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From: darla@accessone.com, ming@ra.isisnet.com (DarMing)
Subject: MASTERY  (bdsm) DO NOT XPOST

MASTERY

Ming 1997   (ming@ra.isisnet.com)


I know you are a bit frightened. You don't have to tell me that. I can
see it in your eyes. And of course that is why I insist on this. That
fear. That ringing in your ears. That wavering back and forth between
trust and non-trust. It's all grist to the mill, isn't it? It's all
about the edge. Stupid and insensitive people think it's about pain.
"I got her all the way to safeword in about 4 minutes!" I heard
somebody say that once -- with pride! They were proud of that
'accomplishment'. What a guy! What a super-top! What a moron.

If you want a 'victory' over your sub -- represented by her
safe-wording, then why not use a blow-torch? Why not use a backhoe?
But ask yourself this: What is the point? What does she learn about
herself? That she can be 'broken'? Big news Jimmy -- we can all be
broken. And what, more importantly, does she learn about _you_? That
you are a brute? There are far too many brutes in the world already,
thanks. It really isn't rocket science, is it?

It is, of course, about limits. And also about pressing those limits.
You submit to me -- up to a point. Up to the limit of your trust in
me. But there are things, like this, that you would rather not do.
Almost rather not, to the point of refusing. But that refusal would
clash with your submission. And you do want to give me that gift. I
know that, and you know that I know. But still, disliking this so much
-- _fearing_ it, makes you wonder about that trust. Not a lot of
wonder. Just enough. Every now and then, the mistrust peeks out of
your lovely brown eyes. I see it there for just an instant before it
ducks down out of sight again. And you know that I've seen it. And
that makes you more determined than ever to go through with this. And
round and round we go.

I have you on your back on the edge of the bed. Up on your elbows so
you can see what I'm doing. I take the straight razor out of its case
and open it. I hold it out to you so that you can see the light
glinting off the edge. I look into your eyes but you look at that
edge. You can't tear your eyes away from it. I smile a little smile.
Exactly what I wanted.

I move over to the wall where the strop is hanging. Nothing --
nothing at all, makes a sound exactly like a razor being stropped.
It's a kind of <whing><whing> sound on the canvas side of the strop
and more like a <wheep><wheep> sound on the leather side. I have been
doing this for long enough that I know when the edge has been properly
polished. But this time I'm not shaving myself, so I do the test so
that _you_ can see. Looking into your eyes again, I raise my right arm
and lick the hair on the back of my wrist -- where my watch would be,
if I were wearing it. As I do that, your eyes drop from mine to my
wrist. You watch as I bring the razor to the wetted spot and make one
small stroke. Clean. The hair is entirely sheared off. I smile again.
You shudder.

The show is over. I move to the bed and lay the razor down by your
knee, after first closing it. You let out a little sigh of relief. I
don't think you even realize that you have done it. I move to the head
of the bed and opening the drawer of the bedside table, I take out the
leather blindfold. You have turned to watch me. Your mouth opens then
-- to protest? to reassure me? I don't know, since no sound comes
forth. I wonder if you yourself know. Without speaking -- (what is
there I could possibly say -- "Don't worry"? "I don't want you to see
this"? Absurd!) I put the blindfold on quickly. Then I speak. "Lie
flat." You do. You lie flat on your back trying to stare holes through
the blindfold.

I go into the bathroom. This is the tricky part. What happens next
could ruin everything if it isn't right. If it isn't right, I will
make you laugh, and that would be the end of this. The end of
something that I have planned for a long time. I don't want that. I
don't want it for me, and I _especially_ don't want it for you. So a
couple of hours ago, I jacked up the temperature on our hot-water
heater, all the way. I let the water run in the sink until it is as
hot as it is going to get. That is very hot -- almost boiling. I soak
the shaving brush thoroughly. I can see steam rising from it. Then I
press out the water -- protecting my hand with a wash-cloth and soak
the, now hot rather than cold, brush once more. Only then do I dip the
brush into the shaving bowl and work up some lather. As a final touch,
I dip the well-lathered brush once more very lightly into the hot
water. I am ready.

