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Ch. 1 Two work friends become kinky lovers.
Ch. 2 First dominance and submission, and public sex.
Ch. 3 Three days of rough sex at a rented beach house.
Ch. 4 The Spanish Inquisition and dark art.
Ch. 5 Opera and sex in Amsterdam.
This is a true story. It is as true as my memory and story craft can tell it. It is the story of how an ordinary divorced guy who works in an office enjoyed two years of dominating two very submissive beautiful women along with some adventure sex travel. Of course, some of the details are disguised. Some events have been consolidated. The first series is about Stacy and how it all began.
Instead of one long story, I have broken it into five parts published together. Please favorite, score, and offer constructive comments to guide me on the companion series yet to be written.
As the weeks turned into months, Stacy got better and better at learning to be my submissive. I was aware that it was Stacy teaching me to be better as her dom that was making the difference. While I was training her in the specifics of the scenes I created, she was training me in the art of what she cared about the most – the transfer of power. When she was in sub-space, she wanted the experience of total power transfer to her trusted dom.
Stacy explained it to me when we were chatting over wine after one of our scenes.
“I’m so busy and under so much constant scrutiny at work,” she said. “When I get home, everyone in the house waits for me to specify and take care of everything. Same with my various social groups – I’m always the one giving non-stop support.” Stacy paused and thought about it a little. “Being in sub-space, totally controlled by my dom, is like a vacation as if I ever really get a real vacation. It’s a relief. And when I come out, I’m recharged and ready.”
I said, “You should take a real vacation.” I don’t know if it was my comment or something she was already planning. What she came up with was a surprise. The lasting impact was more so.
Stacy had two main methods of training me to be the dominant she wanted me to be. She often sent me D/s stories that she thought illustrated an important point – read and discuss. There were a few book recommendations, which I duly bought and read. We had long talks about the nitty-gritty of hygiene, toy maintenance, STD’s, and rules for other sexual partners if we were going to have more than one while we were full-time dom and sub. As always, with Stacy, she had thoroughly researched reliable information sources and knew the essential points. We also talked about how to best give her commands.
When she was in sub-space, I could tell when my actions and words aligned with what she thought worked best. Stacy responded bahis firmaları with a little more snap and enthusiasm, and her submissive postures were somehow with her whole being involved, not just a pose. Stacy wasn’t playing at being a submissive. She wanted to experience and be totally submissive. I was being trained with the reward of total submissive compliance when I got it right.
Stacy was delighted when I gave her the ongoing responsibility of being my body slave. She kept my cock and balls shaved. I had her clip my nails. She sucked my toes. She gave me regular massages and kept my skin soft with lotions. She researched the best way to massage my prostate. It made her enormously satisfied to be all-in with something that involved tasks but no vanilla responsibility or decisions and called a slave while doing it.
Then Stacy proposed that we go on a vacation, a real vacation. She wanted to go to Europe and have a re-do of the failed trip with her ex. She offered to do all the planning and take care of all the airfare, hotels, and everything else that she could book ahead. She asked that I take care of the daily incidentals. After some negotiations, we decided on a trip to Spain and the Netherlands for opera and adventure sex. We got both, more than expected.
Barcelona is close to the perfect city to visit for what we both liked to do. We stayed in an online rental apartment in the old city. There was a little coffee bar outside our door where we could start the day with a bite to eat. Plenty of cafes and restaurants along the narrow old streets made it fun. We could walk to the harbor, take a bus to the cathedral, or a cab up to the Labyrinth Park of Horta.
Everyone visits the cathedral. But if you are ever visiting Barcelona with a lover, go up to the Labyrinth Park. It was on Stacy’s must-do list. The palace was being restored, but the formal gardens are the attraction. In the Labyrinth, I said ‘thumbs’ to make Stacy snap her hands behind her back so I could grab her thumbs. I could steer her through the maze and control her. I reached under her dress so I could finger her pussy. In one dead-end part of the shrubbery, I put her on her knees to suck my cock. We could hear other people in the maze, some very near. But unless they turned into our little corner, no one could see us. No one did.
On our way back to the rental, we stopped in a little neighborhood hardware store. We bought a coil of jute rope. That kind of twine is rough with tiny sharp fibers sticking out. Visiting the old part of the city had highlighted some of the history of the Spanish Inquisition. According to modern estimates, around 150,000 were prosecuted for various offenses during the three-century duration of the Spanish Inquisition, out of which kaçak iddaa between 3,000 and 5,000 were executed. Barcelona was one of the larger cities where religious intolerance was rampant at the time. I made an implement from the rope of six long loops, with a handle tied like a hangman’s noose. Stacy was going to be flogged in a medieval city. I was going to flog her in a medieval way. Stacy loved the idea. The reality was harder, especially on me.
