The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (7 page)

Though it had been years since Owen had thought about that defining book, he had read it several times as a teenager, keeping it hidden beneath his mattress and pulling it out late at night, imagining himself as a male O and Sir Stephen as a woman. Though he’d been dismayed by how cold and uncaring Sir Stephen behaved throughout the novel, the story had still given him plenty of fuel for masturbation, not that it took much for a perennially horny seventeen-year-old.

While Mistress Sylvie stared down at her papers, occasionally marking something on the page, Owen seized the chance to look at her. He guessed she was in her late twenties or early thirties, though he was never very good at guessing ages. Her skin looked dewy soft and he flexed his fingers behind his back, wishing he could stroke her cheek, imagining the feel of her soft lips against his, knowing this would never happen.

His calf muscles were starting to ache, and Owen experimentally lowered his heels to the platform. “Ah.” The word was pulled from his lips without his meaning to make a sound as the vise tugged painfully on his balls with just that slight movement. He rose again onto the balls of his feet, the sweat now breaking on his upper lip.

Mistress Sylvie looked up. “Stand tall, if you know what’s good for you.” She smiled cruelly and returned to her work.

Several more minutes passed. Owen’s right calf suddenly cramped and he shifted reflexively to ease it. “Ah!” he cried, louder this time, as the vise tugged hard against his cock and balls. He looked down. His genitals were purple. How long could he safely stay in this thing? He looked to Mistress Sylvie, who was watching him with those green eyes, her expression inscrutable.

“Does it hurt?” she asked a low, silky voice.

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied.

“Good. Pain is good for the soul. Go flat on your feet.”

“What?” Owen’s heart was beating too fast. He licked his lips and tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry.

“I said,” Mistress Sylvie repeated in a hard voice as she stood, “Go flat on your feet. Do it. Now.”

Owen took a deep breath and forced himself to obey her. As he lowered himself, the vise tugged painfully at his cock and balls and he groaned. Mistress Sylvie was now standing directly in front of him in the narrow space between the desk and pillory. He could smell her perfume and his own sweat. Her hand went to his tortured genitals and he could feel her fingers stroking his cock and balls, compressed and throbbing between the bars of steel. He groaned again, though this time with lust.

“Are you prepared to suffer for me?” Mistress Sylvie whispered close to his ear.

He was suffering already, but her words sent a jolt of sexual heat through his blood, making his tortured cock throb even harder, if that was possible. “Yes, Mistress,” he breathed.

She stepped away. “You need to be punished for failing to strip immediately when you entered the room. Back on your toes.”

Owen rose on the balls of his feet, sighing with relief as the intense pressure on his cock and balls eased. His hair had fallen into his eyes and he tried to shake it away but it was wet with sweat and didn’t cooperate. He watched as Mistress Sylvie opened a drawer of her desk and withdrew some items.

She held up a black chain with clamps on either end. He recognized what it was from sex videos he’d watched online. Clover clamps, the kind that tighten when pulled. He bit his lip as she approached him with them.

“You belong to me,” she said softly, as she ran her hand over his chest, pressing her open palm against his left nipple. “Your heart is beating so hard for me. You are my slave, my possession.”

The words reverberated through his head, filling him with a longing that was almost painful in its intensity. He wanted that. Oh, Jesus God, how he wanted that. And for this session, for this purchased time, he was just that—her slave, her possession.

If only it didn’t have to end…

He was completely distracted from his hopeless musings when she compressed one of the clamps and then let it close over his left nipple. It took a second for the pain to register, and then it flooded his nerve endings, making him gasp. She did the same with his right nipple and then lifted the chain to his lips.

“Bite the chain. Don’t let it go, no matter what I do to you. Do you understand?”

“Oh, god,” Owen murmured, barely able to hear her over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

“That is not an answer!” Mistress Sylvie said, her eyes sparking. She slapped his cheek, though her touch was light, more to reprimand than to hurt.

“Yes, Mistress,” Owen hurriedly replied between labored breaths. His nipples were on fire, the pain for the moment distracting him from the clench of metal against his cock and balls. Mistress Sylvie pressed the chain to his lips and Owen let them part and then bit down. The resulting pull of the clamps at his nipples made him groan through clenched teeth.

