Retour à Roissy

“You might want to wear pants,” Master commented when He phoned earlier.

It wasn’t an order, so I chose not to follow it. How could Master enjoy me in pants? I wore a micromini, with nothing underneath.

When He appeared at the door, He didn’t look displeased.

“Zita,” He said, coming in. “Are you available?”

“Yes, Master,” I responded, and put my hair up in a single silver pin and dropping into Position 2, pulling the top of my dress down to expose my tits and the hem up to show my ass and pussy.

“You are not wearing pants.”

“No, Master.”

He smiled.

“Very well,” He said. “That was only a suggestion for your sake.”

“My sake, Master?” I asked.

He ignored me, inspecting me. He ran a hand over my tits, which were still bruised and bloody from our session days before.

“My little canvas,” He said.

It stung when He touched me. I clung to the pain greedily.

He pinched my nipple. Hard, then harder.

“Thank You, Master.”

He circled me so He could inspect the marks on my ass. I still carried His hand prints: one on my right ass cheek, one on my inner thigh and one on my back, under my left shoulder blade.

In this dress, He could admire two of them.

“I have a trifle for you,” Master said, circling back to face me.

He lifted my chin with a hand and ran a hand down my cheek.

“May I look at you, Master?” I asked.

“Yes,” He responded.

He slapped me as soon as I opened my eyes and smiled at the pain He saw in them.

“My little painslut,” He said.

“Yes, Master.”

“Whose are you, Zita?”

“Yours, Elias.”

“Who is your god?”

“You are my god, Elias.”

“What do you worship?”

“Your Cock.”

“Very good, devout, little Zita.”

Elias pulled a box from His coat pocket. I watched motionless. He opened it and pulled out a thick, white band.

A collar, with a large metal ring in the center.

He placed around my neck.

“Do you know what this is, Zita?”

“A collar, Master.”

“A symbol,” He said, his voice soft. “That you belong to Me.”

He tightened it.

“You will wear it whenever we go out and whenever else I indicate.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Arrange your dress, Zita.”

I did as instructed and began to rise.

“Did I tell you to get up?”

I returned to position: “no, Master.”

He pulled the collar so the ring was on the back of my neck. I heard a small click and then felt a tug.

“We’re going for a little walk.”

Kneel on the floor, folding each leg gracefully underneath the thighs, knees together and back straight, with the feet flat on the floor and the buttocks resting over them.

Position 9 is Master’s favorite position. It is commonly known as seiza, which means “correct sitting” in Japanese. Traditionally, when in seiza posture, it is preferable to move on the feet and knees rather than standing up to walk. This is to be observed if beckoned by Master while sitting seiza-style.

It isn’t uncommon for the uninitiated to experience pain, loss of circulation and numbness the first few times they try to sit in seiza posture. Physical discomfort lessens with experience. Until then, delight in it: it’s a gift from Master.

To mold the mind and body, to cultivate a vigorous spirit and through correct and rigid training to strive for improvement in your servitude. To hold in esteem the notion of complete devotion. To associate with your Master in sincerity and to forever pursue the cultivation of yourself as His property. That is The Way.

General Information:

The shinai is a practice sword used primarily in kendo, the Japanese martial art of fencing.

The shinai is made of four slats known as take, which are held together by three leather fittings. It’s composed of the tsuka-gawa, or handle; the saki-gawa, or tip; and the nakayui, or leather strip.

The slats of a shinai are generally made from dried bamboo, though some may also be treated (either smoked or resin soaked) or made from carbon fiber reinforced resin or other alternative materials.

Oiling or sanding a shinai prior to use, and periodically during use is recommended to extend the weapon’s life. Because it is made of bamboo, which easily splinters, and because bamboo splinters infect so easily, shinai should be inspected before and after each use. The shinai’s saki-gawa should be intact and the tsuru should be tight so that the saki-gawa can’t slip off the end and the nakayui should be secure as to not rotate easily.

It should be noted that when a shinai is placed on the ground, it’s considered a gross breach of etiquette to step over it. This makes the shinai a particularly useful tool in discipline as a means to keep a slave from nearing a zone that is off-limits.

The maximum recommended length of shinai for an adult male is 47 inches, weighing between 1.12 and 0.97 pounds, with a sakigawa of a minimum diameter of 1.02 inches and a length of 1.96 inches.

Purchasing information:

Shinai are available from Big T Sports for $27.95 (44″), as well as Kata Uniform Supply for $25.00 (41-44″), and Open Tip shinai are $25.63 (46″).

