the claiming of Shae

This account is not normally the kind of personally explicit thing I like to write on my blog, but, as you’ll read, I was ordered to. It is not that I avoid writing about the sex others have with me, but that I want my blog to be more about my submissiveness and the dynamics of life in subjugation — the feelings and meanings and relationships within my slavery. But I am in a new situation, as my readers know, and this is germaine to my new obediences to Master and Mistress.


So he tells me to write about this night to come, this night of my claiming. He says, “Tonight I will fill all your holes.” He wants this to be known. Perhaps this is what I am to him, his slave, a girl with holes for him to fill.


Mistress Amanda had told me earlier about this ritual. The claiming of a slave. It was new to my understanding, nothing Master Michael had observed with me. “A dominant has a sex night with his slave,” Mistress had said. “It’s all night, sex with the slave in bondage. Non-stop, an ordeal. It is a kind of initiation. In doing this, he will claim you as his own.”

“What will he do to me?”

“He makes it up as he goes. I expect he’ll fuck you silly. But I don’t know. He’s really into your body, Shae. Somehow he’ll leave his imprint on you. Physically and emotionally. He will tame you. Or, I should say, if you’re smart, you’ll let him tame you.”

“I see.” I paused, then I’d said, ““How about you? Will you claim me too?”

She had looked at me with a look of disbelief. “Shae, I thought already had.” And, of course, two nights earlier she had taken me into her bed. (I haven’t written about that yet.) She added, “But perhaps I need to do it the old-fashioned way, in the bondage room with whips and ropes and the St. Andrews.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, now you’ve earned it.”

“Yes, ma’am. But I just meant that if claiming me required…”

She interrupted. “You’re so damn cute.” She swept my hair back from my eyes, pulling it back behind my shoulder. “You want to be claimed by me.”

I nod. I didn’t go on to say that she has already claimed my heart. I didn’t say other things too, things I want to say but don’t know if I can say. This is so confusing, being a lover to one and a slave to two.


He starts with me late in the evening. Maybe it’s eleven.

Master K takes me into the bondage room and shackles my wrists to a drop-down ceiling bar that he lowers by means of a remote control. This room is heavy hardware and bondage furniture with movable parts, all with ways and means for a girl to be attached to anything in any way, and managed by remote controls. A dominant’s wet dream.

This is clearly his domain, designed by him, harboring methods of domination I would never have imagined.

I stand in my high heels, wearing a slight blue dress and nothing else, and my arms stretch into the air, attached to the ceiling bar. Master K leaves to shower and prepare himself, I guess. But I suspect he has planned it that way. He wants me to wait.

So much of slavery is waiting for the inevitable.

When he returns, he is naked. A leather strap constricts his cock and balls, making them engorged and seemingly super-sized, taking my breath away. I have written before how Master K is imposing in stature, tall and thick and physically coarse, and now I am aware he is all the more commanding nude than in a business suit.

He is not a man of small talk or pleasantries. There are few words, and what words he does use are orders. There is no foreplay, verbal or physical. He is not there for me, but I am there for him, and this is about him making me his pleasure, his satisfaction. And it’s about even more than that, I know. He is there to conquer me, mind, body, and perhaps soul.

Master stands close. He unclasps the ring at the back of my neck, and my little blue dress slides down my body, over my hips, and to the floor. I am naked before him for the first time.

He stares, walks around me, leers and ogles.

He takes my right breast in his hand, bounces it, lets it fall, making ripples in my flesh.

He does it again. And again. Then my left breast, a slight squeeze, then a bounce. Then from behind me, he cups both my breasts simultaneously. He seems to like that they are bigger than his hands. He rolls their flesh around like they are large spheres of mercury rolling and reshaping according to gravity. I am there for him to play with.

“You have big tits,” he says.

It’s not a question, and I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent.

“They make men want to fuck you.”

Again, it’s not a question, just a statement.

“Yes, sir,” I manage to say.

