hissed the first time he’d seen the marks. It was the day after a particularly brutal session. “Oh my fucking God ,” was all he could spit out. He didn’t do any lecturing, didn’t even ask for details. He’d just said, “I don’t want to know,” and that was probably for the best.
I had to wear flesh colored dance panties under my tights and leotards, thick enough not to be seen through. But an allover body stocking would have raised some eyebrows, so I begged Matthew the very first week we played not to mark my legs or back. “Of course I won’t, Lucy,” he’d said, “if it will interfere with your work.” So while he owned me, it was a fluid ownership, one where he did not always make all the rules.
And there were so many rules on his side, rules that changed all the time. New rules that were made, old rules he got tired of and discarded, that I was then punished for continuing to follow. But he followed my two rules without complaint and I was thankful for that, because I didn’t get fired, and I didn’t get pregnant.
It turned out to be true, what he’d said about not being interested in most aspects of BDSM. He didn’t do collars or gags or leashes, or any S/M rituals or verbiage. His only agenda was using my body as he wanted to, as his vessel, his object, his tool. His tool for fucking, inflicting pain, caressing, his tool for holding beauty always within reach of his hands.
He did eventually develop some very specific demands about my appearance. I had to wear dresses or skirts with stockings, and no panties to get in his way. I was permitted to wear only one shade of expensive lipstick, a shade called Nutmeg. It was darkish purplish red, and I felt like a naughty little slut when I wore it. I felt like a vamp, a harlot, but he liked it because it made my lips stand out against my pale skin. I think he strove always for the china doll look for me. He was a collector, after all.
But not a doll collector, no, he had no dolls except me. He collected many other things, though, like sex toys and dildos, the more invasive and threatening the better. Paddles, whips and crops, canes, he collected those too. He collected sexy panties and lingerie, which always fit me perfectly. I suspected he had them custom made, the fit was so true. He bought me stockings of all types and colors, plain or back-seamed, and embellished with all manner of things. Bows or rhinestones, fur and lace, soft French stockings that felt like a caress on my leg.
Of course, whatever he collected for me, it was classy, of the utmost quality and beautiful design. He never put me in degrading or slutty lingerie, and forbid me to wear anything like that even when we were apart. The sex toys he bought for me were top class also. They were never cheap latex or rubber. They were always artisan pieces, sleek metal or glass. One day when he revealed a new and shiny plug to me, I asked jokingly when he’d buy me a solid gold one. Or platinum , I’d snickered, even better . I couldn’t help it, the irony of it made me laugh. He laughed a little too, before he thrust it up inside me and punished me for disrespect.
But it was patently clear from the beginning that he needed his base and vile desires to be somehow made into something elegant and fine. I thought sometimes of his dirt poor beginnings. His deep obsession with elegance and beauty made me think he must have come from a very ugly place indeed.
I was taught exactly how to address him, and in a way it colored the way I related to him all the time. Always deferentially, always formally, the same quiet way that he spoke to me. It didn’t come naturally. I was not a mannerly person. I hung out all day with a bunch of rude, egotistical dancers. Sometimes I spoke to him in ways he didn’t like and he quickly let me know. My inflection, my accent, all of it was criticized and improved. If I spoke in a way that annoyed him, he would slap me sharply or give me a shake and I’d have
I had to wear flesh colored dance panties under my tights and leotards, thick enough not to be seen through. But an allover body stocking would have raised some eyebrows, so I begged Matthew the very first week we played not to mark my legs or back. “Of course I won’t, Lucy,” he’d said, “if it will interfere with your work.” So while he owned me, it was a fluid ownership, one where he did not always make all the rules.
And there were so many rules on his side, rules that changed all the time. New rules that were made, old rules he got tired of and discarded, that I was then punished for continuing to follow. But he followed my two rules without complaint and I was thankful for that, because I didn’t get fired, and I didn’t get pregnant.
It turned out to be true, what he’d said about not being interested in most aspects of BDSM. He didn’t do collars or gags or leashes, or any S/M rituals or verbiage. His only agenda was using my body as he wanted to, as his vessel, his object, his tool. His tool for fucking, inflicting pain, caressing, his tool for holding beauty always within reach of his hands.
He did eventually develop some very specific demands about my appearance. I had to wear dresses or skirts with stockings, and no panties to get in his way. I was permitted to wear only one shade of expensive lipstick, a shade called Nutmeg. It was darkish purplish red, and I felt like a naughty little slut when I wore it. I felt like a vamp, a harlot, but he liked it because it made my lips stand out against my pale skin. I think he strove always for the china doll look for me. He was a collector, after all.
But not a doll collector, no, he had no dolls except me. He collected many other things, though, like sex toys and dildos, the more invasive and threatening the better. Paddles, whips and crops, canes, he collected those too. He collected sexy panties and lingerie, which always fit me perfectly. I suspected he had them custom made, the fit was so true. He bought me stockings of all types and colors, plain or back-seamed, and embellished with all manner of things. Bows or rhinestones, fur and lace, soft French stockings that felt like a caress on my leg.
Of course, whatever he collected for me, it was classy, of the utmost quality and beautiful design. He never put me in degrading or slutty lingerie, and forbid me to wear anything like that even when we were apart. The sex toys he bought for me were top class also. They were never cheap latex or rubber. They were always artisan pieces, sleek metal or glass. One day when he revealed a new and shiny plug to me, I asked jokingly when he’d buy me a solid gold one. Or platinum , I’d snickered, even better . I couldn’t help it, the irony of it made me laugh. He laughed a little too, before he thrust it up inside me and punished me for disrespect.
But it was patently clear from the beginning that he needed his base and vile desires to be somehow made into something elegant and fine. I thought sometimes of his dirt poor beginnings. His deep obsession with elegance and beauty made me think he must have come from a very ugly place indeed.
I was taught exactly how to address him, and in a way it colored the way I related to him all the time. Always deferentially, always formally, the same quiet way that he spoke to me. It didn’t come naturally. I was not a mannerly person. I hung out all day with a bunch of rude, egotistical dancers. Sometimes I spoke to him in ways he didn’t like and he quickly let me know. My inflection, my accent, all of it was criticized and improved. If I spoke in a way that annoyed him, he would slap me sharply or give me a shake and I’d have
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