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August Ames

In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the “wicked” witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe’s narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.


“She sounds very nice, Master,” I said when at last Master took the gag out of my mouth. “But who exactly is Fuckpuppet?”

“She’s wonderful,” Master replied. “She’s a bit younger than you are, but much more experienced; she can take an awful lot of pain. It will do you good to talk to another slave. She’s the property of a master named Dave, who owns a chain of fish and chip shops. They’re important figures in the South London S&M scene.”

I looked and sounded surprised as I asked, “You mean there are enough people like us for a whole social group?” However, it did not occur to me to be surprised that the phrase “people like us” indicated my allegiance to Master and our lifestyle together.

Master smiled and nodded. “There are parties. Clubs. It’s a whole subculture involving thousands of people. I’ll take you to the ‘Torture Garden’ some time; you’ll be able to see hundreds of perverts dancing together. Real freaks. You’ll be amazed.”

“And this party?” I asked.

“They hold it every second Saturday of the month. It’s a bit of an institution. I haven’t been to one for a while. This will be a fancy dress affair, so it’ll be a good first outing. You’ll be able to get your feet wet without being whipped raw in front of a lot of strangers. Sometimes the accent of a party is on heavy pain, which can be quite daunting for a beginner.”

My apprehensions showed in my face and in my voice as I asked, “Does fancy dress mean I will have to wear something erotic?”

“Slutty is the word you’re looking for,” Master responded. “You’ll dress like a whore, and a slave.”

“But that is just as bad as if I had become a stripper, Master,” I argued. “Word will get around, and I will lose my job.”

“There isn’t the slightest risk of that,” Master said reassuringly. “These people are all on the same side. Besides, nobody would be crazy enough to betray a group of people who own literally thousands of whips, handcuffs, and gags.”

Since I still looked worried, Master added, “If you have the slightest doubts, you can hide your face.”

“You mean wear dark glasses or something?” I sought clarification and reassurance. “I would only show off my body?”

Master grinned and replied, “Exactly. Unless you’ve been more promiscuous than I think you have, nobody’s going to recognize your tits.”

“What sort of outfit do you have in mind?” I inquired, not noticing that my curiosity was so immediately engaged that I did not even register the incongruity of calmly discussing my first, and very revealing, public appearance in my role as Master’s slave.

“I’ll have to think about that,” Master said.

On the evening of the party, I waited, as instructed, in front of the dressing table in the main bedroom. Other than the gold Hard Candy nail polish Master had me apply to my nails earlier that day, I was naked.

When Master entered the bedroom, I of course gave him a deep cunt curtsey, and said, “I cannot wait to see what you have prepared for me, Master.”

Master frowned and asked, “Did someone give you permission to speak?”

“No, Master,” I said. “Sorry, Master.”

“That’s all right,” Master said. “As this is a special night, you can talk if you want to.”

“Thank you, Master,” I said. “Are you going to make my face up for me?”

“What would be the point of that,” Master scornfully replied. “Nobody’s going to see it. I shall, however, be putting make-up on your tits.” Master then applied blusher to my breasts, giving them a healthy glow, and then performed the same service for my buttocks. Then Master applied a little beige lipstick to my nipples, and added a little golden glitter to my pubic hair.

Next, Master presented two tiny wooden beehives (no bigger than his thumb) that dangled from yellow silk ribbons with yellow plastic clips at the ends. I was taken aback by the clips, staring at them in fascination whilst Master attached them to my nipples, but they really were quite gentle. “They do not hurt at all, Master,” I said with gratitude.

“They will by the end of the evening,” Master replied. “That’s why you’re going to need something on your hands, so you’re not tempted to ease the pain by taking them off.”

I watched in disbelief as Master plunged each of my hands into an empty honey jar with a brass ring around its neck. Attached to the rings were golden half-handcuffs, which Master quickly locked into place around each wrist.

“What are you going to use to hide my face, Master,” I asked.

“That’s Sahabet the focal point of the whole ensemble,” Master happily replied. He opened a hatbox, and took out a straw beekeeper’s hat. He settled it on my head, and draped the heavy veil around my shoulders. “Looks good,” Master said. “Although it’s a shame people won’t be able to see your bee-stung lips. You may look in the mirror.”

