Styles of Submission.

Ella and I were talking last night about our D/s dynamic. We have an idiosyncratic arrangement. It’s a 24/7 lifestyle in that I am always dominant in our sex life, and I decide when we are playing. I can order her to do what I choose, when I choose, and she does it. As we say, she does what she’s told; I get what I want. That’s our agreement.

But in practice, we don’t do high protocol service slavery and I don’t take control of many things that neither of us are particularly interested in incorporating into our dynamic. Finances. Exercise. Work. Diet. These are things Ella is perfectly good at managing for herself, and I have no desire to manage for her. Frankly, she’s better at some of those than I am.

So we’ve carved out a style of dominance and submission that works for us. In discussing it last night, I realized that I have never punished her for disobedience. Ella has followed, or attempted to follow, every order I’ve ever given her. She doesn’t disobey in order to manipulate me. She doesn’t act the brat in order to try to top from the bottom, picking and choosing when she receives discipline. She’s truly into service and obedience.

It’s utterly refreshing. While I sometimes have to correct her service, in order to mold it to perfection, so that she serves me precisely as we both want her to, I never have to assert my dominance in order to “put her in her place”. She’s not defiant or oppositional. When she wants more severe discipline, instead of acting out in hopes that I correct her with a severe punishment, she simply asks for it.

Last week, she begged me: “I want you to gag me, and torture me, and use me for your pleasure.” And I did. Though now that I think about it, I think I forgot the gag. But I bound her arms behind her back, tied a very tight crotch rope, and then spent fifteen minutes spanking her with the crop, my belt, and a hairbrush. Then, I made her come with the hitachi. Then I repeated the process. Her ass remained sore for days. She wept and wriggled and cried as I punished her ass mercilessly.

And when I was satisfied, she served me with her mouth and her cunt, and made her master come in the manner he’s accustomed to.

-The Refined Dominant

Her Inspection. Failed.

It had been a long week. I was tired. And that made me careless.

After being separated for too long, I was back in my master’s reach. And for the first time, I failed my inspection.

Early on, before the full nature of our relationship emerged, Rafe asked if he could shave me. He liked me as I was – curly reddish hair, coarse but rough. But he wanted to see all of me. So I agreed. It had been years since I had shaved that intimate area.

One evening, I reclined on the bed as my darling Rafe carefully trimmed the hair away and then meticulously shaved me with his single blade razor. I was a little nervous, but it was a divine pleasure watching him work – the studious gaze, the firm but careful touch, the furrow in his brow… Such joy to be the subject of a lover’s undivided attention.

As we began to play with power dynamics, grooming became part of the ritual and responsibility. Occasionally he wants to do it himself and will give me a day’s notice that I am not to shave. But most weekends I see my master, I am to be clean, smooth, and ready for inspection. It’s a thorough inspection. He looks me over carefully, feels for a bit of stubble, pulls back the labia to check underneath… That is where I failed this time.

Rafe always has a curious reaction when I fail, a mixture of admonishment and delight. “Tsk, tsk. Someone will be getting a punishment – not tonight, but sometime this weekend. What should it be? Perhaps a stroke for every hair?” He began counting, but fortunately for me, he grew bored of counting. He took the offending labia in his mouth and sucked on it, before moving to the other.

After a few minutes, he hovered over me, his mouth next to my ear. “Your punishment will be ten strokes with the hairbrush. After each stroke, you will say – and listen very closely because I will not repeat myself – you will say, ‘I promise to more carefully shave my pussy in the future, sir.’ And you will count the stroke. Any mistakes, and we start over.”

The following night, he stayed true to his word. He stripped me and ordered me to lay facedown on the bed. He secured the red leather cuffs to my ankles and wrists. He tied me to the bed, prostrate before him. With each action, I grew more aroused. As I was there bound, completely powerless, he first administered the four strokes of the cane I had earned earlier in the week – two demerits for a delayed assignment. Then he brought down the hairbrush on my ass. Somehow, I managed to string together the words I had been commanded to remember. “I promise to more carefully shave my pussy in the future, sir. One.” Miraculously, I made it through all ten without a misstep. And I grew wetter.

