Testing the Submissive: The Story & Confessions of a Masochist (5 page)

Eleven days later, flying home…

It was a long flight home. Lewis and I alternated between reading, watching a movie, listening to music, talking, cuddling, and dozing off separately and concurrently.  It had been the most wonderful trip of my life.  Nine days in Paris. Lewis knew Paris like the back of his hand, and his French was quite good, so I felt almost Parisian during the holiday.  We ate at the most incredible restaurants. We stayed in three different hotels, switching every third day for no reason other than fun and variety. Sure, it was a tiny hassle to pack up our belongings and then check in again somewhere new – but it kept everything completely fresh the entire vacation.

The sex was nothing short of
spectacular. Lewis and I clicked in bed, like two lovers made for each other.  Both of us would cum so hard and so intensely, we’d almost laugh afterward.  Then we’d hold each other, and either catch our breath or not depending on what we just did.  The sex, like the trip itself, was full of variety. Sometimes rough and raw, sometimes sweet and intimate. Of course, we did bdsm, but not always, and never the same way twice.

I was v
ery much in love. Lewis called me by my first name the whole time, and I almost died when he said ‘I love you’. Sometimes I had to pinch myself.  This was the same guy who let his network associate Grekko beat me with a strap.  This was the same guy who let his driver Victor fuck me all night. This was a man who knew I’d fuck an entire bar full of rowdy men if he told me to. Yet, we’d walk the Champs Elysees holding hands, laughing, telling stories and kissing whenever the moment felt right.

Victor
had picked me up at 6:00 the Thursday that we left. Lewis was already waiting in the car, which of course, was a huge surprise. He kissed me on the cheek and told me I looked beautiful, and then he really shocked me by handing me an airline ticket. His tone of voice was completely different.  When I called him ‘Sir’ he told me to call him ‘Lewis’ for the remainder of the date. It was quite funny flying to Europe with nothing more than an overnight bag. Lewis took me shopping on day two, along Avenue Montaigne. He showered me with gifts, clothing, accessories, and jewelry. Shoes of course! New luggage, make-up, perfume. By mid trip I had enough stuff for a month in Europe. We had so much fun. We jointly selected most of the items purchased. Luckily we had very similar tastes, but it was clear I could buy whatever I wanted. Lewis was very respectful and deferred to me for all final decisions.  It was evident early on that he left his domination of me back in Chicago.  In Paris, we were equals.

The nine days flew by.  It almost felt surreal
; it went by so fast. It was also the first time he’d ever called me by my first name, Abigail. Sometimes he’d call me Abby for short.  Every, and anytime he used my name, I felt butterflies. I was beaming with pride.
He just called me Abby again!

During the long flight
, I kept thinking back to wonderful little memories. In the
Musée d'Orsay
we had spontaneously drifted apart, each of us enjoying the historic art on our own, wandering, and knowing we’d find each other eventually. Which we did, we’d cross paths, and then separate again.

“Take a photo of your three favorite pieces in
that section of the sculpture collection,” Lewis had suggested, pointing to an area of the Museum, “and afterward we’ll compare notes.”

I didn’t select
from among the more famous pieces, but rather, lesser known ones. I went with my heart. Which pieces stood out for me, which were the most amazing or the most compelling?  Later over foie gras in a bustling French bistro, we had a chance to compare our selections.  I handed over my iPhone, and Lewis handed me his Blackberry.  To our surprise and delight, among the dozens of pieces in that section, we had both selected two of same three sculptures. The odds of that were incredible, and I took it as a very good sign. We had similar taste and style. Artistically, we were simpatico.

I was
still silently reminiscing as I looked out the window of the airplane. We had started our descent back into O’Hare. I had that sad feeling one gets when a vacation is over, and yet, that strange glad-to-be-home feeling.

Lewis
drew me out of my reverie with a question: “Did you get much sleep on the flight?”

“Um, I’d say I got at least a few hours, yes.”

“Good. You’ll need it.”

“Sir?”
It was the first time I’d called him Sir in over a week; however, I detected a change in his tone of voice.