“Thank you, Master,” I said, turning to behold Master’s work. I know I stood there, absorbed in my own reflection, for at least two minutes before I was able to say, “Oh, Master, it is lovely.” I turned to one side, and then to the other, laughing with delight. I ran my glass-gloved hands down the front of my body, watching in the mirror as my hands traveled, separated by glass, down my naked form.

“I never saw anyone so naked in my life,” I exclaimed. “I cannot wait to show it off.” Then a moment of insecurity and indecision occurred, prompting me to ask, “What do you think, Master? Do I look wonderful?”

“Your arse looks wonderful,” Master replied. “But then, it always does.”

When I could pry my thoughts away from my own reflection at last, I asked, “May I ask what happened to the honey, Master?”

Master took the hat off my head, and placed it on the bed. “Wait here,” he ordered, and left the room. When Master returned, he was naked, except for a dollop of honey on the end of his cock. He stood where the cheval mirror would give him the best view of the action about to begin. I watched as the drop of honey began to fall from the tip of Master’s cock, and immediately knelt down, hoping to catch it.

Master swung his hips, his cock swaying from side to side, making catching the honey even more difficult. I knew that, if I let any honey fall on Master’s carpet, it would only provide him another excuse – as if Master needed one – for beating me, so I made sure to be quick.

I caught every drop of honey on my tongue before Master plunged his cock into my waiting mouth. I boldly ran my glass-covered hands up the backs of Master’s thighs, pulling his cock deeper into my throat. I licked it like a lollipop. I nibbled it like a stick of celery. I sucked it greedily, feeling it swell as it lost its coating of honey.

“This must be really bad for my teeth,” I murmured happily.

“Shut up and suck,” Master crooned.

I was excited, so focused on service that I did not even think to try to rub my own body with my glass gloves. In fact, I did not need any external manipulation to increase my excitement at giving pleasure to Master, releasing all concerns and thoughts in order to focus solely and completely on turning my mouth into Master’s warm, wet, perfect fuckhole.

Master can take hours of oral service – cock sucking, ball nuzzling, pubic hair licking – but perhaps he wanted to get on to the party, for his cock soon provided a bit of spunk to wash down the honey. Then Master helped me to my feet. I could feel a blob of honey on the tip of my nose, and a trail of semen running from the corner of my mouth, but Master did not bother cleaning me up. He wrapped me into a light mac for the journey, picked up the hat and veil, and led me out the door.

“Thank you, Master,” I said, “for the delicious honey, and the sperm. That was even more delicious.”

We arrived at Dave and Fuckpuppet’s house shortly after nine, joining another couple dressed in raincoats on the doorstep. They seemed to be strangers to Master, as of course they were to me, so Master introduced us by our S&M names – Master Martin and Meat. The woman introduced herself as Queen Cheryl, and her companion as Worm. I took a long look at Queen Cheryl. She was a short, dumpy, rather plain teenager with a strong Cockney accent, and thick makeup that failed to cover all the acne on her cheeks.

Worm was a distinguished looking man in his mid-forties. He stood erect, but with downcast eyes, his folded, manicured hands contrasted sharply with Queen Cheryl’s bitten nails. In a voice with the quiet, cultured tones of the professional classes, Worm said, “How do you do.”

“Shut the fuck up, Worm,” Queen Cheryl told him sharply. “Nobody listens to you here.” Queen Cheryl turned her attention to me, saying, “Pretty,” before slipping her grubby hand inside the front of my coat. “Good tits,” she said. “And nipple clips – wicked! Does she suck cock?”

“Sure,” Master replied.

“So does mine,” Queen Cheryl boasted. “He hates doing it too, which makes it fun. Let me know if you fancy a really interesting blow job. Oh, fuck, what have I trodden in? Can’t go in like that, now, can I? See to it, Worm.” Worm dropped to his knees with a sigh.

We went inside, but I glanced back to see that educated, middle-aged man groveling on the doorstep, licking the soles of his young mistress’s shoes. A uniformed policeman was on duty just inside the door. “Good evening, Ben,” Master greeted him. “Are there many people here?”

Ben replied, “Quite a crowd, Sir,” as he showed us Sahabet Giriş into a small room to the left of the hall. The room was empty, but all its chairs were piled high with macs, and there were empty boxes and carrier bags stacked against the walls.

“Was that fancy dress, too?” I asked, inclining my head toward Ben’s retreating back.

