by Ed Bemand
Given the choice, Lawrence preferred to not use physical bindings to restrict Rachel. He was happier when the reason that she didn’t move or resist his actions was because of her discipline and her desire to remain still. Of course, when he wielded a whip or cane on her, she could not be blamed for flinching or pulling away from him, just as she could not be blamed for crying out or swearing. The pain of the action was not something that either of them specifically relished, but it represented something beautiful and sacred to them. He whipped Rachel because she was his to whip, because her body was his to mark with the welts that it invariably left on her flesh and that the slow fading of those marks over the course of days acted as a constant reminder to them both of the nature of their relationship. Every time she sat down, the soreness of her tender flesh would remind her of him and of the commitment that she had chosen to make to him.
Rachel was his slave. He had not bought her or had her trafficked from some impoverished nation with false claims of employment and riches. He had not forced or cajoled her into adopting this state. It was one which they had found themselves inhabiting through a gradual development of the nature of their relationship and which they both found immense satisfaction in the expression of. She found a peculiar joy in the cessation of herself, its abolition allowed her to find a truer and purer self, free from the distractions of asserted identity. They had been a regular couple for a while but over time their games had intensified and they had found themselves somewhere altogether different.
When he had first decided that she should be fucked by other men, she had felt concerned, as if it was a diminution of her commitment to him that any other should touch her. Wasn’t it better if her pussy was his alone to touch and penetrate? In time she had found that there was more that she could gain from allowing access to it to all others as he wished. Her value to him was not reduced by this sharing, but increased by the level of her submission to his desires and by the value that was placed upon her by the others. He arranged for a party at which a select few of his closest friends were invited to each in turn make use of her. She was the centre-piece, focus and entertainment for the evening. Six different men each had their way with her that night, her mouth, pussy and anus were opened and used. Lawrence made sure that none crossed the boundaries of his own sense of propriety and caused lasting harm to her, but he encouraged them to fuck her as they wished and to take their turns in whipping her. When the night was over and she was allowed to sleep she felt like her whole body was tingling from the coarse attention that it had been subjected to by so many men for hours. For days afterwards she felt the remnants of that night in the soreness of her tenderest parts and the slowly fading marks left on her body by the whip.
That the strength of her submission allowed her to remain motionless as he wished in the face of such treatment was immensely pleasing to him. If she was told to kneel and remain still while she was presented to a group of men, and obliged to service each of them in turn then her complete acceptance of this as being a fact of her being and thus something that she did for love, even if she herself did not intrinsically love what she was doing, she loved it because of what it showed of herself. It was her satisfaction to be as he decided. She was his entirely, a pet, a toy, a canvas upon which to paint his desires. The greater such treatment became that she willingly submitted to, the greater the strength of her commitment and desire for him.
She never considered herself to be a slut or a whore. A whore did things for money, a slut for their personal satisfaction from causing sexual pleasure. Her only motivation was that what she did would act as the expression of the depth of her commitment and submission to her master. Without his command, she would not have done most of the things that she had.
She wore symbolic shackles that were on occasion used to connect the harnesses by which she would be held if she were to be whipped. The rest of the time the metal and leather bands on her wrists and ankles were demonstrative of her commitment even if they were not needed to physically restrain her in any way. They were comfortable and they were a pleasing constant reminder of her choice and willingness to serve and be owned. She could have removed the bands if she wanted. The buckles that held them in place were simple and unsecured. That they remained constantly was because she wanted them to. She was free to remove them when she needed to, as she did when she wanted to wash properly, but she always replaced them immediately afterwards. Their presence was a comfort to her.
There was but one choice which she was given. It was her choice to submit, but the choice itself did not permit selection. Submission by definition must be total and complete. There was always the choice to leave, to be free of the control. That she did not was her agreement and acquiescence. Lawrence would have been greatly saddened if she left him and he made no secret of that fact, but it was not his wish that her submission be involuntary. It had to be what they both wanted.
She was obliged to make no secret of her condition from those that asked. If Lawrence was present, it would usually please him to be able to make her demonstrate her submission in some way. On more than one occasion, she had been obliged to part her clothes, allowing the other person to see the further evidence of her subjugation, the small gold ring that neatly pierced the hood of her clitoris and from which was suspended a small oval tag with his initials inscribed upon it. He had insisted that she shave her pubic hair completely and maintain it in this pristine state, something which required frequent and painful attention. She had not been permitted to wear underwear or trousers of any kind since agreeing to fully enter his ownership. It was a requirement that she be perpetually available for him. If he decided to fuck her, she had to be able to accommodate him at all times.