“Two separate limos are picking us up at the airport. I’ll be heading home to sleep of course. You’ll be taken to a private rental residence where four Korean businessmen are staying.  They will spend the next 12 hours whipping you, and fucking you.” 

He had said it so matter of factly. I was too stunned to speak.  A similar feeling washed over me as I had felt only minutes earlier.  I was sad that my vacation as his girlfriend was over; but strangely glad-to-be-home as his pain slut.

Leaving the
airplane, I couldn’t deny my new French thong was remarkably wet in anticipation of what these four Koreans had in store for me.

Forty eight hours later…

Normally Lewis waited until my body healed before calling for me.  This time he wanted to see the fresh handiwork of the Clients.  I removed my overcoat slowly.  Not that I was trying to be dramatic, I was still that sore.  I was about to remove the remainder of my clothing, but Lewis stopped me.  He wanted to begin our post session interrogation instead. I stood before him still wearing my loose fitting T-shirt and a pair of light track pants. Underneath that, as Lewis would soon see, there were serious welts, deep bruises, and a few spots where the skin had broken. The Koreans worked me over, but good.  They had whipped me, and fucked me all night long.

But befo
re viewing the evidence himself, Lewis launched into the questions:

“Did they whip and fuck you
at the same time, or did they take turns?”

“Mostly they took turns Sir, but the order would change, as well as the length of time.  It wasn’t particularly structured, but by the end
, each of them enjoyed ample time with me alone.”

“Who went first?” he asked.

‘They tied me up, in an awkward uncomfortable position, and then they played some sort of a Korean game, similar to rock paper scissors I guess.  The one who won, I believe his name is Kai.  He went first.”

“What did he do?”

“My body was arched backward, it’s hard to explain, but essentially my torso formed a bow.  My tummy was stretched and became a perfect target. Kai had a heavy piece of thick rope.  He soaked the rope in the kitchen sink making it even heavier.  Then he whipped my stomach with it, from just under my breasts to an inch or so above my pubic area.”

“How did you react?”

“I grimaced and stifled my cries, best I could. A few times the pain overwhelmed me, and I howled aloud.  I did my best to maintain my composure.”

“How many times did he strike you?”

“About seven or eight times, and then another of them, I think his name is Ace took over – but it was because Ace wanted to show them a particular technique.”

“What was the technique?”

“He swung the heavy rope, but just at the moment of impact he pulled sharply toward himself, so at the cusp of contact the rope was dragged across my skin, in effect causing a harsh rope-burn along the length of the welt.”

“Did it lessen the pain or
worsen it?”

“I
t was neither less nor more severe, it was just different. The rope-burn added a new aspect to the agony.  It felt like my skin was being burned off.”

“How many did he deliver?”

“Ace only gave me one more, but then the others took a try with the new trick. Some got it. Some didn’t get the timing quite right. Regardless, my stomach was in pure hell.”

“Show me your tummy.”

I lifted my T-shirt up, not enough to reveal my breasts, I’d save that for now, but enough to show Lewis my belly and waist.  The horizontal welts were still very visible.  In fact, they had darkened. The strikes where the pull-technique was applied, left a unique mark. The bruising wasn’t as dark, but the skin was chafe from the burn.  Lewis could see that upwards of a dozen strikes had decorated my flesh.  A few of the strikes had also wrapped around my waist.

“What was next on
your agenda of harm?”

“The men untied me and made me kneel over the ottoman. The Korean who was next in the queue beat my ass using his belt. I don’t know his name because he was quiet and barely spoke. He lashed at me quite recklessly.
He was also the first to fuck me, but that happened later.”

I answered a few more questions, then pulled my track pants down and bent over, so
Lewis could get a good look at my ass.

“What are these nicks and scratches from?”

“That’s from his belt buckle. Halfway through he flipped it over and used the business end.”

The interview lasted another hour. I told
Lewis everything and showed him the other parts of my body.  My breasts of course, my nipples.  My legs. I even pulled open my butt cheeks to show him my asshole. One of the Koreans had taken a pencil and snapped it against my asshole over and over.  His aim was so accurate, and his method so perfected – it actually bruised my puckered hole.  He wasn’t the first to fuck me, but he was the first to fuck my ass.  He did so immediately following his abuse, knowing I was still very tender from the punishment.