“Sort of,” Master replied. “It’s what he always wears. Dave makes him stand at the door to discourage undesirables.”

“I am still thinking about Cheryl,” I went on as Master fitted the beekeeper’s hat to my head, and arranged the veil. “She is younger than my students. Are you sure she’s above the age of consent?”

“Oh, yes,” Master replied. “Fuckpuppet’s very careful about that sort of thing. These parties even have a doctor in attendance. Besides, even if Queen Cheryl is as young as she looks, no law would be broken. They don’t serve alcohol, and a strict Mistress like her would never allow herself to be fucked by a mere slave. I’m soft; I like to watch you when you’re coming, but a really nasty topwoman like that has no interest in giving her slave sexual pleasure. I bet poor old Worm hasn’t had an orgasm in months.”

As I trembled when we walked out into the hall, Master slapped my buttocks lightly, saying “Now, Meat, I want to be proud of you tonight, and I want you to be proud of yourself. Stand tall, happy to be naked in the presence of all these skilled masters and slaves. Speak only when you’re spoken to. Cooperate if someone wants to fondle your tits or stick a finger up your cunt. If things get out of hand, don’t complain to anyone but me. Understand?”

“Understood, Master,” I replied.

“Off we go then,” Master exclaimed. “Good luck.”

I stepped forward, and then stopped as if I had walked into a wall, observing the living tableau of perversion before me. Light, unobtrusive music played in the background, and all the rooms were brilliantly lit, showing off the beauty of the slaves’ bodies, and the inventiveness of their outfits. Instead of conventional paintings and objets d’art, Dave and Fuckpuppet’s home was decorated with a gang bang scene from a pornographic version of “Snow White,” and there was an obviously classical urn decorated with a picture of a man urinating onto a woman’s face. Nothing, however, could distract me long from the other people in the room.

One slender woman glided by, wearing only an Australian bush hat, from the brim of which dangled tiny penises. A handsome male slave stood by a wall wearing frilly panties, an apron and rubber gloves. There was a stunningly beautiful Indian girl adorned only in pliers – hanging from her nipples, her labia, her buttocks, her breasts, and even the lobes of her ears. Another young lady was wearing a classic elasticised fifties corset. Three slaves had outfits made almost entirely from paint. One outfit was a striped prisoner’s uniform, and the slave had a ball and chain attacked to one leg. Another wore a transparent polythene dress over painted underwear. And a girl covered in spots like a Dalmatian crawled around the floor, her collar attached to a master’s bootlaces.

Over in the corner, two men were engrossed in conversation, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were seated on slave girls dressed as chairs in matching chintz fitted covers. A strapping brunette wore an outfit made from chains: chains draped in graceful curves across her huge breasts, chains wrapped around her narrow waist like a corset, chains hung from the rings that pierced her nose, nipples and labia. Finally, I looked up to see two girls suspended from a beam running across the ceiling. One girl was chained by rings in her nipples so that she had to stand on tiptoe. She was gagged, and her wrists were tied behind her back. The other girl’s wrists and ankles had been secured by broad leather straps and joined together behind her back, then she had been hauled up on a winch bolted to the ceiling, hanging belly down. Neither girl was expected to do anything at the party other than provide decoration.

Master nudged me, pointing out a pretty brunette strapped into an extraordinarily complicated arrangement of cogs and gears, fastened to a broad steel belt and ankle chains, the whole contraption centered around a glass rod that disappeared between her legs, allowing her to fuck herself as she walked.

There were tables laden with snacks and non-alcoholic drinks Master had explained that slaves were not allowed to touch. Master instructed me that, if a slave got hungry or thirsty, the slave had to crawl on hands and knees to one of the dog bowls set out in each of the rooms, filled either with dirty water or stale bread. Although the contents of these bowls looked disgusting, they were prepared by Fuckpuppet (herself a slave), who later told me that the “dirty water” actually was weak soup with some kitchen scraps, such as bacon rinds, thrown in for effect.

Master stood near me, but did not speak, letting me look from behind the Sahabet Güncel Giriş anonymity of my beekeeper’s veil, taking in all the new sights, and a few sounds. There was no screaming, which was somewhat of a surprise. Master later explained that Dave and Fuckpuppet often hosted parties at which screaming was plentiful and loud, but that those smaller, more intimate affairs were held in their basement, which had been fitted out as a dungeon.

