Thursday, December 4, 2008

Fiction - She Fears


Here is another pov. This was written in 2004 in response to some comments on a writer's group that I belonged to. The comments were rather negative concerning BDSM in general and myself in particular. In essence I was told that my writings were promoting a bad attitude towards women. I was told that I was advocating abuse. Rather than argue, I wrote this short piece.

The story contains reference to a character called Alexander Waring. He shows up in quite a number of my pieces. He is a Master Trainer of female submissives and is very good at what he does.

Be seeing you,


She Fears
Copyright 2004 Mackenzie Cross
All rights reserved

There is a room.

The polished wood floors reflect the dim light of a small lamp set on a night table. Even if she could see, few of the room's features would be evident, except for the neatly made bed upon which she lies, hands by her side, legs parted. The blindfold she wears prevents her having this option. Her ability to see is not under her own control. There is only a
single colour in her world right now, black.

She is very afraid. Yet her cunt is throbbing.

Her fears are no ordinary anxieties. They are demons who have erected a canopy of terrors stretched across the horizons of her life.

They stretch to her past. She has lived her night-time horrors. They have dates and locations. They have faces and figures. They are the events that have shaped her, twisted her, depressing her spirit, until all that was left was a tiny spark of hope sheltered
behind impregnable walls of indifference, coldness, and of course the fears themselves. She can name her fears. They are the names of those who abused her. A too long list of men to whom she sacrificed an ever-shrinking piece of her heart.

All she had ever wanted was to be pleasing, to help make them happy, at least that's the way it always started out. And even though each one of them had been different, in a way, they had all been the same. There was a pattern to each relationship.

The beginnings were always thrilling and intense. The men had seemed so powerful confident and assured. She felt herself pulled towards them, even (especially?) when they seemed dark and dangerous. It made her cunt throb, being near them.

The fucking had been great. Their sex had been marathons of lust. It was hot and tight and almost perfect. Feeling them cum would send shivers from her cunt to her teeth. She would scream her pleasure. It was raw and nasty and she loved it. Between the sex
she would fill the time with domestic chores which filled her with a pride of accomplishment.

But it never lasted very long, after awhile there would be sly comments and thinly veiled insults which quickly grew into vicious attacks on her character.

She remembers always accepting the blame. Somehow, no matter what happened, it would always be "her fault". Even when it was their fault. She tried her best but it was rarely good enough. Some of them would yell and scream. Some of them were cold and quiet, but all of them punished. There would be beatings frequently coupled with a form of torture only a five-dollar whore could still describe as sex. Her body and mind still bare the scars of those punishments.

Sometimes they would tell her she was "asking for it". Some of them told her to beg, and she did. When she didn't the beatings were much more brutal.

After awhile she would leave promising herself never to let it happen again. It was a promise she never kept. Soon she would find another loser and the pattern would begin again.

Finally she stopped altogether. It has been five years since she spread her legs for a man. She misses that a great deal. But at least the beatings have stopped. And she swore she would never beg again.

There have been years of therapy and support groups, which have helped to remove the sharpest edges from the cruelties of her past. Still, she suspects that she may never rid herself of her past, the imprinting runs too deep.

But it is not only the past that she fears.

She fears herself. Looking inward holds no peace, no balance. She fears she is not normal, that there is something wrong with her. Perhaps she is some sort of sick pervert who seeks out these lowest of men so that they will demean her, making her small. She has tried blind dates, single's nights, even joined a church, always looking for a regular sort of guy, the kind "good" girls marry. But none of them gave her a spark. None of them made her cunt throb.

After awhile the dates dwindled to nothing. There didn't seem much point.

She fears that she is getting what she deserves. She fears she may always live alone.

And still her fears continue.

Her fears stretch into her future. They cloud tomorrow, making it unclear. The healing has taken many years. It is still taking place. It may require every remaining day of her life to cleanse her being and make her whole. She fears this may well be the case, even while she prays it may not.

One of her therapists pointed her to the Internet, to the world of domination and submission, the BDSM online community. She has spent many hours at her computer, reading about women who give themselves over to the power of another, and who seem to find completion, something they call the liberation of bondage. She has spent time in chat rooms, meeting dominant men and submissive women. The conversations struck a resonant chord inside of her. Might it be possible for a man to control a woman without abusing her? What sort of woman would beg to be whipped? She yearned to know more, to discover if she was one of these women, but her fears always held her back from taking the step of meeting someone. Fearful that she would hate it and even more fearful that she would crave it.

But all that changed two months ago when a woman she had grown to trust and respect asked permission to recommend her to a very special person, someone who might be able to help her. With an impulsiveness, she hoped she would not regret, she agreed. A week later her door bell rang and a well-dressed man handed her a small cream coloured envelope and then walked away without saying a word. Her name was precisely written on the front with a broad stroke using deep purple ink. Inside was a sterling silver business card inscribed with only a name and a phone number.