“Whose ass is this?” he asked.

“Yours, sir.”

“And whose pussy is this?” he questioned.

“Yours, sir.”

“That’s right. I expect you to take care of it, to groom it properly, to keep it in pristine condition. Now what will you do?”

I replied, without hesitation, “I will more carefully shave my pussy in the future, sir.”

“Good girl,” he responded.

Bound as I was, I could not see him, but I heard the sound of a cord hit the floor. In a few seconds, the Hitachi was vibrating against me. He held it there until I came. Then he increased the intensity and maneuvered the wand just underneath me so it was pressed against my clit. I convulsed. I twisted. But I had little leverage to move. This was trial and torment solely for my master’s pleasure, amusement, and arousal, an exhibition of his dominance over me. I lost track of time and count of the orgasms. But I didn’t want to give in. I didn’t want to ask for mercy.

Finally he stopped. I heard his clothes drop to the floor. I was gasping to catch my breath. Soon he was on me, his voice in my ear. “You’re such a good slave. You suffer so elegantly.”

Then he took me, still tied to the bed – the reward for a punishment well received.

– The Elegant Submissive

Their Debut.

This weekend, Rafe and I will be expanding our play a little further. We’ll be making another appearance at a party. But, as Rafe already shared, we’re planning to do a bit more than just watching this time.

Early this week, my master informed me that any punishments I earned this week would be doled out at this party, before an audience. He often issues specific assignments for me, with the penalty for failure defined at the outset. But you may recall that I have a standing requirement as well – every day that we are separated, I am to send him a photo of myself in an appropriate state.

I promptly missed this requirement after learning that I would be punished publicly for any infractions this week. I can’t say it was intentional… but neither was it entirely unintentional. Normally I attend to my duty first thing in the morning. But my routine was recently disrupted, and I was focused on getting out the door Monday morning. Early that evening, I recalled that I hadn’t yet snapped a pic. I pondered whether I would send it, knowing that failure would thrill my master. I decided to wait. And then I forgot.

So in a day, I will receive my penalties, with others bearing witness. What’s more, my master has now decided that I should have no orgasms until after the event.

Rafe asked – or rather ordered – that I describe my fantasy about this next step. How do I imagine it? What would a “good” experience feel and look like?

After a day spent together, she satisfies his arousal in whatever way he elects, while she remains frustrated. As he dons his impeccable suit and tie, she carefully puts on her fishnet stockings and a skimpy pair of black panties. He ties her into the elegant corset he bought for her and locks her collar. She covers her outfit with something more acceptable to the outside world and then steps into her precariously high heels. She takes his arm, the other occupied by smart bag carrying the instruments of her submission and torture. They depart for the venue.

They arrive. She is promptly stripped of her covering, leaving the night’s real attire in place. The soft red leather cuffs are placed on her wrists, though not tied. He attaches his leash to her collar. They greet some of the attendees, she never more than inches from her master’s, never speaking unless permitted by her master.

The time has arrived. He leads her to the St. Andrew’s cross. He kneels and gently fastens the ankle cuffs he carried in the bag. He rises, caresses her cheek lovingly, and pulls her into him for a passionate kiss. As their mouths part, he still holds her close. He whispers in her ear, “I love you. I do this because it pleases me. And because it arouses you.”

Then he pulls her to the cross. One by one, he ties her cuffs to the cross, trailing his hand along her curves as he moves from one extremity to the other. He tells her to test the knots. She does, and they hold. He steps back and draws the crop from his bag.

“My darling Ella,” he begins, speaking just loudly enough so that bystanders might hear, “what is the primary responsibility of a slave?”

“To attend to her master’s needs and desires,” she replies.

“Tell these lovely people the penalties you incurred this week and why.”

She holds her head high. “Fifteen strokes for failing to send an appropriate picture. Two strokes for failing to answer your phone call. Two strokes for my inattention to your instructions concerning demerits this week.”

