Fifty Shades of Submission (7 page)

Outside the late afternoon was bright and the street was
crowded and busy, bustling with people and traffic. I looked about me and felt as though I had just walked into a surreal world where I did not belong. Suddenly I longed to turn around and go back to the black room with its red glow and waves of excruciating pain and sexual ecstasy.

At that moment I knew I was hopelessly lost.

Saskia
rose and leaned against the balustrade of the balcony, looking out into the darkened landscape. My story of lust and torment had taken so long that night had fallen completely. 

"You ha
ve a curious way of arousing my imagination,” she said at last, with her back to me, staring out into the night. “Your bizarre story has made my heart beat faster for some reason. You make depravity seem exciting – seductive, even.” She turned around and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “I think you are the kind of man who is capable of corrupting a woman to the depths of her very soul. You look as young and guileless as a cherub, and yet you speak of unspeakable things – base depravity and wickedness. I find it most disturbing, and yet abominably exciting."

Yes, my love
, sex and pain is exciting. If only you will allow yourself to enjoy the indescribable pleasure of it.

I am lying on the table with the think black rubber sheet. My body is manacled to the steel medical table and my feet are locked in the stirrups, suspended from the chains attached to the black ceiling. Aunt Sophia is standing between my legs, dressed in her unbuttoned white doctor’s coat. She is naked underneath the coat and I can see her drooping breasts glowing in the red light of the room.  She snaps on her white latex gloves and my heart begins to race. The torture is about to commence - but not before she fits the now familiar ball gag to my mouth and face.

In the corner of the room the small green light of the video camera glows quietly, signifying that, as always, everything is being
meticulously recorded. Before commencing, Aunt Sophia darts a brief look up at the one-way mirrored window to the room next door. I am certain there is somebody behind that window, watching our every session. Someone who is enthralled and excited by torture and the pain.

Aunt Sophia grabs my penis roughly and clips a short chain
to the penis ring on the tip. She pulls my penis back by its chain so that it is pointing at my navel and clips the other end of the chain to my left nipple ring. She attaches another chain from my penis to my right nipple so that my penis is securely harnessed and dragged up and away from my testicles.

Aunt Sophia turns to her
steel table laid out with her various and ingenious instruments of torture. She picks up a wooden paddle that looks somewhat like a flat wooden spoon. I brace myself for the ball-bashing that I know is coming.

The blows fr
om the paddle to my testicles are sharp and measured to induce the maximum pain. I heave and scream, my throaty bellows muffled by the gag.

Later, I went back to my room, undressed,
turned out the lights, and fell on my bed, exhausted.  The darkness around me was cold and oppressive. I felt drained from retelling the story of Aunt Sophia. I felt confused about the depth and violence of my feelings for Saskia. I fell asleep almost immediately. My dreams were filled with torrid scenes of being chased through a dark forest. I was naked and could feel the pine needles and soft twigs underfoot as I fled. Saskia and my stepmother and Aunt Sophia took turns in pursuing and tormenting me.

I
awoke abruptly in the dead of night.

There was a sharp
knock at my window and I got up sleepily and opened it, forgetting that I was naked. Saskia peered at me through the cold window pane. She was dressed in her long fur coat, just as I had seen her the first time. I went to open the door for her and she seemed taken aback as I stood in the doorway, my body bathed in silvery moonlight. Her eyes travelled to my nipple rings, then down to my penis and settled on the thick silver ring affixed to the tip of my cock. It glinted in the moonlight like a jewel.

For a moment she was silent, then she seemed to regain her
composure. “You’re beautiful,” she murmured at last.

Her compliment made me uncomfortable
. She came in and sat down on the side of my rumpled bed while I pulled on my jeans. I did not turn on the lights but rather opened the curtains so that silvery moonlight streamed through the foggy window panes and bathed the room with an eerie light.

"Your story disturbed me
so much I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I’ve been tossing and turning for hours. Come and sit with me." She patted the bed next to her.

"In a moment,
" I said.

I crouched
by the fireplace and got a small fire going. It added a warm, comforting glow to the room.

"
Winter is truly setting in," she said, "the nights are becoming very cold. Forgive me, but I won’t take off my coat until the room is warm."

I
sat down beside her and put my arm around her and kissed her pale neck. She did not pull away or offer any resistance, which pleased me immensely.

"
Tell me, I can see that you enjoy women dressed in furs - is that because of your step Aunt Sophia?"

I shrugged.
"Fur is luxurious and symbolic. Throughout history fur symbolised wealth and power and beauty. Of course in modern times it is forbidden, as it should be. Killing animals for the sake of fashion is barbarous. But in centuries past Monarchs and the privileged nobility have worn fur as a kind of uniform. A luxurious shield not only against the elements, but also society.
Fur has always represented power and wealth and tyranny. "

Saskia looked at me carefully. “
I think you associate fur with something entirely different."

I
nodded. "I have always been attracted to suffering – probably because that’s all I’ve ever really known. Nothing intensifies my passion more than domination and cruelty, and especially the idea of the unfaithfulness of a beautiful woman. And I cannot imagine such a pitiless woman except in fur."

"It gives a dominant and imposing quality to a
heartless woman?"