He’s in front of me now, and takes both my breasts in his hands and squeezes them hard. Tears come to my eyes, and I bite my lip. He squeezes harder, and I can’t help but yelp from the pain. He pauses, then squeezes even harder, another level of pressure, and I scream. He releases and I exhale sharply. Tears roll down my cheeks.

“If these are covered, then you’re just a tease.”

I nod.

“Do you believe that you, a slave, have any right to tease men?”

“No, sir.” My voice trembles.

“Then we’ll need to keep you topless so you aren’t just a tease, and men know you are available. Your purpose is to provide fuckings. We might as well show people you’re open for business.”

Now he’s full of words. I know he’s trying to break me by demeaning me. Yet what he says and the way he states it have their effects.

“Yes, sir,” I say, believing he’s right, that my purpose is to be fucked by men.

“Who owns you?” he asks.

“You do, sir.”

“Do I own your tits?” he asks.

“Yes, sir, you do.”

Master K lifts my right breast quickly, as if tossing it in the air. As it falls he deftly smacks it with his other hand. It stings like hell and I yelp. He does it to my other breast. Tears roll from my eyes.

He goes to a box in the corner of the bondage room, returning with a snarl of super-sized rubber bands. He sorts them out, takes one, stretches it wide, and loops it over my right breast, adjusting it under, and letting it go at the base of my chest. It doesn’t hurt but constricts slightly. I feel it.

He takes another rubber band, and does the same, this time on my right breast. I close my eyes as I feel the constriction. He takes another and slips it over my right breast, again.

I look down and, to my modest horror, realize there are a dozen rubber bands on the floor beside him.

Sure enough, he applies all of the rubber bands around my breasts. By my count some seven around each of my tits. Individually, the feeling was slight; in the aggregate, my breasts swell and throb.

Looking at Master K again, I am once more aware of his mass and size. He is solid and big, and towers over me as he squeezes my breasts into the shape of cantaloupes. His rough power attracts even as it terrifies me.

“Your nipples,” he says. “I will want to have them pierced. Prettier with rings and more useful to me.”

“Yes, sir.” Master Michael was intending piercings for me as well, and I am slowly resigned to men putting holes in my body.

Master K goes back to his box of tortures and pulls out some objects that I realize close up are manuscript clips. This is not good.

He takes one clip, squeezes it open and presses it over my right nipple, then letting it slowly clamp shut. I squeal. The pain is excruciating. He repeats with another clip on my left nipple. Again, the pain is unbearable, but soon the agony of both my nipples settles into an throb, awful but endurable.

“It will dull after a while, but you will bear it all night,” he says.

I bite my tongue. One realizes that when she’s naked and bound with a cowboy man, here’s nothing to be said or done or objected to.

He presses a remote. The ceiling bar descends, “Kneel,“ he says.

I obey.

He positions before me, his cock appears in my face. “Suck me,” he says.

I do. His cock tastes of soap at first, then it tastes earthy. He is thick, just as I remembered him from that final day at Master Michael’s house.

I know very well he has a whole night ahead with me, and I can’t imagine how he will pace himself, but almost certainly he is not intending my fellatio right now to bring him to orgasm. My mouth around his organ is simply to warm him up and keep him hard.

Also to condition my mouth to the shape of his manhood.

I remember taking his organ slowly, sliding my mouth straight over it and straight back, my tongue wet and smooth underneath. His hand is at the back of my head, but he is not pushing me into him. It justs rests there, almost tenderly. My arms are still stretched upward, shackled to the ceiling bar.

It is curious to me that this man is virtually a stranger — I’ve had hardly any time with him at all — yet this is the second time his cock has been in my mouth, and is already familiar to me. He is not so long that he hits the back of my throat. I can take all of it into my mouth. My lips then go to the base, my lower lip gracing his balls.

He keeps his cock rocking back and forth along my tongue in this gentle-rhythm fellatio, like a slow dance to a song that never ends. Maybe “Stairway to Heaven.”

In other words, he has stamina.

