THE DIARY OF LILITH (In Thirty Parts)

Diary of Lilith by Lady E.

Part 1: Prologue

He tells me to spread to my legs wider. I don’t know if I can for I am opened and bent over his leather couch like a wayward girl under the direction of his discipline. I try. I rise up higher. Arch my back. Strain my ass out to him who waits. I hear the leather crop quietly tapping his open hand. He is waiting for me, waiting for my correct posture. Silence passes inside the heavy moment until I dare to moan. Show me this defiant cunt, he says. My sex is a wet opening and I can feel its swollen skin calling into the electric void. Last night in the soft candlelight he called me his sweet fruit and he devoured my body with ravenous pleasure. But not today. I have behaved recklessly. I was forgetful and consumed by my own self-importance. I threw off my duty and danced in the garden of the ego for too long this morning. I neglected he who is my greatest desire, he who I serve. But now he has thrown me over his whipping post, stripped me of my clothes and forced me open. He is my constant reminder. The crop slaps against his hand harder now like an angry clock counting the seconds to my deserved pain. Up now, higher, wider those legs, now. I feel my sex will split apart, the tender flesh of my ass pulses in the air around me, my sex hangs open in its own fear and pleasure, wet waiting and swollen obedience. And with that he raises his crop high into the air and strikes me, the swiftness of which knocks me from my feet and into my leather prison. Quickly I straiten and resume my posture for his next strike upon my skin. Radiant pain, again and again he beats me with his crop. Radiant submission again and again he strikes down upon my open sex, my rounded ass, my consciousness, my obedience, my errant pussy...


Part II: His Voice

This is what he said to me after he had lashed my naked upturned sex, after he had submitted me to his crop, to his whipping, as I quietly listened, bent over and exposed. “You have done very well, Lilith. You have taken this lashing with little squirming. Maybe I was too gentle with you.” When he tells me this I am both proud and afraid. Proud that I have remained in my obedient position for his crop to lash my flesh, proud to have born the pain, proud to be so exposed and vulnerable and not to have moved from his taking of me. Afraid because maybe I have not cried enough for I have made little sound, and I lifted my ass up to his crop again and again. I strained my naked sex open for him to see and rose higher on my toes to expose myself further. I succumbed to the pain of his strikes. But was I too expectant? Was I too willing? Did he not punish me hard enough? He is ever aware of me. He seems to know. He asks me to stand then and face him. I do so. I know I am wet and disheveled – but I look to him now. “You will stand in the corner, Lilith.” I walk across the room, to the dark mahogany wall, my feet bare on the thick Oriental rug, the sunlight filtering into the room as if to light my punishment. “Hands on the wall”, he says. I obey. I am naked. “Now, lift up, show yourself.” I do, bending slightly into the v of the wall. I hear him slowly slip his leather belt from his pants. It is so rough, so primal. He slaps the leather together then. “Bend over now Lilith.” I do so and with that I hear the leather slice the air just before it strikes my flesh and with the pain the scream I had so carefully kept from escape is released in the final torrent of pain and exalted oblivion.


Part III: The Whipping

This whipping is unending. Strike. Pain. Holding in. Breathing out. Darkness. Flesh burning, aching, my legs crumbling beneath my body. His whip again. Blinding. Striking hard against me. Breathing in, swimming in the evil invasion of my misfortune, I hold onto the unrelenting beating and hope for the divine rapture I might feel in pleasing him. I spread for him. I hold my sex open and high for him. I crumble and pant in tasting the sharp wild ecstasy of this pain. Vertigo of pain. Oblivion. He strikes me again. I feel as if I am falling, then I straiten again and rise to take my punishment. The edges of the outside world fold in and blur in the sweet elixir of pain’s nothingness. Again and again I succumb to his whip hard against my body, a pain splintering out and invading my insides until I am drugged in the chasm of my aching sex, my swollen skin, until the rhythm of his strikes upon me are the measure of a ticking clock of time standing still, until I am hypnotized by the strokes of his whip, commanding and dominating my woman. And then there is silence. I hear nothing. I only feel. I feel the weight of the leather, the electric prodding of this whip against me. Silence. I hear only the faint whisper of my breath. Darkness. I see nothing. I am wide and unmoving, my woman spreading out into the vast universe of pain. I begin a mantra inside my whispered breath, a mantra I repeat with each hit of his belt. Whip me, I say. Again, the pain. Whip me, I whisper in the silence in my head. Pain, again, leather whipping me, commanding me. Whip me, I say. And then there is no more.... He is by me then, I remember, his hand thrust between my legs to hold me up, he hand capturing my sex, wrestling with its wetness, commanding what is his. Harder he cups my sex nearly lifting me and he wraps his other arm around my waist as I press into his body. There is only this moment and it will be forever. It will last forever. He pulls gently then on the ring that captures my sex, my piercing. He pulls it slowly as I let my weight drop into his warm body. He holds me up, just as lovingly as he might take me down. He tells me then I will have to dress. Whispers in my ear that we are going to see my Mistress. And I understand. The day is not done. This torture is not complete today. I am weak but I stand to go. This is my forever.


Part IV: The Mistress

She stands in the doorway as we walk up the high stone steps leading to her wide open, yawning entrance – I am not sure which is more grand – her long legs captured in high stiletto boots or the imposing stone walls that disappear into the sky above me. But she is beautiful and wicked, guarding her passageway, waiting, waiting for me. I am two steps behind my man as he pulls gently on the chain attached to the collar around my neck. I walk with as much grace and elegance as I am able as he leads me up these steps. I balance like a music box doll on the vicious pointed heels of my shoes, hold my breath in with my breasts pointed high by the weight and angry confinement of my corset. I feel beautiful and if not for the state of this visit and for the quiet edges of fear that shadow my weightless excitement in seeing her, I would nearly weep with happiness; and being lead to her in this way, I imagine myself falling on my knees before her, before these two magnificent beings, and I would begin to kiss her legs with rapture’s unrestraint, kiss her up to her knees, to the pristine curves of thighs, to the soft naive inner flesh of her legs, to the warmth of her sex, to the intoxication of her scent. I would feel the dominant weight of his hand in my hair, leading me on or allowing me my hunger. I imagine a quick hard strike on my ass but my efforts are allowed to continue. I imagine the three of us falling inside this doorway, a threshold of pleasure, and we would writhe together like serpents of bliss. We then discard our carefully placed adornments, captives no more to these elegant confinements – we pull open clasps like thieves breaking locks, we tear apart stockings like starved pirates hungry for the feel and taste of the sweet flesh below, corsets are untied with vengeance and cries of frustration, shoes are thrown away like the forbidden secrets in Pandora’s box, newly exposed skin is slapped and pinched and stroked, my breasts fall out and are imprisoned suddenly in the hands of this beautiful mistress, my head is pulled back by his powerful force to expose the throbbing vein of my neck, his other hand forcing my legs open, my nipples radiating a hot pain between the impatient fingers of this woman as I reach to touch them both, my captors, my lovers. Forced open then, taken down, naked bodies the revelation of this sexual treasure. Then I pause on my ascent up the stairs as these images assault me in flashes too rapid to hold onto – flashes of my orgiastic sadomasochistic thoughts that rush around unbidden and unruly in the volcanic river of wet desire that seems almost to overtake me. Instead, I walk up these long and dangerous stairs, the pause I hope imperceptible and undetected by my master and mistress. I walk with my eyes forward, my face calm, my breasts high, my body balanced, the heat from the earlier whipping still stinging my flesh and seeming to push me on. She looks down at me then and smiles, haunting and quiet, her composure a stark contrast to my momentary musing. He turns to me also, two steps above me, and appraises me. I feel so taken in that I want to cry. “Come to me,” she says. He pulls the chain around my neck with a quick command. I walk to her, closer, until the darkness that widens out behind her is a vortex in which she grows enormous – this grand mistress, both evil and kind. “On your knees.” Her voice is direct and colored. “Crawl through my door.” I meet her eyes and then his. I lower to my knees and slowly cross the threshold as they close in behind me and the darkness ahead swallows me whole.


Part V: Cat’s Cradle, the first tie

I pass through the tunnel of the Mistress’s hallway expelled into a vast and dimly lit room, crawling on my knees, the submissive’s birth. “Stop!” Her voice booms. Where is my man, where is Vidad? The chain dangles from my collar, onto the wood floor, restless and forgotten. I am on my hands and knees, frozen and waiting. There is shuffling around me, a fire expels heats somewhere near my skin and somehow, in the soft melting quiet around me I sense bodies, I sense the presence of others. “Stand. “ She commands again. I do, with as much grace as my weakened legs will allow. I look up, and I am startled by the near grotesque beauty that assaults me. I have a revelation then, in that moment of taking in what is before and around me as I stand and open my eyes. My revelation is thus: submission is my secret treasure; for every command obeyed, for every pleasure granted or denied, for every fight against a heavy dominant power that is equal only to the power of my submitting, for every whipping bent over in exalted pain, for every forced torture or pleasure in the opening of my body and the overtaking of my woman, for every struggle and slap across my face, for every wicked intentional naughtiness whose price is often more then I could ever imagine, for every wonton mistake done deliberately or not, for every boundary broken, threshold crossed, for every leap into the vast chasm of unknown whose tenuous wings are made up only of the fibrous trust between us and the silent conversation that goes on in the taking and the giving; for all of this, in the quiet composure of my face, I wonder if anyone could possibly know what assails me in such a moment as this, for my composure is a lie and my deliberate obedience is the conquest of my own passions running over and that in holding them in like the costumed adulteress of my flooding emotions and desires, these dominant beings around me give me a release, a pleasure, an unspeakable devouring vortex of screaming exalted rage as to be the greatest gift – yes, my secret treasure. And the only betrayal of such unruly and uncontrolled primitive passions would be the wetness that is slowly dripping down my thigh from that one hot region of my body – that betrayer, that reveler of the secret, that lover, that opening – my pussy. And so with this great composure do I take in the room around me. To my right, sitting in a throne like chair sits a handsome and rather devilish man I have met before but who remains aloof and observing from his post. My Vidad stands in front of me twining ropes through his hands and looking deep and intent into me. The beautiful mistress stands by my side with a gentle and deceiving hand on the small of my back, as if to stop me from moving. And around these three powerful beings kneel four women whose uniqueness and beauty I take in quickly. They kneel in a row and look up at me with terrible and deviant smiles. There are four. They look like cats ready to pounce. Ready to lay claws on me at the masters’ command. One is cocoa skin with large breasts – she looks sweet and timid almost, newly caught I imagine, slightly confused and mesmerized too. The next is a fiery red head whose eyes dart and sparkle and her tongue licks her lips with a coquettish playfulness that nearly makes me smile; her body is petite and she too harvests large promising breasts swaying gently with an abandon that just might give her quietly ravenous secret away. Next to her sits a stunning blond who I can see already wears her disguise of innocence like the great beauties who make seduction a subtle art; we lock eyes for that one instant of knowing. And finally, a beautiful brunette, whose submissive pose betrays the naughty glint in her eye, sits at the end to complete the perfect line of feline cunning. The man in the chair suddenly rises then and grabs hold of a crank attached to a wooden pillar. Slowly, with a half smile on his face, he lowers an iron ring from the ceiling. It falls between Vidad and me. The four pussycats breathe and paw and laugh then and suddenly they are the Furies, hungry and haughty and needing and devising. The ring swings before me. “Kneel,” the mistress says. My man takes the ring in his hand and pushes it quickly into the air cutting across to the mistress. All is quiet for a moment, then a command is signaled that I do not hear, for the four cats pounce and strip me of my clothes. When I am naked, Vidad comes behind me and begins to wrap my body in his rope. Again and again the rope rounds my body, under my breasts tight against my chest, over my shoulders a corset of hemp imprisoning me, so unyielding, so constricting, so strangely comforting he seems to capture me. His scent is so close - male scent, masculine sex. I breathe it in, the vaporous allure of his skin. So divine, his heat, his sweet erotic perfume enveloping me as he slides the rope from his hands to my body with such elegance, such power, such grace. With my upper body bound, the rope lifting my breasts, he steps back and looks at me. He puts his hand on my sex, feels the slippery betrayal of my composure, and slides his finger deep inside my opening, deep inside my wet river. Sometimes he does this in lust; sometimes in love; sometimes in warning. His eyes do not leave mine as he lifts me gently from my sex. He moves my hips and pushes deeper inside me with his dominance, with a command unspoken. And then I am lifted and suddenly prostrate on the floor, my arms tied behind me, my breasts pressed into the wood, my body bound, my lips nearly kissing this hard bed. “Lift your hips,” his liquid deep voice commands me, and I thrust by buttocks into the air. Rope is wrapped around my thighs, my hips. My legs are bent, and I feel the rope around my calves, then he moves up my body, more rope winding around my chest until I am truly the prey caught in this web of hemp and with each circle around me, he pulls me tighter, pulls the rope into the iron ring above me and lifts me just off the floor so that my breath comes quicker and my body begins to slip into the amorphous cavern of darkened pleasure. I am immobile. I feel a cat’s claw scratch my back, a quick finger tap my swollen clitoris, then more hands pinching my skin, nails down my thighs, quick tugs on this great ball of magical string that abducts me. I fear I am all too soon to become their play toy. A finger pokes my sex, another pinches the lips between my legs, little teeth bite the pushed up flesh of my ass between the rope, then my nipples, then my belly. I hear humming and sighing all around, figures passing quickly in front of me then disappearing to meld into what feels like a thousand hands poking and spreading and tasting my skin, my sex, the soft forbidden flesh of the hole of my ass. I moan like a song with them, until the sharp sound of a whip cracks through the air and the women retreat with the same suddenness as they had come to me moments before. There is silence then and I wait in this soft electric womb of anticipation; silence until the heavy click of the crank turning begins an ominous rhythm like the ticking of a clock, the passage of time, the countdown and slowly, deliberately I feel my bound body begin to rise from the floor…


Part VI: Cat’s Cradle, suspended

I am flying, suspended in air. I am free and winged. I am not my body but an expanse – infinite and limitless, residing in a vortex of sensations without boarders, without boundaries, without the fences of consciousness. I am entwined with this heavy rope tight around my body, my back arched, my arms tied behind me, my legs rounding up high above my buttocks, my head pulled back by my hair tightly wound with the rope and attached to the center ring, my legs opened to expose my sex, high above the floor swinging gently back and forth, I am curved outward so my belly and breasts push out, my pussy opens and my legs are the unforgiving long outstretched gateway to the reaches of my soul, up through the hot tunnel of my cunt, a thousand points of pleasure, a thousand swollen points of ecstasy on my skin, my river, my entrance a long tunnel leading to the liberty of my heart, the calm of my mind, the expanse of my self, the release of totality, the complete denial of control to the exalted exuberant defiant breath of freedom. I feel utterly and shamefully beautiful. I feel divinely sculpted by the hands of my dominant man, mastered by his artistry. I feel displayed, caught, given over. I could scream out, my voice and breath the only movement allowed or I could close my eyes and drift into the rapture of this torture. I have lost a sense of the room around me as I swing gently in the quiet air, rocking in my rope womb until slowly, like a dance, the hands return to my skin, the claws return to trace my flesh with unhurried precision and the darting tongues and hungry teeth begin once again to lick and taste my burning skin. The song of sighs begins to fill the air as I feel my pussy spread open and my nipples angrily clamped and pinched. Little wheels of spiky painful pleasure run up and down my body, to the soft tender flesh of my inner thigh so close to my clitoris, my lips, my open sex. My nipples are pulled down and stretched between the fingers of one unseen woman. Hands sweep across every part of my body and I feel greatly loved and devoured. And then there is a driving hotness between my legs and I am sucked down into my own pussy as a hard vibrating weapon is thrust into the center of my world, hard into my pleasure fortress, hard and unforgiving, held without reprieve until I am sure I will fall away and disappear from these ropes as I feel that hot rising, the phoenix of orgasm rising inside this cunt, this open sex, this hole, this cavern wishing to suck the world inside of it - to take in whatever is to be thrust inside - this vibrating tool, the hard cock of my man, the fist of the fiery red head, metal objects that spread me further, fingers and tongues – taking into my cunt the world, my sex devouring the world, I am rising and vibrating from inside to my engorged sex, my enflamed pussy, oh god I am rising, I am coming, I am coming.


