Maureen took her time preparing me for the flogger.
My freshly shaved naked body stood precariously on the two crates with my legs spread open, while my wrists were still fastened to the cuffs hanging from the ceiling.
My body had been here in this position for over a half hour, and I was starting to get some muscle cramps and aches, but I dared not voice those concerns to Maureen. She walked around me, twirling the flogger in her hands. My body was nervously on edge as I awaited the first of the blows.
The first blow came just as I expected it. A hard strike on the meaty flesh of my ass. She was not going to start this off easily, but rather exerted her dominance with the first blow. I did my best to remain stoic and kept my mouth shut as I awaited the succession of strikes that would come next.
Maureen walked around in front of me again and looked at me. I looked into her eyes, and as our eyes met, I felt the sharp sting of the flogger across my freshly shaven cock and balls. I gasped and stifled a grunt as the pain coursed through my manhood. As I opened my eyes again after the strike, she was looking at me. She looked me in the eyes again and struck my cock once more. This time I couldn’t hold back the anguish, and I let out a yelp.
“Does it hurt, my pet? Perhaps you will remember to do as you are told and do it well.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I stammered.
Maureen slowly walked around until she was behind me. I could no longer see her.
“Do you understand why I punish you?” she said.
“Yes, mistress. I will pay more attention next time.”
“I only want you to reach your full potential as my slave. I will not accept nothing less.”
Maureen struck twice more in rapid succession on my ass with a quick fore and back swing. I could feel the blood rushing to the surface of my ass, feel the warmth of my ass take over my body. I could also feel the heat coming off of my Mistress. She was enjoying this. Her temperature was getting elevated as well as her breathing which were both signals of her own arousal of her dominance over me.
She must have reached a certain state because she went into a zone and was completely focused. She was completely unseen by me as she was totally behind me and did not say a word, but it seem like she had crossed over into another space. She became like a master artist who has a vision and works at it undeterred. She used the flogger on my ass like a brush to canvas except with much more force. She had a vision in mind of what my ass was going to look like and proceeded to bring it to life. Her strokes came from the sides, from the top and from the bottom, and I could only imagine the various shades of red that were on display on my ass, her canvas.
As each blow struck me, I winced, gasped and tried to remain as steadfast as possible. The cuffs holding my wrists to the ceiling were straining as my body was involuntarily moving away from each strike. Sweat was streaming from my brow as by now my blood pressure was elevated throughout my entire body. My head was spinning, and my vision was getting blurry.
Maureen stopped. She stepped close, her breath cool on my heated skin. Her fingers traced the reddening welts on my back, a touch of unexpected tenderness that made me whimper.
“Good,” she whispered, her lips close to my ear. “You wear my marks so beautifully.” She pressed her body against mine, the hard leather of her corset a contrast to his burning flesh. “Now, we see how well you can hold this position.”
She left me there, stretched and marked, my mind in anticipation of what came next, a torment more intense than the flogger had been.
Maureen unclipped the chain from the ceiling hook, her touch impersonal as she guided me trembling, marked body away from the center of the room. The cool air of the hallway was a shock against my heated skin. She led me without a word, her hand a firm pressure on the small of my back, steering me through a doorway into a different atmosphere—darker, heavier with the scent of sandalwood and her.
“Kneel at the foot of the bed,” she commanded, her voice low and resonant in the intimate space.
I obeyed, my knees sinking into a plush, dark rug. The room was lit by a single lamp, casting long, dancing shadows. I kept my eyes down, focused on the intricate pattern beneath me, until her fingers were suddenly in my hair, tilting my head back.
“You rely too much on your eyes. You need to learn to feel.” A strip of black silk was drawn over my vision, plunging me into absolute darkness. She tied it securely at the back of my head. The loss of sight was immediate and total, amplifying every other sense a hundredfold. I could hear the soft creak of her leather corset as she moved, the whisper of her stockings.
