From Blushes 29
I never know in advance if it will be my lover, the Master, who comes to me, or another sent by him. Tonight, at the Meeting, he was kind and smiling, so I am led to hope it will be him. But all I can do is wait and hope, for I must do his bidding, whether I wish it or not.
So it is decreed, for I am his.
It is the third hour of the morning, and I can tell from the silence that has fallen on this great house that the Meeting is over, the Brothers and Sisters gone home or retired to their rooms to pursue the unceasing search. My Master is my one and only lover, and I am his to command as he desires. Through my Vow of Obedience, I have taken many others in his place, but they have all been him, a succession of faces and bodies and grasping hands, all him beneath the flesh, all him!
This great room echoes with silence, resonances of the past almost audible as I stand and wait for the door to open on my lover. My legs ache, the legs he tells me are my glory, and yet he forbids me to wear shoes, lest I become too proud. He is infinitely strong and wise, he sees into my soul and knows all there is of me, so he knows I am his — utterly. He has tested me, through pain and passion, and I have never failed him. I will never fail him.
In the silent, haunted hours of the night the girl stands, awaiting her lover, a solitary vulnerable figure reduced to insignificance by the sweeping dimensions of a huge stone fireplace. The only light in the room comes from concealed lamps set into the sides of the fireplace, and from the single glowing bar of an electric fire in the place where once, long ago, the great log fires roared.
That fire and the blind eye of a television set are the only anachronisms in a scene that otherwise belongs in another century. The white walls and ceiling are roughly plastered, black supporting beams picked out in stark relief, the windows small and close-curtained, the wood-block floor only partially carpeted. The only furnishings are a single chair and a low wooden table placed centrally in front of the fire — a sacrificial slab awaiting its victim.
The girl is of any time, a creature of fantasy, slim and proud, weary in her near-nakedness. Her skin gleams translucent white, her only garments are the briefest of underclothes, brassiere and knickers. Her breasts are firm and high under their vestigial covering, the flare of her hips and the long slim legs hold promise for the man who takes possession of her. Her feet are bare, her hair natural blonde, and the upper half of her face is completely hidden by a Halloween mask. Only her generous mouth and a firm chin can be seen, and the question is inescapable — can she be as beautiful as they suggest?
She has been waiting for hours, standing cruciform as she was bidden in the gaping maw of the fireplace, her legs smarting from the sullen glow of the fire, but she dare not move, for if he finds her in any position other than the one he commanded, her punishment will be swift and painful. But by far the greater pain would lie in knowing that she had failed him.
The echoing silence is shattered by the sound of a door opening; the swift dart of her eyes behind the mask is the only sign that she has heard it, but the rise and fall of her breasts quickens.
Approaching with measured footsteps, the man stands before her, a man of medium height with a cruel moustache and skin that in daylight would show a healthy tan. But this is not a daylight place. He is a mission of the night, and in the darkest hours of the night he has come to her, to do the Master’s bidding.
‘He has sent me,’ he says simply, gesturing wide with his arms, ‘and so I am here.’
‘He will come later?’ Her voice is warm and promising, the hint of hope deliberately suppressed.
‘I think not. There is much to be done. The Meeting is ended, but there is the initiation of the new girl, so he sent me, and I am here.’
‘And your wishes?’
‘We begin as he would wish.’
The girl slowly nods acquiescence, then assumes the first position, legs spread, arms wide apart above her head, fingertips touching the wooden beam above the fireplace. The pose accentuates the proud thrust of her breasts, and she can see from the man’s eyes that she has done well.
‘He would be gratified. You have learned to do all things as he would wish.’
‘It is my destiny,’ she replies gravely. ‘I am his property. I belong to him, therefore his wish is my wish.’
The man moves closer to her, and their faces are level, for she is as tall as he. Their eyes lock, and he reaches towards her, touching the grotesque mask.
‘He said you may remove this, if you wish it.’
‘Does he wish it?’ Her voice is strangely hesitant.
‘He did not say.’
‘Do you wish it?’
‘I do not mind.’ And his hands grasp the firm young breasts through their flimsy covering. ‘But these and all else we will see later.’
‘Then I will keep the mask on, for it is a lesson we all must learn, that the face is but one of many things by which we are known.’
‘It is one of his teachings,’ the man agrees. ‘And now, the second position.’
She turns her back to him, assuming the cruciform position again, allowing herself a momentary feeling of gratitude that the backs of her legs are free at last from the heat of the fire, and that she can still shelter behind the mask.
Now the man’s hands are upon her, first stroking the smooth planes of her back, then exploring under the brief panties to judge her suitability for her role.
‘It is good,’ he declares solemnly. ‘You are well-fleshed, you are comely — a suitable disciple.’
‘Without the Master, I am nothing. Whatever I am, it is as he has made me.’
‘The world believes that beauty lies in the face, but we know otherwise, do we not?’
Her voice comes from deep within her, her legs straddle the hand that is probing now, feeling her open like a flower. ‘My beauty lies in the diadem of my passion, and my only salvation lies in pain and in submission, through which all things are possible, with the help and guidance of the Master.’
‘Through whom all things are possible.’ His voice is almost a chant, and she echoes him.
‘Through whom all things are possible.’
His tone roughens: ‘Resume the first position.’
And the girl turns, adopting once again the pose she has held uncomplaining for three hours before he entered the room.
