Fiction - She Fears

Greetings,

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
553-7677

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.

Fiction - Prelude and Fugue in slave-minor

Greetings all,

As some may have guessed I know about Gor. For those that do not, perhaps in time you shall know it as well. Certainly if you hang around here long enough you will.

I am not going to be speaking about Gor in this post, however I could not post the following short piece of fiction without some general acknowledgement for its inspiration.

I hope you will enjoy it.
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Prelude and Fugue in Slave-minor

© 2002-2004 Mackenzie Cross
All rights reserved.

(composed while listening to J.S. Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in Cm (BWV 847), as played by Glenn Gould.)

Prelude

The following piece uses some Gorean words. The Gorean books are a series written by John Norman. Those who have not heard of it are welcome to do their own research.

Some definitions for those unfamiliar with Gor.

Kajira – the Gorean term for slave girl
Tarn – a fantasy animal. A large bird that can be ridden. Noted for its vicious nature.


Fugue

*
Touch. His fingers trace a lazy pattern. Tension. Circles and spirals of movement and control. The rich scenting of female perfumes the air. Tension. A primitive sound escapes her throat. Touch. Release.
*
Touch.

The small alcove is lit by a single candle.

“Master?”

“Position.”

She is ready.

She shudders at the delicate touch.

His fingers trace a lazy pattern. Tension.

“Ah, Master.” A whisper, a breath, a need.

“Be still girl.”

He pushes her down with the palm of his hand. She will not be permitted the smallest control.

Now he begins a deliberate arousal.

Circles and spirals of movement and control.

“Aiiee Master! Please?”

“Be quiet, slave.”

She must be silent, yet she must scream.

His fingers follow seemingly random circular patterns over her body. She draws a ragged breath.

He spreads his hand wide and encircles her throat.

Juices flow freely between spread legs, exposing the intensity of arousal.

The rich scenting of female perfumes the air. Tension

He breathes deeply, taking further pleasure from her essence.

She yields her submission.

He notes the changes.

He leans over and rapes a long kiss from her lips. As he does this, his free hand reaches down, trailing a path between her breasts, over the fine sheen of sweat on her belly.

Her body is rigid in its tension.

Leather-clad fingers plunge through her slickness, probing her center.
“Now, kajira.”

A primitive sound escapes her throat.

Slave orgasm.

Touch. Release.

*

Touch.

He is a courier taking a brief relaxation before continuing on his mission. She is only a tavern slave. Her use came with the price of the meal.

The small alcove is lit by a single candle.

The black leather riding gloves still carry the scent of his tarn. There is no need to remove them. He will be leaving shortly.

“Master?”

“Position.”

She is stretched out beside him. He has bound her wrists above her head, chained to the wall ring. Eyes closed. He waits, observing, not touching. He notes the changes in her breathing, the rising flush on her chest.

She is ready.

He begins just above the navel. She shudders at the delicate touch.

His fingers trace a lazy pattern. Tension.

“Ah, Master”. A whisper, a breath, a need.

Her belly is taut, filled with slave heat. Her hips lift trying to press against the gloved hand, yearning for the fingers to slip lower, possessing what she must offer. She feels the familiar, yet always unique, tightening of her muscles.

“Be still girl,” his tone invites no argument.

He pushes her down with the palm of his hand. She will not be permitted the smallest control.

Her flesh is a living canvass of light and shadows. Curves and lines provide natural pathways for his fingers to follow. She bites her lower lip in an attempt to obey his command. She must lie still, yet she must move. She must follow the imperative of his command, but she must obey the imperative of her need. Yin and yang.

He smiles, sensing her dilemma. It is the nature of the male’s power. Now he begins a deliberate arousal.

Circles and spirals of movement and control.

“Aiiee Master! Please?”

“Be quiet, slave.”

It is pleasant to touch this female. To explore the contours of her body, reading her reactions, taking control of her essence. His mind is relaxed, almost detached, as he discovers her limits and capacities. To control another, to have them yield their submission, one must first have control of one’s self. As he controls his own reactions, so he gains control over this slave.

She must be silent, yet she must scream.

His fingers follow seemingly random circular patterns over her body. At the breast, they trace a slow spiral that terminates with brush of leather over a hardened nipple. A brief tugging, the friction of leather against this too sensitive bead of skin. She draws a ragged breath.

He spreads his hand wide and encircles her throat. Slowly he applies pressure. Her breathing becomes laboured. His control is total. Her life is at his whim. She is nothing, only a tavern slut, a use girl. So near to death, this instant of life is brought into complete focus.

Her juices flow freely between her spread legs, exposing the intensity of her arousal.

The rich scenting of female perfumes the air. Tension

He breathes deeply, taking further pleasure from her essence. He presses down on her throat, still tightening his grip. She is both terrified and aroused. She can only do what she has been trained to do. She must obey her genetic coding.

She yields her submission.

He notes the changes. The arching of the back. The delicate hands gripping tightly on the chains. The legs spread wider, inviting and needful. Her parted lips beg for use.

He leans over and rapes a long kiss from her lips. As he does this, his free hand reaches down, trailing a path between her breasts, over the fine sheen of sweat on her belly. He feels vibrations deep in her throat as she struggles to scream. Her body is rigid in its tension.

Leather-clad fingers plunge through her slickness, probing her center. His hand twists in a cunning, erotic manner. He releases his hand from her throat; he ends the smothering kiss.

“Now, kajira.”

A primitive sound escapes her throat.

It is not a human noise. She has been reduced to a primal animal, without rationality. The scream is an ultimate expression, an exultation of her sexuality, defining her inner being. For an instant she is no longer slave, no longer kajira. For a single, infinitely long instant she attains a perfect moment of liberation, the freedom of the chains.

Slave orgasm.

There are no words to describe this mindless state. Waves of sensation pulse throughout her body. Muscles spasm, wrists twist in restraints, all control is lost. Somewhere a female is screaming.

“Master! Master! Master!”

Touch.

Distantly, she is aware he has mounted her, that he uses her in a quick rape. She flows into him, becoming his use thing. Still caught in the grips of orgasm, her body is a pleasing distraction from his work. She provides what he requires from her. He tenses.

Release.

Coda.

In a small alcove of a tavern, a use girl lies on the floor, chained to a ring on the wall, grateful for the rough blanket thrown when he was done.

In the distance, she can hear the wild scream of a tarn taking flight.

There is a sensation of floating, of being suspended in some strange other place. A place of balance and truth, a glorious zone of liberation where she has attained the perfection of her being. From this place, she hears her own voice, words flowing from her mouth, liquid and soft, like a distant river under the moon. “Thank you, Master. A girl thanks you.”

From far far away, the tarn screams again, its voice muted by the distance but still piercing as it soars still higher into the dark night sky. The beast’s cry is exultant, an joyful celebration of a perfect state of being.

Chained, yet floating free, the slave girl understands.
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