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It starts with a whup on the ass. Well not quite. It really starts with you naked and kneeling, just waiting for something that could change you forever. So you kneel. Like in the pews where as a child you waited for confession, absolution, a wafer. That felt right. This feels right too. Only here your sins may not be forgiven, but they will certainly be revealed.
You hear footsteps. Impossibly formidable heels like the ones that neared the door as you stood on the sunny porch of this seemingly run-of-the-mill-looking Victorian, that halted only as the door opened and so you entered with this mix of vague hopes and vague dreads of what could come.
Little did you know. Now, here in this dungeon, the footsteps sound like knocks onto the doors that open into the little dark corners of your soul; only now the pressure changes imperceptibly in this dungeon as the doorknob turns and the door-latch gives in to her will and then the door opens and the impossibly heavy heels enter and resting inside them the delicious feet of the woman who will irrevocably be your mistress, gliding in with the glass of water in one hand (in a disposable plastic cup) for you, which you requested long ago, and in the other hand a ice-cold beer stein of water for her. She places your cup on the floor and hers on a wooden shelf several feet above the floor - and you suddenly understand that this is how it's going to go from now on.
She paces, all patience, all grace of the feline and just when you've gotten used to it she reaches around you and at first it feels good, the silk of her skin brushing against your ribs, it feels like just what you feel you're entitled to - and suddenly you feel the pain shoot inward from your nipples. It is the first of many shots of pain from those twin portals for her power, and eventually they feel like reports of sensation (like the wind in your face on a nasty autumn day) except they get more painful, and ever more painful.
And now, she's whipping your ass.
The last thing your conscious mind recalls is the clamping of the collar on your neck. You'd think the sensation is one of anxiety, but it's relief, the release of control to one better worthy of it, so that the only thing that counts now is something that wasn't among the thousands of things that worried you just a quarter of an hour before - or at any point in your life (now a short blur of indistinguishable memories, that erstwhile life), the only thing that matters is this: what she wants. That's why you secretly wanted the collar all along. Only now when you think of the collar, what you think is: will it come off?
There follows a litany of rituals, each more devastating and yet more fulfilling than the one before: Fleece-lined leather braces on the wrists and ankles, with metal clasps that bind your extremities together. Stand up and be slapped on the face. The ass is tortured further, spanked, abused in every manner it deserves. Finally, the sensuous, vine-like arms navigate around to find your nipples once more and inflict the familiar agony. In a careless moment, you fall into the arms of your torturer; she pulls you upright by the hair and, finding your mouth open, approaches you like a lover about to kiss you. You hear a strange, uneasy sound inside her sinuously slender throat and then she spits into the spittoon of your awaiting kiss. There are a dozen sensations competing for the right to interpret this unprecedented act: In the end, your entire mouth gives in to the sweet sensation of the gift - it has the charge of her power, which you will come to know more forcefully. You gladly swallow. It's inside you now and there it will stay.
Just as you savor this thin triumph, she fastens you to a St Andrew's cross and flogs your mind clear of any thought that was there. She somehow and brutally manages to insert a painful eternity of anticipation between each flog. Just as you're straining to look sidelong in the mirror for some warning of the next flog, it strikes you. Sad but true: you are no match for her. Then she unbinds you and twists you around so you can worship her body. It is a deceptively feminine envelope, that body. Inside crouches a twin power - the ancient, authoritarian dominance that the phallus has laid claim to through history; and the subversive, nimbly feminine antidote that has all along kept it in check. But in a cruel fusion that you never allowed yourself to even consider, the two are not only before you in this body that is now approaching you.
Any fear is elbowed aside by the need to show this body the respect it deserves by coursing your fingers softly up and down its ingenious contours. But there's a problem: your hands are bound behind your back. Now she is so close you can feel her heat on your skin, you strain to inhale the moist breath she exhales. It's so depressing: she knows know exactly what you're thinking, feeling now what you feel even before you do. Dispirited, you're yanked to new heights now because her hands descend to the roots of your hair and pull you to the perfect belly beneath her corset.
Okay, she is merciful. If only the world at large were this merciful. But in the very moment when you're savoring this mercy you find yourself thinking: how the fuck did these clothespins get on my nipples? And then, at some moment in that incoherent fever of pain, her corset - the garment that in its presence symbolized authority itself, but that signifies an even deeper domination with its very removal - comes off. How hard did the gods labor to create this, a perfect navel pierced with a worshipping arc of a ring?.
She walks away, then returns in quite a different state. But I get ahead of myself.
Your mind is unexpectedly visited by a familiar, philosophical thought: why are we always mixing bodies up with gender? It's extraordinarily difficult to change the sex of your body from male to female or female to male. For some, it's very much worth the trouble. But somehow, the order of things arranged it that changing your gender is a snap. There's no trouble involved. Well, actually the trouble is, hardly anyone is comfortable with this very truth. A woman can fuck like a straight woman (she can receive a cock) or like a man (she can give one). And a man can fuck like a woman, or a man. For anyone who is not cripplingly uptight, both are splendidly fun. And both, really, have their own frequency of power.