Returning to the desk, Mistress Sylvie picked up a riding crop, the leather dyed blood red. “Remember,” she admonished as she returned to him. “No matter what I do, you keep that chain in your mouth, and stay on your toes.”

She reached for his face and for a split second Owen thought she was going to slap him again, but instead she smoothed the matted hair from his eyes. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, her fingers cool against his heated forehead.

“And now,” Mistress Sylvie dragged the folded rectangle of leather at the end of the crop handle down Owen’s chest, “it’s time for your punishment.”

~*~

Sylvie felt the gentle throb between her legs. It had been a long time since a client had excited her as Owen did. He was so responsive! The way his eyes widened, the way he trembled, the way his cock surged toward her, the way his heart pounded against her palm.

Something about him reminded her of Jacques, though they looked nothing alike. Maybe it was his yearning, the achingly sweet longing to submit that radiated from him like a force field that reminded her of her old lover. She liked Owen’s smell, too, a strong, earthy male scent. Was he married, she found herself wondering, and then shook the thought away. What did it matter? She never pried into her clients’ private lives.

Focusing, she stepped back, examining Owen’s cock and balls with a critical eye. She was always careful not to keep them shackled in the vise for too long, not wanting to cause any permanent damage. But she hadn't screwed the vise too tight for Owen, aware from his interview that he was a virgin in the area of cock and ball torture. He should be fine for at least another thirty minutes in the pillory, though she probably wouldn’t keep him there that long anyway, just to be safe.

By his powerful reaction, he was clearly deeply excited by the scenario she’d laid out for this session, and she didn’t want to make the mistake she’d made sometimes early on in her career as a pro Domme, of ending a scene too early. His cock was as hard as the steel pillory rod he was shackled to, and for a brief, absurd moment, Sylvie imagined straddling that hard cock and riding herself to orgasm.

“Ready for your punishment?” she said softly as she stepped behind him.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Oui, M
aîtresse
.

He even sounded a little like Jacques, with his rich baritone, made breathless by his predicament. Unable to resist, Sylvie placed her fist lightly into the hollow just below Owen’s right hip, which was emphasized by his firm, rounded ass. He had the body of a Greek Adonis, muscular and lean. If she owned him for real, she found herself thinking, she would keep him naked while at home, save for a collar around his neck.

Sylvie saw that Owen’s hands were clenched into fists. “Relax your hands,” she said, waiting until he complied. She started lightly, tapping his ass with the crop, enjoying the sound of the leather smacking against his skin. His body was glistening with sweat, and the setting sun outside the window made it seem as if he were glowing.

She struck him harder, her nipples stiffening as he hissed his pain around the chain he dutifully held between his teeth. Excited, she struck him harder still, several firm swats with the leather all in the same spot on his left ass cheek, leaving an angry square of red. She did the same on the right side, Owen’s groans like fingers stroking her swelling clit. He was still on his toes, his calf muscles bulging and twitching. She would need to let him down soon.

She moved to stand in front of him, setting the crop down on the desk. Owen’s chest was heaving, his eyes squeezed shut, sweat rolling down the sides of his face. Sylvie reached for the chain. “Open your mouth,” she said, her voice husky with desire she forced herself to ignore. “I’m going to remove the clamps,” she said brusquely. “It’s going to hurt. Try to stay still.”

Just to be safe, she loosened the wing nuts a little on the vise, in case he jerked when his compressed nipples were suddenly freed. He was watching her as she reached for the first nipple, his eyes wide. His body was actually shaking and Sylvie had to push down her impulse to put her arms around him.

“Calm yourself,” she said instead. “You are doing wonderfully well, my brave boy.” She released the first clamp and, as she expected, Owen hissed with pain as the blood reentered his tortured nipple. She released the second one quickly, placing her hands flat over his nipples, which poked against her palms. When he had calmed enough to stop panting, she took her hands away. Reaching for the wing nuts, she unscrewed the vise that gripped Owen’s genitals. She unclipped the vise from the rod, and set it on the desk.

Owen sighed with obvious relief as the pressure was removed from his cock and balls. He lowered himself until his feet were flat on the platform. Sylvie didn’t release his ankles, nor did she remove the cuffs from his wrists. His cock remained erect, the balls beneath it full and round. Succumbing to an impulse, Sylvie lightly gripped his shaft, releasing it quickly when he moaned.