Part VII: Cat’s Cradle, release

“Don’t come, Lilith,” the man in the chair booms out behind me. I cannot breathe, but I am sucking in air. The wild pussy cats are all around me, all over me at once, darting, pushing, slapping, spreading, kissing, licking – the redhead, the blond, the brunette, the cocoa skinned feline – they are inside of me, I am opened. Fuck you, I want to scream out for the pleasure in my sex is careening off the edge of my resistance, and the weapon between my legs will not relent to relieve me and I fear my will is not strong enough to stop the beautiful wave that is ready to overtake me. Suddenly the beautiful blond pushes my body. She comes close to my face and I take in her sweet scent. She pushes me and I begin to swing about and turn around in my rope cage, then she is gone and the pressure on my clitoris continues and the ravenous cat women eat and open me still. As I spin around the room, I open my eyes for a moment to try to ease the battle raging between my sex – the battle of holding on, protecting the fortress and letting go to spill out the nectar of my gratitude, the destruction of my will. It is a divine and terrible battle, the edge of nothing, the moment the hangs between a beginning and an end, the space that lies between pain and pleasure, confinement and freedom, the exaltation of the edge of bliss, the second before the leap, the silence before the scream. I see Vidad sitting on a leather bench, a terrible instrument of torture he seems to make his throne. His legs are outstretched in front of him, crossed, and he leans back on his elbows with rope slowly twining between his hands. He looks at me with eerie calm and complete satisfaction at his creation and the women in whose care I have been so deliberately left. He smiles at me and nods his head slowly, telling me with his eyes to obey all that befalls me. I look into him until he becomes a blur, a figure of my imagination, the man I conjured up years before who keeps magically reappearing every morning I wake, whose subtle movements in my life command me and meld into my own desires, the dominant whose course is a great and varied surprise everyday. He fades in my blurred vision as I continue to spin and I hold onto the violent uprising in my sex. I spin past the handsome man in the chair whose voice is commanding me again. “Don’t come,” he says. “Don’t come. Ask permission.” As if to make this sweet torment more wicked, I feel fingers pinch the lips of my sex and open me wider and the vibrations increase on my clitoris and something cool slide up into my pussy and hold itself there as a threat or a warning of my obedience. The mistress is a shadow I can no longer see, and then I close my eyes again and I am nothing but heat, nothing but pleasure nearly bursting, nothing but the breath I breathe, nothing but everything, every single molecule of living that I feel. “May I come?” I am forced to say now as the wild torture of my cunt will hold out no longer and the battle is being won and the wall is being torn down and my seams are being torn apart. “May I come, Sir? May I come please?” I beg again for I am desperate. The women press harder into me, with more violence and more love and more of themselves. He speaks again with his liquid deep voice, direct and assured. “Ask Melissa. Ask Melissa if you can come?” Melissa. Who is this? And then the beautiful pale skinned red head with darting lovely wide eyes is in my face and she kisses my lips and she stares hard into me and touches my cheek with an unspeakable tenderness and the stillness of the room envelopes me and I speak into her with a momentary calm. “May I come?” I ask. “May I come?” She smiles, whispers “yes” and disappears. The room spins around me, the women appear like beautiful apparitions behind my eyes until my body breaks apart and my orgasm explodes all around in perfect bliss. And my throat constricts and Vidad is holding my face and I am weeping, weeping into him for such a gift, for such an evil torture and unspeakable release, weeping, screaming, coming, orgasm, wet and endless, weeping for such a life, full and wide and overcome and done - the submissive, the lover, the cats’ play toy.


Part VIII: Home

We drive away from the Mistress’s home with dangerous speed, not for wanting to escape but for a certain fire that seems to burn in us, a particular exhilaration that is beyond the horizon of exhaustion and yet is the insane illusory lunacy of rapture, the edges of which are sharp as blades and as temporal as the suddenness of an orgasm. He looks at me then. I am deeply in reverence and gratitude, fulfillment and humility, pleasure and obedience as I stare into his deep amber eyes. But I also have nothing to give back to him. I cannot elevate past the simplicity of his eyes and when I might design to kneel in front of him and ask to take his sex in my mouth and pleasure him, I feel a resistance to everything, and I wish more then anything to take my swollen and spend body, my throbbing and exposed sex, my red and marked skin, my splayed consciousness and fold myself into the warmth of his chest and sleep as if I am a hot stone. I close my eyes. I think it must be late in the afternoon. The car careens forward. The world passes by. Images from the day, being whipped, tied, forced to bend and expose my sex, roped and suspended, pulled, opened, pinched, commanded, beaten, colors and figures, the women, breasts and bodies bouncing in the unrestraint of such environments, wetness and tightening and ripped at the seams, intruded upon, commanded and taken down and then finally allowed, allowed to be... at that particular moment when I would surely be consumed. As I turn then and watch the line of trees stand sentinel to our passing car, I think of what this all means – as if a moment could ever give true understanding of it, but I try, in my exhausted, exhilarated stare to hold onto one thought. And it is this. It is that this is my balance. In the insanity of it all, this is my balance – however precarious, however dangerous, however at times illusory, however nearly forgotten in the heat of such rampant passions that yield only to words most cannot ever speak; that however forced down I am commanded, I meet the force that is my enforcer, that however spread open I am I yield to the width of my cunt’s allowance, that however long I kneel or stand my stamina matches that which I am called to withstand, that however I submit I fight just the same, however I am beaten I rise up in return, however deeply I am fucked, fucked in my pussy, my ass, my mouth, my dreams, my imagination, my soul, fucked to the sugary release of that woman honey I fuck in return, fuck with all of me. Balance. I suppose this recipe is not of the normal ingredients but it is my balance. I laugh out loud then, looking out the window at the world pass by in serene harmony. He puts a finger to my chin and turns me to face him. I can only smile. “Did you have a good day, Lilith?” He asks. “Yes, yes,” I whisper. “Did you enjoy seeing your Mistress again?” He asks. I like when he interrogates me so gently but it oddly feels like a test I am sure I will fail, as if I am in disguise and he is the only one who can see me and so he asks me for my truth. “And did you take pleasure in the lovely women who accompanied you today?” I pause here – the world seems to fly by faster. “Very much” I say, hoping not betray my thrill with lust. “Now, spread your legs. Yes. Wider.” I obey him. I always will. I show him myself again, sitting on the cold seat of the car and I finally feel unmasked, my truth before him and the car hums and the pulse of my sex repeats again and again in the waning afternoon.


Part IX: The Dream

He sends me to bed early. I am grateful though still wanting his presence, and before I can reach my hand down to my sex for one last illicit pleasure, I succumb to sleep and a dream overtakes me.... Three women lie next to each other their bodies entwined - a leg on a stomach on an arm ass to ass face to face breast against breast lips touching a finger pressed up inside her asshole a tongue searching out a nipple stomach moving against stomach the writhing begins as the bodies of the women commence to dance on an enormous bed floating in space and they are naked and serpentine hands reaching and grabbing pinching and wanting stroking and slapping in a dangerous feminine dance of sexuality. A nipple is sucked hard and wild and then clenched in an angry bite so full of passion, a clitoris is pulled taut, stretched out and it becomes swollen and red between two needing fingers, the asshole is widened almost inhuman as another finger enters and seeks passage deep inside, a pussy is slapped again and again hit with a sharp collision of flesh on flesh and though no woman can see they feel with unrelenting need as if impoverished of their sex so recently and now have been given the feast of each other’s flesh, and they are tied together in the erotic floating bed. White skin, red hair, stained with wet, golden mane, blond cunt, red nails, fire lips, long and dangerous tongue whipping out to eat the flesh of each other’s open sex each pussy more wet and hugely swollen and beautiful and pulsing and near to coming so spread wide and then fingers invading these holes and they move in and out of a pussy an ass a mouth slapping again a wet sex pulling the clitoris out as far it will without tearing until a scream calls mercy to the torment and moans fill the vacuous space around them until one such serpentine woman rises to her knees and it is she whose ass is being opened and she bends over and she screams and the others come to her and more fingers pull her open and force their way deep up her burning asshole and more fingers move up into her cunt until a hand opens up her sex and then another hand opens up her ass and she rocks back and forth to take them into her and she screams because it hurts but she cannot stop the opening of her body so sweet, so good, so free and she rocks harder and reaches behind her and takes the round flesh of her buttocks and pulls them open wider for the hands to go deeper inside of her and she feels a tongue whip against her clitoris, her clitoris hanging down between her legs like a little cock so swollen she imagines it and she screams to her serpent sisters, she growls at them, ‘fuck me, fuck me please, open me, open it all, tear it open, fuck me I beg you.’ These beautiful women caught in the frenzy of their own creation, in the opium den of their pleasure, dizzy and drugged in the spreading of their holes, the taking of their bodies, the consumption of their flesh. Harder and harder she rocks so opened until there is no beginning and no end, no one woman but three completely entwined and sucked into the hot vast sex of each other and there is oneness and their pleasure is whole and the bed floats away into nothingness and the quietness of the dark space finally overtakes them. And then a man enters the bed to witness these splayed and beautiful creatures and he wants to fuck them all, he wants to fuck us all and we spread our legs to him then and we hunger each of us to be the first.


Part X: The Letter

The next morning, upon waking, I find an envelope on my bed. I open it as the early dawn sun makes cautious waves of waking on my dream soaked nakedness. It reads thus:
Dear Lilith,
You are here within my walls and I claim you. You are beautiful and wicked and the truth of submission. You are here within me and I am honored to claim you and dominate your soul. But I cannot claim you without your equal and fervent desire to be wholly taken and possessed. Now it is your choice. You will spend the day alone. At eight o'clock this evening you will be driven to Lady Bisset’s house to attend a dinner in honor of your claiming. Following shall be your final test. It will be long and arduous, the outcome of which will complete this chapter of your life, our life, and begin the next. Your attire for the evening is in your armoire. I do not need to tell you the care with which you will wash and adorn yourself for I know the pleasure and importance you always put upon it. Knock thrice on Lady Bisset’s door. I will not see you until then.
Vidad

I feel as if I have arrived - somewhere on the heathen’s path, somewhere in this ever evolving tale of the dark and sensual and mysterious. The duality of this journey is richly surprising – to feel myself powerful and painfully vulnerable; held down and bound then wildly free; forcing the reigns of my own magnificent chariot to drive this dream forward and then being led on the long heavy chain of my submission to him. My sex is still pulsing from the days past and it begs me to touch it – like an animal uncaged, untethered, escaped. My heart is full to bursting. My soul is raging open like the inferno. My skin is welted and marked and hot to the touch. But I lie back into my bed and take in the room that has become my own. This room, sumptuous and feminine, that I sleep in; the room where he visits me when he desires to take my body; the room that is my divine prison. I wonder what is in the armoire. I think on how I will bathe myself. I think I will touch myself just a little, touch my cunt deep inside, that I should arrive tonight with my pussy wet and swollen. I wonder who will be at the dinner, and then I do not care. I am going to he who claims me. That is enough. I dream awake. The sun passes over my bed, over the thick blankets, until my guilty lazy dreaming is interrupted by the sharp ends of panic. Claimed. A test. My obedience. My choice. I rise quickly to begin preparing. I rise up lighter then I have ever been.


Part XI: Lady Bisset’s Door

I walk the cool streets. Dark thoughts pinion my heart. The letter burns in my hand. Night encloses me. I imagine a stranger will leap from the shadowy corners and push me against the stone walls that border and darken the alleyways. He will be cloaked and hooded. His breath will smell sweet and fine, the taste of fecund fruit still wet on his lips. He will be breathless as if caught up in the mistake of the moment but unable to stop. These are my imaginings when a man escapes out into the alley moments after I walk by the clawed iron door. I turn the captive and in his eyes, from their depth, a haunting lays wait in his dark story. Then with violence, he pulls my body into his and against my resistance. I remember the fear that pulsed like an angry desire around me. But the sweetness of his breath held me in suspension, held me to his captivity, and I will never know why I let go into his embrace as his brutal capture warmed into the carnal awakening of man and woman. He pulls my head back to bare my neck, winds his fingers through my hair and commands my eyes into his. He stares into me, breathes into me and draws his hand down my body, to my breasts, to my belly, to my sex. I lay open to him. If I catch my breath he will disappear. I swallow down my swollen need and wrap myself around him. This man. This invisible moment. This torrent of wills.
“Is it you, Lilith?”
“Yes,” I say, as quiet and delicate as my body allows. He is like a tower over me – dark and foreboding. His skin is hard and rough, but wickedly sweet – the deep intoxication of his man, his sweat, his temptation.
“Why did you not attend the dinner? Why, when you were commanded to do so?”
Here I falter. Did I ask for this resistance? Did I hope only for this moment?
“I was unable.” It is a weak answer and will never be enough. That if the light were stronger, if the air were not vapor in the cloak of night, he would have seen the lie in my eyes as surely as he knows my betrayal in the dark. Though each step I had taken through the unfolding of the evening – the letter, the instructions, the commitment, the dressing, the thought of the guests of privilege lined up in a hedonist’s parade – seemed perfectly reasonable. But it had been too much. I did not truly believe it would happen. It was a dream of transparency. Even as I had adorned myself in the beautiful beaded corset and the woven silk stockings of imprisonment, even as I had wanted to breathe the scents of my presenting, led in before the approving eyes of his entourage, when the moment arose in fury, I could never open the door. At the appointed hour, when my entrance was commanded, I stood frozen in the apocalyptic gesture of hand raised to the iron knocker, breath held, eyes closed – the stillness of the night suffocating me as the weight of their presence, all of them, dressed and painted with eyes like hungry animals ready to take me, my resolve, my obedience melted from my skin, off my body and into the mysterious unknown of free will. He had trusted me to be there. To raise my hand and pound three times the iron ring, to be led willingly into the candle lined hallway of the house of Lady Bisset. I almost laughed aloud then. Instead, I committed myself to being a statue, frozen in midair, hand on the iron ring until the cold air of night lifted my coat and pinched my bare flesh with reality. It had been hours. I did not flee, but waited for him to fill the open doorway and roar his astonishment and violence into my skin. But I know he dined with quiet patience, nodding steadily with the unspoken truth of my absence. He would of course be even wittier, finer in his gestures, more gracious to his lovely and alluring host. He would have had concern in front of the guests and they of course would quietly echo concern… for she was so willing, so prepared, such a jewel… what a possession, what a night this was to be. I recoil at the thought. Can I rewind the clock? But would I have gone still? For here I am in his arms. He wants to take me. He turns me around and opens my coat to the cold bricks of the wall. He pulls it from my shoulders and down my arms to viciously throw it to the ground – this coat, this hiding, this mask thrown down and laid waste. My back is pressed to his body as he holds me on the tenuous bridge of a tender embrace and the back lit violation of suppressed anger – a subterfuge of the missive. What will win out? The night is still to aching and the cold whips my bare arms, my naked breasts, my stocking-ed legs. He pulls my arms tight behind me as a groan seethes from him chest. He whips my head back, hand on my throat, one arm pushed through the arc of my elbows pulling me in until my back is arched and my pelvis is thrust hard to the wall. He lifts his knee into the crevice of my ass and pushes me harder forward while arching my back, my head into him. I feel distorted. I am immobile. He pulls on my arms – small pulses of control – his control, his power. Breath comes sharp in my chest and tiny sounds of fearful pleasure escape my lips though I tighten them in feigned defiance, feigned bravery, willfully maintaining what little composure is left in me. He holds me here for an eternal silence. Again he pulls my arms and presses against the small of my back. Silence invades. I fear to make a sound and only his hoarse rhythmic enraged breath keeps the mantra of my silence. My body aches and I wish to cry. How long will he hold me, so bent, so open, so vulnerable. And then slowly he lowers his knee, slowly releases my arms, slowly, so painfully slowly unwinds my hair from his fingers and uprights my head. My legs straighten, my pelvis curves in again denying the wall’s forced kiss and the night air passes again between me and my warden wall. An easing of tension touches me. I turn slightly to see behind me. To see the man who presses against me but does not hold me. I turn a moment more. I see his dark amber eyes - so still, so hard baring into me. His skin glows. He is radiant.
“Face the wall.”
I was foolish to turn to him, but I cannot look away just yet. He has me caught. His arms are at his sides as are mine but the heat of our bodies entwine in the restless struggle of the moment.
“Face the wall. Now”
I turn to the wall. The dark space of unknown.
“Reach your hands above your head and onto the wall.”
I rise up, my arms reaching to the night sky as if in victory, a brief moment of self sacrifice yielding this second of freedom. My arms reach high and I stretch my fingertips to the sky.
“Enough,” he howls and the violence shakes my world. He strangles my wrists in the power of his grip and slams my hands onto the wall with a sting that whips through my body. I cry out into the muted night as the weight of his body crashes into me until I can hardly find my breath. The wall is no sanctuary as my body hits its unyielding surface.
He speaks low and hoarse into my ear.
“Keep your hands on the wall, your hands high and on the wall. Do not move, my pretty defiant one. Do not make a sound, you wicked slave. Hardly breathe. This is not a game. You are alone here. You are mine. I can love you or take you to the ground. I can calm this childish defiance with kind understanding or tear your skin and force your opening. It is my choice. Your choice is gone. There is no room to hide in. There is no more assuredness of your truth, of your word for it means nothing. I can have done with you here. When I pull away from you, you will not move from this wall. You are slave to it. You are slave to me.” I wait then. I wait for what will come.