Finally, Master asked, “So, what do you think?”

“It is comforting,” I replied, after a bit more reflection. “I would do anything you asked me because I signed that contract, but it is nice to know that all these other people are into the same kind of thing too.”

Master responded by slipping his hand between my legs, and asking, “And which of these good people is making you wet, you little whore?”

I replied, “You, Master. Always you.”

I watched a young woman whose arms were tightly cinched behind her back crossing the room toward Master and me. When she stood before us, Master gave her face a quick, light slap, and introduced her to me. This was Fuckpuppet.

“Pleased to meet you, bitch,” Fuckpuppet said.

“Pleased to meet you, slut,” I responded.

Fuckpuppet and I moved to a corner of the room together, quietly conversing. In fact, I was struck how very much this was like any party I had attended where people with similar interests grouped together, exercising their imaginations and intellect in the service of their passions. Having made this mental comparison, I relaxed as Fuckpuppet and I got to know each other. Fuckpuppet, a statuesque blond beauty, was intelligent, charming, and well-read.

After I helped Fuckpuppet, whose hands were out of service due to the binding of her arms behind her back, by taking a tray of dirty glasses into the kitchen (feeling quite proud of the fact that my glass gloves did not prevent this service), I returned to stand by Master again.

“I am so glad you brought me, Master,” I said. “It is fun to see all these marvelous people doing all these disgusting things. There is a naked woman washing glasses in the kitchen. She is gagged, and chained to a tap by one of her nipple rings.”

“That’s Melanie,” Master explained. “Tom over there often makes her do that when she’s been disobedient. Pity. When he lets her enter the competitions, her outfits are spectacular.”

At eleven o’clock, all the masters and mistresses lined up to parade their costumed slaves around the room. Master and I found ourselves behind the couple we had met at the door. Master said, “Mistresses don’t usually wear fancy dress, but Queen Cheryl has come as a schoolgirl.”

“That does not look like a costume to me, Master,” I replied.

“Perhaps she didn’t have time to change,” Master shrugged.

Worm wore an exquisitely cut pin-striped suit with the back of the trousers cut away to show buttocks marked with livid purple bruises, and his gait was awkward because a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times was stuck up his arse.

Fuckpuppet, as Mistress of Ceremonies, announced, “A lot of you are wondering who our lovely beekeeper is,” and I gasped in surprise and apprehension.

Master said, “Nobody wants to know your name, stupid,” as Fuckpuppet continued, saying, “Allow me to introduce Master Martin’s slave, Meat.”

Master marched me around the room, my steps keeping time to the sound of applause all around us. After one circuit of the space, Master had me stop to stand next to Fuckpuppet and Dave, and then he turned me to face the crowd.

“Are you ready to be stung for these good people,” Master asked.

I replied, “Yes, Master.”

Master addressed the crowd, “Esteemed Masters, Noble Mistresses, worthless slaves: my beautiful apiarist has agreed to be stung for your delight.” Master then pulled a toy bee from his pocket, and said, “This little fellow is tipped with a surgical steel hook.” Master removed the cork from the hook, and held the bee up for all to see.

“Hold steady, Meat,” Master said, and applied the bee’s “stinger” to my right buttock, sinking it deeply enough to remain after Master removed his hand. I let out a cry, and the partygoers again burst into applause.

Master once again paraded me around the room, giving everyone a close look at the tiny bee, its body having darkened by the light flow of blood that followed its insertion. Once we completed our circuit, we stepped aside to allow the next contestant to go through her paces.

At midnight, Dave turned off the music, and we all heard a repeated slapping sound. Looking around, I saw that Dave was striking Fuckpuppet’s buttocks with a table tennis bat whilst she supported herself with her palms flat on the table, jutting out her buttocks for the strokes. “Pay attention,” Dave said, “It’s time to announce the prizewinners!”

The main prize went to the blonde in chains – it was a beautiful leather harness made by Dave himself. After the applause for the blonde died down, Fuckpuppet asked for our silence by raising her hand. Once the room again was quiet, Fuckpuppet announced, “There’s another prize tonight. Best Newcomer goes to a woman who looks as good to eat as she does to beat: our honey-sweet beekeeper, Meat, property of Master Martin.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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