Madness and Imagination

Madness and Imagination


“Safe sex doesn’t mean no sex, it just means use your imagination.”

–Billy Bragg, from the song “Sexuality”

(Note: All my stories are dedicated to my Master, but this one is posted in a spirit of apology to him for bad behavior and in the hope it will inspire him to discipline me.)


It’s one of two days of the month I watch for, the other being the full moon as I remain wary of the lunacy it brings. Today is my Owner’s arrival. A train station near the ocean, shining sun, wind to take my hemline and hair in all directions, whisper my secrets back to me along the surface of my unnatural skin. I’m not meant to go out in direct sun and have been told the light bouncing off me creates a blue glow, strange in California. I’ve just dyed my hair whore red and the wind and sunshine make me a spectacle. I’m a plain girl, but making my way these last blocks I’ve been called “beautiful” and “red lady.” Respectful catcalls, uncommon these days. It’s not me, but the aura of today wraps around me, and this allows me pleasure in the gazes of strangers.

Since becoming someone’s personal whore, I do carry myself more like a lady. Also more like a slut, letting my hips swing a little more than needed to propel me forward to meet him, unconcerned that this wind lifts my short dress to flash the lace band of a stocking; my arms don’t automatically stiffen to smooth it down, but separate a little further from my body to dare to get carried away, come apart, relax. Doctors were always asking, “What would happen if…” What would happen if I didn’t keep myself wound up so tight? I really don’t like being told what to do and resist advice.

My Owner will be pleased, too, I think, and make a mental note to tell him how the world, natural and human, has warmed and disheveled me on my way to greet him. He did not like “inferior men addressing his possession,” but was satisfied to know he has what others might want, and I revel in the knowledge it’s the magic spell of BDSM that makes a Red Lady where there might otherwise be just another shape trudging up a hill.

Not drunk enough on atmosphere and Owned persona taking over the plain girl, I stop in a bar across the street when I learn his train is delayed. I nearly always get carded, but don’t today because I am my other self, walking through the door of the empty place dragging secret experiences behind me like seaweed. I order a bloody Mary, extra spicy, because I want my mouth, my throat to burn like a mess of fresh-dyed hair in the gaudy sunshine. My eye never strays far from the clock. I can’t be late. Lonely as I get for my Owner, I do savor a few more moments enjoying the kind of solitude that only comes from knowing one isn’t really alone.

I cross the street, just a little warmer and maybe less blue, to stand and wait. That’s the beginning: To stand still and dignified while waiting for a chance to kneel, to serve, to maybe beg and then dissolve in a desperate need that defies the careful line of an eye pencil, removal of all the animal hair, the careful lingerie selection. It all falls away—the cleansing rituals, the good manners toward my Owner and lover, even the obsessively laid out implements—if none of it had ever existed, if we were on that hypothetical desert island, I’d still be under his control. Our fetishes are wide-ranging and we take pleasure in the objects, but he’s assured me we don’t really need any of them. It’s what they point towards that makes them powerful, the way a simple Jesus on a stick can mean something to a believer whose fervor can’t possibly be contained in a fetish object.

I’m standing peacefully against a pillar when I feel a human lift to my hair. No fingertips, but a capturing backward that lets me know he’s arrived. Someone’s touched me and I don’t even startle! It takes more than some sea air and a shot of vodka to keep my arms from snapping into sharp elbows, expletives crowding my mouth to be unleashed… But it’s him, I can tell, from the ghostly touch. Plenty of people I know—or strangers— might come up behind me and pull my hair… none would gather it without me even sensing, then pull just a shade stronger than the breeze. He’s come back to me.

I turn and see my Owner who looks very handsome in his gray overcoat. Somehow, he gets taller, each visit. He was seven inches above me when we first met, according to a dating site for the perverse, now the more I look up to him, the more I have to look up, somehow…

We kiss and his tongue circles in my mouth. I love the way he kisses me because he always makes a space for my freedom to adore him back; his tongue is firm in my mouth without filling it. He doesn’t ever try to overpower my kiss with his own, just leads the way. Our lips come close to it, but don’t ever seal air-tight, as our tongues greet and teeth collide, gently. Anyone looking might see the sexual proposition of a tongue, but why should they be looking? Sod all straights. Me, freshly cleansed, as I always wait Starzbet until the final hour to get in the shower and become a proper possession, and my Owner, looking as elegant as he is rebellious, might be a Doisneau photo. If we were still. We aren’t. There are sensations, impulses, movements snaking up our bodies to our creative tongues. If he were typical, wanted to choke me still on his “passion” we might remain acceptable for longer moments. No, my Owner lets me breathe and tell him with my lips and tongue how much I long for him when he’s gone. We need a taxi.