Part XII: Defiance

My hands are reaching high above me, my body pressed into the cold wall. I can feel his warm angry breath on the back of my neck. I have never known fear. I have known danger. I have swum in the waters of unknown. I have played out the mysteries of these passions as if they were games for there seemed to always be an outcome, a safe haven, a blissful state of exhaustion from the pain of his whip. But now I know the seeds of fear, the truth of danger and the pain of unknown. I wish desperately to step back in time. I wish to cry out, to kneel at his feet. I am the betrayer. I defied the letter’s command, his command when it was destined I would not, it was destined I would come to him tonight. His rightness flows through me and yet I wish to hate him for as he pulls away from my body, pulls into the night, I do not move. I hardly breathe though I wish to weep, to weep into the pungent bricks pressing against my breasts, pressing against my face. Above me my hands hold onto this painful refuge. I feel him close. Heat stings my body even in the cold night and I see nothing but black behind my eyes and the breathless aching fear of his power.
“Now open your legs wider and arch your back. Slowly. Slightly. Raise your pretty ass up. More. Up on your toes. Higher. Head down.”
I cannot hold my tears, but I stand and position as he commands. I feel like an imposter, and yet the true barer of this moment, for my costume no longer fits the instance. The delicate jewels and fine brocade of my corset, deep red and purple encircling the lines of the boning like vines, like rope – bound around me like the hands of a magical creature capturing my waist, pulling me in, defining me. The fine silk caressing my legs, the pathway to my high forbidding shoes, my secret pride. The simple leather band around my neck, the small insignia pressed into the leather like a tattoo, invisible but to my fingers and my knowing. My breasts exposed and powdered, my nipples delicately painted. And so I bend as directed, this wayward slave, this wicked girl, the prideful defiant. As if to echo my thoughts, he slides his hand suddenly against my thigh, fingers under the thin strap of my tiny jeweled panties and in one quick pull, he angrily rips them from my body. I am exposed. His hand is on the small of my back pressing gently, directing my back to arch and my ass to rise. His hand pushes against my inner thigh and again so gently presses my leg out wider. I strain to hold my arms high, my toes raised, my back arched, my buttocks upward, my legs spread. I strain to hold in my breath, the cry that wishes its freedom. The night enfolds my sex.
“Open yourself to me. Open your sex to me.”
He fingers the flesh between my legs, pulls down on the skin of my clitoris and slides his fingers to my opening. He stops and holds himself, his hand in stillness. I feel my sex pulse. Then his fingers pull me open. Slowly, he pulls me open wider.
“Do not make a sound.”
Wider, he opens me. One hand, two fingers, commanding my sex to yield. He presses harder into me straining my flesh, my sex, this wanton tool until I feel the angry sensation of my seams being pulled apart, my sex opening out until it is a river of need like the rain of nature’s wild torture, up through my body, to the breath of my swollen lips. And then I am released. My skin burns, but I hold my position. My legs shake, but I do not move, my soul weeps but silence is my guide.
“I am going to open your ass.”
“No” I whisper
“Do not speak. You have lost this luxury. You have lost yourself tonight. I come to seek you, to see if you can be found. Your flesh is mine to take.”
His two hands round the skin of my buttocks, cradling me with an anchored tenderness that I fear will give way too soon. And so it does as he spreads me apart. Shakes my flesh with his hands, lifts my ass and widens my flesh.
“Please.” I weep
“Silence. Open your ass.”
“No”
But I am caught. He has me. He spreads my sex, my ass with a hardness unknown before, a force that I do not recognize. He pulls me open wide with his hands to expose me. I stand revealed. He does not move but holds me open, this statue I have become, forced in this exposure, my sex and my ass wide and held open in stillness. The night looking into my body until I think I will collapse. For whom does he show me? For whom does he expose me like this? For whom does he show my defiance?


Part XIII: The Eternal Door

He holds my ass open. “I can keep you here for a very long time. This is your punishment or your redemption. Now, open yourself for me. Take your hands from the wall. Keep your back arched, your legs wide. Put your hands on mine.”
I do as he says and balance my face and chest against the wall as I lower my hands, reach behind me and cover his hands with mine.
“Feel your sex.”
I obey and reach down to this opening, this vessel, this wet flesh that is mine. He pulls me harder now, and I ride on the edges of a slow pain. His strength frightens me as he commands me to feel the opening of my flesh, the opening of my loins, the opening of my woman, the opening of my soul.
“Now, when I take my hands away you will hold yourself open for me.”
“Yes” And I do.
“Open these disobedient holes of your woman. Show me your insides.”
He walks away behind me as I hold myself wide to him. I pull my flesh out, my buttocks hard until I feel the stinging hurt that he has left on my spreading sex. I am the river through which this submission flows. I am the woman on the floor of the stony cave with no words but my grunting forgiveness, no learned postures of societal perfection, societal walls and entrapments, no sense but that which opens my sex, no feelings but that which swells my carnal pleasure, for it is not my mouth he spreads to silence my words, it is not my hands he binds to halt my selfish struggle, my resistance he knows will give me pleasure, it is not my eyes he blinds to quiet my mind and focus the pointed pain, it is not the whip he wields to punish and to love my flesh and raise me higher, it is not the cane he strikes upon my flanks and up onto the delicate swells of my sex, it is not the orgasm he withholds. It is this. That I should stand so prone, the vast cavern of my soul open in the red flesh he beholds; that I should take my own ass, my own skin, my own woman vessel and spread it out to his willing; that I should spread my pussy, my holes, my ass, my clitoris, my lips swollen and wet forced open, flayed open by my own hands, my own obedience, my own that he commands for the night to witness, his bidding to take, his forbearance to garner, his hand to strike, his power to woo the last of my liquid-self open this vulnerable chasm that is my wet and wanting, unfastened misbehaved ill-disciplined wayward cunt. For all this I lift my ass higher, I arch my back deeper, I raise my toes within my stiletto-ed heels to the full length of my widening legs and in silence I beg him to take me in, to take me down, to force his way, to show me, to please find me, to release me, to forgive me.
His voice is low and deliberate, slow and seething.
“You bare yourself to me. You stand and expose this sex of yours to me. You brave each moment not knowing if I should strike you. And yet you have failed to keep your word. Do you think this magic that has laid itself before us, you and me exists alone? How easily you obey me. How quickly your fear has passed. I see you losing yourself in this fine torture. I see you raise yourself. No, don’t move. Keep your hands on your ass and spread yourself. Now. Wider. Wider for me. And you will stand in this position exposed until I beat you.”
His words strike me. I am sinking again and yet I withstand the tidal flow.
“But first you will answer me. I bade you farewell with the knowledge of your true submission to me. That before me had knelt this brave soul of beauty, now beset to emerge from our sheltered rooms, now to test this impenetrable world of our creation, to step out outside, to match and make stronger our own inside. Tell me, as you are spread here. As you are mine here. Tell me with a word. Only one word do I allow you to utter. Tell me.”
I breathe out. I know this is the only chance that will become me here. I know the realness of my submission to him. It is palpable and the air is lofty.
“Overcome.” I whisper.
And in one quick movement that cuts the silence of the air, his hand strikes down on my open flesh. I scream in shock. Again he strikes me. My hands lose their grasp on my sex and I fall to the ground spun around, body twisted to face him. He takes my arm and lifts me to him, and heaves into me with violent love. He lifts me into his arms then. He holds me tightly, tightly like a magnificent animal. I close my eyes into his shoulder and taste the scent of him. I slowly look up into his burning eyes and I wish to hold his fire stare, but the reflection of our bodies in a window compels me to turn, for there is movement beside the flowing curtains pulled apart now. He shakes me and takes me in as if to never let me go. I look from his eyes to the soft reflection in the long narrow window next to the heavy door, the door whose entrance laid forbidden to me hours before. I see the glow of a figure standing proudly between the open fabric. I see the curve of her hips then, the tightly corset-ed waist, the white of her pearls and the slow fire glint of pleasure in her luminous eyes. Lady Bisset stares down at me like a mirage. And now I know for whom I have shown myself. Now I know for whom I have laid bare. Now I know for what pleasure he devised my exposure. I want to crawl into him or to run and free myself from a torture I cannot resist. And like the summoning of the ghosts whose vaporous venom I seek to drink, I do not speak or struggle as he turns toward the door and holds me to his sacrifice. We stand before this entrance. The doorway. This crossing whose threshold will be the making of me for which I will never be the same. And then like the dawn that breaks the barrier of night, I reach my hand to the iron knocker, take its cold skin in my fist and with cries to match this ardent call to surrender, do I raise this heavy iron circle and lay it thrice down upon the sounding with the force of my will, the rapture of my captivity, the fury of this surrender.


Part XIV: The Inside

Darkness swallows me as I pass over the threshold of Lady Bisset’s eerie mansion. The air is musty and the stone walls are lit by dancing firelight. Vidad, in all his fury, has disappeared now inside the hallway and as the door slams shut behind me, I begin to walk the endless darkness passing closed doors and iron scones. I have arrived in some faraway castle, some faraway dungeon. There are no joyous guests to greet me now, there are no submissives to catch my eye and take me in, there is no dominant, some stranger, who would nod to Vidad for assurance, then bend me over to strike my flesh, there is no announcement for my entrance, no candlelight to illuminate my body. No, the hallway is quiet and seemingly empty and stretching out forever before me into nothingness. I walk slowly as if some silent command was whispered on the chill air surrounding me. Then, as if a ghost, a waif like figure appears next me, barely visible in the black cold of this stone chute, and gently touches my elbow to guide me on. It is a woman and she walks slightly behind my step but matches my slow rhythm all the while pressing me forward. To my right and left are large wooden doors with heavy iron handles much like the one in the front of the house that bade my entrance. It is so dark I can but see two steps in front of me, but there seems to be a dim light far up ahead. I walk in silence. I feel my sex pulsing and alive as I march forward. My skin is burning where my ass was pulled apart – exposed for them to see. The flesh of my thighs and my buttocks still stings from yesterday’s whipping, from the rope, from his belt pulled off in haste and laid hard upon my upturned ass, from so many hands pinching and spreading and slapping my body in hungry need, from my own inner desire boiling up an endless fire within me, that endless river. The slow movement feels good. I am walking into darkness. How many understand that darkness as light, this pain as release, this binding as freedom, this submission that which a woman must do and if done fully is the most powerful force that will sweep through her feminine mystique – that she who stands next to her feminine, in the embrace of her feminine sexuality is the truest and most radiant opposite force of his masculine, his dominance and so completes that whole. I feel fully open, fully my woman, fully present. I realize I am far from what one might consider a good and obedient submissive. I realize I test those around me with the constancy of my will, my own insatiable hungers, my own need for the magnificent, my screams to please please take me, take me down, make the voice, however much I cherish it, stop and yield to the great wonder of nothing so to emerge again with clarity, simplicity and liberty from the constraints of the complex – oh, to only do it again, for the cycle continues. But as I walk, I know I am here precisely for being claimed by he who can wrangle my wild spirit, that in the end, at the end of this long hallway, like life, I shall meet the equal force to my will and I will give him nothing less than all of me. I am inside now. Inside these walls, inside my soul, inside this weighted moment. I step forward again and again down the hallway, into the black cold, my breath light and quick. I smile just then, from deep inside, as the small light before me draws near.


Part XV: The First Room, hour one

The hallway ends abruptly and I am face to face with a wall in front of me and doors on either side. I want to throw them both open, but I wait. Then I feel slow fingers begin to trace the lines of my corset. It is the woman who followed me. She breathes soft warm breath on my shoulder as she begins to untie me, to unwind me until the corset falls into her hands and the blood rushes through my body. I catch my balance and breathe in deep. Her hands then slide down my legs slowly pulling off my stockings. She lifts my feet and pulls both the stockings and shoes from my body. I am naked, but for the simple leather band around my neck. I look to my shoes. I wish to put them back on, but then I am shamed by the thought. I will stand naked now, and I will release the adornments that cover my flesh and symbolizes a story far greater then the stitching of their making. I will be naked. She turns me then to face the door on my right and then, as silently as she had appeared behind me, she is gone. I push against the door and it gives without resistance. If the darkness swallowed me in the hallway, brilliant light consumes now. I enter a room where a thousand candles flicker in yellow madness. A thousand candelabras adorn the wood floor, the red walls, the beamed ceiling. I am blinded by the luminous yellow and the radiant dancing shapes writhing like fire gods upon the walls. I take in the heat, the glow, the flickering tongues licking my naked body. Then his voice calls out from the fiery glow, “Crawl to me, Lilith.” I cannot see him yet for the space between us, this fire cauldron is a bridge that will yet reveal his presence. I kneel first on my knees, then slowly fall to my hands. I feel my breasts pull down with gravity and the heat touch the opening of my sex as I begin my slow crawl through the maze of candles toward his voice. “Stop,” he calls out. “Stand,” his voice reverberates and the candles flicker in defiance. I stand now with all the candles surrounding me. I have come upon a small oasis amongst the fire soldiers. He then emerges from the golden blaze himself and walks with grace amongst the candles until he is face to face with me. He looks into my eyes, and I raise my head to look into him. His eyes do not leave mine as I feel his hand spread my sex apart. With his other hand, he clamps my clitoris. It is a startling pinch and then the pain settles into the warmth of constraint. His eyes bear into me and I reflect back to him, never leaving him, never leaving his eyes. His hand finds my breast, pulls my flesh, then to my nipple pulling out the tender swollen skin until I am erect. He clamps me here too and then my other nipple. I feel the sharp pain and the release as the heat of the clamps fill my body. I hear chain winding through his fingers, but he never looks away from me. I feel him hook one end of the chain to the ring clamp on my clitoris. He pulls gently and the rattle of the chain vibrates from my sex up through my stomach to my throat where my breath exhales is pleasure. He pulls the chain through slowly and deliberately. The chain splits at my belly and the two ends hook to the nipple clamps. He pulls again on the chain now and each of those tender parts of my sex strain with pleasure and pain. My clitoris is pulled out from the lips of my sex, straining outward and swelling; my nipples, clamped and distorted in this metal grip, tear out of my body pulled to an invisible source in front of me, and I slowly take in the divine moment of capture. A small ring lay on my belly where the chain splits. This is what he takes in his finger to pull me forward, as if the center of my body, the core of me is being extracted and wound out of me and lead to my fate, my sex straining, my body alive with the heat of fire and the heat of release, my mind focused on the amber hue of his eyes. He leads me then on a walk through the candle forest, a maze he seems to have mastered. I guard my steps, but then let go and begin to dance this waltz of submission, delicately stepping over candles, between them, gently gliding forward on my leash. He pulls harder on the chain at times and I seem to follow my own sex. I think we will dance like this forever, lead through this wonderland of beauty with the darkness waiting outside and his gentle command taking me further. We stop then somewhere in the middle of the fire ring. I can only imagine it is the middle for the edges are invisible and lost in the sea of flame. “Spread you legs now, Lilith,” he says with gentle calm. “Up on your toes.” I rise at his command. “Arch your back and show me your breasts.” I rise higher and form my body to his wish. I rise even higher and stand like a flame amidst the growing hot of the candles. I remain on my toes, my body erect and waiting, until I hear the rhythmic clicks of chain being lowered from the ceiling. I don’t look up but instead hold my position with my eyes forward and wait until a heavy iron chain dangles in front of me. A large ring swings from the end. “Hold the ring, Lilith.” I reach for its cold circle and hold on tight with both hands as it slowly begins to rise lifting my arms above me until I am stretched out, pulled up as high as I can, riding just enough on my toes to keep my balance, before the chain halts. I swing slightly not knowing whether to let myself be lifted up or to stretch so long that I can support my body on my toes. I hang in limbo and suddenly the effort seems unbearable and my clitoris begins to pulse in its clamp and my nipples to throb with the rhythm of my heartbeat and the heat from a thousand flames seem to taunt me with agonizing heat. He then pulls the chain at my belly, pulls my aching flesh out as I swing in the hot air, pulls the chain toward him as he stands in front of me and looks into me and breaks into my soul like a thief. No, I think, I am here. I have given him the key to this body. It is his. He does not need to break in. He is no thief, and yet with each moment that I hang, with each moment the pain rises from the wet slit of my cunt, with each moment my body stretches out in this torturous balance, with each slow passing moment in this room of illusion, this room of beauty slowly becoming my tormentor, the candles no longer fire gods but angry tongues to lash at me with the sting of their fire whips, with each moment his eyes do not leave mine and his silence commands my obedience, do I feel him breaking into me, breaking into my soul and with each moment passing as I stare deeper into him, back into him, to his soul do I realize no lock, no chains, no barricades, no defense, no weapon could keep him from going into me. And then everything slows and is diffused and the instant of suffering opens up to a silent still moment of being and the pain and the heat sweep through me like liquid and he enters in and I am his. “There you are.” He says. He touches my face then, breathes close to me and speaks. “Lilith, this is the last you will see of me for a while, but never forget my eyes on you.” And then he disappears into the foggy haze of fire. I do not move, but listen to my steady breath. I imagine I will not be alone for long and so I wait with my fire gods, hanging from an iron ring, waiting and being and writhing somewhere deep inside.