Then her lips were on my shoulder, a soft, fleeting press. Her tongue followed, a wet, hot stripe along the line of my collarbone, tracing the path of a fading welt from the flogger. The touch caused me to shudder, a ragged gasp escaping me. She moved with agonizing slowness, her mouth a brand of fire on my cool skin. She explored the shell of my ear with her teeth, her breath a hot promise. I felt her lips travel down my spine, each vertebra receiving its own dedicated attention, her tongue dipping into the small of my back.
She was a ghost in the darkness, a creature of sensation. Her hands roamed freely on my chest, pinching my nipples until I cried out, then soothing them with the flat of her tongue. She spent what seemed like an eternity between my legs, her mouth and tongue teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, coming achingly close to my throbbing cock but never touching it. My entire body trembling with a need so acute it was a physical pain. Every muscle was taut, every nerve ending screaming for her.
Just as he felt I might break from the anticipation, she rose. Her voice cut through the sensory fog, sharp and clear. “Enough. Your mouth has a better use than gasping.” Her fingers grabbed a hold of my hair, guiding my head forward until my face was pressed against the smooth leather covering her thigh. “You will pleasure me now. Use your tongue. Worship me. Make me moan, and you might earn your own release.”
The command was absolute. Blind and desperate, I leaned forward, his world narrowing to the scent of her arousal and the feel of her skin under his seeking mouth.
Maureen’s fingers tightened in my hair, pulling my mouth away from her thigh with a soft, wet sound. Her voice cut through the sensory fog of my blind devotion, sharp and clear as a shard of ice. “You learn quickly. But devotion requires structure. Precision.” She released me, her footsteps retreating slightly on the plush rug. “From now on, your worship will be a ritual. When I give the command, you will assume the position immediately, without hesitation. The command is one word: Ritual. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I breathed into the darkness, the word a vow.
“Good.” Her fingers found the knot of the blindfold and loosened it. The silk fell away, and the dimly lit room rushed back in a blur of shadow and lamplight. Maureen stood before me, her expression serene and utterly commanding. “Now, watch. Learn the form your devotion must take.”
She guided my shoulders, pressing me down until I was kneeling upright, my back straight, my hands resting palms-up on my thighs. “This is your altar pose. Your mouth is my chalice.” She then took a single step forward, bringing the dark triangle of her panties level with my face. The scent of her, clean and musky with her arousal, filled my nostrils. “And this is your focus. When I say ‘Ritual’, you will find this exact position and begin. Your tongue will not stop until I permit it. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” he whispered, his eyes locked on the faint damp spot on the black silk.
“Then we practice. Ritual.”
The word was a trigger. My body moved before my mind could process it, sliding seamlessly into the practiced pose. My head tilted back, my mouth already parting in anticipation. Maureen’s hands came to rest on my shoulders, not for balance, but as a symbol of her ownership. I leaned forward, my eyes closing as my tongue made its first, reverent stroke along the damp seam of her panties. The silk was slick with her, and the taste exploded on my tongue—sweet, musky, utterly her. I couldn’t help but moan against her, my entire world narrowing to this single point of contact, to the sacred act of tasting this goddess.
My tongue worked with a desperate devotion, the silk of her panties saturated with the taste of her. I was lost in the rhythm of my worship, my world defined by her scent and the faint, approving pressure of her hands on my shoulders. Abruptly, her fingers tightened in my hair, pulling my head back. My mouth came away from her with a soft, wet sound, my lips wet and gleaming in the lamplight.
“Your eagerness is noted,” Maureen said, her voice low and measured. She stepped back, leaving me kneeling and panting on the rug, my cock aching and neglected. She paced a slow circle around him, her red hair a fiery corona in the dim light. “But devotion without structure is just noise. What we’ve done tonight is merely an introduction. A taste of the order I can bring to your chaotic little life.”
She stopped in front of me, her glacial blue eyes piercing mine with an unnerving intensity. “I don’t just want a plaything for an evening, my pet. I am offering you a path. A purpose. I plan on training you, teaching you the ways of the faithful. I will make you one of my subjects… slaves, if you will.” The word hung in the air, stark and undeniable. “You will learn to find your freedom in your surrender, your strength in my command.”
