Yours
It was a beautiful bouquet, and your handwritten message was clear on that note, nestled among the roses:
“Pack a bag with everything you need for a black-tie dinner, including that slutty formal dress. At 6 pm on Thursday, two men will arrive to escort you to a safe location where I’ll be waiting for you.”
For the next two days, I lived in a state of combined trepidation and happiness, fully aware of what you meant and what your plans were. I accepted it long ago, perhaps foolishly, without thinking, because I gave up my freedom and my free will to you. I ached for two entire days, caught between fear and anticipation, experiencing moments of excitement that made me come repeatedly, followed by pure terror at the thought of not being strong enough, of disappointing you.
I waxed, I shaved, trimmed my hair with a light shine, pushed myself to the edge at the gym, and barely ate a thing so I would look my best. I wanted to be fit, my skin taut, my mind as sharp as a blade. I wanted to be spectacular. I tried to sleep, waking up drenched in the middle of the night, sensitive to even the smallest touch. I wandered in and out of my flat, watching TV without understanding or paying attention. I was there, and yet I wasn’t.
Preparing for such an event is a strange occupation. I packed the bag three times, and laid the dress in its cover on the sofa, worried the silk might crease even the tiniest bit. I wanted to be perfect. I spent hours staring vacantly, nearly bought cigarettes and had to fight the unfamiliar urge.
The sound of the doorbell made me jump to my feet, only to feel my legs weaken. I opened the door to two massive men, who looked like bouncers or bodyguards. “Miss D? Mr. A sent us.” They led me to a black car, and I remember nothing of the journey but the lights of the city, flashing bright in the cold, wet winter night, all speaking to me in a language only I could understand. We stopped in front of a dark building that resembled a castle or perhaps a prison, and I passed through the doors like a convict on a fateful walk.
I saw silhouettes, heard low voices, and felt eyes following me as my heels clicked against the concrete, reverberating in a metallic rhythm. I thought they all knew, and I was right. They knew and watched me pass, like a lamb on a final journey to some cruel altar. I was surrounded by strangers, walking in a haze, barely conscious of my surroundings—a chair, a dressing room, flowers, laughter, music. A party was in full swing. Someone offered me a drink; I refused, my heart pounding painfully, almost desperately. I accepted champagne instead, which helped ease my nerves even as it made me dizzy. I nibbled on sushi but could barely finish a bite.
The door opened, and she entered—a vision of stunning beauty, surreal in her presence. She might have been fifty, but she was as fit as a dancer, with dark, intelligent eyes. A born Mistress. I was captivated by her, like a mouse hypnotized by a feline. She looked me over, then nodded.
“Undress, dear—completely—and put on these cuffs. Keep your heels.” Her voice was warm and comforting but left no room for debate. I began to disrobe, glancing at her as she leaned against the wall, sipping champagne and watching me intently. I took off my jacket, then my blouse, and, catching her eye, saw the faintest hint of approval. Emboldened, I continued, shedding my underwear without attempting to seduce. I was becoming only flesh. No longer the pretty blonde or the posh girl, but simply a body, naked and bare.
She came over and fastened the cuffs on my wrists and ankles, tightening them securely. “You’ll need this, dear,” she said with a disarming smile. The steel and leather glinted under the light, and I noticed a silver flame reflecting off her bra. She caught me looking and laughed softly. “Admiring my bra? I wear one when I need my arms free—it makes movement easier.” She then locked my wrists together, her never-ending smile painted in a deep burgundy that was almost surreal. She bound my ankles with a chain, and I felt like a prisoner, dressed only in nothingness. I chuckled nervously, the way one might at a funeral.
She guided me through corridors, her grip steady as I struggled for balance. Finally, we stopped before a door, where she attached a leash to my wrists. I could hear muffled voices and laughter on the other side—a happy crowd. “One last chance, dear. Once you pass through this door, there’s no turning back. You can give up now. Or you can come in. What will it be?”
I shook my head and managed to mumble, “I do what my Owner says, Miss. Always.” She stroked my cheek and kissed it gently. Without a word, she opened the door, walking in, leading me by the leash. My heart skipped a beat, or perhaps two.
The room was large, yet intimate, dim except for a spotlight that created a stage-like circle. And from it hung a chain. Slowly, I began to make out the audience—maybe thirty people of mixed genders. Some were elegantly dressed, others not. Middle-aged couples, younger women, all seated, staring at me as I entered. I felt their silence settle over me, an almost tangible weight. I knew I was beautiful at that moment.
She raised my wrists, attaching them to the chain. I began to shiver, though the room was warm and the light was hot against my skin. My legs weakened, and I could barely hold myself up as the silence deepened. Only one thought occupied my mind: you were there somewhere, watching. I repeated it over and over, like a mantra.
Then the whip cracked, and the crowd hushed.
She stood beside me, took hold of my hair, pulling my head back as her voice filled the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the delightful Rox.”
A few murmurs of anticipation filled the room, and she gestured for silence once more.
“This princess will be whipped tonight until she has no strength left to beg, well beyond the point of pleasure. You’ll hear her scream, implore, and protest, but it won’t change a thing.”
The murmurs grew more excited.
“She will then be given to these five fine gentlemen, free to do with her as they please, as authorized by her Owner and Master.”
My head was pushed back, and I saw them—five men, bare-chested, some black, some white. I could see they weren’t from my world, perhaps blue-collar workers or actors. They were simply men who had been granted a rare prize, and they knew their luck. One laughed loudly, shouting, “I haven’t wanked in a week, darling. Tonight’s my Christmas!” The crowd giggled, easing the tension momentarily.
I heard the chain click, and my arms were pulled up. A sudden, sharp pain, the sting of the whip, tore through me. I almost didn’t feel it at first, but then it blossomed a slow-burning fire. I didn’t scream; I counted, as ordered, the words leaving my mouth like a confession. I felt myself slip into a space beyond pain, beyond pleasure, into a realm where I was merely flesh and nerve endings, a vessel for sensation.
Again and again, the whip came down, and I counted, my voice trembling, my body arched, lost in the red mist. Each stroke, each laceration, was both punishment and praise. I was an offering on an altar, a canvas painted with pain.
When the blows finally stopped, I hung limp, a broken doll, my legs unable to support me. She untied me, allowing two men to guide me to a chair. She brought me water, and I sipped gratefully, each drop a small mercy. Soon, a bed was rolled onto the stage, and I was laid upon it. They came, those five men, surrounding me. What followed was a storm of hands and mouths, rough and insatiable. I became their playground, their conquest, and I gave myself fully, unreservedly, reveling in the utter loss of control.
In the end, I lay on the cold floor, bruised and battered, covered in the remnants of their lust. And then, I saw you. You stood there, waiting. I crawled to you, inch by inch until I could lay my head at your feet, finally complete. You lifted me into your arms and held me close, and I knew I was home.
We spent the next day in quiet reverie, my body sore but my soul at peace. And that night, adorned in your collar and my red dress, I was reborn. I was again that perfect uptown girl, marked with the stripes of our shared passion.
With all my love, and in total surrender,
Your Rox.Dubrovna