Alexander Waring

Of course she had heard of him. Alexander Waring, Master Trainer. Everyone on the Internet knew of him. He was one of the very best, his name spoken in awe and reverence by many. But what did he have to do with her? He trained beautiful submissives, not abused women. It was an act of pure courage to pick up the phone and call. It took a great deal more courage to agree to meet him for lunch.

He was not what she had expected. Short and solid with a conservative style of dress, he was almost diametrically opposed to her impression of the fetish-wearing, leather macho men she had envisioned. He spoke softly in a deep soothing voice, watching her with probing eyes as if he could read her secrets. Near the end of their meal he told her she was a submissive, and he could help her. She would have to move in with him.

Even now she is not sure why she agreed. Except perhaps, for the first time, in a long while, her cunt was throbbing again.

That was six weeks ago. In all that time, he has not touched. Neither for the purposes of pleasure nor pain. He has taught her his rules, how to keep his home. She has chores every day and they must be done correctly. When they are not, he tells her. He has a way of speaking, a way of looking at her, which is like a punishment. He has told her he knows she can do better, so he expects her to do better. And so she tries, for she has always wanted to be pleasing. On a few occasions he has praised her, and that has been a wonderful feeling.

He has taught her how to stand and how to move. How to hold position. How to speak. Sometimes he has had other woman visit, richly sexual creatures. She has seen them kneel and postures in attitudes of sensuality which are beyond her ability to perform. She has listened to the sultry quality of their voices, expressive and filled with desire. She has heard them beg. Sometimes they beg for sex, sometimes simply to serve. A few have even begged to be punished. He never forced them, they did it on their own accord. At first she didn't understand, but he allowed her time to talk to these women, his "trained girls". They had no fear, only a full desire to serve and be pleasing. They explained the power dynamic, and it made sense.

She has grown to envy these women, and their abilities to display themselves, even their ability to beg. She has asked him to teach her these things as well, but he has refused.

Which is why she also fears the present, this room, this bed. Each night since she arrived he has required her to spend one hour in the bed, blindfolded, with her legs spread. It was very difficult in the beginning, she was afraid that he would take advantage of her. She is still afraid. But it is a different fear this time. It is the fear of uncertainty, of not knowing. She knows the moment is upon her. She fears what will happen, or perhaps what might not happen.

She fears she is not good enough. She fears failure and rejection. She fears he doesn't find her attractive enough. She fears he has no interest in her cunt, and its deep throbbing need.

She hears a door open and footsteps approaching the bed. It is Alexander, she has grown to know the measured rhythm of his steps. He removes the blindfold and holds her gaze for a moment. After all this time she still has trouble meeting his penetrating stare. Only now she also feels it deep in her cunt. He turns and begins to walk away. She is now allowed to prepare herself for bed.

"Sir?" There is a delicate tremor to her voice, the song of a bird before its first flight.

He turns back, a question in his eyes, and waits.

And so she says the words she promised herself she never would. "I need your touch. I need to feel again. Please?" There is a long pause into which there is only the sound of breathing. She knows what she must do. "Please Mr. Waring. Please, anyway you want. I beg you."

A small smile plays on his lips as he moves back to the bed. He reaches with his hand, down between her parted thighs and does something that sends glorious shockwaves through her body. She gives herself over to the experience as her needs overtake her. There is only sensation and joy.

And somewhere deep in her mind the knowledge that she can now accept herself, her identity, and her submission.

And for the first time, in a very long time, she fears no more.


Anonymous said...

Mr. MacKenzie ..I say that with all due respect that is due you.

I am new to Fet and the life style and have been exploring it in detail, As part of that exercise, I have spent a lot of time here lately reading, learning and growing. I enjoy reading and erotic literature more lately and my technical reading requirements ...well, I need to get back to work!...smiling. Maybe that is telling me that I need to spend more time in the shop and with my toys too....something to think about.

However, I just wanted to take a few minutes to let you know I think you have done a great service to all those like me who arrived late to the party and are seeking subject matter experts(SME) to learn from.

Your writing style and obvious expertise with the subject matter is very interesting. I have noted that while you don't always agree with people and their opinions, you are always quite respectful yet stand on your positions with conviction and strength.

You sir, are a man who lives what he talks. A rare breed these days.
....more to follow over time.

Mackenzie Cross said...

Greetings Sicklesteel,

Thank you for your comments. I am glad you have found some value in my words. Reaching out to others in the community is, in part, what I have always tried to do.

I also appreciated your kind words of praise.

Thank you again for taking the time to read and comment.

Be seeing you,


yogajunkie said...

beautifully written Sir. I find something of myself here.

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