Part XVI: The First Room, hour two

They enter one by one, like a demon parade, the pageantry of which stills my breath. I hold the ring above my head, balanced on my toes, naked but for the wetness between my legs and the wetness on my skin from the heat of the candles. They walk into the room, through an invisible pathway between the candelabras. They encircle me. I strain to keep my body still, my back arched, my eyes forward, my breasts high, my legs spread as wide as will allow as I balance on the tips of my toes. I think I hear a low drum beating out a slow rhythm. I do not know if it is real or the sound of blood rushing through my veins carrying on its viscous river the echo of my beating heart. Woman enters, tall and thin, adorned in the slippery black of rubber. It is this slick glistening skin that reveals the dangerous lines of her body, her hips, her ass, her full breasts. I feel intrusive looking at her – so tightly encased in her rubber skin I think she is naked and somehow indecent. She is masked. She walks with the unmistakable grace of Lady Bisset, and still I cannot be certain for it is only her eyes I can see and the red of her lips. Man enters, wide shouldered and commanding, long black cape trailing behind his powerful stride, skimming the flickering candles with a perilous kiss. He is elegant, long legs adorned in leather, heavy boots, the red of a silk shirt through his cape, a leather mask covering half his face revealing only an unknown jaw line to my guessing, a crop in his hand cutting through the air as he advances toward me, almost on me, even looks at me and then moves behind me, somewhere. He owns the air for a moment and I nearly fall to my knees by his presence, that sweet scent of man’s dominance permeating the room and reeling my focus. Another man enters, imposing and slow in his arrival into this kingdom of candles. He wears a thick leather corset, a beautiful brocade shirt and leather gauntlets bound with iron clasps and black silk rope, a warrior he appears to me, come out of the fire from another time. A flogger swings at his side and in his other hand he toys with a large egg-shaped metal object. He slows near me and studies me. He smiles and it is awful and beautiful. I wonder what he will ask of me. Then he pulls on the chain that clamps my nipples and pussy. He pulls harder and the pain awakens me and his eyes turn to wicked darkness. He pulls at my nipples again, then reaches down to the clamp on my clitoris and he shakes the chain with violence and I release a startled moan. “Quiet.” His voice is deep and resonates inside me, stilling my body once again. He pulls at my sex and though he too is masked, I can see the sadistic pleasure in his squinting eyes as he plays me with pain and yet commands my silent song. He slaps my sex then, just once, hard and direct and vicious. I can see he wishes me to scream, but I do not. I breathe in deep and hold myself on my toes to let the pain seep through my body like a glorious washing. I see he will be dangerous to me and yet he too exudes that weighty masculine that makes me feel alive and desperate to give myself, my entire woman, to him. Suddenly he gives a quick sharp whistle, startling the air. He turns his head from me and there, walking delicately, cautiously and purposefully, are two lovely women, wearing large jeweled masks over their faces and feathers in their flowing hair. They each wear a gold waist corset, breasts bare, sex bare, legs elegantly adorned in lace stockings, feet beautifully and painfully encased in high black stiletto heals. They are lovely submissive twins. They come to this masked gentleman in his leather corset and he steps back to allow them to come close to me. They delicately check my nipples, rub lightly on my sex, pull apart my pussy as if secretly searching for something lost, wipe my forehead with soft fingers, pinch my arms, my fingers, my toes and trace my entire body with their hands, checking, searching, strangely loving me. I feel grateful for their presence as I take in their touch and the sweet scent of their feminine, soft and graceful and willing. Satisfied, they step away and look to their keeper, and then all three of them step away and melt into the circle around me. Another woman enters. She wears a long elegant dress clinging to her body like a desperate lover. It is a sheer silk, a diaphanous curtain, revealing for moments the curves of her body, the sway of her breasts, the grace of her stride and the soft forbidden fruit of her sex. Her mask is red and small, covering only her eyes so as to reveal the high elegant planes of her cheekbones and the strong line of her jaw. She walks with ease and confidence knowing her rightful place amongst her marauders. She carries rope in her hands, coils of red hemp rope, draped on her arms, so beautifully held that it seems part of her attire, part of her dressing, part of her being. She stands in front of me. Long blond hair catches in the ties of her mask and she is strangely familiar to me. The scent of her rope is intoxicating to me and for a moment I can feel myself suspended and bound and captured in her web. She seems to be considering me, designing something in her head. She smiles, not in friendly confidence, but rather almost as a loving warning. Then she steps away and completes the circle around me. I feel each one of them, but I look forward. Behind me stands the tall elegant man with his long cape and leather crop. On his left, to my side, is the beautiful large breasted, latex adorned woman; and on his right, to my side, is the dangerous man in his corset swinging his flogger with sadistic pleasure. I sense the two submissives waiting at his side. And in front of me, this beautiful blond apparition waits to spin her web of rope. The sound of the drum, or the beat of my heart, grows louder filling the room as my captors begin to call out commands. Each speaks with slow commanding precision. I try to move with grace into each new position and as they speak out faster, I lose myself in this dance of presentation. “Lower your arms.” “Arch your back.” “Turn slowly now, slowly turn around.” “Arms up, breasts forward.” “Bend over, lower.” “Spread you legs, bend over, now. Lower. Spread your legs.” “Show yourself.” “Spread you sex.” “Wider.” “Up. Stand up.” “Head up.” “Stand straight. Ass out.” On and on the commands pour out, on and on I move and shape my body and open myself to their commands. On and on I position, prance, hold still, open, arch, bend, turn, spread, kneel and stand. On and on until the room spins and I am dizzy. “Stop.” It is his voice, the deep resonance of the violent one. He comes to me, puts his hand on the back of my neck and with slow pressure bends me over. With his boot he pushes my feet out wider. I feel rope then tying my hands behind my back. She ties quickly winding rope around my wrists and up my forearms. Then they back away and I am wet and exhausted, bent over, hands tied behind me, legs spread, wetness seeping from my every pour. He speaks again. “Now, Lilith, open your ass.” I don’t know what he means, but I arch my back in this bent position and spread my legs wider and rise on my toes and open myself to them, open my sex to them. “No, Lilith. Open up your ass. Now.” I don’t know what he means. Panic is settling itself into my bones. I do not know how to open myself. I wish to reach down and spread my ass for him, to show him my insides, to promise him my body is for them, that I will take the very most intimate part of myself and lay it open for them to take, but my hands are bound behind me. So I will myself to open. I strain to be open and beautiful and submissive. I feel the heat, the air in the room, their very breathing touching my pussy, my ass, my skin, every part of me that should be protected and yet now lays out for them to touch. The room is disappearing, fading away. His voice is louder now and intensely direct as he commands me. “Can you not open up your asshole to us? Is it so difficult, Lilith, to open yourself?” Oh god, what is he saying? “Open it.” I feel embarrassed like a naughty child not a woman. I want to cry suddenly, to scream, to be angry or to give up. I feel shameful and utterly naked and curious as to why I am prone and bent over like this. “Lilith.” His voice is torturous to me now. But I have felt so beautiful. So right, so perfect in holding my positions, in never giving in to my pain or exhaustion, so proud here on my own private stage, lit by all these lovely dancing candles, my audience so finely dressed for me, to watch me show myself, oh god, my dance. Now, I see it. Who was I dancing for? I want to weep for all he wishes of me is to open my most vulnerable part, that for which I might try to hide, that part of myself that is wicked and forbidden and full of the deep dangerous pleasure of truly letting go, truly giving of body, truly crawling on the primal floor of submitting. “Open up your ass to us now. Let us see you open. Immediately.” Why is he saying this to me? What does he want? I cannot hold it back and so I whisper, tears now falling from my eyes onto the wood floor, “I can’t.” I think he will thunder down on me with his whip, but silence stills the air. Then they all come close to me and encircle me. I do not move. I feel two smooth latex covered hands cover my buttocks and pull me apart, spreading me open as I could not. I feel a hand quickly unclamp my clitoris sending a river of shock through my body that makes me gasp. I feel fingers explore the inside of my cunt and then spread my lips open. And then his finger is in my ass. “Close down on me.” I do. I close the muscles of my ass onto his finger, hard and angry. “Good. Now open your ass.” I release and let my body open and with that he removes his finger and suddenly I feel my ass being spread apart and opened by the large iron egg he had held in his hand. Deeper he pushes it into me until the widening of my ass is the opening of my soul. Deeper he pushes this iron cock into my ass until it will go no further and my body holds it in. I breathe deep taking this into me. “Now, you will learn to open yourself.” And then they back away from me again. My weeping is now my release. “Stand.” I stand with slow resolve and a reverence for this moment, this opening of my body, this room, this challenge, my place and the vibrant masked tribe that has taken me a willing prisoner. “Now, Lilith, we can begin.”


Part XVII: The First Room, hour three

I stand encircled, naked, the heavy metal piece deep inside my ass. The elegantly dressed man, hidden behind his leather mask, steps forward. He quickly bends me over, pulls his crop from inside his long cape and with precision strikes my naked skin. He holds me in commanding tenderness, my head captured in the crook of his arm, and from this position, he wields his weapon upon me. It feels warm and sweeping as the exacting strikes sting me. The song of the crop hums through the air as he beats me. Then just as quickly he rights me, his hand holding my buttocks as if to test the warmth. His eyes are the color of gold and his breath is sweet. He looks at me and again, just as the moment he walked into the room, I feel the desire to kneel before him, to give him my woman, to embrace his very heavy calm in the rapture of his dominance. He smiles and speaks with melodious richness, ”And when we meet again, you will be on your knees. With me you will embrace your poetry, your beauty in the vast conquest of your dreams. I will dominate you in this way.” And then he turns and walks away, gone through the firelight. The glistening latex goddess comes to me then. She runs her wet silken hands over my skin, sliding like a mythical snake over my desert skin, my breasts, my stomach, my hips and down my legs. She presses her rubber snakeskin, oily and smooth, into me. I hold myself still, taking in the pressure of her body and weight of her breasts against me. I do not know whether to stand still or to wrap my arms around her and lose myself in the soft slick wonder of her curves. But she holds my arms then, tight and close to my body, leaning into me and breathing me in, like a black monster serpent. In my ear she whispers, “I am going to slide into your cunt. I am your sexuality. I am the dark carnal desire of your feminine to be released, to be tamed. I own your sex. I am your pussy, your wet cunt. It is mine.” And with that I feel her finger enter my sex. Another finger. She opens inside me, presses against the hard metal in my ass, in and out she slides her fingers, her slick obsidian serpent claws in and out of my pussy and I know I am hers. She slides her fingers out of me and suddenly into my mouth. I taste my own wetness on her rubber hands, and she is alien and ancient all at once and I am lost and in love with her all at once. Through her mask, her dark eyes look into mine, and then she turns and disappears. In the blink of a moment, before I can catch my breath, the beautiful blond comes close to me, twining her rope in her hands like the web keeper. She takes the rope and lays it between my legs, moves the rope back and forth so it heats up against my sex. She quickly designs a harness that goes from my shoulders down around my pussy, up my back and over my shoulders again. Two strands of rope envelope my sex and she carefully arranges the rope so my pussy is held open, and the metal purveyor in my ass is captured. This asserts enough pressure to make standing erect just painful and uncomfortable enough to be unforgettable. “Stand strait, now. A woman does not slouch.” I stand tall with my breasts forward, and I feel the sharp tension of the rope against my sex, the pull of rope against my ass and weight of pressure against my shoulders. She looks at me with her beauty, and I am honored to wear her rope harness. She speaks with directness and the honey song of feminine confidence. “I am your mirror, Lilith. I am your female in all its fury and wild cries and passions and unruly temptations. I am your female in all its softness and wet fecund openness. Your test with me is not of endurance or yielding or in the ultimate giving of your self but in the measure of each. I shall be witness and bring forth the waves of fiery calm that is the core of you. That I should bring that forth and balance the treacherous waters you will soon sail. You are caught and I have caught you.” Oh, I want to hold her, to gaze into the deep factious reflections of her mirror to me, that ever raging battle of light and dark, feminine and masculine, calm and wild primeval reservoir of woman, to will the embattled victory of the divine woman. I suddenly wish to live up to every fractal of her perfect feminine picture, and I know then that in the end it is this mirror of feminine that will always be my salvation, my island of strength, my submissive fortitude. But, of course, she is in my blood, and I cannot hold onto her yet. She too fades away into the yellow mirage of this mythic tableau. But one awaits. Who will he be? Is he a centaur? Will I hope he is Chiron then, the only gentle and cultured of his kind? Is he a minotaur as I imagine now coming to me as part man and part bull, and I trapped in the labyrinth of his ultimate desire, these fine mythic figures before merely here to calm me, to relax me, to be my illusions so that I should lay vulnerable to his bestial hungers, lay prey to his ferocious appetites? Or is he a great warrior, come to enslave me and take me as his possession? Is he my assassin, the assassin of my former self? I do not know, but he of all my captors excites and frightens me. He stands before me now in full regalia. The flogger held in his hand, his awful stance both menacing and taunting. He that has so violently opened my ass and brought me to utter humility and want, he who stands now before me huffing from his nostrils like the angry bull and I the red flag of my own pulsing blood powerless to his charge. I can only face him. To do any less would invite his scorn, this I know. I would rather fight him and face him with the full presence of my being even if in the end he kills me. His dark foreboding body cased so powerfully in his leather, leans slightly closer to me and I smell the hot pungent odor of his anger and his delight. He slaps my face. But I spring back to meet his eyes again unfazed. He slaps me again and again I meet his eyes. He smiles a half smile of distain as he peers into my soul from behind his mask. Slowly he reaches behind and pulls the heavy iron stone from my ass. And then for the sheer torment he pushes it back into me with violence. I scream. He speaks in the deep raspy voice of the underworld and with a scorn that humbles me. “I am the dark side of all the lofty dreamy fantasies of your submission. The world you cloak in your mystery, in the vaporous illusions of your beauty. You secretly desire the darkness that invades you. That is me. I am not your hero. The elegantly dressed hero who succumbs even to the spell of your beauty and submission. I am ugly. I am pain. I am the destroyer of all of your well-built boundaries. I am the man that took you to the heights of all your dreams and just as easily destroyed them in the menace of my masculine need, for that will suck the sweet juice of all your feminine hopes, all your feminine dreams. I am the face of your fears and I will not let you go.” He shakes me to my core, seeps inside my bones and for all that I would kneel in the presence of masculine power, I wish now nothing more than to unsheathe the dagger that rounds my thigh and pierce his illusory, narcissistic, caustic heart. But still I stand. Taller even now, my pussy spread with rope and opened, my ass invaded and assaulted by steel unforgiveness, my nipples hard now from rebellion more than even sexual attention. He will be my opponent. He will test everything I have. I understand now that I will need my keepers, my captors, not as those that test me, though that is also true, but those that will build my strength, my insight and deepest truth to face that which is a duality of submission and dominance that is both the destroyer and the creator. He takes my hair in his hand and pulls me down so my back is arched and my body strains. He breathes hot breath on my face, then throws me to the ground. I meet his eyes with equal distain and though I know he could beat me now, kill me if he chose, I risk everything to look into him, as his submissive, but as his opponent too. He takes it in, smiles with wicked assurance, turns abruptly on his heels and disappears into the fire, a thousand candles dancing and rebelling in the winded death that is his exit. I am sprawled on the floor unsure what is next when the soft sweet hands of two masked ladies sweep me into their arms and caress me and whisper words I cannot comprehend but know are their language of calming. “Come.” I hear them say. And with that, they help me to stand, hold my arms and lead me from this room, winding like snakes, cooing like morning birds, sighing like the sweet song of feminine comfort, holding onto me, leading me forth out through the door, out of this hot luminous room, my captors met, into the dark cold of the hall and in through the facing door.


