The Story of Emma Page 5

  And the best of it was that he obviously thought I did really well. He tied me to the bed like the first time, but woke me twice to kneel over my face so I could lick him all over again, but he wouldn’t untie me so I could do it properly, all I could do was crane my head up and kiss it as best I could, but at least I could have a really good go at that bit behind the balls. What an obedient little slavegirl.

  And the next morning when he said goodbye, I got the kiss of the hand and then he told me that next time he was going to bugger me… and I couldn’t wait.

  He was as good as his word. I bet every girl who has been taken like that can remember her first time. It’s much more traumatic than losing your virginity, at least in my opinion. But even now, when that back passage is so well used it can take virtually anything up it - and pretty well has - I have never taken as much pleasure in being given a good shafting there as in the other two entrances. I do enjoy it, but it’s more mental than physical pleasure, I love the degradation more than the act itself.

  Ben summoned me over a week later. I had been keeping a careful eye on my marks, especially the ones left by the keeper - the leather flap at the end of the crop - rectangular bruises with pinpoint dark red spots inside them, where it had snapped at me a split second after the shaft had raised its long, livid weal. But they were well on their way to disappearing, I could move without any stiffness and I was up for more.

  I wore a tight fitting jumper and pencil skirt that time, and was looking forward to another night of mind-blowing forays into the darker regions of my personality so I stripped almost before he gave the order. I was allowed to keep stockings, suspenders and heels on, he said it would make me look much more attractive when he took me, and I had to agree with him. He made me adopt my positions to make sure I remembered them, then had me walk for him. He said he was going to teach me to display myself much better by making me place one foot directly in front of the other as I walked and getting me to sway my hips more. He flicked at me with the cane as I practised and I learned quickly. He cut at me across the fronts and backs of the thighs which I found out instantly was much more painful than getting it on the bottom.

  After about an hour of this he put on my restraints and had me kneel on the sofa, facing the back, with my knees just on it so I could bend right forward and get my head down, jammed up against the back. Then he made me spread my thighs and put my arms back between them and tied my wrists to my ankles so I was trussed up neatly with my backside jutting up and out for him. He caned it then. Just six but I was so tightly stretched it hurt like the devil and I knew he would be able to see my labia peeling open as the pain and pleasure built. A very special humiliation that is. I couldn’t see very much with my head jammed down, but peering back through my open legs I could see just enough to watch some of the strokes coming and I am sure I made a very pretty picture, jumping and making “Aaah!” sounds each time the rod cracked across my suspender-and-stockings-framed buttocks.

  Once he decided that six had warmed me up well enough I saw him unzip his trousers and free his sex. I moaned at the sight, reminded of just how thick it was. He reached for something I couldn’t see and then I jumped again as cold and sticky stuff was spread round my anus and the finger doing it slid up inside me, quite easily. Then it withdrew and he spread some of the stuff on his helm before stepping closer to me. He didn’t say a word but I started to beg him not to do it as I watched his hand grip the base of his shaft and bend it down towards its target. Quite properly he ignored me and in fact punished me for speaking out of turn on my next visit. But my protests faded into gurgles and groans as I felt the blunt helm nudge at my sphincter and begin to push the muscles apart. They seemed to stretch impossibly wide and I screamed in panic, quite sure that something would have to give; and it was going to be me, but Ben just carried on regardless. The stinging got worse and even eclipsed the heat from the caning but still he wasn’t in. I was in such pain by then that I longed for him to get in, anything to stop that awful stretching. And at last it happened, quite suddenly, with a smooth suctioning feel the helm slid into me and my poor abused anus clamped tight around the shaft. I yelled all over again as he began to push farther in and provoked that instinctive urge to push downwards from my bowels.

  “Relax K. Just relax and take it in.”

  Easier said than done, but I tried. Despite the lubricant my rectum was so narrow that I could feel the tissues inside being pulled as the shaft worked its way up. It seemed as if I had yards of Ben’s body impaling me before he was finally in completely, and then it was time for the thrust and withdraw. I tried desperately to relax but he was so intent on coming that he yanked my innards backwards and forwards with him while I whimpered and moaned under him. At last though, I felt him slam up against my bottom again and again in short, sharp thrusts and felt the sperm spurt into my tortured passage. That was the only pleasure I took in the whole experience.

  He was obviously displeased with me because he could have stayed inside me till he began to soften and shrink but instead he wrenched himself out while still fully erect and that made me scream again as the helm brutally gave my sphincter one last stretching to remember it by. And to judge by the weird feeling at the base of the rectal passage, some of me must have stuck to him and for a second some of the lining actually came out before freeing itself and snapping back. I gave one last strangled yelp of fright and disgust and then it was done. Ben left me while he went to wash and when he came back simply told me to get dressed and go.

  He had released me and I stood clutching my buttocks and hopping in discomfort at the stinging from my anus. I burst into tears when I realised I was being dismissed, but he was adamant, just pushing me towards my clothes and repeating his command. To my utter dismay I understood that I was to return home with his sperm seeping out of my bottom hole.