But first, we went to the opera. The Magic Flute was playing at the Liceu, and we had box seats. We dressed up as best we could from our carryon luggage. But there were beautiful young women wearing exquisite full gowns, cut to flatter their young bodies, and expose the tops of their firm, young breasts. I’ve been to many operas in many American cities, though not yet the Met. I had never seen anything like the patrons in the salón of the Gran Teatre del Liceu. Stacy and I stared and tried not to drool.
There was an alcove between our box and the public corridor. We both had seen Mozart’s famous work before. I tugged Stacy out of her seat. I pulled out my cock and fucked her standing there in the alcove, between the inner curtain and the door, just after the intermission. I said, “I wish we were both fucking one of the young lovelies we just saw.”
Freshly showered, Stacy was diagonal across the bed – face down. Her hands were bound together and attached to one leg at the head; her feet were bound in the same way to the opposite leg at the foot. The rental didn’t include a fully equipped medieval dungeon, so we had to improvise. I sat on the bed with her, stroking the soft skin I was about to mark.
“Do you know why you are here?” I asked.
“Yes, Inquisitor,” Stacy replied. As always, Stacy had done the research. “My family is not Catholic. I tried to pretend that I was so that I could buy bread for my children.”
“You were denounced.”
Stacy trembled. “The shopkeeper’s wife.”
“She said that you are a witch, and participated in demonic rites and that your husband was a Freemason.”
“It is not true, Inquisitor. I kept my faith and cared for my family. We were hungry.”
I said, “You were found guilty. And sentenced to twenty lashes with the braid.”
Stacy whimpered. “Please, Inquisitor.”
“Silence! It will be done.”
I picked up the jute flog. It was heavy. The rope was nearly a quarter of an inch thick. It was bristly and sharp. It would leave slivers. Six long loops, twelve strands. It was a reliable tool in my hand, not a toy. A tool for pain. I raised it high and swung the first blow at her ass. I swung hard.
“Oh, Jesus,” Stacy cried, somewhat out of character. I waited.
“Are you ready?” I asked. Stacy nodded. I lashed her on kaçak bahis her back, just below her shoulder blades. Stacy flinched and pulled at her bonds. I lashed at her again, in the small of her back. She raised her ass. I whipped it as hard as I could bear. Then, I whipped her again, harder.
I gave her all twenty strokes, from her thighs up to her shoulders. The sounds of the street echoed in the room. In the room, there was only the sound of the lash hitting her flesh, tearing it. When it was done, her entire backside was bright red and abraded. No blood. According to the rules for the Spanish Inquisition, no blood could be drawn – others were not so lucky. Stacy was still. I left her like that while I prepared the wash and the salve. She slept in my arms all night. I didn’t sleep at all.
The next day we took the Talgo, the high-speed train, to Madrid. The seats were very comfortable, although Stacy had to sit and move gingerly. We added a side trip to Madrid when I discovered there was an exhibit of the collected works of Hieronymus Bosch, the Dutch painter, for the 500th anniversary of his death. When most educated westerners think of the devil, they think of the writings of Dante, demons, and the circles of Hell. Hieronymus Bosch painted the images we imagine.
The Prado had managed, with some strong-arm tactics, to assemble the principal works of Bosch, including the famous Garden of Earthly Delights, which depicts anything but delight. Interpretations of his intent for the painting have ranged from an admonition of worldly fleshy indulgence to a dire warning on the perils of life’s temptations, to an evocation of ultimate sexual joy. The intricacy of its symbolism, particularly that of the central panel, has led to a wide range of scholarly interpretations over the centuries. Twentieth-century art historians are divided as to whether the triptych’s central panel is a moral warning or a panorama of paradise lost.
I had tickets for a convenient time that I had bought online before our trip. The exhibit was crowded, designed so a line snaked steadily forward toward the most famous work. Along the way, we passed a lesser-known painting. The Falling of The Damned Into Hell is a darker work, more shadow, less detail. It depicts Lucifer above on a ledge, surveying the misery below. There is one character, barely visible, of a man in despair, holding his head in his hands, as if agonizing for his life, wondering, my god, what have I done.
It hit me like a blow to the chest, knocking out my wind. The line pushed on. I thought about flogging Stacy, the sound of the rope braids hitting her flesh. The mewing sounds she made. Stacy said that she wouldn’t want to do that every time. She had recovered. I wondered if I ever would.
I pushed back against the line twice more while I was in the exhibit, back to see that painting. Back to see me. Back to see The Falling of The Damned Into Hell.
Next up, Ch. 5 Opera and sex in Amsterdam.
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