In the backseat, I give my home address and my Owner and I rediscover the new kiss of this month. After our first meeting, during the cab ride back to the station, I’d pushed his hand into my crotch. He could sense I wasn’t too clear at that point after the intense afternoon and held back to protect my dignity. I’d offended him, I thought, but he’d assured a good sub initiates ways to serve, just thought it was too exposed…. Today, I was delighted to feel his hand protectively covering my cunt under my dress on the way to my house. Each time I went for his neck, seeing him in profile, wanting that pale peachy flesh above the gray collar, he turned his head to meet me, returned my kiss with his lips, only just beginning to fill, only as curved as the blade of a knife, a true male mouth.

We go inside my small apartment and I take him out of his coat, hang it among the dresses I’ve yet to wear when I meet him. I take him by the hand into my room, but it’s illusion I’m leading him. He puts me on hands and knees at the foot of the bed that takes up most of the room. I get spanked with a steady hand. My dress is lifted, garters undone, straps flung up over my lower back, and he, my Owner, my love, my English teacher, gives me the firm hand I’ve missed so much. A finger slides inside my body made slick with so many layers of his seduction. My Owner fucks me for the first time, with the finger that’s already made me cum, shrieking, like it was only us in a wilderness, not an apartment complex without thick enough walls or a shower stable enough to wash him as appealing as I can in a hotel…. He fucks his Owned girl and I buck against him, need him, and the need to belong, serve, take pleasure all meld into one need: Be real.

I have already promised myself I will never fake anything with him and part of that means genuinely losing my inhibitions to reach true orgasm. I let him see how much I’ve missed him, how much I desire him now, by moaning, mindlessly, in whatever sounds leave my mouth and devouring his two fingers, throwing my hips back until I feel his knuckles, again and again. He’s spurred on by my fierce reaction to his care and fucks me faster, getting rough in his lust for Dominating me in this way. I ask only for more, either in my mind or out loud I can’t be sure—it feels amazing to be exposed, knowing he can see my most intimate places presented for him shaved and spread as I struggle not to collapse down on my belly. I only let my head drop as I lose myself in lust and hope he’ll be there, too, in the land of abandon, not in entirely in control of himself even as I trust him to remain in control of me, his property.

He stops. He tells me I’m bleeding and I look turn around, dazed. His hand is bright red with a generous coat of my blood. He’s torn me, he explains, and says we should stop. I’m so disappointed I’d ruined the moment and remain stunned as he washes his hands in the bathroom off the punishment room. After him, I take my turn and clean myself of most of the blood, though some continues to trickle down my thigh. I regret it happened because of my Master’s concern that he’d damaged me, but I had felt no pain, only mounting pleasure as I stabbed myself deep inside on his fingers, over and over. He doesn’t mind my blood at all, and I’m grateful for that. He cuts me with a razor so that we can prove our trust and is not afraid to draw blood from the surface of my skin. I love that.

“Since you’re my slave, there is no reason I should have to undress myself.”

I approach to remove his clothes. I worry my hands will shake as I unbutton his shirt, but they are steady. I look in his eyes and can’t stop smiling, something he always mentions when we are together. It’s not the kind of smile that leaves my face sore after hours of wearing it, but the relaxed, entranced smile of substate, easier to wear than no expression at all.

I kneel to untie his boots. My heart beats faster when I get to his belt. I still feel shy at certain acts and for some reason undoing his belt and opening his pants makes me more self-conscious than spreading myself like a whore and fucking his fingers so exuberantly I make a bloody mess. He’s assured me that with time he will cure me of any remaining shyness until I hold nothing back. Shyness is a form of holding back, completely inappropriate for his Owned whore.