In time, he pulls out, and steps back. He lowers the ceiling bar more. Some of my saliva has drooled to the floor. He orders me to lean forward and clean it up with my tongue.
I bend forward so my face is inches from the floor. My arms stretch back and upward behind me. My hair falls forward over my shoulders and around my face. I extend my tongue and lap up my pooled saliva from the dirty floor. I finish and sit up again.

Master K says nothing. No affirmation. Apparently, cleaning the floor with her tongue is what a slave is supposed to do. He walks to the ceiling bar and unshackles my wrists. He tells me to walk to the bondage horse.

There are a number of furniture pieces in the bondage room — a padded medical chair, a St. Andrews cross along the back wall, a cage in one corner, a swing made of nylon straps, and the bondage horse.

The bondage horse is the centerpiece, sitting in the middle of the room like a perverse throne. It’s shape is a half-barrel with wide ledges, wings, on either side — all of it covered in black leather. I would learn that the length is adjustable manually, and the height adjusts by means of a remote.

He tells me to climb up and straddle it doggie style.

I do so, walking to it and mounting it, placing my knees on each of the wings. My straddle opens me behind, and I am aware that my pussy and asshole are splayed open, which is the point, I presume.

He has adjusted the length of the half barrel to end right below my breasts, so they hang over the other side. I see that my banded breasts are now a deep red, and as they hang down I feel them throb.

Master K presses a button on the remote and I feel the wings lower. It settles my torso flat along the half-barrel. He shackles me in, my ankles locked to the edge of the frame, my wrists shackled together behind my back, and my collar attached by chains on either side to a ceiling bar — to keep my head up and facing forward. I am rendered immobile.

I have, of course, been in bondage previously — not so much under Master Michael, but in my pre-slavery days when for a short time I visited clubs with a friend. So yes, I’ve been tied and bound in various ways before. But I’d never before been bound so completely to a thing of this mass, strapped so tightly to an object that I practically become part of it. This is one of my deep submissive responses which I’ve written about before — my profound submissive feeling in certain buildings and machines and contraptions of weight and control. So this is a new experience, and I am tingling even as I am aching and throbbing.

Master K walks to my front end. I realize I have been reduced to a front end and a rear end. His cock extends a few inches from my stretched neck, too high for his purpose. He presses the remote and the bondage horse, with me strapped in, lowers by several inches. Now his cock is even with my lips.

Once again he pushes himself into my mouth. His taste and girth have become familiar. I realize he is making my mouth his home. I cannot move, my head immobile in the traction of my collar and chains, so he pushes his hips forward and slides himself in and out over my tongue. Again, he is not forceful, not trying to abuse my mouth, but make it comfortable with his cock sliding into it.

I have lost track of time. There is no clock in the room, no countdown for my ordeal. We started late. It might be midnight or one. It will be what it is. There will be this, and then more, and then something other, and then another thing, and then it will be dawn, sometime.

He pushes into my mouth. He pauses. Leaving it there on my tongue, his meat touching my cheeks, my saliva juicing and covering him. I do not assume it is a special intimacy with him, or that he desires such with me, but we submissives always dream that there is more, don’t we? Yet it is, to me, somehow lovely even as it is forced and rough.

Alas, he pulls out of my mouth, and I feel empty. He stands back, perhaps looking at me like a sex toy or blow up doll or his new slave girl who is in between a piece of standard property and prime real estate. Truth is, I don’t know what he’s thinking. He doesn’t talk much.

He walks to my other end. His thumb slides over my anus, his fingers slide between my labia. I am wet, and he notices, grunts, wipes his wetted fingers along the back of my thigh.

I hear him walk to the corner of the room to one of the boxes. He returns, and I feel his thumb touching me behind. It’s a dollop of petroleum jelly, and he’s smearing it against my asshole. Then a finger slips in, dragging some jelly inside me there. His thumb enters me. Another finger. Two fingers. He stretches me. A third finger. He jellies me. I know what’s coming.

There’s another adjustment of the height of the bondage horse. My ass is facing upward, and I expect he wants to come into me a little from above.