  I was too miserable to protest anymore and squirmed on the taxi’s seat all the way home as the cold, sticky fluid smeared itself over my agonised anus and all over my caned bottom to remind me of my first failure as a slave.

  I rang his home number every day for a week, blubbering tearful apologies to his answering machine and promising to do better next time. Either he was playing with me or he decided to relent and two weeks after that night I went back into training.

  He used an inflatable butt plug to stretch me and I even took it home and inserted it myself whenever I had an hour or so, pumping it to the point of real pain and then leaving it there. He made me ring him whenever I did that so that I could tell him how much I hurt, and so at least I got some pleasure out of knowing that he knew I was waddling about naked and in tears. We settled into some kind of routine but it was difficult. Both our jobs demanded odd working hours and there were times when I really couldn’t respond to his summons. I was allowed to cry off twice in a month without incurring punishment. Equally there were times when he was required for late night sittings in the House, and on one occasion he was paged to get to the Division Lobby while we were in full session.

  By the time that occurred I had graduated to a room at the back of the first floor of the house where Ben kept all the equipment he had collected over the years. There were all kinds of trestles, benches, chains and some things which I simply had no name for back then. But I was immensely proud that I was regularly disciplined there, it meant that I really had been accepted as Ben’s slave. On that evening he had me lying face down on a wide wooden bench, ankles restrained and shackled, head hanging down off the end and my arms pulled painfully back and up, my wrists shackled to a chain from the ceiling. I was about to get a prolonged session under a whip wielded across back, buttocks and thighs - no short skirts for a week or so - when his pager went off. He simply laid the whip down across my back and left me.

  I can’t begin to describe the torments I went through for the next three hours. The pain was one thing but it was the fear, the desertion, the vulnerability that real
ly got to me. By the time he returned I was sobbing and groaning uncontrollably, my tears had formed a puddle on the bare wood floor under my face. I heard him enter and approach but all I could see was his beautifully polished shoes, spattered with raindrops.

  “All right K?” he asked.

  “No sir! I was so scared!” I sobbed. “And my arms…”

  “Are pure agony,” he finished for me. “But don’t worry, I’m back now and you won’t notice your arms in a minute or two.”

  I was so relieved that he was back his words immediately triggered the fires between my legs, and I welcomed the thrashing once it began at long last. It was my first experience with a proper whip and it was a real eye opener in all senses of the word. The skin-burn was more diffuse than with the cane or crop and took longer to penetrate and blend with the excitement in my belly. So I got longer to appreciate the slave experience of pain and helplessness before I got the pay-off and began to lose myself in that mist of pleasure/ pain which had me drumming my pelvis up and down on the bench while my bottom and thighs were laced with red-hot wires.

  And he was right, I forgot about my arms until he released me and then I really felt them. Subsequently of course, I came to learn that release from bondage can be even more painful than undergoing it. And very shortly I was to learn that the release of nipple and labial clamps holds a very special torment for a submissive.

  That night I spent in the spare bedroom which was next to his. I used it quite frequently by then and kept a small wardrobe for emergencies, that night was a case in point, as I had to have a knee length skirt for work the next morning to cover the whip marks on my thighs. Before he chained me for the night he took me from behind again and by then I was doing much better. I could let him in with minimal discomfort and control the bowel urges - even enjoy them - and then clench hard around him to give him a nice tight tunnel to pleasure himself in. And it was made better by my having a flaming red back for him to dig his fingers into as he rode me. And so I eventually came to terms with having three entrances open for business.

  For a moment I have to leave K and return to Emma. She was living a pretty intense existence herself at that time. A general election was looming and the government of the day was staggering from crisis to crisis while the opposition went from strength to strength. My paper’s editorial stance was pro-government and my editor was in despair as scandal after scandal rocked it. But at last we got a breakthrough. One of my sources, not Ben this time, tipped me off to just a whiff of scandal surrounding an up and coming opposition back-bencher, hotly tipped for a ministerial position after the election. I shall call him simply Guy.

  Anyone who has worked with me will know that in my professional life I am in no way submissive at all. And after I left that meeting armed with just a couple of phone numbers and names, I was a tigress. I spent hours on the phone using assumed names, I doorstepped shamelessly, browbeat ruthlessly and downright threatened people until I got what I was after - an exclusive!

  Two weeks later I broke a story which was a humdinger. It had a hint of local government corruption, selection procedure anomalies and a sprinkling of photogenic women. The man concerned hadn’t quite done anything illegal, but the lapses in proper procedures were enough. Hard on our heels the rest of the pack closed in and I was there when he left his house to face the press. He saw me right at the front of the crowd and his look left me in no doubt about what he would like to do to me if he ever got me on his own.

  As the weeks went by both Ben’s and my life became even more hectic. The election came ever closer and Ben found it hard to make time for K. As a result our sessions became more intense. I missed a lot of them and ran up some impressive beatings.