“Very good.” He strokes her neck with the leather of the crop. “Let’s start with the fifteen, shall we?” Without awaiting (or expecting) an answer, he snaps the crop against her creamy ass.

“One. Thank you, sir,” she intones.

He continues – sometimes in quick succession, sometimes gently tapping or caressing her with crop before striking. As they progress, the stings grow sharper. She tries to breathe through the pain. She bites her lip to keep from crying out. He adores the elegance of her suffering, and she does not want to disappoint him.

Time stretches. She almost loses count but catches herself. And then it is done.

He comes to her side, turning her face towards him. His eyes twinkle with pleasure and admiration. A small smirk plays on her lips. Nineteen strokes. Endured without faltering.

He cuts the ties restraining her. He pulls her close and walks with her to a place where they can sit. In that moment, he is not her master but her caretaker.

They sit and observe others at play. They chat between themselves and with others. But it’s growing late.

“Come along, darling,” he commands. “It’s time to get you home. So you can thank your master properly.” He then speaks low in her ear. “Besides, I think it’s about time my precious slave is rewarded for her patient suffering… and that my little slut to be well and properly fucked.”

– The Elegant Submissive

Hurry Up and Wait.

She rushes to make the bus. She is running late to meet her lover at the airport. She almost forgets an important stop on the way, completion of an errand assigned by her master. She stops in a store on the way and hurriedly makes the purchase before the mad dash to the airport. She is still in transit when she gets the text. On the ground, he writes. She replies, Almost there.

He responds – Hurry, darling. She knows that tardiness will be met with punishment. But there is nothing she can do to expedite her arrival. She can only hope. Fortunately, she arrives mere moments before he descends the stairs. He approaches her, hunger in his eyes, and pulls her in for a long, fierce kiss before leading her outside to the taxi stand.

Little conversation is exchanged in the cab. He unbuttons her thick winter coat so that he can reach underneath and twist her tender nipples. She bites her lip to keep  cry of delicious pain from escaping. But it’s not enough. So instead she turns it into laughter. Her master is bemused by the sound, then pleased by the whispered explanation.

Not fast enough, never fast enough, but at last, they are home. He wastes no time. In seconds, he has her stripped bare. Fingers dip ever so briefly into her hot, liquid core. He wipes them on the lacey lavender thong she’d been wearing, which he then stuffs into her mouth. He commands her to kneel on the bed. She obeys. She always obeys. “Don’t move,” he admonishes before disappearing from the room.

When he returns, he opens the bag she’d carried when meeting him. He finds the item that fulfills her assignment. The clothesline, which she’d bought barely more than an hour ago, soon expertly binds her hands behind her back. He cuts another long piece, which he folds double. Earlier in the week, he’d given her an option: Would her punishment this weekend be concentrated on her supple breasts or her delicate pussy? She selected the latter and now has a strong suspicion of what he’s about to do.

Indeed he loops the clothesline around her waist, then under her crotch and over her shoulders, pulling it tightly and securing the ends to the bonds around her wrists. He positions the rope so that the labia are held back, leaving her engorged clitoris perfectly exposed. He pulls and pinches ruthlessly. “I know, darling,” he responds to the look on her face. “But your suffering pleases me. And,” he slides his fingers between her legs, “it leaves you absolutely dripping.”

He undresses as he admires her form and his own handiwork. He removes the panties from her mouth and jerks on the crotch rope. She knows to keep quiet and suddenly wishes the gag were back in her mouth. He lies down. “I think you know what to do.”

She must move with care, the bonds inhibiting her ability to balance as she positions herself between his legs. As she bends over, the rope presses into her p­erineum, giving her pause. But she continues bending forward until she can take his cock into her mouth. “Start with the balls,” he reminds her.

She does as instructed, kissing and gently sucking them the way he likes. He sighs with pleasure. After some moments, she moves her lips along the shaft, which has grown ever harder. She positions her lips to push the foreskin back so that she can access the sensitive frenulum. She attends to him, as is her privilege and duty.

She is surprised when he stops her and gets up after only a few moments. Could it be possible that he is ready to take her completely? It’s been more than two weeks since her last orgasm. Could he be electing to be merciful and alleviate her deprivation?