I slide open the door and take a long drag from the cigarette in my hand. It’s cold for a summer night. My feet abandon the comfort of the carpet and meet the cold wooden boards of the porch. I let the chill work its way up my spine with every step, the cold, dry wind creeping into my bones with each step.

I know the sand won’t be much warmer. But I don’t hesitate. It’s almost wet with morning mist. The sky is almost dark electric with cold. You can smell the ocean before you see it in the dark. I walk until I reach the shoreline. Frozen time, frozen space.

Slowly, I slip out of my sweat pants, my hoodie, my shirt, my burgundy and pink lingerie. Naked in the cold, in the dark, in the night. I walk.

Nothing can prepare you for the shock of ocean against your body. But the only way to do it is to not stop, not for one minute, until you’ve been swallowed by the wave.

I take another step before a force pushes me forward, and I fall, face-first, into the spinning sand of the breaking wave.

I kneel, slowly, cold, and look over my shoulder at You, at the smile playing on Your lips like a wolf before he devours his prey.

I am Your prey.

You take me by the hair and pull me out of the water. You drag me out to the shore and pull me to You, my body frozen against Yours, smoldering with energy and body heat.

You regard me through narrowed eyes, then force me on my knees, and I go down into Position 2.

You smack my face with Your solid Cock, firm in the cold.

I take You in my mouth and suck You, devoted to Your pleasure, eyes downcast so as not offend You with my unworthy stare. But I want to look, I want to see what my miserable mouth can make You feel.

I don’t dare.

You have me by the hair again. You pick me up and press me against Your body again, Your Dick pressing against my thigh, teasing my cunt, wet with salt and wet with want, I face the waves.

You push me down again. My knees, sensitive from the cold water, are defenseless against the coarse sand. I moan going down and a wave comes to cover my mouth.

I choke on sand, and thank You for making me choke.

You push me forward, so my cunt is accessible to You. You slap my ass.

I thank you. The waves break on my face. You slap me again, timing Yourself so every scream is met with seafoam and sand. I drink it in. Your Pain is so intense on a wet ass. My pores are clenched in the cold and every slap forces them open and shut tight again, so the power of Your force nearly always knocks me off-balance.

“Thank You, Master,” I say, over and over.

And then You gift me with Your Cock, and I take it in, shaking, shaking so hard. Shaking from the cold, shaking from how much I want You, shaking from how much Your Pain makes me feel alive.

I don’t deserve You.

I am nothing.

I am Yours.

His Desire, His Delight, His Pain, His Pleasure, His Whim, His Power, the all-encompassing, all-consuming fire of His energy.

He is the world. When His Cock is inside me, the world is inside me, I am given everything, filled with everything.

His Pain makes me transcend. His Pleasure reconfigures me.

“You’re Mine,” he says.

I am, I am.

This want is more powerful than the most basic instincts.

Here we are. Little motel room on the edge of civilization. Master opens the door. The room smells like stale smoke, sex and darkness. The walls are wet with stagnant summer heat.

I walk to the mirror, remove my sunglasses and put my hair up. Elias comes behind me and puts His hands around my waist. I close my eyes.

“I do love My property,” He says, looking at my reflection.

He takes me by the neck and pulls me away from the mirror. He makes me kneel into position two. He inspects my tits, still a little damaged from our session two weeks ago. His handiwork. His masterpieces. He could so easily break me. He could do it with a single hand.

He pulls me to my feet and asks me to strip.

“May I remove my shoes?” I ask.

“No,” He responds, undressing. “Bend over the bed, your ass in the air.”

No sooner have I done that His Cock is inside me.

His Cock! His Cock, his beautiful, perfect, solid Cock. He doesn’t waste any time on the preliminaries. He fucks me hard and deep. With each stroke, my vaginal walls expand–painfully, delightfully, and I whisper, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He pulls out. He slaps my face. He slaps my tits and my ribs and my thighs and works His way up again to my face. He pauses to tie me up, then fucks me more. I’m screaming so loudly, He stops, flips me over and asks me whether I’m crying.

Expressionless, I look up at Him, “do you want me to?”

He gags me.

He begins to finger me, powerfully, violently, focusing on my G-ridge to the point of discomfort. I struggle and fight the dizzying, intoxicating pleasure and pain. He subdues me and eats my pussy. I struggle harder. He flips me over, slapping my ass until it’s raw.

Then, He disappears from view.

“Don’t move,” my Master orders.

When He comes back, He has clothes pins.

“Open your mouth,” He instructs, removing the gag. “And stick out your tongue.”