After he’s naked I feel more at ease. I wear only my Starzbet Giriş stockings and heels at this point—we never see reason to take them off. I’m still kneeling at his feet and ask softly if I can serve him with my mouth.

“Yes, you may.” He sounds pleased I remembered to ask for this privilege. “Stick out your tongue.”

I obey and close my eyes, taste his bitter sweetness. I lick as if I have no other purpose on earth, carried away in the pleasure of oral attention. Without thinking, I move to kiss and then suck the tip of my Owner’s cock between my lips and he corrects me: I’m only to use my tongue right now, as he directs me. I do my best to confine myself to little licks and larger swirls. For this, I get the praise I long for, my Owner telling me, “Good girl.” It gives me a jolt in my clit each time he says it. I’m permitted to lick further down his erection—he does instruct to run my tongue along its length. I lick slowly and carefully, wanted him to sense how much I worship his body.

I think to myself how I could remain like this for hours when he tells me that’s enough for right now, that we should get me tied down. I relent, as reluctant to stop as I am eager for the chance to surrender deeper. The deeper substate that the prospect of restraints brings comes over me: It’s part serenity, like a child’s calm when with a good parent, and part apprehension because even though I will let this man take me into the unknown, it’s still unknown and that nervous tension adds to the pleasure of trusting him, makes my submission worth giving. It’s not that I don’t trust him just that I can even as I let him scare me.

“Get up on the bed. I’ve been thinking I’ll hog-tie you, like we talked about. Would you like that, my Possessed, for me to tie you helpless like that, make you cum for me, fuck your mouth… You’d enjoy being masturbated with a mouthful of your Owner’s cock, wouldn’t you, my little slut?”

I answer, “Yes, Sir,” again and again. Turned on my side, he quickly ties my wrists to my ankles. I feel love for him and tell him so. “I know you do.” His voice is warm and matter of fact. A firm kiss reassures deep in my mouth and a couple of bites to my throat keep me alert; it’s too early in the day for me to crawl into the blissful cocoon of being Owned. The bites scatter strange thoughts that appeared when I looked up at my Owner in the dim light of my room. It had occurred to me I might have invented him—could that be possible?—no, he’s not enough like anyone I’ve known, but so familiar… How to know?

It’s my own voice that pulls me from my reverie into immediate sensation with no distance between me and right now. I hear myself yelling quite unsubmissively, “Bite me more!” I don’t think I even say “please.” No, he probably exists—none of my dreams wake me with their sharp teeth, even if they do share that dark glimmer I notice in his eyes as the realization hits him more deeply that he does Own me, can use me however he might imagine.

I once asked him how he feels Owning a person and he answered, “Invincible. I feel a surge of power…” Just how I want him to feel, I recognized, though my rational mind reminds me still that people aren’t really invincible, don’t really Own each other—this is all a shared fantasy and it’s pretend, right? I tried not to get carried away, but my rational mind has never been a match for the right brain and never stood much of a chance. I know that for weeks now I’ve been living in someone else’s imagination, and decide it’s right for me. My Owner had closed one of his letters by telling me that I am lost to all normal, stunted concepts of sexuality and that now I am his. I think of vanilla relationships grounded in banality and realize I can choose between slipping into my own fantasy life, whether or not I sleep alone, or create a living fantasy with someone who understands me. Maybe that’s reality, defined. It’s overwhelming, at times, to feel my consciousness intertwining with another person, feel it possessed by him piece by piece. His most recent letter closes, “As your Master I want your every desire and lustful whim exposed to me, so I can use them to bind you to me all the tighter….. You are mine…..all your secrets and taboo lusts.”

I am bound tight to him psychically. I can feel this in my heart and see it in his eyes that sparkle with the depraved imagination that drives our relationship. He slips his hand between my thighs and I open them as much the ropes allow. My Owner claims me with his fingers once again, easily slipping beneath a lust-induced glaze to find the most responsive spots. We can hear the proof of my arousal as he plays in dripping sex. I smile up at him as I listen to the wetness, my expression saying, ‘I want you,’ his answering, ‘I know.’ I feel my clit strain for the touch of his fingertips and he forces her down hard, harder than I ever touch myself, but with the same motion. Such a sweet feeling, only too much all at once. It nearly Starzbet Güncel Giriş hurts in the same way that physical punishment brings me close to orgasm.