The permanent marks of her state were visible to those that looked and if they chose to ask her, she would answer honestly such questions as she was asked. Yes, she was a slave. Yes, Lawrence was her master. Yes, he beat her and shared her with other men. Yes, she was entirely happy with that fact. Most would initially seem horrified by the idea of it, but that would not conceal the curiosity that they felt. It was possible to deduce something of the nature of the individual from the questions they asked and the manner of their asking. Some asked if what she was exposed to was painful, which could be a sign that they were more intrigued about it for themselves than they liked to admit, but scared of what would happen to them. Those who asked if she was truly obliged to service anyone were likely wondering how they themselves would be able to gain her use for themselves.
He seemed to take pleasure in making her do small demonstrations of her submission in public on a regular basis. When in suitably discrete restaurants, she would be required to either manually manipulate him at the table, or sink under it to please him orally. When they were having dinner with one of his particular friends, this courtesy would of course be extended to them also. When she emerged from under the table, her lips flecked with their leavings, she would see a particular type of prideful smile on her master’s face as she took her seat.
When Lawrence deduced that an individual's curiosity stemmed from a desire to experience what Rachel did, they would perhaps be privy to a public demonstration of her commitment, as detailed above. Sometimes, he would invite them to witness something altogether more private. Though the marks of her whippings would be clearly visible, he preferred to spare the uninitiated the sight of this treatment unless they were of the rare sort that expressed a nervous interest in it specifically. One girl, Amanda, had been so visibly aroused by the sight of Rachel’s servitude and the marks of its commitment that she wore that she had begged Lawrence that she be allowed to perform the same duty for him, at least for a little while. For some reason, he had instead insisted that if she wished to do so, it would be Rachel that she would perform upon. Rachel had been told to raise her skirt sufficiently enough to permit Amanda access. She had initially admitted with a hint of embarrassment that she had never done such a thing to another woman before, but Lawrence had pointe
d out that such was irrelevant. Inexperience should be no obstacle if she was as determined to submit to him as she had said. Nervously Amanda knelt down and moved closer to Rachel's exposed pussy. Her finger tip toyed with the ring at its apex. She tugged on it lightly, jingling the tag that hung from it and making Rachel shiver. She stroked her fingers over the smooth skin, investigating the unfamiliar territory of another women's sex. She licked her lips and drew even closer to her. Though her movements were initially tentative, in time she had driven Rachel through a series of delicious paroxysms that had left her feeling beautifully exhausted. Lawrence told her that he had given Amanda a card before she left but he didn’t expect her to ever contact him again. She was what he described as being “a tourist”, with a heavy hint of scorn in his voice. Rachel knew what he meant. Many people liked to take a brief tour of the world that they inhabited, but very few liked to live there full time. For Rachel, part-time was not an option. There was no question of her expressing herself in terms of brief sessions with safe words. The commitment was either there or it wasn’t. She had made a decision, a simple one. She had chosen the total subjugation of her freedom, her very will itself, to Lawrence. She knew that she could recant that and say no, but to do so would mean not just the refusal of a single act or deed but that all that she had done would be instantly rendered meaningless, profane even. She either was his or she wasn’t. Half-measures were something that she couldn’t countenance. If she refused him, it would be the end of everything that they were. If some of the things that he required were not things that she would have chosen to do, what difference did that make? It wouldn’t be a submission if all that she had to do was what she would have freely chosen to do anyway. If her body and self were his, then they were his. Any reluctance that she expressed was a sign of her own failure to fully accept her state. Though he often treated her roughly, she knew with utter certainty that it was love that motivated him to do it. She was happy in her state of perfect subjugation, free because she had destroyed herself and given it to another. Her thoughts did not need to be hers. She no longer had to deal with the pain of choice.
However inimical to many the situation that Rachel and Lawrence had chosen for themselves be, we can all surely appreciate the purity of it, the passion that drives it. It is a powerful thing, both to choose to give your entirety of self over to another, and to accept that responsibility over someone else. It may not be something that many people would wish for but surely that means that while we may marvel at them for what they are capable of doing in the name of a very special kind of love that does not entitle any to judge them for it. It is the right and purpose of every person to find for themselves what they wish their own life to be for, regardless of how little sense that may make to others.
Fifteen: A dialogue between two lesbians
I love technology, despite not having that seemingly innate ability and understanding of it that is apparently the primary province of the young. I love speed at which new ideas are adopted and discarded, the way that in such a short space of time something so novel can become adopted as being a basic part of the fundament of our collective existence. I love the opportunities that new technologies offer us, the way that they enable us to change the methods and behaviours with which we can interact, with the world and with each other. New and visionary ways of looking at and imagining our surroundings are being constantly defined and the desire to challenge the existing and develop the novel is surely a fundamental drive for everyone, without which we would long since have become stagnant, if we had ever been able to evolve at all. It is in the nature of our species to want to change things, to manipulate them to suit our imagination, even if it is ourselves that we are acting to change.