So it shouldn't be much of a surprise that you now find her firm cock in your mouth. Your first fleeting thought is, this ain't so bad. Hell, a guy could get used to this. It's almost a fantastic joke: such a slim-throated creature is now so thick in your own throat. Then it pushes down deeper, and suddenly it's a great choke. You think you can forego gagging - and this same thought perishes right before you gag. It's a pathetic, altogether helpless gesture. But then she praises you - yes, gag on it, she says - and suddenly it seems glorious. You take it deeper, shove your tongue out, relax those throat muscles (yes, this is how you heard it's done - a seemingly useless factoid gleaned from a magazine article read idly in a dentist's office, or maybe a dull vignette on The Man's Show - which rushes unkempt into the forefront of your consciousness - so earnest is your desire to please this invasive penis). And the result is you gag again. What an ass. But an obedient ass. It's okay, she seems to think it's good enough from you. This is not exactly the moment to overturn the proverbial apple cart.
Now she slides the blindfolds over you. -Can you see? -No, Mistress, I can't see. But there's a sliver of light off on the side. Does that count? It doesn't matter, she's off on the other side of the room. Maybe it's all over now? No, it's not over now. Not by a long shot. After a soft symphony of her movements at a comfortable distance and a tense reprieve for you, she takes the blindfold off and commands you into this suspended harness, the likes of which you've never seen before but that you will never forget. You scuttle right in, you cock-whipped bastard.
So here's where you're thinking at this moment, this very moment when she looks down straight into your eyes and gently announces that she's going to loosen you up. In your delirium, you mistook this for an act of kindness, a sweet caress in a place both cherished and feared by most men that should be a candy reward but is in fact a prelude of a greater violation to come. You're sitting in the suspended harness, as comfortable and carefree as a five-year-old rocking on a swingset. You're looking up at her and see her with a look of devout concentration putting lubricant on her forefingers and studiously bringing them down and then there's this sudden, unexpected warm summer shower up your ass like a whiskey enema.
Later, you'll recall this moment when you looked up at her and you started thinking like some perverted TV jingle: she's in the woman's body, I'm in the man's body, but she's the man, and I'm the woman. Or better yet, we're both some newly evolved creatures that transcended stupid compartments of gender. And just at that instant, she turned her face up and looked straight at you with this steely look and for some inexplicable reason it then softened and she bent down gently until her face was just a few inches above yours, and you could feel the soft summer breeze of her breath on you so clearly that you would just let it in your own mouth and it would be inside of you, and that itself made you pretty fucking happy, and yet you could still feel the power of her cock inside of you too and it conquered you cell by cell until you were her slave not just in name but in unshakeable fact.
Sure, it's never been much of a problem for you to be with a woman who can make you feel like a man fucking a woman. And you won't knock it at all - it's very nice. It's just very, very much the rule. Now you see what a rare exception it is to find a woman who can fuck a man the way a man fucks a woman. And yet, if you think about it in a certain statistical way, that shouldn't be the case. It shouldn't be the case at all. Ever since the introduction of dildos (What? Sometime in the mid-1800s? Around the time - just a coincidence? - of the suffrage movement), women have had the technological means to fuck a man like a man fucks a woman, and yet in this virgin millennium it is still preciously rare.
There's this little Wagnerian opera of her unbearably sexy movements manipulating her penis inside you, and all too soon it's over. You've been fucked. Not fucked like oh,-you're-so-fucked-over or even oh-you're-so-fucked-up, but fully and blissfully fucked. Like, well, like a you think a woman wants to be fucked. Women, you think, should be so lucky to be fucked like this by a man. But now you remember you are a man (those cardboard notions of gender still remain standing in this world) and the demands of masculinity cascade back down upon you. But lucky for you, it's different now. The people shouting gender roles seem like little plastic army men on the ground below you. You knew all along that you're not male or female, you were assigned gender like the postal service assigns a number to your post office box. People are naturally bi-gendered, or maybe ambisexual. This is the idea that brought you here to this dungeon, the notion knocking on your head like heavy high-heels on wooden floors.
Unharnassed and gently succored in aftercare by your mistress, your febrile mind tries to take it all in. Maybe it wasn't, you tell yourself, as humiliating as it seemed. Hey, if it wasn't for the fact that you'd been ass-whupped, nipple tweaked, spat on, viciously face-slapped, clothes-pinned on those selfsame nipples, spanked and then flogged, forced to worship a body without your consent, mouth-raped, fucked but good and left after all is said and done saying thank you very much mistress - if it wasn't for all this, you'd be a lucky little imp.
