Switch - a full length bdsm erotic novel (11 page)

He looked down. ‘Sorry, mistress. I mean, I’m sorry. For looking at you and for not going upstairs in the shop. Were you there?’

‘You don’t ask me questions.’

‘I remember, mistress, you told me when we spoke. If you were upstairs, I didn’t realise. I stayed downstairs, I didn’t want you to arrive and not see me and think I wasn’t there. I texted you asking where I should be.’

‘I made a simple enquiry, slave Don’t start whining and making excuses.’ This was surprisingly easy. I was taking my master as a guide for dominance, but I was being nothing like him. I was more like some Disney baddie, a Cruella De Vil, stamping down a lesser mortal.

‘Sorry, mistress.’

Was this turning him on? I was curious rather than desirous.

‘I brought you this.’ He ruffled around in his pocket and slid a folded bit of paper across the table.

I unfolded it. “Mistress” written over and over again in the careful, rounded handwriting of a child learning their first words.

‘I wanted to show you I did it, like you asked.’

Had I asked?

‘And I also have a present for you to thank you for your kindness and grace. I don’t use the word “grace” lightly, I mean it completely. I can tell you have a beautiful spirit.’ He put his silvery wrapped package on the table between us. ‘Mistress, this is my most precious possession. When you suggested that we meet in a bookshop I knew you’d appreciate it. It is a first edition copy of
Lord of the Rings
. It’s printed on India paper. Prices are down a bit at the moment, but when I got it, it was worth several hundred pounds.’

‘Money doesn’t always indicate value.’ I placed my right hand lightly on top of the paper, sliding the tips of my fingers across the shiny surface.

‘No. You’re very wise, mistress. I knew you were. I hope you don’t think I’m being foolish, but I wanted to give it to you as it is the thing that matters most to me. It is the only thing I could give you that shows my gratitude and affection.’ The words bubbled out of his mouth. He clearly wanted to talk, and would talk all night. If I allowed him to.

‘Isn’t a gift like this more appropriate for your real mistress?’

The poetry slam began in the middle of my question; he leaned closer to try and hear me.

‘You have no affection for your current mistress, do you, slave?’ I didn’t raise my voice to compete with the noise of the student currently shouting out her passion.

‘Black Heart!

‘Cruel World!

‘No Part!

‘No Meld!’

‘I respect Mistress Crimson, mistress. She has been very kind to me, she’s been trying to teach me,’ he said loudly, although he looked around nervously to see if any of the students were distracted from the performer and listening to him instead.

‘What has she been trying to teach you?’

His face and neck coloured. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever blushed in my life. I awaited his confession, wondering what it could be to make a BDSM player ashamed.

‘I’m a virgin,’ he said.

Oh dear gods. And goddesses too.

‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?’ My voice was calm, though I was aware of every thump of my heart.

He shook his head.

‘Then I will tell you some things. To me you are a piece of meat. I’ll use you. I’ll devour you. I’ll discard you. That is how it’ll be, that is all you can expect. How does that make you feel?’

‘Excited, mistress.’

I stood up. ‘Do you like performance poetry?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t really know anything about poetry.’

‘Then you can learn tonight. You’ll sit through the whole evening here.’ I picked up the wrapped present and the folded piece of paper. ‘You can respectfully inform Mistress Crimson you will not be seeing her again. Enjoy the rest of the poetry slam. I’ll be in touch, slave.’

At home I unwrapped his gift. The book was beautiful. I yearned to take it to my master. I rewrapped it in its paper and pushed it to the back of my wardrobe. I went to sleep with the piece of paper with all the mistresses written over it crumpled up in my hand.

Chapter Eight - Learning

Dean stood naked in front of the mirror, trying out different poses. Mistress had told him not to think, just to take the photo. In the end he set up his camera’s timer and just stood in front of it with his hands by his side.

He took nine more: with his arms folded; with his hands behind his back; side views; sitting down. In the end, he emailed her the first one.

She’d seen his cock before. Last week, when they went to the art gallery, she made him drive along with no trousers or underwear on as a punishment for some slight error he’d made when he addressed her.

No, Dean reminded himself. There are no slight errors.

He picked up the slave contract that he kept on his bedside cabinets and which he read dutifully through every night before sleep.

On Wednesday he’d forgotten to hide it when Helena came round. His fiancée didn’t normally have any interest in his bedroom, but she’d wanted, for some reason that he couldn’t understand – she said something about planning what to take on the honeymoon that wasn’t booked yet – to make an inventory of all his clothes. She hadn’t got very far. She went through his socks, throwing out a couple of pairs that she complained were too worn. Then she opened his underwear drawer, stared down at it for a moment, before abruptly closing it. After that she sat on his bed and talked and talked and talked. He was nervous in case she saw the contract and wondered what it was, but she didn’t seem to require anything more than the occasional “yes” or murmur of agreement. Finally she left and he settled down in bed, barely able to remember a single thing she’d said. This gave him a twinge of doubt until he started reading his contract, like he was now, and then he thought of nothing but his mistress.

