SUBMISSION OF THE I
© shadowJewel 2000

THE RITUAL: I await the Master’s beckoning. I cannot believe that I...I sit patiently and await his pleasure. The I who demands perfection from myself. The I who is impatient with delay. The I who must control all in my environment. The I who must constantly remind myself I must not expect of others what I have deemed acceptable in myself. This I willingly waits to relinquish this control. 

THE WAIT.  I feel the need for control ebb. The other me emerges. It is the me only a few have seen. It is the me who, even those closest, never see. It is the me who dwells in the senses only...painting, writing. It is the me who has only before found orgasmic release in a good performance.

THE WAIT. Even more the need for control ebbs. The I recedes into the sensual me. A release from the conventional.  A release from the expected.  Release.  The first humiliation.  Anticipation moistens private regions.  The me becomes aware of the sensualness of surrounding rough texture on bare feet; coolness of satin against warm moisture; smooth suppleness of red leather.

THE SUMMONS. Finally it comes. I approach the half-open door and knock lightly.  The I is still there. Watching. Amazed. The I does not knock lightly, she raps.  But the me waits for permission to enter. 

THE SCENE.  Dressed in black leather, he stands, arms akimbo, cane in hand. The smell of leather permeates. Its perfume fills corners the room and seeps into fabrics. He does not know it yet, but the moisture intensifies.  Humiliation. The I disappears even more. Hidden beneath red satin, I feel the tightening of nipples. The cane beats a rhythmic tattoo on black leather boots. Sensations heighten. A smile, a chuckle.  Conspiracy at the joys about to be shared. Only a few know them. Many fear them.  I did...once.

THE LITURGY: "On the bed.  Knees spread wide.  Lean forward.  What is the purpose of the sub?"

"To provide sexual gratification to the Master."

"Through what?"

"Continual orgasm, Master."

"Yeessssssss.  And what happens if you do not answer intelligently, no matter what?"

"Punishment, Master."

"What kind of punishment?"  The sound of the cane echoes in the room on polished leather. Hesitation in answering.

"Caning, beating, Master."

"We need a more intelligent answer than that."  The sound of the cane whirring through air. The fear, the anticipation are not an act. Will the cane land this time?

"The cane used on the back of the legs, hard, Master."

"Yessssss.  And you will answer all questions promptly, even in the throes of orgasm...."

THE PRELUDE.  The cane lands. It is not so much pain as a shock at the beginning. No, it didn’t hurt. Again.  Harder.  Twice more and I finally flinch.  There is a smile on my face.  Do he see it?  No matter. I am already surrendering the remnants of the I. Nine strokes of the cane. It’s divine.  Cane tapping leather between strokes...sometimes that which I wear, sometimes the boots.  Each tap releases more of the leather’s fragrance.  Focus.  The sound.  Cane on leather.  More anticipation. Another nine.  It is divine.  The skirt is slipped down exposing bare flesh.  Position resumed. Another humiliation.  He knows what will happen when the plug is inserted.  I know.  He takes it in hand, teases, inserts, withdraws, inserts, teases, and finally firmly pushes it home.  Muscles contract.  Protest.  Shock waves travel upward. I feel the first shudder.  The beginnings of the first orgasm.  No control remains. I rock back to increase the pressure.  He laughs.  He knows what has happened already.  So quickly. And another swift nine on bare skin. The spiked roller down the spine calls into readiness every nerve ending throughout the body.  Finally...

THE SURRENDER: Yes, I am ready. I dare not beg.  But I want to become the me.  His finger touches the clit.  He teases it.  It responds.  It has been ready so long.  It is sensitive.  And then he lands a finger on it.  It is as the first stroke of the cane.  But this time it is painful...deliciously so. A shock.   A contraction.  The first true orgasm shudders at this touch.   Control of my most private functions are now his to do as he wishes.  Even in this state of ecstasy I must remain aware of the number.  He demands it.  He expects it. It is my duty. And I count out: one. The clit is stimulated mercilessly, the plug, the cane. Over again: two, three, four, five..."  The nipples. Yes, I love them touched, pinched, twisted, abused. The pleasure is felt deep within my belly. I surrendered even more. I want to pull away, but I don’t.  I writhe,  I squirm, but always return to the never ending stimulation of the clit and plug...even seek out these instruments of the pleasurable torture. What was the term: sensual torture.  For the first time since the beginning I see his face.  A smile.  A gleam.  The scent of his power.

THE PAUSE.  Yes, I must rest.  I can no longer support myself on knees and hands. Relentless orgasm has wracked my body.  Physical exhaustion.  I need to rest.  He allows it.  But I cannot rest.  The clit is engorged.  It wants more.  I want more.   And I know it will come.  More surrender.  Once more the unrelenting stimulation.  Clit.  Plug. Cane. Whip. On breasts, on inner thighs, as I glide into ecstasy.  I rise and, yes, feel him feeling the contractions as I hear my voice in the distance counting....six, seven, eight.... I force myself back and open my eyes. He is smiling.  Yes.  I am allowed to do this... encouraged ...expected.  I drift back into feeling only...reacting.  He has the power and I trust him with it… fifteen…seventeen…twenty.  They build.  The first ones are gentle.  Stimulating.  A slight contraction in the walls of the womb.  They subside.  Then another.   And another.  Building from orgasmic contractions of the womb to a shudder that consumes the entire body…again…again.  And I slide even deeper into the ecstasy. I float. I watch. I become quiet,  Sounds are too difficult.  Feeling is too intense.  Only one sensation fills the body.  He senses I have reached this state.  And stops.  It is the moment of absolute surrender. I am totally in the power of my Master.

THE SERVICE: He sits.  I kneel before him and feel the boots wrap around my neck.  I make love to them. I caress them with my cheek.  I kiss their softness.  I am intoxicated by the smell...the touch...and the service. The threat of punishment further arouses me as he strings out his ultimate release. I remain between his legs, held firm by the leather.  One more pause orchestrated to intensify the pleasure.  Permission is finally granted.  Mouth watering, I close around him.  Hungry lips surround the shaft.  I slide over him, take him deep into my throat.  Flicking a tongue along the back side of the shaft,  I taste the musky maleness.  Holding his sack, pressure at the root to prolong his pleasure I hesitate until he is ready.  He withholds his release, creating doubt I am serving him well.  Only upon his command am I allowed to withdraw the pressure and he allows me to enjoy the gift of him.  I accept his benevolence as the whip rains one last flurry of kisses.  Yes, his sub is once again floating.

THE AFTERMATH: I don’t want the I to return just yet...I want the me to linger a little longer. There will be few marks tomorrow. But I will remember. From time to time a twinge of a sore muscle will remind me.  I know there is no turning back.  I savor the point where pleasure and pain become one.  The kiss of the cane and the orgasm are locked.  I can never settle for less.  This is the me, what I am, and what the Master wants me to be.

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