He says nothing.

I feel his cock at my anus. His cock head probes me. He is thick and I dread his penetration. I sense him positioning himself squarely behind me, his body between my thighs. His cock head pushes against my asshole. With his hands he stretches my ass cheeks apart. He presses in. I am tight, but soon his cock head plops inside me. I feel the initial pain of it, and I moan, but it dulls, and I’m OK.

Master K slowly slides further into me, graciously allowing the jelly to lube me inside.
God, he is thick, which I’ve observed before but never is more felt than now. I am stretched, though there is no pain. Soon I feel his groin pressed flat against my ass cheeks, and I know he is all the way inside. He holds himself there for the longest minute. I am stuffed by him, this my cowboy master, and I am the holster that sheaths his gun.

He pulls back, and the movement is easier now that the jelly has lined me inside and his presence has widened me. He begins his long back-and-forth fucking of my ass, like a piston in a cylinder. He has a precision to him, a regular pumping, and it feels mechanical in a predictable way that is strangely comforting. I have no doubt he could do me differently, roughly, and will at some future time, but for now, his purpose his to fill me, to make my body conform to his manhood.

The rhythm is mesmerizing, lulling me into my subspace, and is a lovely thing. Time fades. My soul is deeply warmed by being possessed and inhabited in this way. My entire awareness deep focuses on the sexual sensations of his pumping presence in my ass and the ripples it sends to my pussy. There are other moments too. At times I feel violated. I cannot move or resist or object. I am his slave. He is taking me. Possessing me. And possessing me there. I am being sodomized by someone still a stranger. I feel shame, but not for what I am submitting to: my submissive body cannot help but welcome his presence even as it feels offended. I really want it. Him. His cock. Inside me. There.

The body remembers. And that’s what he wants. For me — tomorrow, days from now, a week hence — to still feel his phantom thick presence inside my ass even when he’s not actually there.

If I say he is taking forever, it’s not a complaint, just a curious observation. His stamina is impressive to me. His way with me — hands firmly on my hips, the deep focus on his penetration of me, the fact he has not once touched my pussy — carries with it control and intention. It is actually comforting to me. He may beat the hell out of me sometime, but it will be for a reason. He has purpose and self-control. Enormous self-control.

I am immobile, but his pumping of me makes my flesh ripple. It shakes my breasts, making them ache even more. I moan, whether from my breast in tight agony or from his meaty cock spreading wide in my rectum. I shake my head, almost the only movement I can make, flipping my hair back from my face, not so much an futile effort at making myself more presentable, but more to remind myself that I am a woman with pretty auburn hair and not just a colonoscopy in progress. We reach for dignity even in the moments when dignity is farthest from us.

Again I think about the time, not that it matters. I imagine he has been sodomizing me for almost an hour. Maybe not, but it feels like that long a time, which is not to say I don’t like it. He is making me his, and to a submissive heart, that is glorious. This is my experience — pleasure and pain, joy and shame, fear and comfort — alternating and revolving rapidly like a strobe light.

Maybe it’s two a.m. Or some other time.

He slows down. I think he is now at a point of release and wants to edge himself awhile.

He pumps me now a few times, then stops. Another two times, then stops.
In time, he lets himself go. He thrusts into me fast and hard, making me grunt and, at times, moan. This, too, goes a while. Somehow he feels even harder, and I feel more stretched than ever.

There is a final push, a thrust that rocks the bondage horse, and me. I scream. And he unloads in me. I feel his warm semen shooting deep inside me in several spasms. Then a fourth smaller one, and he is finished. He takes a moment, then pulls out.

And now, bizarrely, I don’t want it to end. I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want to be without his thickness there inside me. I feel empty.

He walks to the far corner of the bondage room, retrieving something. Behind me again, he pushes something against my anus. It’s hard and smooth. Metal, cold steel. He keeps pushing, and the object feels bigger than he was, and then bigger yet as it seems to expand along its length. Just as I fear it’s too big for me, it pops in, forcing a painful stretch and making me yell. The widest part now inside me, I feel a round base kissing my hole. The plug is installed.