No, that is not his intent at all. “Face down,” he orders. She complies, bending over with her face to the bed, back arched and ass in the air. He surveys his property. He pulls roughly on her tender labia. He tastes her. Then she feels the smooth back of her hairbrush rubbing against her ass. “Too bad we have to be quiet, because I’d really like to spank you with this right now.” But he finds another use for it, thrusting the smooth handle into her cervix.

He toys with her for a few moments. “Up.” She returns to a kneeling position, and he ensures that the handle remains planted inside her. He returns to his earlier place on the bed. “Now back to your duty, slave.” She bends over him again, taking his member in her mouth again. “I think we need make sure you spend plenty of time this weekend filled at both ends.”

She attends to her master, taking great satisfaction in his quiet moans of pleasure, his simple praises of “Good girl”. He sighs deeply, a sound of contentment. After some time, he caresses her face, cups her chin, lifts her off his cock. “Such a perfect slave,” he says. The words thrill her.

He swiftly turns her, flipping her onto the bed and removing the brush. And yet still he does not take her. He lies next to her, her legs held open and his hand in between. He torments and teases her clitoris, occasionally thrusting his fingers inside her. He moves between her legs and feasts upon her succulent flavor.

Finally… finally, he rises to his knees, and without further ceremony, he pierces her. So heightened is her arousal, that she feels the orgasm building almost immediately. He claims her with his actions and his words. He thrusts deeply. His hands cover her mouth and pinch her nose shut. She can’t breathe – and it is electrifying. Her hands still bound behind her, she claws at his thighs when it becomes too much. He issues relief… and then takes her breath away again. And she comes. Hard and long, as he releases her breath to her control again.

He rewards his tormented slave for her patient suffering. Then he completes his own pleasure, climaxing deep inside her. And she comes again.

So much waiting. So much torture. And worth every moment of it.

– The Elegant Submissive

Change of Venue.

It’s been a long week (and then some). I’ve been working late. I’m trying to get one project pushed through to completion before the holidays. Meanwhile, I’ve been laying groundwork for other projects, spending time in meetings and trading emails to arrive at a clear conception of a project’s framework that must be mutually agreed upon by two strong-willed managers. All this against the backdrop of December – a month that harbors plenty of “holiday cheer”, familial expectations, travel stress, and emotional baggage.

So I am longing deeply for this weekend. Time to spend with my darling Rafe. To drink in each other’s presence. To step away, ever so briefly, from the demands of the rest of the world. To have a singular primary responsibility – attending to my master’s desires.

Of late, our play has been somewhat subdued by necessity. Much of the time we’ve spent together has been in close proximity to others, a single wall or thin door all that separated us from the ears of those we did not wish to disturb. Travel has limited the tools available for his use. And thus bondage and torture have been simple and quiet.

This weekend, though, we have no such restrictions. My master has me all to himself, in the privacy of his home, all the tools of our play at his disposal. I am in for a punishment, deferred from our previous weekend together (I forgot to bring my razor on our last trip, and a slave should always be properly groomed for her master). But I’ve been good this week; I think Rafe might be a little disappointed that I’ve not incurred any additional reprimands. This, of course, does not mean that I expect no other pain solely for the pleasure of my master – and myself.

The weekend also bears the promise of new and exciting things. First, Rafe will be buying my first corset – beautiful, elegant, restrictive, something that appeals to us both. And I will be wearing that corset to our first play party. My master, thoughtful and wise, has decided that we will go with the intention of observing only. He has been patient and careful, introducing me to this world, understanding that it is all very new to me, exciting yet uncertain for me, even unnerving at times – the confrontation with a foreign world.

When Rafe first mentioned the idea of a play party, I was intrigued but unsure. When he found one for us to attend, I was nervous. Today I am expectant and delighted at the thought. A nervousness remains. What if I don’t like it?

Or perhaps, more disconcerting, what if I do?

Before meeting Rafe, my sexual life was boring. And just bad. It was never discussed with anyone – even my partner who was completely opposed to talking about it, beyond the fantasy of a threesome.