He puts a clothes pin on my tongue and a couple on my labia before settling back to eating my pussy. I struggle, confused by the pleasure He bestows on me, wanting no part in it, while simultaneously wanting all of it. I’m ashamed of my desire for it. I don’t deserve it. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t–

Each moan and scream causes the pin in my mouth to vibrate and press down on my tongue. The pain possesses me. I am resonating with pain and life. I can hardly breathe.

Elias moves over me and removes the clothes pin, licking my face from chin to forehead. In the dimness of pleasure and the high of pain, He looks like Anubis, jackal-headed god of the dead, licking my face as though I’m a murdered queen, being welcomed to His mountain of eternal rest.

(Oh, Anubis, when You hold my heart in Your hand, will You find its weight sufficient? Will You deem me worthy of Your realm?)

He gets off the bed and comes around to me and this dead queen sucks His holy, throbbing Dick. Then He picks me up and throws me to the other side of the bed, where He positions me as I had been before, with my cunt in the air for Him to fuck.

As He pumps into me, He bites my ear, He bites my neck. I can feel His breath and moans on my jaw and hair lines; they send shivers down my spine.

“Tell me you’re a dirty slut,” He commands.

“I’m a dirty slut.”

I’m Your dirty slut. I’m everything You want. Anywhere You want. However You want.

“I want to destroy you, you know that, don’t you?” He whispers in my ear.

Master, I love Your destruction.

“How much?” I ask. “How much do you want to destroy me?”

“Completely,” He replies, moaning.

I live to be Your servant, Your victim, Your creature, Your vessel, Your canvas, Your pleasure.

His Cock pounds into me with every breath, unrelenting; it feels so good, it hurts so much, I’m delirious.

I remember the thick curtains hanging like dead bodies from rods across the window, turning day into night. I remember the solace of sheets like construction paper. I remember the reflection of His body over mine. I want to be flattened by His essence, crushed under His frame.

He’s greater than life. Under Him, I truly am insignificant.

Thus He fucks me and tortures me, He fucks me and He slaps me and He beats me and He spanks me and He uses me and He hammers that solid Cock of His into my cunt until He gets to the edge and then He pulls me off the bed by my hair, throws me on the cheap, burgundy rug and covers my face with His glorious Cum. So, so much Cum.

“Thank you, Master,” I say.

He lifts me into His arms, leads me to the sink, runs the water, takes a towel and begins to wipe my face.

There is no transition between the Tyrant who owns me and the Protector who is delicately wiping my face clean. They are the same Man. I am His property, to destroy and maintain as He desires.

With my eyes focused on their reflection, I swung the belt over my shoulder. I expected the pain, which was so rightly mine, but my hand faltered at the last length and the leather came down without a sting.

The body is a wonderful machine. Will cannot easily prevail over biology. For the most part, the creatures of this earth have been crafted to seek pleasure and avoid pain. Even those of us self-proclaimed algolagnists are bound to the carbon-form. And the carbon-form is hardwired to avoid pain.

I look at my night stand, lined with multi-colored veladoras that seem chained together by the rosaries strewn around them. What is it like for the Carmelites? Do they hesitate the first time or does the knowledge of God guide them?

Don’t I know God?

“Elias, You are God,” I whispered and brought the belt over my shoulder.

The sting was paralyzing. I brought the belt back, feeling it build momentum, then swung it back onto my back. And again. And again.

I deserved it. Maddened by the dearth of my Master’s discipline and pain, I’d done the unthinkable: I’d written Him unprompted. Written Him an ode in blood and want so naked, I’d refused to read it after composing it.

I brought the belt down harder as I recalled the offensive late night missive.

Then I paused, walked to my computer on my dressing table and opened a browser. There, in my sent folder, I could see the first line of my words in the preview.

I took a seat and, belt in hand, began to read out loud:

“I know a proper slave wouldn’t speak unless spoken to and neither would she write unless she’s written to; however, my Master’s absence–” I gasped as the frequency of lashes increased, “causes me such destructions, makes me restless, so restless and desperate (I will punish myself for this, punish myself brutally—I’ll make my Mater proud in my devices for my torture)–”

I paused briefly, my back aflame, my heart pounding so hard that I could hardly hear the sound emanating from the television in the next room. I took a deep breath, drinking in the pain, feeling my penitence, eating my words.

I started again. Faster and harder, then slower to feel the bite of leather, adjusting the position of my hand each time as I better understood the workings of self-flagellation (leave too much leather free and the sting is lessened by the amount of surface area covered. Hold back too much and lose momentum bringing down the belt).