‘I have not seen you before. Am I to know your status within the organisation?’ she asks timorously.
‘You are to know nothing that is not for you to know!’ His voice, still calm, is like a whiplash, and instantly she regrets the question.
‘You are right, of course, and I am in error.’
‘Perhaps you need further instruction.’
‘In my pain and in my submission to the Master lie my only salvation, the only true way.’
‘You have not forgotten, then, after all. That is good. Because,’ — his hand darts between her thighs, driving fingers up and into delicate tissue, impaling her on shards of excitement — ‘If you do forget, you know you must receive correction of the tenth magnitude, do you not?’
The very mention of tenth magnitude correction acts like a douche of cold water, straightening her back and widening the blue eyes behind the mask. She has seen it imposed only once, for it is carried out in full open concourse, as is all major correction, and she can still see the face of the girl who received it as they took her away.
‘I will not forget,’ is her response.
‘That is good.’
He hooks his fingers into the front of her knickers, pulling her towards him and guiding her to the bare wooden table. ‘And now, we will begin to follow the Master’s teachings. First,’ — and here his voice becomes almost a chant again — ‘You must purify me, so that I may pursue the Master’s teachings without taint of personal need.’
She says nothing. Like a somnambulist she sinks to her knees before him, her knees bruising on the floor as her hand fumbles at his zip.
His hand is hooked into her hair, his whole being imposed on her as she opens herself to the Master’s way.
His voice breaks the spell. ‘And now, to the Master’s work!’
Exalted in mind and body, she prepares to do his bidding, wholly subjugated and therefore whole.
‘The table.’ His voice comes from some distant shore where pain is salvation and all else is nothing.
‘You will place yourself on the table, and I will do my duty, and so together we will submit to the Master’s wish.’
‘We will submit.’
And she climbs on the table and kneels, female form lending itself willingly to the limitless distortions of the human psyche. The filmy covering of her knickers is stretched taut, the curves of her buttocks displayed to perfection.
An instant before the ritual begins, she senses the first movement of his chastening hand, and then it descends, and all thought and sensation are obliterated as the first lusty blow descends.
If only it could have been him!! But the thought dies as she becomes involved in the rapidly developing crescendo as his hand rises and falls with metronomic precision in submission to the Master’s wish. Her cheeks smart, then burn, then glow all over as her cries echo off the blank walls. Then comes brief surcease, and she welcomes his touch as his hands remove her knickers. Her back arches to assist him to reveal moist nakedness, and she whimpers her pain and excitement.
‘Resume the first position!’ His voice reaches her through a haze. She is wet, and gasping with unfulfilled desire.
She does his bidding, hobbling across the room with her knickers at her knees, her whole body quivering and aflame.
He stands facing her across the table. ‘You asked my status within the organisation.’
‘Y…yes…’ Her mind whirls. Does she want more? Should she deliberately say the wrong thing, in order to enrage him, to somehow bring himself to the ultimate? But there is no need for decision.
‘I am a Prince of Pain,’ he tells her.
Her eyes widen behind the mask: ‘Prince of Pain!’
‘Do you know what that means, child?’ His voice is quiet, the tone of complete authority.
‘It means…’ She hesitates, then plunges on, emboldened by passion, ‘It means you can cane me, I think…’
‘B…but I have asked for this privilege before, and it has been denied me.’
‘Now I am sent — do you question the Master?’
An exultation flares within her. She has always desired this, to test herself in the crucible of the ritual caning, to be one with the Master.
‘So finally he thinks me worthy,’ she says humbly.
‘He has commanded it so.’
‘Then let it be.’ She is calm now, fear gone, proud to be the vessel of the Master’s trust.
‘Even I can administer it only with your express permission,’ he reminds her. ‘It cannot be ordained, it must be willingly accepted, for it can be worse than tenth degree.’
Tenth degree!! She represses a shudder, then says firmly. ‘If the Master wills it, then I will it.’
‘In the name of the Master?’ he intones.
‘In the name of the Master, and of my only salvation,’ she makes dutiful reply.
‘So let it be!’
She hobbles back to the table, kneeling once again and offering her pink throbbing nates for further testing.
His voice is solemn: ‘You still have the opportunity to change your mind, for this is a grave step. Once begun, the rite has to be completed. You will be caned on the buttocks and thighs. So will you be purified for the Master’s purpose, and so will you become Princess of Pain.’
‘Princess of Pain!’
‘So it is written, and so will you be second in authority only to myself and the other Princes. Your authority will entitle you to administer chastisement to the Brethren as I do myself.’
‘And the Sisters?’ Her voice is suddenly sharp. ‘When I am Princess of Pain, can I chastise the Sisters too? The pretty ones?’
The sudden bitterness in her tone is surprising to him, for at a time like this she should be preparing herself for her ordeal, not indulging in such whims.
‘Of course,’ he replies evenly. ‘You can chastise all Brothers and Sisters. So it is written.’
‘Then let us begin!’
‘Of course.’ Within seconds he is standing above her, a vicious looking cane in his hand, retrieved from a hidden recess in the fireplace. Sisters have been known to lose their nerve, and it is to his credit that the production of the cane is swift and sudden.
Her eyes mesmerise him through the grotesque mask as he raises his hand to strike the first blow to her quivering flesh. The implement falls, and her cries rend the air as her body twists and turns in a frenzy. The Master has taken another of his own to his bosom.