With Rafe, it is quite the opposite. Thrilling. Satisfying. Open. Still there is a hesitance to share it with others (ironic, I know, to write this in a post for public consumption). I have never put my sexuality on display. This is a venture into the unknown. I have no idea what to expect, neither from the party nor from myself.

But I’m ready. To explore this community. To see how this aspect of our relationship manifests in a new venue. To learn more about this wonderful side of our sexuality.

– The Elegant Submissive

Performance.

He binds her in what has become one of their favorite predicaments. Simple. Difficult. Her collar is turned so that the steel ring that normally graces her throat is at the back of her neck. Her leather cuffs encircle her wrists. Her arms rest in the small of her back. He connects the collar to the cuffs with a loop of twine. A small loop. Her arms are hoisted from her lumbar to her shoulder blades.

The position rapidly becomes a struggle. She must lift her arms to relieve the pressure on her throat. Light pressure. It does not impair her respiration. But it is uncomfortable. It is very uncomfortable. And this is far from the sole pleasure of the position. She is utterly, completely helpless thusly bound. Thoroughly confounded in movement, she is nevertheless completely exposed. She can cover neither her breasts nor her ass.

The blindfold ensures she will not know whether her next torment will be applied to those breasts, or that ass. She is desperately aroused. Fear and anticipation build until she feels the rough palm of his hand caressing her cheek. He builds the anticipation slowly. Cupping her breast lovingly. Briefly lifting her elbows to relieve her strain. She can smell his proximity. Her heart seems to quiver rather than beat.

The slicing sound of the crop through the air and the yellow blossom of pain in her breast come in the same moment. She gasps and bites her bottom lip gently. The hand returns. The pain is replaced with the warm pleasure of his touch. Her body floods with arousal. He nudges her knees apart with his foot. Presses the cool leather of his cordovan monk-strap into her dripping pussy. Another blow of the crop lands.

The alternation of blows to her breasts and gentle caresses repeats. How long? She can’t know. A minute. An hour. Finally, he releases her arms from their strictures. And issues his first instruction.

“You’ve gotten your juices on my shoe, slave. Lick it clean.”

She places her hands on the floor in front of her. Arches her back, lifting her cream-colored ass into the air, her smooth pink lips peeking between her lean and immaculate thighs. Blindfolded, it takes a moment for her to locate the foot. She can smell herself, now, on its supple leather. Her tongue caresses the horsehide as a shiver of humiliation runs through her, releasing another deluge from her core. As she expected, he takes the opportunity to direct the crop to her upturned ass.

“Well done, my pretty little slave. Now, thank me for your torment.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers.

She rises to her knees again. Unzips his trousers. His heavy member falls free and she takes it in her mouth. He is supremely aroused. It takes little effort for her to coax his climax from him. She swallows him. He catches his breath.

“Well done, my darling captive,” he pronounces, as he lifts her to her feet and removes her blindfold. “Well done indeed. Now, bow for your audience.”

The room erupts in applause. A waiter brings her a glass of champagne at her master’s indication. She smiles bashfully and takes a modest sip. He leans down into her, kisses her, and whispers into her ear: “I think you’ve earned an orgasm of your own for that performance. Probably.”

-The Refined Dominant

Expanding Our Collection.

In a relatively short time, my darling Rafe has accumulated quite the collection for his time with me. It’s certainly been an investment – financially, yes, but also romantically.

First, it was a supple silk scarf graced by a lovely blue and white pattern. He used this to bind me, gently, loosely, when he first began to introduce me to this side of sexuality. It has occasionally served as a blindfold, softly caressing my face as my master pleases and torments me.

Next we acquired the cuffs – wide, soft leather dyed red, a thinner black strap to secure them. We also picked out a simple crop. It was our second visit to our favored shop. On the first, I had been too bashful to speak.

The Japanese clover clamps he picked up one week while I was away and had them waiting for me when I returned.

Then came the collar, another joint selection, one that came with a bit of ceremony.

One day, rather spontaneously, we found the ankle cuffs.