“How many orgasms did the Koreans have, in total?”

It took me a minute to count. Two of them fucked my pussy once, two twice. Three blowjobs. Two took my ass. One masturbated on my face and one on my tits. Thirteen orgasms in total.  I guess three of them came three times and one of them four times.

“How many times did you cum?”

I hated answering this question because it was always so humiliating. I confessed I had three orgasms myself.  Twice when a cock was inside me, and once in the wee hours of the morning, after all the Koreans had fallen asleep.

“Tell me about
that last orgasm,” Lewis requested.

I told him how we were all in one large recreational room in the lower level of the home, where all of the
evening’s proceedings had taken place. Coincidentally, there were four sofas in the room, and one by one each of the four men claimed one.  The last guy to use me had jerked off all over my breasts.  I was still partially bound.  He went to the restroom and came back with a warm towel which he used to wipe away most of the cum.  Then, in an act of kindness, he untied me and motioned toward the bedroom.  I had the opportunity to sleep in the privacy of my own room, on a bed no less.  Instead I smiled as an indication of gratitude, but shook my head ‘no thanks’.  I wanted to stay where I was - in the same large room, surrounded by my four abusers.  I felt humbled in their presence.  Soon each of them was snoring lightly, or at the very least clearly asleep.  I lay there, completely exhausted, still suffering from jet lag.  There were remnants of cum still in my hair and leaking out my pussy and ass.  My fingers gravitated toward my clit.  Just the contemplation of cum leaking out of me was arousing, despite my fatigue.  Not to mention the sight of welts and bruises all over me. I masturbated while my torturers slept cumming one final time.  It felt strangely blissful.  Then I passed out for almost ten hours.

Lewis
listened intently as I told the story, after which he handed me a check.

“$28,000 thousand bucks, Sir!!!”

“Yes, the Koreans are executives for a major consumer electronics company; and happily paid 10 grand each for that lovely session with you.”

I couldn’t believe I had earned so much.  I was strangely proud of myself, and relieved that Lewis was able to earn a decent commission on this one, considering he paid for everything in Paris.

“Would you like to get fucked now, whore?”

My eyes lit up!
Lewis had never fucked me on our continent. We had not yet made love on our side of the ocean.  It would verify that Paris was not just a one-time thing. My eyes watered with tears of joy!!

“Yes. Yes! YES!!” was all I could utter.

“Then sit the fuck down cunt,” was his cold reply.

Sit the fuck down? What did that mean? When Lewis reached for the phone I knew I’d been had.
Noooooo!
  How could he tease me like that? The bastard.

I was numb while Lewis waited for the person on the other end of his cell to answer.  Fuck!!  I can’t believe I thought he was going to fu
ck me. How did we go from Paris to this?  I said nothing.  Instead I cast my eyes downward and stared at the floor.  I wanted to say so much:
you fucking jerk, I would do anything for you, anything, and yet you treat me like shit. 

“
Yo, dude,” Lewis spoke.  I could only hear his side of the conversation, but it was enough. He and whoever he was speaking to exchanged hellos, and then Lewis got down to business.

“Anyway, you know the whore you and Brutus messed up last month?”

Brutus?  Oh no. He was speaking to Grekko. Not Grekko! Of all people, Grekko?

“No, no, no, everything’s fine – in fact, more than fine. I’m calling because she wants to see you again, no charge this time.”

The conversation didn’t last very long. It didn’t have to. The part that worried me the most came at the very end.

“Now listen, Grekko. She’s already quite marked up this time. Yes, there are marks and discoloration all over
her body as you’ll soon see.  Therefore I have a suggestion which I’m certain you’ll adhere to. If Brutus joins the party, and I’m sure he will – concentrate on the soles of her feet.”

The soles of my feet?  Oh
crap. That must be the only part of me that isn’t tender.

As a final degradation Lewis’ parting words hurt as much as any whipping: “
You’re the one who wanted to get fucked whore, so stop your whining.”

“Yes Sir,” I replied. “Thank you. This worthless whore thanks you Sir.” 

Then I took a taxi to see Grekko.