The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (18 page)

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Authors: Claire Thompson

Tags: #Romance, #Erotic Fiction, #Adult, #BDSM

BOOK: The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey

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“Do I have a volunteer? Raise your hand.”

Easily a dozen hands shot up, men and women alike and again the chorus of, “Me, me!” erupted from the crowd. Sylvie scanned the faces, pretending to ponder the choices, until her eyes landed on the handsome man in a white shirt and black leather pants who was gazing at her with a rapt expression, his hand raised high. She pointed toward him and smiled.

“You, slave Owen. I choose you.”

Chapter 13

Mistress Sylvie kissed Owen on the lips, her tongue a caress. He was naked, save for his slave collar and the soft leather cuffs that held his wrists overhead. Mistress Sylvie’s townhouse dungeon was lit with the flickering light of dozens of white candles. The deep, sensuous strains of a cello wafted softly through the room.

Using his favorite flogger, Mistress Sylvie began with whisper-soft strokes of leather. Owen felt his mind emptying as she slowly worked him into a meditation of erotic pain. He forgot where he was or who was watching as each stinging kiss of her lash moved him closer to a state of utter peace, a place where the very nature of pain is altered into something purifying and profound.

He opened his eyes as he felt the cuffs at his wrists being released, and was almost surprised by the presence of their friends. Seated in a semi circle in front of him were Isabel, Alana and Jerry, Master H. and Mark, and Sylvie’s friend, Chloé, who had arrived from France the week before.

Riku, who had become a good friend over the months he’d worked with them at
Le Chateau
, stood beside Mistress Sylvie, coils of jet black rope in his capable hands. With Mistress Sylvie as his assistant, Riku skillfully knotted and tied the rope in a diamond pattern that worked its way up Owen’s stomach and chest.

A white canvas sheet was spread on the floor beneath the chains that hung from the ceiling beam. “Lie down on your stomach.” Mistress Sylvie pointed to the floor. Owen lay on the soft sheet, his arms resting loosely on the ground on either side of his head. Together Riku and Mistress Sylvie placed a long, sturdy pole across Owen’s shoulders, securing his forearms on either side with more of the strong, soft rope. His ankles were bound together and attached to one of the chains hanging from the ceiling. Another chain was attached to the rope at his lower back, as well as on either side of the pole across his shoulders. He felt himself being slowly lifted into the air as Riku turned the winch in the pulley system he’d help erect for the ceremony.

Using the pulley mechanism Riku had erected, they hoisted Owen high into the air. Bound face down in full suspension with his body parallel to the ground, Owen swayed gently in his bonds. Lifting Owen’s chin, Sylvie stared into his eyes. Her irises were like green glass around the onyx of her dilated pupils. Her mouth looked soft as rose petals. Owen’s lips tingled with the desire to feel the press of her kiss.

Letting his chin go, Mistress Sylvie stepped back, moving with the grace of a dancer, the silky folds of her gown shimmering against her curves. She placed her fingers lightly on the back of Owen’s neck. “Are you ready to continue with the ceremony, slave Owen?”

Owen’s stomach tightened at the thought of what was to come, but that didn’t mean he wanted it any less. “Yes, Mistress.”

She turned toward their friends. “Owen and I are honored by your presence as we commemorate our first year together. During this time our relationship of dominance and submission has deepened, held always within the broader framework of our love.”

As she spoke, Sylvie stroked Owen’s back, easing away his nervousness along with the lingering sting of the flogger’s lash. “As you well know yourselves,” she continued, “very few outside our community are aware of the spiritual potential of BDSM. Far beyond satisfying a kink this lifestyle can function as a lens through which our love becomes focused, clarified, refined and revealed.”

She took the scalpel from the small wooden tray resting on a stool nearby and pulled away the sterilized wrapping. She held the scalpel so Owen could see the silver blade turning rosy pink in the candlelight.

They had experimented over the past few months with blood play, exploring Owen’s deep-seated fascination with the idea. The feel of cold, sharp steel against his skin always made Owen’s heart begin to pound, and hardened his cock. The prick of the knife’s tip, its sharp sting and the sudden, bright ooze of blood at once frightened him and filled him with a dark, powerful lust that could only be quenched with Sylvie’s kisses and warm, inviting body.

Tonight they would go further than they’d gone before. Owen’s heart began to race again and his mouth was suddenly dry. What if he couldn’t do it? What if he failed his Mistress, and in so doing, himself?

As if sensing his sudden tension, Sylvie placed a firm, soothing hand on Owen’s back. “Breathe,” she urged gently. Owen closed his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. He held it several seconds and then let it release, willing the tension to float from his body.

“Who do you belong to?” Sylvie asked softly, saying the words that she used to help move him into a submissive headspace when he found himself resisting or afraid.

“You, Mistress Sylvie,” he responded, the rapid patter of his heart slowing just a little.

“Why do you exist?”

“To serve and cherish you, my Mistress,” he replied, his breath easing.

“Why are we here tonight?”

“To celebrate our love and commitment, as witnessed by our friends.”

Sylvie leaned down, lifting his chin and kissing him lightly on the lips. “You are ready for this, sweet slave,” she whispered near his ear. “Remember, I would never take you where you weren’t ready to go.”

The last of Owen’s fear slipped away. “Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

“With this blade,” Mistress Sylvie said, speaking louder again for everyone to hear, “I will make my slave bleed. Owen’s blood will symbolize his willingness to suffer for me, and his commitment to serve and obey.”