Then another weekend, I arrived to a brand new leash – an elegant but sturdy chain with a leather strap on the end. That night, my master had arranged our collection on the floor of the living room. Then he had me crawl on hands and knees, bringing each item, secured in my teeth, to him in the bedroom, where he adorned his slave, piece by piece. That was a most arousing game – for both of us.

Last weekend, we selected a cane. Rafe enjoys dispensing a good old-fashioned spanking with his hand or belt or wide, flat-bottomed hairbrush (and much as I may protest, so do I). But he deemed it was time for something that might carry more weight as punishment.

We had just left our first instructional event. We stood together by the window of the store. I looked across the street as he tried out the different options with a good thwack across the front of my thigh. The simple unfinished thin dowel was a mere tingle. The thick, sturdy polished wood made me jump and, as evidenced later, bruised me. The thin, translucent plastic rod evoked a stronger reaction, a pronounced sting. He noted the tenor of my response, though admittedly it was hard to miss. He tried one more; I think it was a slender metal rod coated with black rubber. It struck where all the others had. “Shit,” I hissed quietly.

He gazed at me with admonishment. “Comport yourself, young lady,” he reprimanded.

We left the shop with the plastic rod.

When we returned home, my master tried out his new tool. And then I received my proscribed punishment – six strikes of the cane, a stroke for each time I had failed to address him as “sir” while we were in the shop and at the event. The cane did not fall particularly hard. It didn’t need to. The sting was sharp and lasting. I counted the strokes, as is my responsibility during my punishments. But it took more effort to expel some of the numbers and gratitudes, as I had to gain control of my breath and voice. My master ascribes some of my laments during punishments as “crocodile tears”, but my lacrimation that afternoon was very real.

And yet… despite – or, loathe as I may to admit it, perhaps because of – the pain, my caning was incredibly arousing. On some level, I wish I could explain it. On another, I’m rather glad I cannot. I have a strong reaction to that cane. Incredible that something so seemingly flimsy, something so fragile that I could snap it easily if I chose, should command such dread – and excitement.

At this moment, I know the next time I see Rafe I have a session with that cane. See, I was supposed to have this assignment done half an hour ago. But I left work a bit late. I had to prepare and consume dinner. I could have rushed. I could have made the deadline if I had pushed. But I didn’t. And I have a peculiar satisfaction that I didn’t.

– The Elegant Submissive

Agony in Indulgence

This weekend, Rafe and I meandered through the city, as we are wont to do, enjoying the lovely weather and conversing freely. It’s a truly beautiful and important element of our relationship. I submit to his mastery in our sexual play. In the bedroom, my duty is to attend to his desires. But outside that arena, we are equals, and the time we spend simply being together – ambling aimlessly, sharing deep thoughts and silly musings, occasionally stealing a kiss on at a street corner or desolate street – nourishes the intimacy that allows me to submit with such abandon.

Yet, as we wandered, we unsurprisingly arrived at the elegant sex shop that we both like so much. It’s unabashed without straying into kitsch.  On this particular visit, my master had hoped to find a leash to use with my new collar, but he was not satisfied with the selection. However, we did not leave empty-handed, finding a suitable pair of ankle cuffs – comfortable, sturdy, and matching the color of my collar.

Later, my master put them to excellent use. Stripped bare and secured in my cuffs, he restrained my arms at each side using a short piece of rope to connect the wrist and ankle cuff by their respective D-rings. He had promised to bring all his skills and tools to bear, to arouse and stimulate me unrelentingly, blending bliss and torment. He pushed my knees out so that he might have unencumbered access to the pussy he’d freshly shaved. He placed the pulchritudinous clover clamps on my nipples, bringing immediate and exquisite agony, and warned that every time I closed my legs, he would pull the chain connecting the pair of clamps, tightening their grip on my breasts. He began by placing his succulent mouth on my labia, teasing my clit with his tongue.

