch, and let me rock her gently. She'd whimper sometimes. Other times she'd just breathe. After a long time, her eyes opened.
She moved away from me, looking for her robe draped over the chair I'd been sitting in earlier. It was back. That body-language that put the barriers up. She didn't say anything as she took her robe, wrapped it around her, and walked into the other room to change back into her flannel and denim. When she emerged, she was that "tough bitch" again.
"Thanks, 'Consumer'" she said.
"You are welcome, Cheryl" I said. She turned to leave.
"Cheryl" I said softly. She turned, looking a little mean, no doubt from the pain on her skin, "I want your phrases, 50 times, long hand, by Friday."
Almost instinctively, I saw the snarl start...but she caught herself.
"Yes," she said softly, almost as if she was afraid for anyone else to hear.
"Good girl" I said, and she walked out the door.
From a discussion elsewhere on "Mastery without Love". Reminded me of this relationship (and the story).
-SB
*****
She knelt, head down, but not in nadu. She wasn't capable of one, not flexible enough, so I gave her this position the second time we met as a gift.
She had her shoulders back, her arms behind her and each hand clasped the opposite wrist. She sat on her folded legs, her ankles under her ass, but not crossed. She sat in her bra and panties, they matched in color and style but that was the only requirement I gave her. They were plain white, utilitarian garments. I thought often of buying her something prettier, but it was not my place. The pieces of herself that she handed to me did not include that. As it was, the barriers to her enjoying being any more feminine were considerable. The fact that they were woman's panties at all was a step she took purely for my enjoyment. A gift in return for the position. It was so hard to actually "give" her anything.
Her head was down, and her dark brown hair covered her face, but I knew her eyes were closed. She was at "meditation".
I gave every girl I trained a set of mantras. Phrases. Each tailored to the woman or girl. But her set had required a great deal of thought. Something more.
"I am beautiful". Every time she said it, it was through locked teeth.
"I am here by choice." I'd never had to put that one in, but in her case, she needed the reminder.
"I will not damage myself, for I have given this body to another." I had lost count of the number of times I'd had to make her say this over the phone to me in the middle of the night.
"I am inherently valuable simply because I am me". Again, this phrase was always dragged out of her, her vocal chords grating at the sound.
She was to repeat these four things, over and over, for a half hour. I was timing her as I sat in front of her. Our rituals took a long time.
The timer gave a soft chime, and she looked up at me, sitting in my arm-chair in front of her.
The ritual continued. The questions always the same now for the last six months.
"Why are you here?" I asked her.
"To serve You." she said. No honorifics. Just the statement.
"How do you serve me?" I asked.
"By giving this body to you for your training and pleasure." she said, and sighed. This was hard too.
"And your mind?" I asked.
"Yours also." she said.
"And your heart?". This was the only, genuine question in this ritual. Although the answer was always the same...so far.
"Belongs to her" she said.
"So Be It" I said, and stood, picking up the cane that had been resting against the side of the chair.
I gave the shaft to her, and she kissed it.
"Rise and position yourself to receive this" I said. More ritual.
She stood, an ungainly un-folding of her body rather than the graceful motion I was more used to. But I knew what was behind it.
She walked over to the swooning couch and bent over it, legs shoulder width apart, her upper body following the rolling slope of the couch, bent at the waist. One arm flowed out in front of her, the other under her body. I watched the white cotton fabric move as her fingers slid under, pressing themselves against her mons. What they did there, exactly, I had only inferred from the movement under the fabric..
Canes are always a "cold" scene. I am not a sadist. There is no heat here...but the cold precision of making the shaft and tip do exactly what I wished. I began. Using just my fingertips I moved the light strikes up and down her thighs, each flick emphasized by the shaft and the flexibility of the instrument. These stung, but did not damage. That would come later. I paused and saw her fingers moving. She was rocking back into the light strikes. I shifted my grip and brought my wrist into it. She gasped a little as I worked the harder strikes over the already pink skin.
I remembered...
She had said she was lesbian. She had said she was a Top. She had said she was one mean bitch.
And then she'd, very quietly, said she had heard I could keep a secret.
I could.
I had.
She needed male energy for this. She needed someone who wasn't depending on her. She needed someone to tell her not to hurt herself. But she also needed the pain. And she needed someone who could let her be sexual without violating her. A submissive, a masochist...but one who could never be touched. She would serve.
She offered me her mouth, but I said "no", that what we would build would not involve that sort of service, and that I understood. Then she smiled and said it was a test. And then she knelt and asked if I would...
That question still echoed for me as I paused again.
"I'm close" she whispered.
"I'm going to mark you." I said.
"yes." she said, panting.
I used my arm. Not a full-strength swing, even through the thigh muscle if I gave it everything I had I might damage the hip joint. And I aimed for the fabric over her ass...that would keep me from cutting her. The sound reminded me of the moment a steak hit a hot grill. She cried out. I adjusted and did it again. She moaned, and cried at the same time. She shifted to get her fingers in a better position, and I adjusted as well, giving a lighter blow over the bare and already sensitized skin of her thighs.
We continued. For a long 20 minutes I worked the skin I could access. She came twice more.
"Enough" I said, judging that there was nothing more I could do with the tools at hand.
I reached over, and helped her stand, my hand on her arm and shoulder. I checked her eyes, she was "floating", endorphins and orgasm racing through her system.
"Thank you, Master" she said softly, the only time she would address me as such.
"Good girl" I said, and hugged her, and for awhile, she was not herself. Sometimes she cried. But not today, she just folded those too long legs up against her body as she sat next to me on the couch, and let me rock her gently. She'd whimper sometimes. Other times she'd just breathe. After a long time, her eyes opened.
She moved away from me, looking for her robe draped over the chair I'd been sitting in earlier. It was back. That body-language that put the barriers up. She didn't say anything as she took her robe, wrapped it around her, and walked into the other room to change back into her flannel and denim. When she emerged, she was that "tough bitch" again.
"Thanks, 'Consumer'" she said.
"You are welcome, Cheryl" I said. She turned to leave.
"Cheryl" I said softly. She turned, looking a little mean, no doubt from the pain on her skin, "I want your phrases, 50 times, long hand, by Friday."
Almost instinctively, I saw the snarl start...but she caught herself.
"Yes," she said softly, almost as if she was afraid for anyone else to hear.
"Good girl" I said, and she walked out the door.