She turned to Owen. “Are you ready, my brave boy?”

Owen’s heart leapt into his throat, making it difficult to speak. “Yes,” he rasped, nodding. Sweat pricked at his underarms and along the small of his back as Mistress Sylvie again lowered the scalpel into his line of sight. He stared at the razor-sharp blade, letting the tumble of feelings surge through him. Yes, he was afraid, but also proud. He was ready to submit to the woman he loved more than anyone or anything in the world, witnessed by the people who had become even closer than family over the past year.

How different he felt now from the man he had been just fifteen months ago at Alana and Jerry’s ceremony. As he’d watched Jerry submit to the piercing, his own longing had left him feeling bereft. With Sylvie’s love and guidance, he’d been able to let go of the insecurity, loneliness and confusion that had held him back, both in life and in love, from becoming fully himself, from getting to the essence and the core of who he was.

“Yes, Mistress,” he said again, and this time his voice was firm and sure.

Mistress Sylvie stroked Owen’s chest between the ropes. Owen realized the music had stopped, and the room was utterly silent, as if everyone there was holding their breath.

Pressing her lips together in concentration, Mistress Sylvie drew the scalpel lightly over Owen’s left pec. For a fraction of a second he felt nothing, and then came the slicing sting. He knew it was just a nick, but it was enough that droplets of bright red blood beaded along the cut and then fell to the white canvas below.

She made a matching cut on the other side, and again he felt the sharp sting. Owen closed his eyes. Sylvie began to spin him slowly, walking in a circle around him. “Your submission is a gift I cherish; my dominance is a passion you embrace,” she said, speaking the words they’d written together for the ceremony. “We tap into each other’s darkest, brightest secrets and bring them alive.”

Owen opened his eyes and stared down at the pattern of blood drops that was forming a spattered circle beneath him as they moved. He felt his mind emptying, his head curiously light. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart, until Sylvie’s voice finally penetrated his trance.

“Owen. Look at me.”

He lifted his head to look at his Mistress. Her eyes fixed on his, she pushed the thin straps of her black gown from her shoulders and let the silk puddle at her feet. She stood naked, save for a black silk thong. Her breasts were gleaming in the candle glow, the rosy tips jutting toward him. Owen stared, mesmerized by her beauty. While he watched, she lifted the scalpel to her own breast and drew a small, red line just over her heart.

“The loving exchange of power between us,” she said softly, “is not about me above and you below. It is a circle, without beginning or end.” Leaning forward, she let the drops of her blood mingle with his on the white canvas sheet. Taking his face in her hands, she kissed his lips.

When she let him go, the room erupted in applause, and for a moment Sylvie looked as startled as Owen felt. Someone turned on the lights and Riku and Jerry approached them. The sheet beneath Owen was pulled away, replaced by a soft blanket as Owen was lowered carefully to the ground. While Jerry and Riku untied the ropes and tended to Owen’s cuts with antibiotic cream and Band-Aids, Owen saw that Chloé and Alana were doing the same for Sylvie.

The men help Owen to stand, and Jerry draped a robe over Owen’s shoulders. Owen felt as if he were waking from a dream. He took a deep breath and blew it out, trying to clear his head.

“That was really beautiful, man,” Jerry said, squeezing Owen’s shoulder. Not quite trusting himself to speak, Owen just nodded.

Master H. and Mark took the sheet and tacked it to a wall of the dungeon. From a distance, the circle of splattered blood drops looked like a painting of a holly berry wreath. Owen put his hand to the bandaged cuts on his chest, in awe of what they had just done.

He turned to Sylvie and she, somehow feeling his gaze, turned from Chloé and smiled at him. She had pulled her gown back into place but her nipples pressed visibly against the black silk, and her hair flowed down her back in waves of burnished copper. There was a flush of soft color on her cheeks, and her eyes were shining.

As Owen moved toward Sylvie, the laughter and commotion around them seemed to fall away. Sylvie looked up into his face. “You were wonderful,” she whispered.

“You were amazing,” he breathed.

Sylvie placed her hands lightly over the bandaged cuts on Owen’s chest. He could feel his heart beating beneath her palms. He drew his finger along the bandage covering her cut. He felt both a deep, grounded peace and a sense of buoyant elation. For the first time in his life, he was finally exactly where he wanted, and needed, to be.

“Thank you, Mistress Sylvie, for it all,” he said, hoping she understood.

“You’re welcome, sweet slave.” Sylvie smiled, and he knew she did.

They turned to face the room and their friends came forward, offering congratulations and hugs. Master H. popped a huge bottle of champagne and toasts were made.

“There is one last thing Owen and I would like to share with you, our dear friends.” Sylvie said, and the room quieted, all eyes on them. “It is a poem we wrote together, something we hope captures a little bit of our feelings.”

Owen turned to face Sylvie, who was smiling at him. “I was waiting,” he began, “all my life.”

“Your embrace holds the world, my world, melting the ice.” Sylvie took Owen’s hand.

“Until all is lightness and heat, fire that sparkles—” Owen continued.

“—with your tumbling, vibrant joy,” Sylvie completed.

“You ignite my heart.”

“Ease my soul.”

“Fire my heart.”

“And whisper in my dreams.”

“Binding me with chains as strong as steel”—forgetting the audience, Owen took Sylvie into his arms—“and soft as a kiss.”

Also Available at Romance Unbound Publishing

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