Master K walks around to my face end. His cock is softer now, glistening, slightly drooping but still engorged. “Clean it,” he orders.

He steps close, his cock touching my cheek. I lean toward it, opening my mouth and taking it between my lips. My mouth remembers it from before — it’s weight, it’s girth, the texture of its skin folds. He tastes like mushrooms smell, some combination of his musk and the earthy pungency of my ass, and it occurs to me that the comingling of our intimate flavors is kind of marriage, albeit a matrimony of domination, one consummated by a man’s cock sodomizing a girl’s asshole in bondage. It is this unequal mingling of flavors that coats my tongue. He remains soft but I like him that way too, and his cock even at rest makes my mouth its home.

Later he unshackles me from the bondage horse, though keeping my wrists cuffed behind me. He tells me to dismount, stretch, and walk around. I start to move, and the movement of my breasts is now a fierce ache. I look down and my breasts are crimson. My nipples are mangled in the vices of the manuscript clips, but they have become numb.

As I move off the horse, Master K scans the leather and sees a wet spot where my pussy oozed. “Lick it clean,” he says. I obey, leaning over from my waist until my tongue reaches the black leather. I lick it in wide swaths, collecting my juices, and leaving behind smears of my saliva. Master K has a rag in his hand and wipes the leather there in that spot, and then all over the leather horse, as if buffing the finish of a sleek sports car.

He asks me if I have to pee. I say no. He attaches me to the ceiling bar again, and he walks out of the bondage room. He is gone for a long time. I listen for sounds of him elsewhere in the house, but I hear nothing. I stand, my arms stretched up to the ceiling bar. I cannot imagine what other business he has, for it must be one or two a.m. or so. Perhaps Amanda has come in late and they are talking. Yet I cannot hear them.

I feel the butt plug lodged tight inside me. His cum has taken on my body temperature so I don’t feel it as when he first ejaculated into me. But the liquid is there inside, a stream of ooze sliding here and there as I shift my legs.

He returns after the longest time, and my eyes go to his cock, now my lover and my tormentor. It hangs down, soft. I say nothing, but in the stupor of the night, it is my desire to make it hard again. My submissiveness makes me easy prey for his dominance, but in his methodology, his slow all-night fucking of me, he is wedding me specifically and obsessively to his cock.

He pushes a button on the remote, lowering my arms. Once again he tells me to kneel.

I obey.

“I need to pee,” he says.

I look up at him. I hardly can comprehend what he means.

He says it again. “I need to pee.”

It then sinks in. What he intends to do to me. “Yes, sir,” I reply, even as my face is expressing distress.

“You will take it all in your mouth. Swallow. Do not spill any on the floor.”

I nod, reluctantly opening my mouth.

He steps forward and places the head of his penis just inside my mouth. He holds it there. Soon a stream of his urine shoots to the back of my throat. I fight the urge to choke, leaving my mouth open. It is a flood, and it fills my mouth quickly. His piss is warm and acrid to the taste. I manage a quick swallow, but I make the mistake of closing my lips in the middle of his stream. It sprays over my lips and cheeks, dripping to the floor. I quickly open my mouth again, and capture perhaps another half cup. I wait for a pause in his urination, and when it comes, I swallow. There is another stream, this time not as long or profuse, and then yet one more. After another swallow, I open my mouth for him again, and he taps his cock on my tongue, letting the final drops dribble into me.

He is done. He walks to the far corner of the room and grabs some tissues. He dabs them to the tip of his cock, then tosses them. He has no intention of providing tissues to dry off my face.

He returns to me and says, “You spilled. Lick it up off the floor.”

I lean down and obey, cleaning the floor of his urine. When I’m finished, I look up and I think I detect a slight nod of approval.

The night continues. He takes me to the the medical chair, actually a gyno-chair, with adjustable sections at either end, and metal extensions with ankle clamps that clearly are meant to serve as stirrups. He has me lie down on my back. He ties my hands to another ceiling bar at the head of the chair, and he places my ankles in the manacles on either side of the foot end of the chair.