He’d had to rewrite it countless times before his mistress declared it was acceptable, and still there was only his signature at the bottom.

The first version, having had no experience and never having heard of such a thing before, he cribbed off the internet. She told him to get rid of all the references to slave vetoes and safewords.

‘You’re mine,’ she said. ‘I’ll do with you what I want.’

She had such a soft, gentle voice that it gave him an extra thrill that such a beautiful creature could say such hard things to him. There was never any uncertainty or doubt in her commands and statements.

He thought of her as beautiful, but in truth he didn’t know much about her appearance. He was forbidden from looking at her; that was one of the rules, printed out in black ink on top quality paper, secure in its binder, irrefutable, as he reminded himself every night when he read it. He caught glances, though. Initially she had told him to walk behind her and then he‘d complimented her on how shapely her legs were and how much they turned him on. After that he was ordered to walk in front of her.

There were times he disobeyed, not on purpose. He just got overexcited and looked up, or turned around at the wrong moment. He was fairly certain she had brown eyes, a guess that came as much from the colouring of her skin and her gorgeous dark, curly hair, as from glimpses he had caught of her face.

His overall sense of her attractiveness came from her hands, which were the part of her he saw the most, resting on the table in a pub, reaching out to take something from him, in his dreams, digging into his balls. She had long nails that were a fantasy on their own. Every time he saw her they were painted in different colours, deep purples, bright reds, pastel blues, sometimes in intricate patterns of graduated shades.

His mistress’s favourite standard punishment was to say, ‘Squeeze,’ and Dean had to respond immediately by gripping his balls until she told him, ‘Stop.’ He got through the pain by imagining it was her nails pressing into him.

Dean read through the first paragraph – his favourite – of the contract aloud, in a similar manner to which he used to sit in empty rooms reading the Bible to himself.

‘The slave submits in entirety to his mistress. There are no limitations on location, time, or situation in which the slave may refuse to obey his mistress’s command without being subject to punishment of his mistress’s choosing. Within the terms of the Slavery Contract the slave agrees that their body, possessions, finances, and assets belong to his mistress to dispose of in any way she so desires. The slave is not an autonomous person, but a belonging of his mistress. He has no rights outside this contract. The slave lives to entertain his mistress, he exists only to give her pleasure with his service.’

It gave him an elation that he could not describe. It was as if this document, this proof that he was simply one of his mistress’s possessions, was what he had been praying for all his life.

His mistress encouraged – no, ordered him to become more familiar with his emotions. She gave him lists of books to read, poems to study, artists to research. She asked continuous questions about his childhood. He told her about things he hadn’t thought about for a long time; sneaking into neighbours’ houses in search of food, drinking water out of the toilet, stealing money from his stepmother’s purse and talking his brother into running away with him.

She absorbed everything with no comment, just more questions.

In some ways he preferred those questions to the other ones about his opinions. She was obviously far more intelligent than him, and he was trying with all the books but he knew he’d never catch up with her. He went to the Tate art gallery for the first time under her direction and found himself standing in front of a sunset by Turner with tears in his eyes. The light in it was divine and he’d wasted so many years of his life not knowing that such beauty existed and was so readily available to anyone who wanted to step out of the hustle of London and into a vision of paradise.

And then there were the questions about his sexual experience.

‘I know you, slave,’ his mistress said. ‘You’re cunning and manipulative.’

‘I don’t think that’s fair, mistress. I just like to think of ways around problems and talk people around to seeing things my way.’

‘Don’t contradict me, you stupid fuck! Squeeze now.’

‘Yes, mistress. Sorry, mistress.’

‘Our relationship is based on a certain understanding. You belong to me and that means you have to tell me everything. I have to know everything. If you give me reason not to trust you then we have nothing. You’ll be nothing to me. You may stop squeezing now.’

‘Thank you, mistress. You’re very kind to me.’

*               *               *

Dean hadn’t told Mistress about Helena. He hadn’t told her that every Sunday he went to church with a beautiful blonde and spent the morning receiving queries about his marriage, suggestions about wedding colour schemes, and polite hinting that he should set a definite date.

He meant to tell her. But he didn’t. Despite all of the things that he revealed to her, things he’d never dreamt of sharing with anyone else, he couldn’t imagine himself telling her that he was accidentally engaged.

Dean read through the contract again. He imagined his mistress sitting and listening to him. He imagined her receiving the email he’d just sent her and showing it to all her friends, laughing and mocking his manhood and his stupidity in doing everything that she told him.

His cock reacted to the image. He glanced down at his erection; it looked so bulbous, he felt it would literally explode. Mistress had forbidden him from self-pleasuring at a time when he was experiencing more sensuality and stimulus than he had throughout all the rest of his time on this earth.

Still, he had managed to abstain. And tomorrow he was going to meet some other ladies, where he was permitted to have release if they allowed it.

His mistress, so strict and stern in many respects, and so clear about him being her possession, had actively encouraged him to find other BDSM players to serve.

‘Would you be happy continuing the rest of your life under my command with the knowledge that there would never be anything physical between us?’ she had asked.

