Phillip lay face down on his bed, lying on a new feather pillow with his battered ass still throbbing. There’d been light pain killers with his meal, and the ache was bearable afterwards. He’d taken a worse beating in the hands of the guards back in prison, with their fists and boots, but this was another novelty that was still threatening, but rather than giving him pride in his conviction it made him ashamed and awkward.
Capital city prostitutes that catered to the jaded tastes of metropolitan clients would offer flogging and binding as a novelty service. He’d been exposed to that once, mid way through university when he went out whoring with his friends and a plump woman with two bow decorated braids had tried claiming to be a bad little girl in need of a spanking. He’d passed her over in favour of a less creative red head with more straight forward services and put it out of his mind as a weird perversion some men paid for, but now he wondered if he should have learned more about the practice.
The hood was padded cloth, and went over his head, lacing up tight so that light was blocked out and he was warmed by his own breath. Muffled claustrophobia made him struggle.
“Why are you doing this!?” Masculine panic, with the tinge of a whine , tainted his voice as the ropes bit into his wrists. “My lady, what did I do?”
It was a better meal than he’d had on a long time, though eating too fast gave him indigestion. After the second course he’d tucked away a large bunch of grapes, three strawberries and an apple, the latter of which Annette neatly segmented for him with a little knife. Finally there was the breakfast liquor, a thick and pungent beverage quaffed from tiny glasses, fermented with the after taste of metals. Most women drank it for their health, more men abstained, but under Annette’s watchful eye he took it down with one swallow.
Phillip shifted in his chair, belly distended with all the food he’d gobbled. The maid was clearing up the dishes from the table. All this time the ever present body guards had lingered in the background, one of them holding the threatening alarm-orange picana.
There was a steaming bath tub, almost large enough to swim in, flanked by decorative marble swans and an enormous urn holding an overflowing bunch of lilies. He slowly eased into the water, his first bath in a month, nervous even to be hesitating at one of Annette’s orders, though she seemed unruffled. She was rolling up the sleeves of her navy blouse, up to her forearms, smiling her small smile. He saw that as she periodically did her hair colour had changed, though this time only a few tendrils of green and chocolate brown escaped the neat confines of a charcoal grey and black scarf.
Hot water soaking in, he didn’t resist as she took his head in her hands, gently sloshing water over his scalp. He felt her palm laden with something cool and viscous, a shampoo that she worked into the short regrowth of his hair. She soaped and rinsed him, using a rough white wash cloth to scrub his shoulders and down his back and belly, massaging and rubbing.
At her instruction he stood up, and she did the same to his buttocks and legs, turning him so she could reach. Splashes of water stained the front of her dress, turning the indigo darker in splotch patterns over her breasts. She left his crotch alone, but the washcloth found its way into the split between his buttocks before Annette told him to sit down again.
Seven things I wish were included in sex-ed, for kinky and non-kinky people alike, including the truth about oral sex, an all too common reality of masculinity and a major reason why matching up your sexuality with other people is always a headache.
Neither mercy nor imagination defined the next week. He saw Annette once a day for about three hours, when she would painfully and painstakingly go over his behavior. She described it as ‘pulling teeth’, because every bit of obedience she beat into him was hard won.
She kept her instructions clear and simple, training Phillip to eat from a bowl on the floor, face down with his mouth in the bland mush she served up and licking the bottom of the bowl like an animal, to keep his defiance bottled up, and to wait as he listened to her, sitting on his heels with his hands on the back of his head. Despite the simplicity he would lose control and back slide, shouting out his real name and his hatred for her and everything she represented, and then she would punish him again, with more pain and hooding, and denial of his one meal a day to soften him further.
Now food was a few feet away from him, chunks of beige and red just out of reach. His arms were tied behind his back, winched so they were pulled up uncomfortably behind him. He’d missed yesterday’s dinner for his defiance, getting nothing but water. His weight was still dropping, though he figured out the daily orange pill was a multivitamin. Phillip looked at the meal in front of him. He was hungry and even with the limited flavour he was drooling at the thought of pressing his face into the bowl. But the restraints were holding him back and Annette held him in place, her hand on the release for the rope.
There is someone out there, throwing up his stories onto his blog all for free, writing my sexuality, my approach to things, all exactly how I want them to be.
I wish someone with a camera and a couple of nice models would take the time to recreate half the scenes he delivers up. I wish more porn had that loving eye for detail, that level of talent and the right sort of connection. It’s not the usual lump of over ripe male flesh served up on a platter of snarling ineffectual pro-tops, selling the fantasy of them and their corsets and untouchability, while daintily trying to tread around the unfortunate presence of their victim. It’s female doms who fuck, but not out of contractual obligation, it’s pain, but pain expressed so good I get the same sadist empathy shivers just from reading.
I wish I could pick out my favourites, but there’s so many I’d have to list half his catalogue. He just throws them up without a second thought, as if it were nothing special to be tossing off weekly little projects, no cross referencing or tagging either. But just for an example, try this one, Eye Candy. Note the way he makes the act of dressing up seem very real and human, and manages to build up the eroticism from the imperfections and lapses inherent in real life. Or this inventive creation that manages to make filling your bathtub with dirt seem like a good idea. Or this one, still something I think about, which matches scene realism and romanticism with rather a lot of pain, Every Square Inch.