“But before I do, I will write my Master,” I started again, groaning with each sting, “write You, Master, unrequested, and tell You that though I am undeserving of Your Pleasure, I crave it. And though I am undeserving of your Pain… I need it.”

I screamed with the last one, gave it as much emphasis as the font suggested. But I did not stop.

“I am never more alive than when I am in Your Hands,” I said, bringing the belt down on myself again, faster. “Never more aware whack than when my cunt whack is gifted with Your Cock, whacknever fuller whack than when I am made whack the vessel whack of Your Cum, whack never more myself whack than when You whack shape me whack into what You whack want whack me whack to whack be whack so I whack may whack bring whack You whack the highest whack pleasure whack service whack delight.”

I stopped, tears burning in my eyes, threatening to overflow and clouding my field of vision. But I didn’t need to read to know what came next.

Bringing the belt to my back one last time, I whispered, “thank You, Master.”

He brought the paddle down hard and she screamed. The paddle offered no resistance coming down now that He had customized it. He liked the feel of it, the strength of it. Most of all, He liked the way the word MINE looked in blisters on His slave’s ass.

General Information:

Paddles are available at The Perv Mart for $49.00 (16.5″ x 3.25″) as well as The Greek Boutique for $19.99 (22″ x 6.5″). Gift On The Web paddles are $35.00 and their paddles are available for customization.

We walk into the room and He regards me naked, spinning me around to get a look at me.

“This is all Mine,” He decrees, running His hands over me.

“This is all yours, Master,” I respond, my skin tingling where He’s touched me.

All of me is His. Every inch. Every pore. Every hole.

Elias spanks me. Elias feels me up. Elias pats me down. He admires the marks He made that still decorate my body. He bends me over and slaps my ass until it’s raw.

“Show me position two,” He commands.

Position two. I’ve been practicing. As gracefully as possible, I get down on my knees, spread a shoulder-width apart and place my hands behind my neck. I arch my back so my nipples are facing Master and look at Him.

“Where did you learn this?” Elias asks.

“Standard position, Master,” I respond. “There are eight. Seven aren’t Yours. The last is.”

“Why aren’t the first seven Mine?” He asks.

I say nothing. They are His when I give them to Him, are they not?

“Answer!” He yells, taking my hair in one hand and pulling my head back so I can look at Him.

“Because You didn’t invent them,” I respond.

“I see,” He says, releasing His grip for a moment. “Now you are going to perform a service for your Master.”

Elias lets go of me and unbuckles His belt. He drops His pants, slips out of His shirt, removes His shoes and socks and stands naked before me.

I have never beheld my Master like this.

Glorious skin and frame of a man’s third decade, so full of life and vitality. My eyes feast on every ripple of skin over muscle and bone. Oh, Elias, Elias, Elias, when You were created, You were made perfect in the image of Apollo, You wondrous, ithyphallic god.

His Cock’s precise bilateral symmetry rises at a perfect angle.

I take It in my mouth, let Master navigate my movements using my hair, as one guides a horse with reins. Faster, deeper, I choke and gag and thank Him and then start again.

“I haven’t washed today for you to enjoy Me dirty.”

I lick His Dick, His thighs, His balls, taking in His powerful, intoxicating scent.

Taking my hair tightly again, He commands: “get up.”

I rise smoothly, though the hardwood floor hurts my knees.

Once up, Elias pulls my head back and, looking down on me, kisses me.

I gasp.

He reaches down between my legs. He feels how wet I am.

“My little pain slut,” He says.

He kisses me as He fingers me. I moan into His mouth.

“Master,” I whisper.

“Yes?”

“Do I kiss you back?”

“Yes, you may.”

He kisses me again, hard and intense. And I kiss Him back. Tentatively at first, then more naturally. I reach up my hands to His face but I stop myself before I touch Him.

He throws me on the bed.

I remember it in images. My back, arched. His hand gripping my neck. The room fading in and out. The red sheets wet where I’ve ejaculated. I come so hard that it hurts. I’ve never come this hard or this much in my life. It’s so intense I start screaming like I’m dying. My whole body’s shaking.

Master ties my wrists and ankles together. He stretches me across the bed and secures me to opposite legs. I can feel the chords cutting my circulation, cutting into my skin despite the scarves protecting me.

Elias kneels over me, His belt in His hands. He strikes my pelvis, my hip bones. First gently, then harder, moving up to my ribs and tits. I try not to scream.

“Thank me!” He yells.