"No
t only that," I continued. "I suppose I have always had a very vivid imagination. At the age of ten I was already fascinated by the legends of martyrs. I remember reading with a kind of enraptured horror of how, throughout the beginning of time, these unfortunates have been chained in prisons, tortured in dungeons, scarred with knives, stretched on the rack, boiled in tar, thrown to wild animals to be ripped apart and devoured; nailed to the cross - and suffered the most horrible torment almost with a kind of noble joy. To suffer and endure cruel torture has always seemed to me to be a kind of exquisite ecstasy, especially when inflicted by a beautiful woman. Then the ecstasy becomes all the sweeter and infinitely, passionately sexual.

"I
have studied some of the men in history who have been abused, maltreated, betrayed and broken by women - King Gunther whom the mighty Brunhilde tied to their bed on their bridal night, and the Knight Ctirad whom the daring Amazon Scharka craftily ensnared in a forest near Prague and then took to her castle where, after having amused herself with him, had him brutally tortured and broken on the rack—"

"
Disgusting
," Saskia said, alarmed. "I can promise you that if you had the misfortune of falling into the hands of a heartless woman like that you would soon lose your taste for ‘poetic sexual ecstasy’."

I looked at her steadily.
"Do you think so? I don’t. I think I would be aroused all the more."

"
I think you might actually have lost your senses, Julian," she said alarmed, but even so, the ghost of a look of excitement flared briefly in those hypnotic green eyes.

I shrugged. "Perhaps due to my circumstances, a
s a boy I developed the passion for reading stories in which the extremist cruelties were described. I loved especially to look at pictures and prints which represented them. The tyrants who occupied thrones; the inquisitors who tortured the heretics, burning and butchering them at will; all the woman whom the pages of history have recorded as lustful, beautiful, and violent. Women like Lucretia Borgia, Agnes of Hungary, the Sultana Roxolane, and the Russian Czarinas of 19
th
century— all these cruel women were dressed in rich furs or robes trimmed with ermine."

"And so fur
arouses these depraved imaginings within you," Saskia said, and absently drew her magnificent fur coat closer about her, so that the dark shining sable cascaded luxuriantly around her pale neck and full breasts.  Her large piercing green eyes rested on me with a peculiar mocking satisfaction.

Overcome by desire, I flung
my arms around her and drew her close. "Something in you has awakened my most sacred fantasies," I said hoarsely.

She put her hand on my
cheek.
"What fantasies?"

I was seized with a sweet intoxication
at the touch of her long fingers against my skin and emboldened by the tender look she gave me through half-closed lids. "To be the slave of a beautiful woman,” I said excitedly. “A beautiful woman whom I love, worship and adore."

"And who
maltreats you?" She laughed.

I looked deep
ly into those mesmerizing green eyes. “Yes,” I said earnestly. “A beautiful woman who shackles me and whips me and treats me badly, while we engage in indescribable sexual pleasure. That is my fantasy."

She stared at me, lips slightly parted
, eyes gleaming. "Be careful what you wish for, my young stallion. When you find this woman who will gratify all your darkest fantasies you may find that she will treat you more cruelly than you could ever imagine."

"I
am sure that I have already found this woman of my dreams," I said softly. “You.” I buried my burning face against the luxuriant fur at her breasts.

She pushed
me away violently and stood up irritably. "
Me
?" she exclaimed. “You think of me as someone capable of such depravity – such cruelty? Someone who could abuse you and torment you to amuse myself?”

I looked at her steadily. T
he light from the fire danced on her beautiful cheekbones, her face looked like a perfect alabaster mask in the half light. A thing of flawless beauty, sculpted by a master.

“Yes.
”

She glared angrily at me for a moment then left the room without a word.

This time there is something different about The Room as I have come to think
of that dark place with its black walls and demonic red glowing light, and devices of torture scattered about.

The
red light has been switched off and the room is lit instead by dozens of black wax candles that give it even more of an evil, satanic feel than usual. I notice immediately that Aunt Sophia has rearranged the room. She has pushed all her toys to one side against the wall and the center of the room has been cleared. Candles in tall free-standing wrought-iron candelabras have been placed in a perfect circle. It looks like the setting for a sacrificial ritual of some sort.

A cold shiver runs up my spine
.

I glance at the video camera in the corner and see that th
e little green light is on, filming as always. I turn my head and look purposefully at the one-way mirror, trying to stare right through it at the person – or people - beyond.

As always, when I enter the room, I am naked. I hear the door close behind me and turn. Aunt Sophia is standing there.

“What do you have to say to me, Julian?

I kneel
on the floor before her and dutifully recite my mantra: “Give me a reason to cry, show me no mercy. Force me to my knees and use me as you will."

She nods, satisfied. “Get up.
”

She leads me to the ce
nter of the circle and indicates that I must stand there. Then she begins to rub my whole body down with a fragrant oil, including my penis and testicles and anus, inserting the oil into my anus with a latex-gloved finger. Her movements are strong and strangely sensual, especially around my genitals, which instantly arouses me.

“Who
is watching us through the window?” I say.

In an instant reflex she strikes me through the face violently, jerking my head back. “You
know the rules, Julian,” she says calmly. “Never speak unless you are spoken to.”

She hits me again, then again through the face
. I take it without flinching.

Finally she
attaches two broad leather straps to my ankles that are joined together with a strong metal ring, so that now I am standing with my feet manacled close together. Then she handcuffs my wrists in front of me and attaches the handcuffs to a leather belt around my waist, the kind worn by prisoners. I cannot move my hands more than three inches from my navel. Then she places a ball gag into my mouth and buckles its leather strap tightly behind my head. I am now oiled, immobilized and effectively silenced.