  I was broken into wearing a collar and lead. It was a two-inch high collar in thick leather, with studs and rings round the outside. Ben said it suited my small chin very well, and I fully agreed. It was kept discreetly in the bottom of the coat and umbrella stand in the hall and it was the first thing I put on and the last thing I took off on my visits. Walking the way Ben had taught me to, hips swaying, naked apart from stockings and heels, and pulled along on a collar and lead, I felt I presented a pretty inviting image of available womanhood. And Ben took full advantage. When he wasn’t caning or whipping me tied to the wall or over a trestle, he was making full use of all three passages open to him. His stamina was awe inspiring and he was capable of starting with my mouth, just letting me get the helm inside and savour the taste and feel on my tongue, then moving to the vagina and giving that a really good reaming, and while I lay gasping and twitching in the aftermath, he would turn me over and finish himself off in my rectum. Quite often this was done on the flogging bench upstairs, but sometimes he did it in the kitchen, with me bending over the table, and sometimes in the lounge. It would only take him half an hour or so and a glass of wine and he was off again. I would either assume Position Two and offer my back as a footstool, or Position Five and stand patiently facing the wall until I was required again. The humiliation was so thrilling, my submission to him so complete and so comforting that I didn’t even protest when he began taking me vaginally first, then anally and only after that, finishing his pleasure in my mouth.

  Once the election was called, I knew that Ben would have to leave town and go and fight for his political life back in his Home Counties constituency, but I just blanked it out of my mind until one night I turned up in answer to a summons from him and found that he had gone.

  He gave me no warning at all. That was my first experience of the fact that a master does not owe his slave any explanations. Her business is to just accept whatever he does.

  When I pressed the intercom that night, there was no answer to my statement that it was K, just the buzz of the door unlocking. I stepped into the hall and found myself face to face with Ben’s wife.

  I had known he was married. He had been quite open about it and even showed me her photograph once, it had been a mainly financial transaction between two old ‘county’ families but Ben and Clair had discovered that they shared an interest in dominating girls like K, and so it had suited them well enough and they rubbed along quite nicely. But never in my wildest dreams had I thought that he would turn me over to her care.

  She was in her late forties I guessed, wearing a high buttoning jacket and knee length pleated skirt in matching light grey; smart and businesslike, and she took her time examining me while I stuttered, blushed and then made to turn tail.

  “Come here you silly girl,” she barked - just like a headmistress. “He wants you to read this.”

  She handed me a note with just the letter K on the envelope. Inside was the note which I have kept to this day.

  ‘Dear K,

  You of all people will know why I can’t be in town just now. But I put you in the capable hands of my wife to continue your training. Don’t worry, she has my permission to do anything she wants to you, so you won’t feel neglected.

  Of course you can refuse to hand yourself over to her, and if you do I will accept your decision and make no further contact with you. If you go ahead, she will report your progress to me.

  Ben.’

  The threat was crystal clear. It was all or nothing; I either did what he wanted or I would lose him. But I knew it would involve me being naked in front of another woman, and who knew what else as well? And there was another aspect which Ben must have known about. Up until then I had told myself that I had allowed myself to be whipped and abused out of devotion to the man who was strong enough to do it to me. If I went ahead with Clair, then I was admitting that it was the submission itself which turned me on. I didn’t know her; she didn’t know me, it was going to be domination and submission purely for their own sake. But even as I hated Ben for forcing me to make the decision, I realised I had opened my bag and dropped the note in. I guess my body decided for me, any domination is better than none when you are a s
ubmissive.

  Resignedly I followed Clair into the lounge, just like I did with Ben, and there was another woman there - a girl really, about twenty - she was plump and pretty with a cheerful face and a mass of thick black hair.

  “This is Janet,” Clair told me. “She’s my own slave. She calls me Madam at all times and so will you. Understand?”

  I nodded. I knew what was coming next and I was going to have to do it front of two women, and not just one!

  “Don’t just stand there, K. Strip! Let’s have a look at what I’ve got to work with.”

  I nearly cried with shame but I did it. Even the stockings went and I just stood there while Madam stalked round me as if I was a cow at auction. She pinched my bum hard several times and then came round and had a look at my boobs. I had to close my eyes and pretend it was a man’s hands squeezing them and pulling at the nipples. I got a good hard slap round the face for that.

  “Don’t look away from me! It’s not your master’s hands, it’s mine. Your mistress’s.”

  I blinked back the tears and tried to stare ahead. But then her hand went down my stomach and started to play with my pubes. I was in Position One, legs spread; and when she slid her hand down and then along my lips I had to close my eyes again. I couldn’t stand being touched by another woman. Another slap, even harder and then before I knew it her fingers were inside me. I knew they had slipped in easily and could feel them stirring up the juices.

  Madam laughed. “Ben told me you liked getting slapped a bit. Okay, you’ll do.”

  She pulled her fingers out and stood back. “Not bad tits but not on the scale of Janet’s milkers. Show her Janet.”

  Madam used really coarse language to compensate for not being a man, and to make a female submissive as conscious of her body as she would be if a man were there. She said ‘cunt’ the whole time, and always referred to ‘tits’ ‘teats’ and ‘udders’. In its own way it was quite effective.