Then, after some time, my dom brought out his most merciless tool – the Hitachi Magic Wand. He knelt before me, applying the Wand to my clit. I tried to hold back, knowing that once I climaxed, the vibrations of intense pleasure would become torture. But soon I succumbed, and my master watched with satisfaction as I erupted in orgasm. As I expected, no relief came. I squirmed. I tried to breathe deeply and steadily, with limited success. My master continued, on and on, unyielding.

“Please,” I gasped at last. “Let me suck on your cock. Please.”

This amused my darling Rafe, who wondered whether I begged because I truly wanted to service him or because I was looking for relief. I expressed, in short bursts that my lungs would permit, that I desired to please my master as he had me. There was a tone of laughter to his voice. “It may be difficult to believe,” he explained, “but sometimes, my darling slave, what I desire more than you sucking on my cock is watching you suffer orgasm after orgasm.” And so he carried on.

I begged. Eventually the vibrations subsided, though I know it was not my supplications but his desire that brought them to an end. He sat on the bed and beckoned me over, and I greedily and grateful took him into my mouth. After a few minutes, he raised me to kneeling and offered me a choice – another round with the vibrator or ten strikes on my ass with his belt. It was no easy decision, but finally I chose the vibrator.

As the sensation exploded, I wondered if I’d made the wrong choice. My dom commented, “Perhaps you should have asked how long this would session would be. Perhaps I’ll just keep going until you beg me to lash you with the belt.”

There would be no relief. Fingers slipped inside me as the wand was held against my clit again. My hips rose up, not altogether voluntary. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. I broke. I did as my master had hoped and asked for the belt. The sting of leather on my ass and thighs was painful – yet, as always, arousing. Perhaps sensing I was reaching my limits, he administered only a few strikes before cutting the tiny pieces of rope binding hand to ankle, so that I could properly thank my master for the delight and discipline he had meted out.

And then, he took me. He claimed me as his own. He came deep inside me as I came yet again, this time around him.

It is an unusual experience, the orgasm as torture, a sensation difficult to describe. Not painful yet not exactly pleasant. An overload of a typically pleasurable feeling becoming almost too much to bear. But it’s another facet that becomes delightful, a demonstration of my master’s care and focus. It reminds me of how attentive he is to my satisfaction. And just as our walks through the city deepen our relationship, so too does his torture and dominance over me expand our sexuality.

– The Elegant Submissive

The Slave Collared.

So, Friday night, we went to the lovely and upscale little sex shop and leather goods emporium to procure Ella her collar. As I wrote before, she is so petite (her throat measures 31cm), that finding a collar has been difficult. We looked last a few weeks ago, to no avail, at a different shop. I had had my heart set on a lovely collar with a locking loop. But such was not to be. All of the collars with that particular feature were far too large, or had inelegant spikes or studs which reflected neither my sensibilities nor Ella’s elegant charm.

But after many trials, and a somewhat nosy and overly-helpful shop assistant’s intrusions, a lovely, simple red collar. While it doesn’t have a locking loop, the nosy shop assistant did show me how to thread a lock through the buckle and an unused perforation to lock the collar around her neck. It’s not a perfect solution, and I may still have one made at The Collar Factory, just for variety’s sake.

Collar

But for now, my Ella looks sublime in her collar, which she’s worn pretty much nonstop since then when we’re alone. I’ll write this week about the reasons I don’t require her to wear it in public. For a girl who’s never worn a collar before, she’s taken to it with alacrity. Even having no trouble sleeping in it. She also discovered its more utilitarian purposed when I tied her cuffs to the collar with a short loop of clothesline, limiting her hands to excursions no further than a foot from her breasts, and ordered her to make the bed. An exciting exercise in domination and forced-ingenuity which left her dripping wet and begging to be fucked.

And now for our big Sunday. We’re going to a fancy-dress event. So before hand, I’m going to tie her up, shave her, torture her, fuck her, and then I’m going to put the other gift I got her this week around her neck: a sapphire pendant on an ultra-fine platinum chain, and she’ll put on her brand new black dress, and I’ll put on my brand new grey suit, and we’ll go to our event. And no one will be the wiser that this elegant and rapturous beauty is my own collared, willing slave.

-The Refined Dominant