What the fuck was she doing? She needed to get control of herself. Owen was a client, not a lover, and there were lines she must never cross. To distract herself as much as Owen, Sylvie announced, “As your reward for doing so well, I think we’ll end the session with a good beating. I’m going to allow you to choose the instrument of your pleasure and pain. I can use the slapper, the flogger or a single tail. Your choice.”

Owen followed her moves with his eyes as Sylvie opened the bottom drawer of the desk where she kept some of her toys. She pulled out the three items, laying them side by side on the desk. Lifting the slapper, which was made of a wide, thick strip of leather folded over onto itself, Sylvie hit the desk with it, creating the loud slapping sound that gave the implement its name. Owen jumped at the sound, his cock bobbing.

“That one, Mistress. Please.” Owen’s eyes were burning with intensity, fixed on the shiny leather implement.

Sylvie nodded. “Excellent.” Leaving the slapper on the desk for the moment, she moved behind Owen. “I think I’ll change your position. I don’t want your hands in the way.” She released the clips on Owen’s cuffs, allowing him to put his arms at his sides, though not for long.

“Raise your arms over your head. I’m going to secure you to the ceiling. That, along with the ankle cuffs, will keep you just where I want you.” Owen looked up, and she could see him noticing the sturdy eyebolts imbedded in the ceiling, from which she hung potted plants when the space was being used purely as an office.

Taking the stepladder she kept in a corner for the purpose, along with a chain she kept in her drawer, Sylvie climbed up and looped one end of the chain over both eyebolts. She clipped Owen’s cuffs to the other end and climbed from the ladder, moving it aside.

Retrieving the slapper, she ran it over Owen’s shoulders and chest, feeling his shudder as if it were her own. She moved behind him, beginning slowly, using the thick leather paddle lightly against his ass and thighs to warm the skin. After a few minutes she aimed higher, hitting his broad back and shoulders, the smacking sound reverberating in the room, accompanied by the sound of his rapid breathing.

She moved to face him, striking his muscular chest with the leather, which left a swath of reddening skin in its wake. She hit the front of his thighs, careful not to catch his cock or balls with the stinging leather—they’d had enough torture for one day. Again the forbidden desire to cup his balls and stroke his cock beckoned her and Sylvie retreated from it, going again to stand behind him.

She focused on his ass and the backs of his thighs, slapping the skin in hard, steady strokes, watching as it turned from rosy pink to cherry red.

After several minutes, Owen cried, “Mistress! Please!” His breath was ragged, his muscles rigid. “I can’t—it’s too much. Please—”

Sylvie lowered the slapper, though she wasn’t done. Not yet. It wouldn’t be fair to Owen to stop now, not when he was so close. “Slow your breathing,” she admonished gently. “Unclench your hands. Flow with pain, instead of trying to resist it. Think of it like a wave. You can either struggle against it and get pulled under, or you can dive into it, and let it carry you along. It’s your choice, Owen. A conscious choice to accept, to embrace, to become one with the pain.”

She spoke soothingly, honestly wanting to help him move past his resistance, certain he could get there if he tried. She stood close behind him, feeling his heat. She pressed her body against his back, letting her leather-clad breasts brush against him. Though she wanted to wrap her arms around him, instead she reached for his shoulders. She dug her fingers into the bunched muscle. He was strong and beautifully built. She moved her hands down his back, kneading the hot, sweaty skin until his breathing slowed a little.

“Are you ready, Owen? Shall we continue?”

“Yes, please, Mistress Sylvie.”

Stepping back, Sylvie resumed the whipping, letting the leather land in hard, steady strokes against his ass and legs. And then it began to happen.

Sylvie was struck with the same awe that always gripped her when she watched someone begin to move into that miraculous place where pleasure and pain no longer had separate meaning. Though she was no masochist, and took no direct pleasure from erotic pain, as the giver of that pain she felt intimately connected to the one who received it. It was, in fact, what kept her going as a pro Domme. It wasn’t the money, or the ego strokes from being admired by so many men, but
this
thing, this moment when she brought a client from greedy masochist into something loftier, something sublime.