Two people meet by chance, late at night in a chat-room. They both share a common desire and hope to find its expression together.
Hotchick4girls: tell me about you
Femme18: i’m 18, petite, blonde and bi.
Hotchick4girls: you sound hot
Femme18: thanx. do you like girls?
Hotchick4girls: yeah. do you shave your pussy?
Femme18: always. it feels so nice.
Hotchick4girls: I love the feel of a smooth pussy.
Femme18: do you like the taste too?
Hotchick4girls: yeah. I love the taste of pussy.
Femme18: would you like to lick my pussy?
Hotchick4girls: I’d love to lick your pussy.
Femme18: tell me what you’d like to do to it.
Hotchick4girls: I’d like to start slow… play with it gently, get you lovely and wet.
Femme18: mmmm… yeah. tell me more.
Hotchick4girls: I’d love to lick at your clit and hear you moan
Femme18: keep going
Hotchick4girls: I want to squeeze your tits and slip my tongue into your pussy
Femme18: yeah, do it
Hotchick4girls: tell me about your tits
Femme18: 34c
Hotchick4girls: mmmm… lovely. I want to suck and squeeze them
Femme18: do it babe
Hotchick4girls: are your nipples hard?
Femme18: yeah, really hard.
Hotchick4girls: do you like it when I squeeze them?
Femme18: yeah, harder
Hotchick4girls: Is your pussy wet for me?
Femme18: so wet
Hotchick4girls: I love how it tastes
Femme18: suck it, make me cum
Hotchick4girls: how many fingers can I fit in you?
Femme18: mmm… try
Hotchick4girls: I know it’ll take 1 finger
Femme18: yeah
Hotchick4girls: and I bet it’ll take two
Femme18: ooohhh
Hotchick4girls: are you wet enough for 3?
Femme18: yeah, harder
Hotchick4girls: all four inside you:
Femme18: oh my god yes!
Hotchick4girls: fucking you with my fingers
Femme18: keep going
Hotchick4girls: wanna make you cum all over me
Femme18: yeah babe, fuck me
Hotchick4girls: rubbing your clit with my thumb as my fingers fuck you harder n faster
Femme18: yeah, gonna cum
Hotchick4girls: pushing harder n harder
Femme18: mmmm…. Yeah…. cumming…
Bill and Jim both sat back from their respective computers, their situations unconsciously mirroring each others. They were both sat alone at their desks, their rapidly softening cocks protruding obscenely from their trousers, desperately struggling to catch stray jets of their cum in hastily grabbed handfuls of tissue. They were each fearful of their excitement leaving a mess that might be perceivable by their wives the day after.
Moments like these had to be kept hidden, a shameful secret of a double life in the modern age. The two shared a moment together. They were not gay. They were just two young lonely, beautiful lesbians that shared a moment together. When their cocks had softened and their orgasms had faded away, they had nothing left to say to each other. Hopefully they enjoyed the random moment that they shared. Even when deception was at the core of their mutual intimacy, it was so equally balanced that neither could really claim to be deceived by it.
Sixteen: What Roger got up to in the dairy
Perhaps we should spare a few moments to think of those who find themselves unable to find the solace that they require with others of their own species and are forced to look elsewhere. Even if the enaction of their desires may seem repellent to most, should we begrudge them their desire for satisfaction and pleasure? Loneliness is a debilitating state and one that all will be forced to spend more time than they would wish in. Can we blame those people who find their answers to it in places many would not wish to look?
Adam loved animals. There was nothing wrong with that, why would there be? He had a farm, he had dedicated his life to the husbandry, raising and sale for slaughter of animals. It was in his best interests to do so. His farm consisted of a number of acr
es of arable land. It was good pasture and had been owned and worked by his family for several generations. The economic climate may have been awkward for small, independent farmers, but he had always felt that he owed a debt to his forbears to continue to work it and make the most of the land that his lineage had granted him. The land that he owned had been his home throughout his life. He had known nowhere else. The large farmhouse had been home to his grandfather when he was a child, and as he had matured and the previous generations had retired and died off, he had slowly found himself taking possession of successive spaces until now, in his fifties, he was with his wife very much the owner and controller of the space, set to do so until he in turn stepped down and cleared the way for his son’s succession.
His son, Roger, also loved animals. He had been surrounded by them for his entire life. The farm was large enough and isolated enough that he barely had anything to do with other children except at school. His weekends and holidays were spent working around the farm, doing those jobs that could be safely entrusted to a child. His parents liked to think that they were helping to make sure that he had a good work ethic and a healthy appreciation of what went into successfully running the farm that would one day become his responsibility.