He thought about it for a moment, as it angered her if she didn’t think he’d considered her questions properly, but he knew his answer straight away. ‘Yes, mistress, I would very much like you to touch me, or allow me to touch you, but it is an honour and a blessing to be allowed to serve you in any form you wish it.’

She may have given a slight smile, it was impossible for him to tell because of the command not to look at her. But he liked to think she did.

If he had pleased her with that answer, unfortunately it hadn’t lasted. In her presence he was dizzy, confused, hyper. Later on, when they were in the car, he had made a passing comment; it hadn’t even been in response to a question she asked, it was just him blabbering on.

‘I don’t know if it’s because of your own experiences as a sub but you seem to know instinctively how to punish me. I would like to ask you, if you’d allow me, whether it is your sub experience or the connection between us that makes you such a talented mistress to me.’

She said nothing, and was staring out of the passenger window as far as he could tell. So he’d wittered on. It was so difficult to stay quiet in her company; he wanted to talk to her, to communicate with her, so very much.

‘I’ve tried to think of you as a sub, but the idea of someone dominating you, maybe hurting you, causes me real, physical distress. Before I met you I can’t ever remember crying. As a kid, when they told me my mother had died, I didn’t cry then. But with you, I’m someone different. Just thinking of someone hurting you made me cry. I hate the idea of a man whipping you or anything like that. I’ve discovered through you I’m a humiliation slut. Those are the things that turn me on and you tapped into that straight away somehow. I’m not a pain slut. The idea of whips and leather does absolutely nothing for me.’

‘Stop the car.’ Her voice was ice. Her tone inarguable.

He pulled over in a lay-by.

‘You’re not getting it. I think you’re close and then you ruin it. All the work and time I’m putting into you, and you don’t understand. It doesn’t matter what you want. You serve. You do what your mistress asks you. It isn’t about your own pleasure and preferences.’ She opened the car door.

‘Mistress, please, don’t get out here. This is nowhere near where you asked me to drop you off. I can’t leave you here, it isn’t safe.’

‘You do what I tell you.’

‘It’s raining, at least let me get my umbrella out of the boot for you.’

‘Drive home, slave. Now.’ The car door slammed.

Against all his practical, logical thoughts, he did drive off and leave a beautiful single lady alone beside a road.

This experience had made him far more empathetic to addicts of all kinds. If people, even just once, got the same high off cocaine, alcohol, food, cigarettes, whatever, that he got from being in the presence of his mistress, he knew exactly why they kept going back, leaving all the rest of their life in tatters, because after such elation nothing else seemed to matter any more.

She’d ordered him to find a woman who was looking for a slave to whip. He had, and tomorrow he would go and meet them.

His mobile rang. Once. A smile spread over his face. He grabbed his phone and immediately responded to the signal from his mistress that he had permission to call her. He snuggled naked under his bedcovers. ‘Hello, mistress.’

‘How are you –’ Her voice disappeared into a muffle, as if she had moved her mouth away from the phone.

This frustrated him so much – she was quiet enough to begin with – but he was determined not to make any mistakes. ‘I’m sorry, mistress, I’m a cock-loving slut and I didn’t hear what you said. Would you please be kind enough to repeat it for me?’

He felt a glow of pride; he’d got the words right this time.

There was no recognition of his achievement in her voice. ‘How are you feeling about tomorrow?’

‘I’m excited, mistress.’

‘You will behave in an appropriate way to bring credit to my training.’

‘Yes, mistress.’

‘Remember you’re my possession, slave. Take care.’

The phone went dead.

Dean’s initial response was sinking disappointment. Tonight wasn’t going to be one of the nights she allowed him to talk to her about anything, everything, nothing, as she fell asleep on the other end of the phone line.

Then he thought on her final words; it was a soothing caress to his mind.

You’re my possession
.

He belonged to her. There was something special between them; he wasn’t mad for feeling the way he did, for obeying all her commands.

Take care
.

She was concerned about him. That was enough.

That was enough.

Dean pulled up outside a terraced house. Last night, his mistress had asked how he was feeling and he hadn’t known how she expected him to reply.

Once she’d understood how little sexual experience he had, his mistress had ordered him to do more research on the internet about the BDSM lifestyle. She told him to use more specialist meeting sites to find a woman to whip him. But he hadn’t found anyone who compared to her. His feelings about how unique she was were confirmed again and again when he began to chat with new people in the scene. It was difficult to explain that he was owned but was being told to play with others.

‘So why doesn’t your mistress want to keep you to herself?’

‘Mistresses don’t share their slaves.’

‘If she doesn’t want you, I’ll give you a trial.’

He had to keep checking his contract and rereading the second rule: “The slave must never discuss his mistress, his relationship to his mistress, or anything that occurs while they are together, with any other person.”

It seemed clear enough on paper, but he continually got confused with what to say. The reaction from the reports he had to make twice a day to his mistress was generally anger when they detailed one of his online conversations with other women. He managed to get something wrong even when he was trying his hardest.

Eventually, his mistress gave him a standard reply to use for certain questions. ‘I am owned and only available for casual play and service.’