He steps back. Of course, there’s a remote for this as well, and he presses buttons and adjusts me so I am sitting partway up, presumably so I can watch his fucking of me. My breasts are now unnatural orbs of blue, like twin planet Neptunes. My legs are extended wide. The footer of the chair has folded down, and now my pussy is just over the edge, my slit open.

Master K is hard again. Again, his stamina is impressive. He has had enough time to recycle. Perhaps that’s what his absence was in the other part of the house. Or maybe he was drinking water in preparation for making me his toilet.

And then he begins, stepping toward me, his erection horizontal. He takes his cock and slides its head along my slit. I breathe deeply, sigh.

This is the third act of the play. I know this whole night is conditioning me. I know he is claiming me. Hole by hole.

He pushes straightway into my vagina.

I gasp at his intrusion. His meat is thick and full as it was in my ass, but now this is a different presence, a different fullness, the special intercourse of a master with his slave. He slides in and out of me, and it’s as if each stroke is one step more toward my taming.

Once more, he takes his time, slowly pumping me. I soon am aware he has a rhythm, pumping very slowly the full length of my vagina five times, then holding his cock planted fully inside me for maybe ten seconds.

His purpose is surely his own pleasure, not mine, and perhaps this is his way of pacing himself, but I suspect even more he wants me to feel him inside me, for me to get used to his presence there. It is his way of saying, “I’m moving in. This is my place now.” That’s what this whole night has been about.

I am close to climax. He doesn’t care. He continues his deliberate rhythm as I start to tense. It comes from my core and ripples out, my thighs and belly shuddering first. It crashes upward, my banded breasts soon shaking, creating new aches and making me scream, a sound of both pleasure and pain. My climax comes and then subsides, fading away like a tsunami that never reaches shore.

He watches, I presume enjoying my helplessness and utter vulnerability, but he doesn’t change expression or his metronomic rhythm. My orgasm doesn’t matter to him. It is irrelevant to him, an inevitable byproduct of his fucking me. He is simply using me as he wishes, and, as he promised, “filing my holes.”

In my pleasured wait, I am now ashamed of what has been my judgment of him.

Personal, never spoken, sure, but harbored in my private impressions, I’ve seen him as rough and physical, not necessarily thoughtful. Perhaps I’ve fallen for the stereotype of “rural, blue collar,” and assumed wrongly about his education. And then perhaps I equate education with intelligence, smarts. I know better, but still, there it is in my sense of him. So wrong of me, and I am ashamed. Clearly Master K is a very intelligent man. Not only in his professional life but in his domination of me. He knows exactly what he’s doing with me. He has me bound naked in a gyno-chair, is pressed tight against my vulva, and is deeply implanted in my vagina. So who’s the smart one in this picture?

He executes his strategy perfectly over this extended time of intercourse with me, as his cock feels more and more familiar. And desired. He has made me want him, crave him. I know when he is done with me, as before, it will leave me, and I will feel empty.

I cannot say how long he fucked me, for I have lost all sense of time in this alternate universe. It feels like forever that he has been in my vagina, and then not long enough. I wonder how many other girls he’s had in this chair. Amanda, perhaps, as I know she switches, but then I can’t imagine her submitting to this with him. But no doubt he’s had others. How have they been with him? Which of them has he liked most? Who has he preferred? I stop myself, knowing I am sounding like a high school girl, jealous and silly.

His rhythm changes into something else, and I sense he’s close. He tightens his grip on my hips, then thrusts into me hard. I grunt at his force. Then again. And he holds himself there. I feel his spasms, and then his thick hot syrup coating me inside. I close my eyes.

He pulls out of me. He reaches for something near him. It’s another plug of sorts, this one with straps. He pushes it into my pussy, stretching me until the thick part is in. It catches there, and its base, cold and hard presses against my labia. Master K manipulates the straps, going around my waist and a single strap connecting above my vulva and through my legs underneath and up to attach to the waistband behind. He tightens it. This also secures my anal plug below.