The same touch pleasures and punishes until I no longer know the difference. Just how he wants me to feel—Owned and subjugated by climax coming on too fast and intense to be a mere pleasure. The sensation spreading through my body contains something darker and when my Owner sees it moving me that surge of Dominant power brings his cock to my open lips.

He still possesses me hog-tied and lets me suck him while he stands at the edge of the bed, encouraging me to cum under his touch, his rising erection seeking all space in the mouth which grows in my mind’s eye, a black humid cavern lit by teeth to match my deepest imaginings, all reserved for him. He asks me perverse questions to which the only answer could be “mmm” in increasing volume. ‘Yes, I am your whore. Yes, I like to be used by my Master,’ I think to myself and let him know without words.

The questions change to the commands they really are as his desire quickens. I have to cum for him because he’s telling me to and I’m nothing if I’m not obedient. He’s telling me Now and seconds tick by. How to collapse where I am into his moment, the one he’s asking for? First it was against my will, “forced,” and now it’s on command. My training is still in its beginning stages and I feel very precariously high, balancing on a peak crumbling under my feet. The only thing to do is fall and I do, like I’m doing violence to myself, abandoning any balance over the last unknown shreds of resistance. The only support is my head being held and used. I wish each moment of life could be like this.

My hands begin to change color from the way I’ve been straining in the ropes and he unties me, then lies beside me. He massages his spunk into my stomach, wets my nipples with it and I use my freed hands to taste before it’s all gone into my skin. His cum is my favorite food and after eating, I always want a cigarette. This he allows, in bed, next to him. In a dozen years of smoking, it’s the first time I do associate smoking with being a “grown up.” I feel a little foolish and then more when he asks about the plastic. I’m suddenly nervous and insecure again.

Since our first time together my Owner has made sure I realize his longing to taste each part of me, but it’s not safe after my promiscuous past. Enough teasing comments about how, if he could, he’d explore me with his tongue or Dominate me by taking my clit between his teeth left me unable to put it out of my mind as impossible. He’d always assured me that we are creative enough not to let such problems interfere in our pleasure. So one day I overcame my shyness to ask him how he felt about latex barriers.

I was not just afraid he’d find the idea distasteful, making the act pointless, it was that I was asking for him to go down on me. He’d written that when he has me displayed so slutty and inviting he gets frustrated being unable to taste my fuck juices, feel me shivering at the new pleasure. Suggesting that there could be a way meant admitting I’d been fantasizing about his face between my thighs, being bitten where I never had before. He responded that he’d been thinking the same thing, had been imagining licking me through latex panties, my thighs gripping his head as I convulse beneath his brutal kisses.

I put out the half-smoked cigarette, just not needed it as much as I’d thought. My pulse is racing and I feel unsure. I never enjoyed eating girls, so it always seems too much to ask of another person. “I don’t know what this will be like…” I start to apologize, knowing I should just lie back and shut up. I open my legs and lay the thin plastic over my greedy cunt—my body is not as shy as my mind—and adjust so it conforms to the shape of my lips. My fingers find I’m filled with arousal, even as I feel fear. He had mentioned teeth and I wonder how much this will hurt.

My Owner kneels between my legs, giving them gentle strokes. I feel too exposed to look in his eyes before he lowers his head, spreads my thighs with his shoulders. Then there is nothing more to think about when I feel the pressure of the tip of his tongue tracing each fold, flirting at my covered opening, still bleeding mildly from our earlier lust. He slowly explores the property he only knows by sight, the touch of his hands, and then I’m moving with him, subtly responding, then with greater boldness as my need increases. When he lifts my legs over his shoulders my possession by him floods my whole sense of self.

He deliberately ignores my clit until he’s satisfied by the helplessness of my groans. I learn what it is to feel him capture me in his teeth. One more promise, kept. I’m not tied down, but with hands at my inner thighs to keep the plastic in place and his teeth holding the core of this body, I’m helpless. It does not hurt but inspires a delicious terror at what he could do to me with a snap of his teeth. ‘So this is castration anxiety, what men supposedly fear when they slip into the feminine…’ I think to myself. But those are real teeth on my clitoris and suddenly the razor to my back seems a far less shocking exercise in trusting a lover.

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