Part XVIII: The Second Room, hour one

My head aches. I feel the dark room open up into a dusty desert sea in front of me. Like a mirage. My opponent is so clear to me that all else fades away. I push the two lovely submissives, who were kind enough to embrace me and caress me and lead me here, away. Their pawing and obvious instructions to lead me somewhere, to prepare me for some new test, feels like a terrible nuisance. I feel I am breaking away. I want to chase that dark prince, that angry leather corseted man who challenged me. I want to find him, to fight him and yield to him only if he is worthy, only if he can fight me. I feel oddly dishonored by him. I scream, “Where are you?” But the only voice that answers me back in the sweet honey of a woman next to me. “Please Lilith, come with us. We must prepare you.” “No, no, no.” I feel delirious like I want to scream and to weep and to claw at my own imprisonment. I don’t want to kneel down right now; I want to be forced and to rage against that force. I don’t want to be made beautiful; I want to tear at my hair and my skin. I don’t want to be opened by this metal jewel that invades my ass and spreads me wide; I want to rip it from my body so that it will be forced back into me. I want to do battle. I am steaming and angry. I am frozen in my steps, seeing him, his dark coat flying behind him, riding away from me, laughing and wicked and awful, away into the desert sands, away, away. “Lilith, please. Come with us.” I have to give in again, to her sweet pawing. Let myself be taken. “My body is tired,” I say. “I know,” she says back to me, and then I look at her. She is masked. Her lovely breasts appear so round and soft. I kiss her then, on her mouth and she opens up to me – she suddenly submissive to my submissive. I begin to laugh and breath her in and taste her sweet soft lips. I take her breast in my hand and pinch her nipple. I am cruel. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to her. “You are beautiful, Lilith. Please now come with us,” she whispers back to me. I obey my own signals to carry on, to leave the vicious planes of my fantasy. He will return. She will spread her legs for me. I know it is all there, out there if I just complete this last test, run through this gauntlet, prove myself, let go of myself, everything all at once, yes, it will be there – all that I have envisioned for my life. I know. But now I must continue on.... The two women guide me into the middle of the room, a room I finally see. It is opulent and gorgeously adorned. Oh, what trickery is this? I guard myself from falling into the grand canopied bed in front of me or diving into the steaming tub of water that boils next to the bed or collapsing right here on the soft fleece floor that my toes have just discovered. The room envelopes me, and I float in the warmth of this jeweled colored womb. Candles glow and sweet perfumed scents intoxicate the air around me, and I am sure I am dreaming. “Come,” she says, and she takes my hand and guides me to the bed. I sit. She carefully unwinds the ropes that bind my sex and my chest. Slowly I am released. She twists my hair atop my head and with a delicate pace, begins to caress my body, my arms and shoulders, my back and stomach, my thighs and my legs with the sweet gentle touch of love. It is as if she is cleansing my body with her hands, wiping me clean, making me new again. She leads me then to the water, this steaming tub and as I climb into the hot womb, I imagine I am being cleansed and prepared, for I shall meet my captures again soon. My strength returns. I become intensely alert and awake. I do not sink into this slippery sea of pleasure. I am not tempted by these water nymphs rising out to meet me. I will not succumb to my exhaustion. I will not surrender to the sublime wet touch of these sirens, my ship will not crash upon these rocky shores, mesmerized by their song, “come with us Lilith, come with us into this sweet sea home, this sweet death,” they sing to me; I will not submit to the rising steam that envelopes me and enters the pours of my skin like liquid sex, eroticizing me like spirits, like lost souls come to find home in my skin, in my open cunt, in the tender skin of my ass, in my open mouth breathing in these ancient ghosts disguised in their white diaphanous gowns. I will not let time slow. “Wash me,” I say for I must stay in control. Their smiles are too beautiful, the room too dazzling, the air too fragrant, all as if one distraction to me, for I imagine at any moment the doors will burst open, I will be dragged from this refuge, I will be commanded to bend, to spread, to open my mouth and my cunt to his cock, to unbind my soul in the presence of their power, the yield to their desires, to their whims, to spread my pussy for her whip to lash, to be commanded to hold myself open, to be invaded by the objects of his choosing. The women slowly rub my body. My strength is fading. My ship is slowly pulled by the song of the sirens, and I feel dreamy and heavy lulled by their song. In my delirium, I wonder if I will meet Triton, god of the sea, and will it be the dark lord, the minotaur, this half man, half bull turned half man, half sea serpent come to suck me into the labyrinth and devour me. The sirens are inside my pussy washing me deep inside, and I feel hot pleasure rising against my will. They move my ass jewel and slide fingers into this forbidden hole, all around the metal jewel, cleaning me and opening me wider, but I cannot move, I have become narcotized finally by this deception.
What are you doing? I manage to whisper
We are washing you, Lilith
No, please stop. I hear soft music. I am being hypnotized and my body is slowly giving way.
Stop now, I say
No Lilith. Let go. Let us wash you. Their voices become too high, too melodious and they taunt me with their beauty. They speak to me without moving their lips.
Lilith, stop now.
Stop they say. What am I doing? I am paralyzed in this pool of wet mythic ejaculation, these hot oily secretions of sex. This is no bath. From far away I think I am moving their hands away from my sex, but they suddenly have a strength that betrays their submissive gentleness. They fade into the latex goddess and the blond woman of rope, morphing back into the saccharin smiles of the sirens, fading away then into the white blindfold of this steamy water haven.
We must put our fingers inside of your holes Lilith, they say.
No.
Something feels dangerously wrong. The steam is too thick around me. I think I see faces around me. The faces of my captors. I think I see Vidad. Is he close? Can he read my mind? The sirens move their fingers inside me, one hand closes to a fist and opens my pussy pushing up into me, another hand massages my ass, enters my ass one finger at a time, enters around the metal jewel that seems to open me forever. Another deceiving finger caresses my clitoris.
Stop. I think I say but I know it is only in my head. The water is a lullaby. Triton holds his hands out to me.
Please, stop.
But Lilith we are washing you. We must wash you.
This is not washing. I am rising. My sex is pulsing and swelling and its wetness congeals with the water around me. Deeper her hand pushes inside me and my pussy opens, the world opens around me, the sea tides carry me. Around she moves her fist in me. My sex holds her, screams for her, my hips begin to move not of my will, but of that desire, that primal desire to ride these waves of pleasure, to face the tidal wave of Triton’s will, the wet that is the undeniable truth of my rising pleasure, like the soft sea scented pink on the inside of a shell, she caresses my pussy lips, my clitoris swelling and denying me my control. Her finger deeper inside my ass circles the metal object and she widens me, circles her finger around and around pulling my sex apart until I am submerged, submerged in the hot possibility of orgasm. I scream.
Stop please.
No, Lilith. You must be clean.
Danger lurks close by. I know this release is wrong. I am full of fear and unadulterated pleasure like I could sprout wings and go chase the dark lord or kneel forever at the feet of my Vidad, my man. Alive and freed by this orgasm, by this pleasure, by this rebellion, by this disruptive need. They begin to clean me harder and with more fervor. In and out their hands and fingers move inside of me. My clitoris is being rubbed hard now.
You must be clean, Lilith. You must be clean.
No, I whisper and then, Yes, yes I must be clean. Yes please open me. Yes.
I am writhing in the water. My resolve gone, my strength melted around me, my dagger no longer forged but melted away in the hot succumbing of my body.
Oh, Lilith. Be careful. I hear one say, her voice so soft and sweet it is awful for she does not stop her cleansing of me. She does not stop rubbing me, pressing hands and fingers into me, faster and faster and unrelenting. She is fucking me clean, fucking me clean.
Lilith. Stop. Don’t come Lilith. We are bathing you.
Stop please I beg, but nothing comes from my mouth. I am Triton’s lover. I fold into his wet arms. He holds me captive and begins to pull me under, into his sea labyrinth. And when the orgasm finally comes and sweeps over my body and the final pieces of resolve shatter in front of me, it is not Triton who I see before me; it is not the faces of the lovely masked submissives, the sirens so determined and deceitful in their washing; it is not Vidad, my true love, gone from me now; it is not the women, my guides, my mirrors, those two magnificent beauties in rubber and rope; it is not the nothingness of dreams that is alive in the filaments of water ghosts; it is not my own face or the blackness of my closed eyes; it is the face of my opponent, it is he before me in the foggy mist.
You have come, he says.
Yes, I breathe.
And then it is blackness.


Part XIX: The Second Room, hour two

I have been sleeping in the canopied bed. My body feels clean. I know the heavy metal jewel has been pulled out of my ass. My head sinks deep into a silk covered down pillow, and I feel heaven has come to me – washed over me in the blasphemous entrance into its gates, and it is extraordinary. Sleep will be fast and soon illusive. And so I fall asleep again and I dream… A young submissive girl is on her hands and knees. Her name is Candice. A man stands above her, naked, holding his erect cock. She is stripped bare and wears only a collar around her neck. He stands towering above her, motionless, holding his hard cock like a weapon, threatening to fuck her however and wherever he pleases. “Tell me what you are,’ he says. ‘I am a dirty girl,’ she whispers. ‘You are what?’ he commands louder. ‘I am a dirty girl,’ she says again finding her voice, her conviction. ‘Yes, you are. Now spread your legs.’ Candice remains on all fours but opens her legs wider. She knows her sex is wet. She knows he will see this, for she had been caught here in his library, sitting in his warn leather chair, her hands under her dress, his scent all around and she had closed her eyes and had begun to masturbate, to put her fingers into her cunt and writhe around on his chair. She had not reached orgasm yet when he burst into the room. He had grabbed her wonton hand and smelled the hot wetness on her fingers. Then he had slapped her face, hard, lifted her from the chair, tore off her dress and threw her to the ground. Masturbation was done for his pleasure, at his command, not for her to secretly do alone without his presence or his strict instruction. And so he had forced her to her hands and knees in the middle of his room, naked and spread open. He holds the leather belt from his pants, ripped out in anger. ‘You will be fucked, Candice.’ And he strikes her ass with his belt. She screams and takes in the heavy contact, the warm pain. He strikes her again. He walks around her, his naked body powerful and primal, his weapon straining to fuck her with ferocity. But first he must whip her. ‘What were you doing in this room?’ She pauses, she is humiliated to say it out loud and yet he asked and so she must. “Touching myself, Sir.’ ‘What were you doing, Candice, tell me?’ He raises his voice in anger and she knows she cannot use simple words now. He wants to know the truth. ‘I was masturbating, Sir. My fingers were inside my cunt, my dirty cunt.’ And then he strikes her sex with his belt and sharp pain burns her open pussy. She arches her back to take in her punishment. She opens her sex and spreads her legs so he will whip her. He begins to beat her now, a rhythm of pain as the leather strikes down upon her open sex again and again. The sharp crack of his belt against her pussy and then her ass, then her buttocks and legs and then her cunt again, the sharp crack reverberating on the walls and inside her body until she shakes in desperate pain. But she stays as still as she can, and she opens herself to him and when she knows her flesh is red and swollen and her pussy wet and beaten, she feels him spread her ass with his hands, pull her pussy open and thrust his hard cock, his weapon, deep into her, deep into her dirty cunt, her wayward sex, and he fucks her fast and angry. ‘What are you, Candice?’ ‘Your slut. Your dirty cunt, a dirty girl.’ She breathes hard and cries and takes him into her body as he fucks her until she thinks she will break, beating her now with his body, with his cock, until they collapse on the floor and melt into the forbidden soiled wet of their pleasure.