He untethers me from the chair and tells me to kneel. He shackles my wrists behind me.

Again, he presents his cock to my face. “Clean it” he says.

I take his dick into my mouth and give it a warm bath with my lips and tongue. I am thinking this will be one of my regular duties, perhaps, this bathing of his manhood with my mouth. Disgusting to most, perhaps, but I don’t mind, for now, this morning, I like it that my mouth is his home.


There is more.

Master K eventually removes the manuscript clips from my nipples, the pain of which cannot be known in human history. I yelp and cry, tears streaking my face.

He removes the rubber bands around my breasts, which carries it’s own kind of pain, but then relief as well as the pressure in them begins to subside.

He pulls a dog dish from the box in the corner, and places it on the floor. He tells me to kneel and straddle it.

He unhooks the strap holding in my vaginal plug. Once undone, he slowly eases the plug out. He places the stainless steel plug, wet and smeared, in front of my face. “Clean it,” he says. I take it in my mouth. At the same time, I feel his semen flow out of me into the bowl below.

When I have dripped the last drop, he repositions me over the bowl. He teases out of me the anal plug. Again he pushes it to my face and tells me to clean it. I take it in my mouth and wash it. And now there is a slight trickle that flows out of my anus into the bowl.

Much of his semen I have absorbed.

Master K tells me to lap up the contents of the bowl.

My knees go to the floor and I settle back on my haunches, leaning down, and pushing my face into the bowl like a dog. Now Master K’s bitch. I extend my tongue into the cummy wetness, and lap it up into my mouth, tasting its bitter foulness.

I finish, but Master orders me, “Clean it,” and I bend down again, and lick clean with my dishrag tongue the bottom and sides of the bowl.

Now he has me stand at the end of the bondage horse, and tells me to bend over and to stick my ass out. I obey. He takes a flogger to my ass, warming my cheeks with its thick leathers. This seems to me random, apart from the strategy he has been executing meticulously.

Then I feel it — the biting, brutal spank of a cane coming down at an angle across my ass cheek. I scream.

Master K repositions behind me. He canes me again, this time the torture striking my left ass cheek, a vertical stripe. Again I scream. I start to sob.

There is one more. Third strike. I yell.

He puts the cane away, then walks me to the mirror against the far wall. He turns my backside toward it, and tells me to look. My ass is welted in three brilliant blood-red stripes.

Forming the letter K.

“You belong to me, Shae,” he says. “Tonight I have claimed you. I will continue to use you as I wish, to fill your holes as I wish, to fuck you as I wish. Is that clear?”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

“I expect your submission to me in everything, without question or hesitation. I will take care of you, and never harm you, but I will have your utter submission to everything I require. Is that clear?’

“Yes, sir.”

“It is four a.m. Go to your room, clean yourself up, and sleep for a while. I will be up at eight-thirty, and I expect you to have a cup of coffee ready for me then.”

“Yes, sir.”


I manage not to sleep through my multiple alarms. I do not want to be late for him. I had showered at four before falling into bed, and now at eight, I try to freshen my face and hair. I don’t know what to wear. I decide nothing, as he’ll want to see the marks on me. I tie a scarf around my waist, hoping he’ll like it. I laugh at myself for imagining this as a coffee date and thinking a scarf is the fashion statement that makes me desirable. But I want him to desire me.

I make the coffee and stand, waiting. This is habit, my years of making coffee for Master Michael.

He appears at eight-thirty with a newspaper under his arm. He says nothing, just sits at the breakfast table. I serve him a tray with his cup, saucer, cream, and sugar. I pour a cup of coffee from the pot.

He looks at me as I walk back and forth. He sees my labia, still red and swollen. He sees the band marks in a perfect circle around my breasts. As I turn to put the coffeepot back, he sees his artwork on my ass, his signature “K.”

I kneel at his feet.

3 thoughts on “the claiming of Shae

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