“Thank you, Master,” I respond.

He slaps me.

“Thank you, Master.”

He slaps me again.

“Thank you, Master!”

He slaps me harder. I scream. This goes on for so long that I almost lose all feeling in my limbs. All I know is the bite of leather every time it lands on me. Sometimes it stops before contact, causing only a small sting, other times it lands in full, causing me to jerk and feel the crushing pain of the restraints on my wrists and ankles.

I thank Him for His pleasure, I thank Him for His pain. I thank Him for everything that He is to me.

“Whose are you, Zita?” He asks.

“I’m yours, Master,” I say.

“Am I your God, Zita?”

“You are my God,” I respond.

He slaps my face. One side, then the other.

“Thank you, Master,” I thank Him, tears welling up in my eyes.

He continues to slap me until I’m crying.

“Thank you, Master,” I say every time.

“Tell Me you love Me.”

I look at Him in silence. He looks down at me.

“Thank you, Master,” I say.

He lashes at me, harder and harder.

I scream and jerk. It feels as though I’ve crushed my right ankle.

Elias releases my feet and then, with His hot, moist hands full of sweat and my cum, He grips my ankles where my skin is raw.

“I LOVE YOU, MASTER!” I scream.

I love you, I love you, I love you. Like a mantra, like a prayer. Yes, yes, yes, everything, everything, everything. Everything I am, everything there is, everything is Yours.

He squeezes my ankles and I scream louder. He crawls over me.

“Zita,” He whispers.

I close my eyes.

“Master, may I look at You?” I ask.

“Look at Me.”

I open my eyes and look up at Him over me.

“Kiss me,” He orders.

And I do. We kiss until the pleasure kissing makes the rest of my body so restless that it becomes a torture.

“Master,” I whisper. “May I wrap my legs around You?”

“Yes,” He says before kissing me again.

And I wrap my legs once and twice around Him and we kiss, body against body, and I feel so much of Him on so much of me, it’s all-encompassing. Suddenly, this moment is everything, consumes everything, from the conception of the fucking universe all the way to the end of time and there is nothing else but the infinite devotion I have for Him, which is greater than everything, even reality, even love, even faith.

So I offer my cunt to Him and when He enters me, it’s a different world. He fucks me with my legs around Him, then over His shoulders, then He fucks me from behind, then I bounce on His Dick, then He fucks me from behind, then I blow Him, then I ride Him, then He’s taking me from behind in the shower—

“Master, I’m your cumdumpster,” I say to him.

He smiles, “cumdumpster. You are.”

When I feel His Cum shoot into me, it’s like a current of fire.

I straighten up, with His Dick still inside me and press against His chest. He’s breathing hard, I’m breathing harder. I slide down to my knees at His feet thanking Him for His glorious Cum.

“Good girl,” He says, petting my head. Then He steps out of the shower.

“Open your legs,” Elias says to me over the phone.

I lay back and spread my legs.

“I want you to slap your inner thigh,” He says. “Slap it hard, over and over until it’s red.”

I slap it. I place the phone between my legs so He can hear.

Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! My thigh is bright red. My hand stings.

“Touch your pussy.”

I take the phone with one hand and touch myself.

I moan.

“Good girl,” Elias says. His voice grows quiet, to a near-whisper, “harder and faster.”

I moan and whimper, fingering myself.

“Now use two fingers.”

I fuck myself the way He finger-fucks me, hard and and deep and vicious and violent, just as He likes it.

“Now three.”

I moan, turn on my side, my legs spread wide.

“Now remove your hand and slap your pussy. I want to hear it. Loud.”

I slap myself. Fuck, it hurts.

“Louder! I want it to hurt!”

SLAP!

“THANK YOU!” I scream, moaning.

SLAP!

“THANK YOU!” I’m breathing so hard, I think I’m going to pass out.

SLAP!

“THANK YOU!”

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! “THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!”

I moan, long and hard.

“Are you about to cum?”

“Mmm,” I respond, “Master.”

“Good girl, now you’re going to cum for Me.”

And so I cum for Him, cum hard and long and hip-quaking, earth-shaking, spine-splitting.

“This isn’t about you,” He says. “Your pleasure if for My pleasure.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You are such a good little slave,” He says. “So ready to please. Remember to stay obedient, Zita.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Bye,” He whispers and hangs up.

+++

My thigh is still red. I can’t describe the place where He takes me. It’s not about pain. It’s not about pleasure. It’s not really about sensation at all; it doesn’t feel like a physical thing.

It’s being and non-being at once.