Part XX: The Second Room, hour three

I am awakened by the lady in latex. She stands over me with a wicked smile, her black silk snake body looming like a dangerous dream, her breasts spilling out, her breath hot against me, her eyes deep and malicious behind her mask, the soft leather end of a crop touching my cheek. “Time to wake up, Lilith,” she says and it is the last kind words I hear from her as she rips the blankets from my body and bursts the chrysalis of my bed. “Up,” she commands. I stand feeling dazed and yet instantly coming into a focus that belies my weary body. It is the focus of survival - when it is you that is the prey, you that is the captive, you that must obey. It is a delirious alertness I can only imagine the rabbit feels when dug from its burrow and set to save its life in one chance run ahead of the hungry wolf; what a soldier feels when denied of sleep and reasoning but reckoning with his life on the slippery slop of awareness; what a slave feels in obeying her master. I suddenly stand with perfect attentiveness to this grand goddess and face her as an equal in the mastery of our respective positions. We are alone in the room, the two wicked nymphs, those bare breasted submissives gone now to play trickery somewhere else. Lady Latex asks me to sit on a stool in front of the bed and to spread my legs so she can see my sex. She then walks behind me, reaches around my body and slides her slick black finger inside me and before I can gasp, she covers my mouth with her other hand and presses hard against the inside of my pussy and hard against my mouth. She slides her finger out of my body and into my mouth, and I taste again the salty sea of my wet sex and the pungent rubber of her snake skin. She laughs and pulls my head back so I see her face above me. She speaks. “There is a small chest in the corner of the room. You have fifteen minutes to adorn yourself with its contents.” And then she is gone. I stand and find the hidden chest. I slide it to my stool, sit, and open it to search out its treasure. I reach my hand in and feel the same slippery black skin of my captor. I begin to slip on the oily shell - first the stockings, over my feet, my calves, up to my thighs where they end and encircle my flesh in a mighty grip. Then a corset of intricate clasps and ties that I fasten around my waist and then fasten to my stockings. My breasts are bare, my sex is bare. I feel inside the chest one last time and to my delight, I find a pair of high black stilettos, dangerously high. I put them on trying not to smile, trying not to wonder why I have been given this privilege, this pleasure. And then I remember it is not for me, but for the pleasure of whoever has brought this treasure… for their pleasure. I stand now, adorned and I wait until again my Mistress appears and regards me with satisfaction. “Walk around, now, show yourself,” she commands. I walk around the room, balancing on the stilettos, feeling the rubber on my skin, sucking my skin, feeling my breasts bounce against the top of the corset. I touch myself as I walk. I run my hands over my new silky skin. But before I can become lost in my own snake parade, she commands me to the edge of the bed, to bend over and to spread my legs. She reminds me of my place with one quick strike of her crop, hard and swift and unforgiving on my ass. Then she straightens me, takes the ties of the corset, and with a force that her grace belied pulls in my body, my waist, with ungodly strength until my breath is pushed out of me and I fight to steady myself. She ties quickly and efficiently as I pull inward and take in my new form, my waist a tiny ring where my breasts and hips are wide and ample. A surreal hourglass, a human hourglass I see reflected back to me in the mirror across the room. She strikes my ass again. “Go look in the mirror, Lilith, since you can’t seem to take your eyes off yourself. You are vain. Go now.” And Lady Latex strikes me again with her crop. I go to the mirror, not denying my desire to look at my body, look at this costume and my new skin. I think I am clay. She has molded me, sculpted me. Who is this woman who stares back at me, so vain as she says. Vain? Why should I be vain if I take in what she has created? Maybe I am taking in her art, her creation and not myself. I want to tell her this, but this is not the moment for conversation. Let her believe I am vain. Of course, she might be right because I am still staring at my reflection, my body modified when I see her dark figure behind me in the mirror. She takes my arms then, violently, and pulls them hard behind me. Suddenly she is encasing my body in some sort of rubber straitjacket. She slides my arms into the rubber sleeves, wraps the jacket to the front of my body and zips this restraint over my lovely corset, up over my breasts, up above my neck, over my chin and just under my lips. Now I am covered and immobile. Standing, bound and shocked, watching her in the mirror wrap me up to unmoving, until my arms strain behind me arching my back, I balance like a defiant ballerina on the stiletto heels, these gifted shoes once my pleasure now my torture. “Now you walk around this room.” And she pushes me from the mirror, and I fight to find my balance as I prance now, not in pride, but in humble determination to please her. My chest is constricted in the rubber straitjacket, pain travels through my arms and shoulders, my breasts are violently imprisoned in this coat and my neck forced long and straight, unable to move anymore as the high stiff collar of this new adornment restricts any movement and forces my chin out and my neck elongated. And so I walk the room. I walk the room not to my own reflection now but to her. I walk before her. She laughs and then throws me to the bed. She climbs on top of me and our wet skin, our black oily skin rubs and slides together and though my upper body is immobile, I cannot help but move my hips against her as she holds me down. She writhes on top of me, glorious and wild and beautiful, the Latex Queen. Her eyes are fire and desire behind her mask, and she rises above me like she wants to fuck me, her prisoner. She exudes a radiance and slaps my ass and throws me about the bed and slaps my face and then my pussy and then she laughs so deep and wicked and pushes her hips against me like she is fucking me and she turns me over and beats my ass and laughs again and mumbles something about vanity, then she turns me over again and puts her fingers inside my pussy and she fucks me. And then she is sitting on my face. Her long spidery legs spread out wide over me and her sex is a hot wet river over my mouth. I open to receive her pearl and the sweet sea taste of her cunt. She moves her body slowly over my tongue, and I explore her sex and I feel desperately privileged that she shares with me her wet and swollen sex, its intricate folds and honey flesh, red and open and engorged. I breathe in the pungent scent of her cunt and her ass and I explore her openings with my own ravenous hunger. In and out of her cunt and her ass, I suck her flesh and drink her wetness and eat her, her banquet pussy, the feast of her pussy. She is laughing, and though I think I feel her shudder in pleasure, she does not let me know for certain as she pulls herself from my hungry tongue, satisfied, I hope, of the worship I have given her and she takes again her crop to command my submission. The heat of the crop striking against my ass matches the heat on my tongue, and I am delirious. And I think she is delirious, and I wonder if she has lost herself, but I can do nothing for I am her immobile prisoner, I am what she will do with me. Later, I will wonder if in this frenzied moment I had heard a door open. I will wonder if Lady Latex strayed from her plan or her direction of me and lost herself in her own desire. I will wonder how long we were watched, because when the voice finally broke through the hot air heaving with fucking, my surprise would be obvious. But the surprise on her face I found frightening. As if she had less control of this then I believed. And if she is not in control, then we are doubly in danger. Her composure returned before she suspected I saw. But it was there. Her fear. Her wild abandoned somehow caught. “Where is the key?” his angry voice booms into the room. And as if to make sure I had not seen her surprise, she slaps my face and stands with heavy seriousness to face the man who is unexpectedly in the room with us. He is calm and decisive when he lifts me from the bed. I feel misbehaved. I look into his face. It is the face of one of my captors. It is not my rival, the evil dominant who I know I will soon fight, but the powerful elegant man who wears a long cape and a bright red silk shirt and leather mask. “I do believe that is my crop,” he says to the woman. She hands it over as if it was always the plan and she begins to unzip me and unbound my body and free my arms as if, this too, is all part of the plan. She works with silent confidence and once I am freed and standing to face them once again with my bare breasts and tightly cinched corset, she goes to the wooden chest and pulls out a small box. She comes to the man who takes the box and looks at her for one nearly imperceptible moment too long, looks at her with something I cannot quite understand, but it is heavy and dark. He opens the box and takes out a small gold key, an old key. He begins to instruct and admonish me. “You have been bathed Lilith, you have slept and now you are adorned anew. You are also disheveled and your lips are swollen from a feast you should have been denied. This key is for you. It opens three doors. Each room a test of your obedience and your will.” And with that he gives me this key. He is so fine and his voice reverberates around me like a deep hum. He touches my face then turns and walks from the room, out the heavy door and into the hallway that will soon be my plank to walk. And will I be devoured by the sharks or wrestle with Triton and swim with the nymphs? I do not know. The lady in latex turns to me. I cannot quite tell if somehow we have become sisters in a crime I still don’t understand was committed or if she is now bitter and angry with me for somehow derailing the simple duty of giving me this key. But she only huffs slightly under her breath before she turns on me and she too disappears out the door. In the silence, I breathe with space around me. I feel excitement and fear. I steel one last look in the mirror just to see my swollen lips and messy appearance, to see once again my tiny waist and red nipples. I taste her on me. I smell her. One last look and then I turn, open the door and walk into the hallway.


Part 21: The Third Room, hour one

In the shadowed hallway, three doors face me. I hold one key. I decide to open the door directly in front of me. I wonder if this heavy old key will fit the lock, but as I turn the key, I hear the click of release. I think how this key is like my submission, how this key is like my woman, like the journey, this test opening the doors of my mind and my body, my heart and my soul. I push the door, and it widens without resistance. I step inside the hot womb of a room bathed in blue. The high ceiling emits light from a source I cannot see. The walls are mirrors, and I see myself reflected endlessly at every turn, my figure, bound in my shiny rubber skin, reflecting a thousand repeated selves like my soul marching back through time, like all the parts of myself a mosaic of my puzzle duplicating again and again until I find my present body standing here alone in this cavernous womb. The room is empty but for a large wooden table in the center. I walk to the table and see it is covered in black leather. A long stem rose, a glass dildo and a three way chain with clamps are placed carefully in the center. I finger the dildo, the clamps, run my hands over the leather and the wood that is old and marked and heavy. I walk around the room circling the mirrors, and I am trailed by my own reflection and the vast room that widens out all around me. I stare into the mirror, into my own eyes and I remember how long was the road I traveled to come here, to be standing here in this moment, of giving myself along the way and receiving so much in return. I feel grateful. I can feel at once so very beautiful and full and challenged with the heroism that my soul cries out for and then so very dark and wonton and pleading for the sweet oblivion of my slavery, the sweet wholeness of giving him everything, the sweet forced march to freedom. What am I today, what am I at any moment in the shifting commands of life and of love? I trace the glass, and I find a small door nearly invisible, cut into the mirror. I open it and find a secret chest within the mirrored walls. I put my hand inside and feel the snaking skin of rope, and I smell the heavy pungent perfume of hemp. I begin to pull the rope from its cavern, what seem miles and miles of it and it is red and rough. I drag my find, all of it, this treasure, to the table and pile it upon this presumed bed of torment. I look up then, and I am not surprised to see their figures reflected behind me in the mirror – shadowy and dark and glowing in the blue light. “Undress, Lilith,” she says. “Spread your legs and arms wide on the table,” he says. I obey, disrobing my beautiful costume of rubber to be naked once again. Then I move all the delicate implements - the rope, the glass dildo, the clamps, the beautiful red rose to the side just enough so I might sit upon the table and spread myself wide. I look to them. Who are they? It is the beautiful blond with her rope and it is he who guided me to this room, who gave me the key. He is caped and masked and powerful. I sit still and open my legs and raise my arms out, naked in the coils of loose rope. Slowly the circle of light shrinks around me and they begin to move closer to me. She lies me down on the table, spreads my legs and then pulls my arms above me. He comes to me and wipes his gloved hand over my naked body, then, with quick force, puts the glass dildo inside my cunt, deep inside me. He tells me to hold this inside, to hold it tight and not let it slip out. I wonder if my wet sex will hold this slick cock, and I tighten myself around this jewel. He then takes the three-way chain, clamps my nipples and then my clitoris and steps away to look at me. I feel the widening of my cunt and the sharp pain on my tender flesh. I lay prostrate. And then this beautiful woman begins to bind me with rope. She slides the rope under my body and wraps me in her web – around my breasts and my hips, over my shoulders, around my arms and wrists and down to my thighs, my calves and my ankles. Her eyes are nearly closed as she works around my naked body as if I am the stone she sculpts and not the human she binds, as if I am her canvass for which she will create her rope painting, binding me to her will and to her vision. And when she is finished she moves away from me, like him, to look. Long rivers of rope coil from my body to the floor, piles and piles of red rope dangling from my tied body to the floor below me like a sea of red and I floating on my ship. “Stand now,” he says. And with that I slip off of my ship and into the watery snaking coil of rope, and I walk forward to stand with the rope trailing behind me like the magnificent train of a rope dress. And then her work continues. Slowly I feel each point on my body begin to tighten behind me. My arms are pulled back, my chest strains against the pressure, I work to stand straight as my hips are pulled, then my thighs, my calves, my ankles, all the endless rope pulling out from behind me and I straining forward against the tension, the dildo tight inside my cunt, my nipples burning from the clamps, my clitoris swelling inside the angry teeth of this vicious clamp biting down on me. I see myself in the mirrors, all around me. I see her binding me and tying the rope to hooks in the mirrors behind me, binding the rope to what look like pulleys so far behind me, and I suddenly look at myself like some alien creature – a round clear jewel hanging down between my legs, my sex parts swelling and reddening and shocking against my white skin, the ropes wound around each of my body parts, constricting my flesh and long lengths of red rope flying out from behind me to the invisible wall and my body straining forward to balance. And then he comes to me, stands but inches from my face. I feel his hands then working on my body, working on the chain that binds my sex. He pulls my sex apart and pushes the dildo higher inside me. He pinches and pulls my clitoris, my pussy and he shakes the chain. He does not do this with the malice of the other man, but with his quiet dominance, challenging me because I think he believes in me, because I think, he feels pleasure in that and he recognizes my will and wants to bring this out in me. Yes, I want to say, harder please, wider please, more pain, more divine oblivion. But I keep quiet and stare back into him as he fingers my sex. Then I hear a click. Click, like a crank, a winding. I gasp. The ropes are pulled tighter. Click. Tighter still, the ropes pulling me back and beginning to rise up behind me. My body strains. I will stay erect. And then I feel a weight on my sex and the sound of chain dropping to the floor. He kneels down in front of me and clasps the chain that I now feel dangling from my pussy to the floor. Then he stands to face me again and he wears a slight smile, deviant and handsome. “Up on your toes.” I obey and rise up and it is now that I feel my sex pulled taut, my pussy stretched and aching as I am now bound to the floor by this chain. “Higher.” I rise up higher on my toes and feel my sex pulled and the pain begin to pulse. Click. The ropes are pulled tighter, higher, my arms beginning to rise up behind me and I fight for my balance. Pulled aching captured clamped balancing, the alien submissive. Click. And then he holds the rose to my lips and places it gently in my mouth and speaks in his low melodic voice. “Release this rose from your lips when you can give no more and only then. The longer you stand, the stronger these ropes will be to hold you when you have given everything. Trust this. But if you release this rose before these ropes are tight, before you are raised, if you cannot take this pain, then there will be nothing below you when you fall.” I nod. Yes, I will hold myself. The crank clicks again in the empty room, my pussy tightens around the dildo as I am desperate to hold it in, I rise up on my toes and feel the exceptional and awful straining of my sex stretching and my body leans forward in a dance with these ropes, in a dance with her will to pull me tight and raise me up from my own depths, and my teeth bear down on the stem of the rose and I close my eyes, escaping inward and I let the power of this capture seep into me. Click.


Part 22: The Third Room, hour two

I am up on my toes, naked, bound with rope, chains clamping my nipples, a chain clamped from my pulsing clitoris down to a hook on the floor; a rose is clenched between my teeth and with each passing minute, I hear the click of the crank behind me, I feel the ropes pulling my body backwards as I fight for balance, my arms rising slowly above me and my legs fighting the terrible strain of the ropes tightening, and as I focus to stay standing, I wonder if it is the fear of crashing to the ground or the growing pain of my pussy being pulled tighter and stretched with the weight of my body, the floor seeming to pull my cunt and my clit harder in a hunger that will only be satiated if I remain erect, if I remain standing, and if I don’t fight each deafening click of this tormenting crank, if I don’t remain on my toes, I will fall and nothing will hold me and the clamps that bite my pussy will be torn from me and the imagining of such pain keeps me fighting for my balance and my sanity. There is a giant glass dido inside my sex, and I remember the instructions to hold it there, to not let it go, but this too is becoming difficult because strangely as the pressure intensifies, as my fear rises and my focus magnifies, somehow my pussy becomes the slick wet betrayer of my pleasure, wet like a river as the dam begins to break, and if I were not tied and bound and slave to this crank commanding my body, I would fuck myself with this dildo, this cock and slam it hard and relentless into my raining pussy and would take the pain piercing my nipples and the pain in its volcanic heat threatening my cunt to burst open so I could fuck myself in this torment; but if I think this and as I fight this pressure, I become more wet, more swollen and I wish he would return in his beautiful cape and sinuous voice and let me fuck myself or that he, the other, the angry warrior, the minotaur, would come and beat me and take me down and I would have that to fight against or that she with her ropes would come near me now, please, and let me take in her sweet scent and let me beg her to taste her cunt and allow me to lick her and drink her wetness, her pussy like the vast opening of the sea and that she, the other, my black rubber snake goddess, would let me writhe upon her and be her servant of pleasure and that maybe now they will each come to me and throw me into the winds of this defiant horror, and I can fuck and be fucked in return and he will shove that stone back into my asshole and the black serpent will slap my face and the minotaur god will beat my flesh and the cloaked mysterious master will fuck me with this dildo; that which each click of the turning clank, each moment of my sexually synaptic brain fucking myself into focus to stand against the pressure of the rope, with each imagining of my tormenters owning and mastering me, I become just that much more wet in my cunt and that much more loose in my ability to focus, and I tighten my sex around this thick intruder cock and I will it to stay inside the hot wet walls of my cunt and I will my clitoris to be pulled as tight and as hard as my balancing body can allow, and I will myself to remain standing and beautiful and powerful, and I fight every urge to scream as I hear the click again and I moan and struggle and the mounting pressure of all these forbidden sexual regions of my body cry out at once to be the truth of my submission, the truth of my capacity to withstand this gauntlet, the force of my woman against their tests of my determined will. Click, again I am pulled to straining and now my arms are above me and my toes are at their pinnacle and my pussy is stretched to breaking and the wetness is flowing to release and then the ropes stop, and as I think I can give no more, there is nothing more to give for the room has frozen, and I am here to remain for as long as my body and my will and my desire and my pleasure and my pain will allow, and as the darkness closes in, I see my masters around me and taking me in and I promise myself I will not let go, I will not fall, I will not let go this dildo in my cunt, I will not let the pain of my stretching cunt, clamped and pulled out in unforgiving tests of my will, I will not let their taunting unmoving eyes on my nakedness allow my body to let go and release and fall, and I trust that I will be held up in these ropes and that I might have gained their love and acceptance and truth and prize and, oh and I don’t know what, because it’s becoming dark and all I can feel is the sweet luscious beauty of this pain and giving and there now, I think somewhere on the far reaches of my mind, I let go this rose from the clutches of my teeth, and I breathe out again and again and I release and I fall and I pray to my keepers that it is not the floor beneath me that greets my exodus but the cage of these ropes that will suspend me in this release of unspeakable submission and pain and beauty.