Back to the bedroom where you are ready too. Your apprehension has
decayed almost to the point of boredom. I can tell by the way you
squirm. You won't be bored for long. "Spread your legs and lift them
as high as you can!" You give a little start -- you hadn't heard my
return, and quickly move to obey me. I move to the edge of the bed and
kneeling down, I apply the brush to your pussy. This is it. If you
giggle at that touch, we are done. But you do not giggle. You give a
sharp hissing intake of breath instead. I am satisified. The lather is
hot enough -- so hot that you almost cannot stand it. The brush moves
over you again, and this time you make a noise that is nearly a
whimper. I lay the brush down on a towel, and pick up the razor again.

Holding the skin stretched with my left hand, I begin to shave. Not
slowly, but not fast either. As the razor touches your skin it must
feel very cold -- especially in contrast with the hot lather. At the
first touch you start, nearly rising to your elbows again. "Still!" I
command, and you sink down again. "You _must_ not move -- I'm sure I
don't have to explain why." No I certainly don't. If you move I might
cut you. And a little voice is saying to you -- inside your head where
you think that only you can hear "You might cut me anyway." But I hear
that voice too. And I smile.

At the start of each stroke of the edge over your skin, there is a
pull as the hair resists. This is followed at once by a release as it
is sheared off clean. Every stroke removes some lather. But the
initial coolness is followed at once by heat -- from the surrounding
lather and from the 'tingle' of the shaved area. You are lying back
during this operation, but I feel a quiver pass through you now and
then. A tremor of fear -- mixed with something else? Yes! All the
lather is gone now -- but I see a few spots that need to be gone over
again. Shall I re-dip the brush? No -- it remains hot enough. I dab on
more lather, and working more quickly and with smaller strokes I soon
finish the 'cleanup'. There can be no mistake. Your fear has been
overtaken by arousal. I know the signs as no other does. Perhaps even
as no other could.

I remove the excess lather with another wash-cloth. As I hold it to
your wonderfully clean pussy, your legs drop a bit. Not much mind you,
but noticably. You are trying to press your pussy harder into my hand.
I drop the cloth then, and place my hands on your thighs, just below
your knees. "Listen to me very carefully." I must speak quite loudly
at this point, as you are sliding off into that 'place' you get to. A
place where it is very hard to reach you. But I can reach you there.
"You _must_not_come_ until I give you permission!" You moan then -- a
curiously negative moan. Not quite a refusal, but as near as you can
get to one and still be 'deniable'. I press your legs back farther
with my hands. This raises your pussy right into my face -- not
touching, but nearly. I hold you there. "I am waiting to hear your
response!" Another moan. And, as I continue to hold you still, finally
you gasp out "I must not come until you give permission."

At once my tongue plunges into you. As deeply as I can delve. This
makes you cry out, and also releases fully the odor of your arousal.
God I love that smell! Up and down and in and out my tongue goes. You
writhe upon the end of it. Or rather you try to, but I am holding you
too tightly for you to move. Rolled up into a ball you are -- a
quivering ball of lust. At last my tongue swirls round and round your
clit. It is becoming a real strain to hold you still -- even though I
am quite strong. And then my tongue flicks right over your pearl and
you cry out again. It is a cry of agony and lust and too many other
things to catalogue. I straighten up. I know your limits and we have
already passed them. "Are you ready to come now?" I know it is a silly
question -- it's part of it. Your angry/passionate/lost/triumphant
shout of "Yes!" is not a surprise to me. But what comes next is a
surprise to you. "Then come!"

I begin to spank your pussy with sharp stinging slaps. Smack, Smack,
Smack, Smack. The first makes you scream, but by the start of the
second, your orgasm is upon us. It is not trivial, that orgasm. It
continues to build more and more intensity as I slap your cunt
fiercely. The faster and harder I spank, the more you scream and
shake. Soon you are screaming constantly and actually ejecting fluid.
It spurts from you, this come, in time to my spanks. Amazing. I've
heard about it, but never before seen it. And then it is time to bring
you down.

This is the very first time I have wondered, however briefly, if I am
going to be the one to safe-word. I'd do it without a thought, if I
thought you were in danger. But I see that you are not. As soon as the
spanking stops, you already begin to subside. But it is a long and not
very steep ramp down. I hold you as many aftershocks hit. I lose track
of how many of them there are. You hold me tight, so tight that I
bruise -- as we discover later. But eventually you are far enough down
the slope to weep. I know that the end is in sight when I see those
tears of release. I stroke your hair and gently kiss the tears away.
Could anybody love or trust me more than you do at that exact moment?
Not a chance.

-- 

bdsm fiction/guest book/salon:
http://www.ourhouse.org
Ming and Darla

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