Part 23: The Third Room, hour three

I am suspended in rope. Swaying naked in this red web. My mind has gone quiet and I relax in the grip of this suspended bed. I open my eyes. The rose I had held in my teeth lay on the floor far below me. A crank is clicking still and my cocooned body is being slowly raised up into the vaults of the ceiling. My pussy stings. Where has the glass cock gone? Where have the clamps that held my pussy its prisoner gone? Where are the claws that angrily held my nipples captive? Ripped from me when I fell and was caught in the ropes and taken up into the vaults. Torn from my insides, my sticky flesh, my clitoris, my pussy. Here I am then, dangling from the ceiling, ropes binding my breasts, my thighs, my hips, up and around the sides of my cunt, and I here, magically hanging spread open, arms and legs wide out to my sides like I am flying. There were two choices then. One, I could have let go the glass cock inside me, let it slip out of my wet pussy; I could have fallen from my toes, let go the tension that pulled hard on my sex, pulled hard down on my sex, my sex attached from a chain to a bolt in the floor; I could have fallen backwards as the ropes tightened around my body ripping into my flesh; I could have screamed and begged to be released, begged for anything but this long torture, begged for being fucked and torn apart and whipped and thrown down, begged to be raped by them all, all of them who bring me this unending test of my endurance, begged all of them to take my orifices in any hungry pleasure or pain they desired and if I had done this, if I had given up, I would have fallen to the floor in defeat. Two, I could choose to stand up high on my toes, resist the pulling ropes, breathe in the pain searing my sex and my breasts, hold tight the dildo up my wet pussy and wait, wait until the moment I was ripped from this standing position, ripped from my will and swept up into the rafters. Yes, I did this. I am here, now, flying spread out wide, high above the room and no floor did I crash upon, no shameful relinquishing did I profess. And so I hang here, naked and spread, for what seem hours. Suspended in rope, dangling from an invisible sky, letting go and giving in and trusting I will be held here so high up, I close my eyes and fall into dreams. Time moves on. The crank is quiet. The stillness of the air and the vacuous space becomes disquieting. The ropes begin to bind me in their desire, eating at my flesh. My muscles begin to hum, then to scream. The constriction on my chest makes my breath come out in short huffs, as if I am angry or defiant. My sex pulses to the beat of my heart and what was a sting now becomes an ache and my immobility becomes the confinement of burgeoning insanity. And still I sway. The room distends below me, and I feel suddenly claustrophobic and a strange panic sets in and all my blissful, blissed out head space begins to close in on me, and I realize how very trapped I am. I try to focus on my sex and the pleasure of my legs spread apart and the vulnerable red of my wet cunt being exposed. I try to focus on the sweet ache of my nipples and my breasts pulled down by gravity and the heavy weight to their sexuality. I try then not to think, not to let the weight of my body become paramount in my mind as I feel the rope cutting into me, not to think of the floor so very far below me, not to think of my spread out opened fucked vulnerability. I focus on my breathing and still I hang here. Time passes. I sway suspended, naked and opened. And then I hear his deep resonant voice. His mocking angry voice. “One hour, Lilith. One hour.” And then his footfalls echo out of the room and I hear him laugh as he closes the door. I breathe. I go inside. Suspended and ruthless. Strung up and proud. Give me more. One hour. I will remain. I will not panic. I am naked and opened up and suspended and so I will remain.


Part 24: The Fourth Room, hour one

I must have fallen asleep. I must have passed out hanging spread open, bound in rope, suspended from the ceiling, caught like a bird in a net. I am sitting on a chair now, my hands tied behind me, my ankles tied to the hard wooden legs of the chair. My sex exposed. My nipples are clamped again and a heavy chain weighs them down. My masters face me like interrogators – the blond rope goddess still holding her delicate hemp weapon twining slowly between her fingers, a nearly imperceptible smile gracing her beautiful masked face in some satisfaction, and as I look at her I warm, and I feel the blood rush to my face and down to my loins for it is she who caught me in her rope, and it is I who danced within her ties and held on until I could fly free and suspended in her creation; the elegant and powerful man next to her, so silent with words, but so dominant with his eyes, deep and dark peering out from a leather mask, his gestures, his quick force and direction, calm and knowing speak what words he does not, and he holds his crop at his side like a sword, and I know I am at his will; and Lady Latex, wild and tall and serpentine and shining so that I want to run my hands over every curve of her body, and she is grand and yet my sister spirit - she could take me at any moment and yet somehow, I know now, she would lose herself with me and we would no longer be able to tell head from tail, domination from submission, one pulsing wet sexual feminine body fucking the other in a divine circle of passion – but I will not let out her secret as I look into her now and lower my eyes; and finally, the warrior, standing like a bull, ready to break out of his confines and charge at me, standing in power and agitation and some sort of loathing that is so palpable it is nearly like love. They look at me, and I cannot tell if they are satisfied with me, if I have done well in these punishments and tests, or if they are dissatisfied and somehow I have betrayed them with my pleasure or my inward musings or my glances in the mirror or my righteousness in not being broken. Broken? Do they want me to break? To be stripped down? Am I not to fight that? I feel the rope around my wrists and ankles, and I try once again to quiet my head and to be only the flesh and woman vessel for them to take. So, I wait again for the interrogation to begin – of words or of weapon I do not know.

Then the blond comes to me and quickly unties my hands and my feet. She touches my cheek. “I free you. You did well, Lilith. I give you to the others now.” And with that she walks away from me and disappears. I feel terribly naked. I feel alone as if somehow a protector has left. When she tied me and suspended me, she led me into the power of my mind, of my will. Now I fear, I will be tested of my body and my flesh – tested of my threshold. She was so kind and now she is gone and she has left me here, freed my bound body, but left me prisoner. And then my serpentine latex mistress turns and walks away too and disappears from the room. And I am alone with the heavy weight of masculine dominance. The two men strip me down with their eyes and with their animal sexuality, volatile and exhilarating and devouring with deep primal hungers. I cannot run. And when I feel the heat of their charge and I hold my breath, I am surprised when the Minotaur, the angry bull, the warrior master turns abruptly on his heels and marches hot and angry out of the room. I release my breath, for only he remains, he of such calm and intense beauty, a charm that might just as easily be deception.

“Stand up, Lilith and stop thinking.” I stand. “Turn around.” His voice is deep and sinuous and winds itself around my body like a tongue. “Bend over, now. We need to clear your head.” And with that, before I can fully bend over the chair and spread my legs and raise my ass for him, he bears down on me with his crop and strikes me. I hear the crop slice through the air with a mocking whistle and the sharp ring of his leather whipping against the flesh of my ass. He beats me slowly. One. And the pain spreads out through my body. Two. The crop hits me again. Three. Electric pain hot like fire melts my body and seeps into my cunt. “Spread.” He commands again. I open wider for him. Four. He whips me harder now, the leather beating against my flesh with one angry strike after another. Five. I feel the round flesh of my ass move with the force of strikes. Six. I hold onto the chair and brace myself as he takes me. I hear the crop swing through the air again, cut with a haunting whistle seconds before it lands with ferocious strength against my sex. Seven. He pauses and it is nearly as painful as the beating as I wait for his next strike. “Show me your cunt.” I bend down lower on the chair and rise up on my toes and bend my knees just enough to open my pussy out to him. As I raise my ass up, I take a breath in as the oblivion of pain and exposure begins to release me to him. The crop slices through the air and with a high angry slap, tears at my ass. This time I cry out. Eight. And with no respite now, he beats me again. Nine. Pain and delirium sweep through my body, and I feel only the pulsing openness of my cunt, the hot swollen skin of my ass and the deep cavern of submission as he strikes me again, his crop swinging full force with his powerful body against my naked body and turning me over. Ten.
“You needed a beating, Lilith.”
“Yes, Sir.”


Part 25: The Fourth Room, hour two

It feels as if I have done this dance with him before. I cannot be certain even as I try to inhale his masculine scent. My ass stings from his crop as he commands me to sit on the chair again. This will be quick and decisive. He circles me slowly his heavy boots a low thud like a waiting heartbeat. There will be no fancy apparatus, no shining implements to his torture. I imagine he is too methodical, too enamored maybe by the pain he inflicts with his bare hands, his voice or the simple horrible sting of his crop. He stands in front of me then and stares at me, unrelenting. I feel more naked then my already naked body. No, he will not whip me or test my threshold of pain. I don’t think so. He must be of the psychological kind. Yes. Well, then I will sit here and bow my head and maybe spread my legs just a little. Maybe I can provoke this stoic handsome master. These thoughts, so disguised in my head, but so defiant of my submission, make me smile – just a little and my sex swells. Silence does this to me. Waiting and not knowing what will befall me makes me wet. I spread my legs just a tiny bit more. I arch my back just a little, but I keep my head down the picture of patient submission, no sign of the rebellious challenger who is throwing her head back and tempting his resolve. I hear him breathing. I begin to match my breath to his with little soft moans. “Silence,” he says. “Look up.” I raise my eyes to his. He looms over me and I suddenly feel small and breakable. Sometimes if I don’t pretend a little, if I don’t rise up as a challenger to the formidable bodies who bind me and fuck me and play dangerous games on pain’s chess board, if I don’t rebel just a little and resist their force, if I don’t keep my edges just rough enough so as not to become the warn out submissive rag doll of someone else’s vision of my slavery, then this captivity would surely swallow me whole and the truth of my imprisonment and my choice to give myself totally to it might send me to places my mind would not return. I can only go so deep if such depth is as vast as my strength. He stares at me, penetrating me deeper than his cock in my cunt. He won’t stop. I begin to feel every part of my body heat up – my nipples harden, my pours open and lick the air with the sticky milk of my sweat, my sex opens out and swells and widens and pours its honey onto the wooden chair. My breath is faster and my voice catching in my throat like I might cry. Still he stands above me. How can his wordless silent stare be entering me so deeply as if his hands are sliding down my body holding my hips squeezing the soft flesh of my ass until they slide up inside my pussy and move up my river into my womb, in and out, devouring my openness with his fingers, his fists, spreading me and taking me hard then slowly sliding inside and out my widening and wet cunt. I breathe. I look at him. He stands still, he legs wide, his arms at his side, the crop gently swinging in his easy grip, his calm and confidence, his stern staring, his powerful physique over me like a giant dark shadow. All desires of provocation have left me. My legs shake on their own, my body drips from no control of mine and deviant plans have melted under the heat of his gaze, the closeness of his masculine, the sweet erotic elixir of his silence. Time seems to march forward a rhythm to my heart pounding like a fist in my chest. Time stretches and taunts and mocks. I wait, now afraid to move, afraid to even breathe I wish to keep my vigilant pose like a stone statue, enduring and beautiful like Venus de Milo. It is moments like this I wonder what is more powerful – the cacophony and chaos of a thousand nerve endings firing and marching like obedient soldiers to the bliss of being struck by a powerful hand and flayed by the flames of a whip or the heavy quiet of dominance staring down at me and chaining me down with nothing but the narcotic of desire. There is room to disappear in both – one sweeps up the body and throws it to the fire, the other takes the mind and wraps it in a dizzying maze of no return. Each so sweet, so rich, each so torturous and formidable. He stares down at me. He reaches a hand slowly toward me and touches my cunt. I try not to move but his fingers are hot. He gently pushes my knees out, opening me winder. Then he returns to his position. He begins to walk around me again and around again. The anticipation threatens to overtake me. I feel like coming, I feel the swell of my clitoris like an orgasm rising. He stands in front of me again, crosses his arms, looks at me almost with boredom and I want to scream it hurts so much. It seems forever we dance like this. “Keep your eyes up.” He turns then and walks to the far end of the room and leans against the wall. I hear his voice like a distant rumble and it lands on my ears like the cool clean water of my dam breaking. “Masturbate.” That is all. Just one word. I slowly lift my legs and place my feet on the edges of the chair and let my knees fall open so my sex is exposed. I lay back into the chair and put my hands to my wetness, my hands inside my body, my fingers deep in me to fuck myself. I pinch the flesh of my cunt to feel the stinging sensation of this gift of pleasure. I slap my own sex again and again and ride my fingers with my primal force, fucking my woman, my cunt with the strength to break the silence. I forget the room. I forget my thoughts, but I do not forget him. I masturbate for him. Not for me. Not for my selfish pleasure, but in gratitude, in deep haunting gratitude for his presence.


Part 26: The Fourth Room, hour three

“Now stand up and turn around, straddle the chair and bend over,” he commands me. I feel exhilarated now, having been given the sweet thrill of pleasuring myself while he looked on. My sex is still pulsing, my fingers sticky from my wetness. I hear his crop slapping against his hand as he comes closer to me, and I bend over knowing I have returned to my whipping post. Vidad, my beautiful man… he once told me he preferred to beat me after I had an orgasm, that I was tender and spent, open and willing to cross over to him in the act of submissive pain. I remember his laugh then, deep and resonant as he reconsidered this insight, for he also said to beat me in the heightened state orgasm denial also had its reward; that I was randy and awful in that need and it required him to whip me into a full submissive space equal to the orgasm that was withheld and that of course had great pleasure for him too. This revelation had fascinated me, and for a time, I would gage his mood upon his permission for me to fuck myself to orgasm or his command of the tortuous abstinence of such, and I found his great duality, that of kindness or malevolence, an ever guessing game and a constant state of arousal. But why, now, as I am bent over, my legs spread apart, my sex wide and opened out before this cloaked and masked man, do I think of Vidad? This man here has a familiarity that makes me wonder who he is, but I know my man has set me to these captors, that maybe he looks on from somewhere hidden in this room, that my test in these dark and dangerous rooms are not from Vidad’s hand directly but instead are for him. And so I hear this masked man walking slowly toward me, the crop slapping his hand like a timer set to explode. “Spread your legs and open your cunt.” He speaks loud now and forceful as if I have not exposed myself enough for him. I focus on my sex and I will my pussy to open, will its red swollen skin to open up for him. I raise my ass up high and hold my breath and wait. “Open you ass.” Now I know what he means and with his command I sink deeper into my bended position, rise up on my toes, arch my back to raise my buttocks higher and I release my held breath until I feel my body relax and my sex, my cunt and my ass open to him and invite him inside. He puts fingers into my ass then and pulls my open wider. With his other hand, he puts more fingers into my pussy and he moves inside me hard and commanding, opening and turning his fingers deep in these caves of my sex. And then he pulls free and I hold myself still and my exposure is almost embarrassing to me, almost terrible and I want to hide myself and yet it is so erotic to stand unmoving and opened up and taken by his hands and his eyes looking up into my insides. “You are learning, Lilith.” He seems so familiar, but I block that thought from my mind and obey his masculine power as my trainer and my teacher. And then all thoughts are forced away from my mind as his crop lands sharply on my open sex with an electric hot snap of leather on flesh. He begins the intensity slowly, tapping my cunt with quick strikes, building the pressure, striking my open flesh again and again, the stinging bursting out into pain as he beats my cunt, strikes the tender flesh of my ass, striking me again and again, faster and faster, beating my wet open swollen cunt until I am screaming and I hear his voice off somewhere, “a little more, Lilith, just a little more.” And I hold on and the pain is searing and sweet and my cunt opens up into a wide warm ocean and I am his ship to command, as he beats me, wrangles me, takes me to the dark oblivion of a faraway horizon.


Part 27: The Fifth Room, hour one

I sense my captors around me, but I cannot seem to open my eyes. I am in some dreamland, my body heavy and weighted, my eyelids like lead, my mind dizzy and numb and blinded, my physical being somehow detached for I cannot feel my arms or my legs but that I am floating in blackness and I am nothing but the energy of light and colors that dance behind my eyelids. “Lilith.” I hear that word and I think it is my name, but I cannot open my eyes and the blackness is like a womb, and I feel high up in space flying and floating. I hear voices on the edges of my consciousness. “Lilith, do you want to stop? Can you go on?” What is this question? Who speaks this? Am I lying down? Am I alive? Am I naked? I try to pull my thoughts from the rebellious party they seem to be attending without me. And then I hear the bitter deep voice of a man and it comes to my ears like a broken old phonograph winding down and it sounds inhuman and monstrous. “She is gone. She is done,” he says with victorious distain. It is he. It is the voice of the dark master, the Minotaur and he has trapped me, and he is defeating me. Upon this challenge, my mind begins to return though I cannot move and my eyes will not open. I decide to slow my efforts and listen to the world around me and try to feel my body, for its disappearance is more frightening even than the voice of my opponent. How have I come to this state? I remember last being beaten by the cloaked and masked captor. I remember now his crop landing again and again on my open sex. I remember the intoxicating pain and then nothing. “I will wake her.” I hear him say. And then I do feel my body. Something hard and cold is being put inside my ass. It is shoved up inside me with violence and no care. I think I moan but I am frozen still, feeling now only the large heavy object pulling my ass open and filling me up. “Spread her, ladies.” He says and I feel the soft hands of his submissives bringing my legs to life as I am spread apart. I begin to feel parts of my body. I am lying down. My hands are raised above me, they might be tied but I do not know. Am I bound? Is that why I cannot move? Have I given up and I am half conscious as he said? And then he slaps my face, hard and suddenly and the world focuses quick behind my eyes. He slaps my face again. “Wake up, Lilith,” he growls at me with a menacing challenge. And then I take in a breath, deep and full, and it is then I realize I have not been breathing, it is then I feel the tube in my mouth, and it is then I understand that this tube is my lifeline, that I am completely bound and covered in a thick casing like second skin, that my eyes are covered, my hands, my legs, my stomach, my face and head. I am immersed. I breathe now easy and steady and the rhythm of my own breath wakes me up and I sink into this cocoon, every sense deprived, my hearing muffled, the voices coming to me as distant sonorous humming, my vision darkened by this hood, my eyes sealed shut I could not open them if I tried, my body tightly encased in a hot heavy costume – I wonder if I look like the beautiful tall mistress, her body covered in her black shiny snake skin. I breathe in and out, steady and strong now, no longer disoriented. My legs are spread and I feel a soft gentle air on my sex and on my breasts, and I realize these vulnerable parts are exposed and available to the hands I cannot see. I imagine him circling me as I hear him huffing and breathing heavy and angry around me. I imagine the two lovely naughty submissives waiting to serve him, waiting to take a piece of me should it be offered. Then I feel the firm hands of the Mistress’s on my body. A hand slaps my breasts and pinches and pulls my nipples holding my breasts out and stretching my skin until I want to scream but cannot. I can only breathe deep into my tube and feel and take in the pain in my immobility. “Yes, she is awake,” a feminine voice says. I think it is the rope Mistress. Yes, she is close to me checking my vitals by torturing my breasts. I feel another hand on my sex. It pinches my clitoris, slaps my skin and spreads the lips of my cunt apart, wider and harder, until I want to break out of my bound prison and scream. But I can only breathe deeper and moan from somewhere far away in my chest. “Yes, she is awake now,” she says and it is the voice of the latex goddess, powerful and mischievous all at once and if I wasn’t covered and forced to breathe from a tube I would smile, intrigued by her presence. And one more hand weighs heavy on my chest, next to my heart and rests there with pressure as if holding me down, as if I might get up and run away. “She has not given up. She has not had enough, this I know.” It is the sinuous elegant voice of the Lord who whipped my sex with his crop, whipped my open sex until this oblivion set in and I awake here once again surrounded by them all, once again in their charge and at their will.

And suddenly their hands are gone and I feel terribly alone and isolated in the blackness of my prison. I yearn now for their hands, even the wicked torture of my resuscitation and I wonder once again if I have pleased them, if they think I nearly gave up, that I was not strong enough to complete my initiation, my claiming, that I would not run this gauntlet with the fortitude I desire, that they could possibly have pushed me too far and though no voice of mine said to stop, it was my body that spoke for me and collapsed in surrender. Then a voice comes very close to my ear. It is the honey silk voice of the Mistress who suspended me in her rope. She seems to whisper as if to be heard only by me. I strain as minutely possible toward her to take in her words. “We nearly let you go, Lilith. You are so close. But one here would not let you go. I don’t know if that is because he believes in you or wishes to see you weep and capitulate and beg for mercy. Maybe both. We must leave you again.” And she is gone and the room is empty and I wait once again at the mercy of my captors. I wait knowing that I face only one. I find it remarkably unfair that now in my moment to face he that has challenged me, he that threatens to run me down and cast me out and overpower me with his undeniable strength over me, he whose eyes I would want to look inside of even if I fall, he that I should like to fight against even if he whips me and opens my sex, fucks me with his angry cock, tortures me with the full expanse of his power, that now as I am presented to him finally, it is not face to face, not even kneeling at his feet, but instead splayed out, deprived of any mobility, entirely covered in this slippery black skin, unable to see, to move, to speak and able to breathe only at the mercy of his allowance, my arms and legs spread out wide, my sex and my breasts exposed and my ass already invaded with this large metal weapon opening me up. I am at his mercy. I am completely and totally immersed in the mercy of dominance. I am completely and unequivocally his, denied even my spite or my unmoved stare back into his eyes, I am now but flesh for him to take. I am entirely at his will and as I wait I can hear him breathing hard like a bull about to cause wreckage, an animal about to strike, and I can do nothing but wait for his charge, nothing but hold on and never give up, never let him break me.


Part 28: The Fifth Room, hour two

Trapped. Body spread. Sex exposed. Captured. I am an animal, caught but not helpless. I will not panic. The dark master walks around me, snorting and breathing the exhaust of the bull, waiting and stalking me as his prey. I am bound beyond moving, tied down to this wicked floor, masked and covered in a thick rubber that constricts my every movement. The thick heavy rubber covers me like a cocoon, and I can hear my own breathing in my head like the ocean pouring out of me. I can feel my body sweating beneath this hot, viscous skin. Then I feel the light touch of air on the one part of my body that is exposed - my sex. My legs are spread wide and tied down, my arms above me. I cannot see for I am masked. I cannot move for I am bound. I cannot fight for I am restrained. I can only let go and submit my body to him and to the evil devices of his two naughty submissives as they wait like little vampire slaves to get a morsel of me. I remember them as beautiful and terribly deviant in their sweet innocence – the very worst kind – deviant submission. Maybe I recognize it all too well. But of course this bull would have his evil muses. And so I decide, as I suck in the precious air from the tube in my mouth, that I will raise my hips up as much as my restraints will allow, I will arch my back that millimeter of allowance under the weight of the chains that bind me, to offer my sex to him, and I will breathe deep and slow so that he will know that I am ready for him even as I am restrained, so that he will know he can capture me, flay me, whip me, devour me, but I am as strong and resilient and unbreakable as he – even if it should appear I have lost and I am beaten. He does not bring out in me the beauty and submission I wish to present, but rather some great challenge to my being, my woman that I seem to only be able to match with the anger he reflects back to me. As I am offering myself, well in truth, challenging him by offering myself, he comes close to my covered head and growls in my ear “spread your fucking cunt like that.” And then he strikes my sex hard and fast and the pain reverberates through my body. He strikes me again and the pain is sudden and sharp. He strikes my pussy again and I realize he is using no other weapon than his hand. We are flesh to flesh. He strikes my open sex again, slaps my clitoris again and again, then with his broad open hand ascends down hard and unforgiving on the wet swollen flesh of my sex. Then he pushes the heavy metal stone that he had furiously pushed up my ass deeper inside me, commanding me wordlessly to open up and though I feel a fight in me, I do, I open up and I feel the warm release of my ass spread by his thrusting movements, in and out of my ass with this hard object, his only weapon invading me while be continues to beat my sex. And then it stops. I am breathing hard. He puts a hand on my chest. Is he checking my breathing? Holding me down? Keeping his prey alive? I am restricted in my ability to breathe and I feel the soft edges of lightheaded stars fill my head and the stinging of my body and the vulnerable pain of immobility and sensory deprivation threaten to overtake my awareness. It is quiet around me. I breathe deep and I steady myself, and though I feel strong there is a relief in the sensations of his forceful touch and for a moment I let go and melt into the floor and feel every nerve in my pussy, every thrilling, rebellious pulse of my ass, and every desire to find out who I am if I let go and be taken by this man. I am left with nothing but my exposed sex, exposed breasts – the most vulnerable and sensitive, sexual and primal, parts of myself; I am left with nothing but the desire to either let him finish me or just be the truth of myself and open my body and my soul to this one – to fight or let go, fight or give in, or maybe, maybe stand up and submit. Breathing in and out, in and out through my tube. I am the rubber doll, cathartic in my chrysalis, this slippery womb of rubber. Then little hands pinch my breasts. The evil muses are checking my pulse by pinching the tender flesh of nipples. They slap me and I hear muted giggles and I know this is an instant of reprieve. They are just distractions to me, a moment to catch my breath. They are little pretty butterflies on the walls of my consciousness but distractions also to the greater event unfolding before me. And then there is silence and I am left once again to the unknown around me.


Part 29: The Fifth Room, hour three

When I think I can no longer suck in enough air through this unforgiving little tube in my mouth, when I think I can no longer endure the pain of my arms and legs outstretched and chained down, when I think I might suffocate in misery or pleasure, I cannot quite discern which, in the rubber that covers every part of my body except for the open exposed flesh of my breasts, my sex and my ass filled up with the metal jewel spreading me open, he comes to me and slowly, slowly pulls the tube from my lips and then the mask from my face. I keep my eyes closed, but I breathe deep, so deeply that his scent hits me with the intoxicating pungent drink of his masculine. He says close to my ear, “I want to hear you scream. I want to see your face.” And with that, he calls his two prissy pretty submissives to peel the rubber from my body, to pinch and lick and claw at my skin like hungry cats as they strip me of my latex cocoon, all wet and slippery and oppressively hot until I am freed of my restraints and naked once again to face the Minotaur Master. My sex is pulsing and alive and uncontrolled as I move my arms to my sides, my legs together and in my naked wet skin, I stand up, not to fight him, not to prove myself, but with the stinging flesh of my body, my sex and the open forbidden of my ass. I stand before this powerful and beautiful man and meet his eyes finally, not with scorn, not with surrender, but with truth. He comes to me then, masked, heavy, masculine, dangerous and pulls my head back. Then he releases me and slaps my face. He slaps me again, but I stand now naked before him ready to take him in, ready to offer my body to him. He is masked still and I wonder for a moment if I know him and then he looks deep into me, controls me and slaps my face – this time not in anger but in some message to me. “Bend over,” he says. Somehow in the sweet intoxicating space of physical freedom and the ability to breath, I am hyper aware of all my senses and yet on the threshold of something greater. This dark volatile man then takes my arms and spins me around and forces me to bend over. Two sweet scented women appear suddenly and hold my head and arms down, stroking my skin as I am forced to bend over, forced to spread my legs, forced to be naked and exposed to his willing. He kicks my legs open and pushes the large heavy metal jewel deeper up into my ass. His submissives hold me and I sink further into my bent position as he moves the objects up and down, around, in and out of my ass. Then he strikes my buttocks. And again he hits me with his bare hand against my flesh while he moves the jewel deeper inside me, around and around and the deviant muses hold me bent over and stroke my hair and pin my arms and coo with the awful honey of their naughty obedience. I struggle and push against them but I also remain bent over, my legs spread apart, my sex – that primal vulnerable slit of wet pleasure and pain – exposed and now finally waiting for whatever he will thrust inside me – his hand, his whip, his cock, his women, his beating, his torture. “Spread.” I know his voice, but I don’t want to believe it is he. I know his scent and I know I meet him now with the greatest challenge of all my tests. Then he straitens me abruptly and spins around to face him. He hits my breasts, strikes my face and throws me to the ground. He kicks my legs open and strikes my sex, then takes my arms behind me and pushes me into the floor. We are in some erotic dance, like the Apache, the Tango, the rape of Persephone heightened in the dark underworld chasing a longing both painful and liberating. Then he lifts me with the jewel in my ass and I cry out. Now I resist. I begin to fight back. I strike out at him, at the air, but he pushes me back again. “Bend over,” he screams out in a deep angry command. “Bend over now, you narcissistic bitch.” It is too much. For all that I could fight him, a command still resonates and though I hate him to boiling and yet want him in desperation, I bend over. I spread my legs again and I bend over to him – knowing I am wet, my cunt exposed, this primal animal sex of mine spread out to him. And then he pulls the weapon from my ass, pulls it out of me with no regard, forcing me to open and rebel against the sudden ripping of my body, ripping me open and emptying the jewel from the cavern of my ass. But I stay in my position. I stay bent over and spread and I breathe deep and for all his dominance and anger, I relax my body and present myself to him and I breathe out and I open my ass to him, I open my cunt to him, I show him my insides. I want to scream at him, but the fight is replaced with something far greater, far more powerful. He comes to me then as I am spread open and he speaks slowly into me, close to my face, holding onto my hair tightly. “You are not capable of being submissive like you think you are supposed to be. I took all your senses away, all your mobility and still you rise up and thrust your cunt to me. If you stop being defiant maybe you will give yourself willingly. You want me to whip your pussy? Because of your anger, your pride, your spite? Why don’t you give me your open cunt because you know you can, because you are powerful enough to meet me with your whole self and not your ego? I don’t beat the woman you presume to be. I beat the beast that is your ego and when that battle is won, not with me but with yourself, then you will know what it feels like to have me beat you, and I will know the great pleasure of beating you the woman and not breaking the walls of you, your ego. Give me your submission. Meet me. You. Yes I am angry but less that you are so fucking self-obsessed, but that you are powerful enough to meet me with your truth and you are caught not by me or any rope that can bind you but by your own entrapment. Give me your body, your soul, your cunt, your submission.”

I know I can be tied up, bound, presented, whipped, opened up, caned, commanded, restrained, forced to obey the will of my dominators, stripped and made to walk the thresholds of pain and final release, but to stand truly naked and face the true power of the bare hand of a man, the bare reality of his orders upon me, is a far greater challenge. I stop fighting out of anger, out of defiance, because of my pride. I don’t challenge him but I meet him and our collision is primal and deeply sexual and all encompassing, and I begin to witness the great powerful control of his dominance.

He releases me and steps away. I turn to him then, lower myself to the ground and with the simple naked of my woman, I crawl to him on my hands and knees, and I bow down to him and hold onto his leather boots. I crawl to him as my full self, then I lean back and fall to the ground before him, spread my legs, open my arms, look up at his towering figure surrounded by the beauty of the two submissives, and I open my sex, my heart and I let every thought, every need to explain, go and then with the deepest calm and greatest pulsing sexual turn on, I close my eyes.


Part 30: Finale

And so when I finally fell to the floor naked, released of any need to prove myself, owning my submission in its power and truth and allowing myself to be taken on the journey of my deepest calling, was I able to give myself fully to each of these divine masters. And when the Minotaur took me into the maze of his dominance, I did not seek to escape but rather to get lost in the mysterious dangerous house of captivity, freed at last. It seemed many hours that he explored my sex and tore at my body with the great heavy pleasure of his strength. And when the totality of exhaustion finally took hold of my body and I collapsed to the ground, it was laughter and weeping that overtook us both. And as I awake now in a bed - of all great tortures - after this long journey, I wake with the memory of this dark lord taking off his mask and showing me the face of a man I already knew. I imagine my journey is far from over but just as a warrior fights a battle to prove his strength, I claim only a humble victory for the moment. What I do know is that, though my rebellious or prideful nature may arise, I understand its source and I do tremble at the thought that one man has discovered that in me and still claims me – maybe that challenge excites him. Maybe that is what this is all about – taming and untaming, letting the fire of emotions run wild only to reign them in with the equal inferno of dominance, falling and righting oneself again, demanding the most of thresholds in the deliverance of endurance, pain or the psychological plunder that renders me not helpless or beaten down but alert to my inner being, the magic complex wonders of my psyche and my deepest sensory exploration on the map of my body; that shock to the system is also an awakening, that force and sometimes the horror of bending over and exposing my sex can be frightening, sometimes almost humiliating, vulnerable and deeply deeply erotically charged and an exceptionally beautiful experience in the control and command of his dominance.

He put a thin silver collar around my neck and the quick click of the lock closing sent chills of pleasure through my body. He led me to the center of the candle filled room and commanded me to kneel amongst the hot dancing flames of the thousand little fires. This time I did not have to prove I would remain and obey for he knew I would. On my knees I knelt before the procession of my captors. First, the beautiful Blond Mistress, her ropes in her hands, her breasts and luscious curves caressing the air with her sexual feminine. She pulled my arms behind me and tied my wrists with her sweet smelling hemp rope, and I understood what it was to submit to the feminine mystique, bound in beauty, suspended from the self, caught in the willing web of her kindred. Second, came the elegant tall Master in his long cape still wielding his crop. I am breathless in his presence. He walked to me and raised my chin with his leather weapon and then leaned over me and struck my ass, once, twice and a third time filling me with sharp commanding pain. From him I learned surrender, surrender to the power of the masculine – the narcotic balance of being given freedom and being forced to hand it over. Third, my wonton kindred spirit, Lady Latex, glided toward me like a snake, her body covered in her wet silky rubber costume, her body criminally sexual and crying out for me to stroke her, to run my hands up and down her slick snake skin. She caressed my face, then slapped me lovingly, reminding me that even this Mistress succumbs to her naughty pleasures and though we may seem to be at opposites sides – dominance and submission – we are more the same than we realize and our playground, our stage is wide open for deviant imagination. I licked her rubber hand then and I couldn’t help but smile until she turned and walked away. I continued to kneel. Then finally, through the fire, Vidad came to me – radiantly handsome, angry, powerful and primal, the challenger, my dominant, and the world made sense at last.

And when I am left alone again, kneeling in the room where it all began, feeling the hot pulse of my skin from the ropes, the crop, from being whipped and bound, feeling the wet warmth of my sex, my body opened and plundered, forced open in pain and pleasure, I don’t wait for what will happen next, but instead kneel in the great pleasure of the moment. Of course, my mind does begin to wander at some point, and from the corner of my eye, I think I see the silhouettes of the lovely sexy submissives all constrained in their corsets, their sex bare and their breasts heavy and exposed, and I wonder, just for a moment, how I might attract their attention….

(End…)


c. 2007 Lady E.