My breath hitched. This was beyond a scene, beyond a kinky interlude. This was a covenant.
“This is the final threshold,” she continued, her tone devoid of any negotiable warmth. “If you cross it, there is no turning back. Your body, your mind, your will—they become mine to shape. You will obey without question. You will serve without complaint. So, I ask you now, with full understanding of the consequences: do you agree to this?”
I looked up at her, this exquisitely beautiful woman who had stripped me, shaved me, marked me, and brought me to my knees with her mouth alone. The absolute seriousness was in her eyes, the promise of both exquisite pleasure and relentless discipline. The part of me that craved spreadsheets and predictable outcomes screamed in protest. But the deeper, hungrier part, the part that had been awakened by the sting of her flogger and the taste of her on his tongue, roared in triumph.
There was no other answer. There was only her.
“Yes,” I said, my voice raw but unwavering. “I agree. I am yours.”
A slow, genuine smile touched Maureen’s lips, and it was more terrifying and beautiful than any scowl. “Good.” She cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking my skin. “Then your training begins now. The first lesson is endurance. You will remain on your knees, in your altar pose, until I tell you to move. You will not speak. You will not touch yourself. You will simply… be. My faithful subject.”
She turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the center of the room, my body thrumming with anticipation and fear, my submission now a permanent, irrevocable state.
I knelt in the altar pose for what felt like hours, the strain in my thighs and back a dull, grounding ache. My cock, hard and leaking against my stomach, was a constant, throbbing reminder of my submission. The initial terror had subsided into a sort of trance, a floating awareness centered on the scent of sandalwood in the air and the faint sound of Maureen moving about the apartment. Finally, her footsteps returned, deliberate and unhurried.
She stood before me, holding a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored vellum. The document was typeset in an elegant, severe font.
“Your training requires a foundation. A covenant,” she said, her voice calm and final. “This is the instrument of your permanent assignment to me.” She held the page before his eyes. “Read it.”
My gaze scanned the text, my heart hammering against my ribs. The language was coldly legal, terrifyingly absolute.
I, the undersigned Property, hereby and irrevocably surrender all rights to my person, my will, and my future to Maureen, the Owner. This includes, but is not limited to, authority over all financial assets, personal relationships, domicile, career, and physical being. The Property accepts that the Owner may use, train, discipline, and dispose of the Property as she sees fit, in perpetuity. This contract signifies the permanent extinction of the Property’s former identity and legal standing.
My eyes fixed on the phrase permanent extinction. A cold sweat broke out on my smooth skin. This wasn’t a game. This was the dissolution of me, the mid-level executive, the man with a 401k and a condo. The fantasy of submission was crashing against the brutal reality of the document in her hand.
“You can’t be serious,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “This… this is my life. Everything.”
“It was your life,” Maureen corrected, her tone chillingly matter-of-fact. “It was a messy, unstructured existence. I am offering you clarity. Purpose. But it is an all-or-nothing proposition. There are no part-time slaves in my world.” She placed the contract and a heavy, silver pen on the floor in front of me. “Sign it, and you are mine. Body and soul. Refuse, and you will leave this apartment immediately, and we will never speak again. The door is behind you.”
I stared at the pen. His resolve, which had felt so strong moments ago, shattered. This was the threshold she had spoken of, and it was far more real and terrifying than I had ever imagined. I saw my freedom, my autonomy, my very name, being signed away. I looked up at her, my eyes pleading, searching for a hint of mercy in her glacial gaze. There was none. Only expectation.
“I… I need a moment,” he stuttered, his body trembling violently.
“You have until the count of ten,” she stated, beginning without pause. “One.”
Panic seized me. The safe confines of my old life called to him like a siren song.
“Two.”
But the memory of her flogger on my skin, the taste of her on my tongue, the profound peace of absolute surrender, roared louder.
“Three.”
My hand, shaking uncontrollably, reached for the pen. The cool metal felt like a shackle.
“Four.”
I looked at the line at the bottom of the page. The space for the Property.
“Five.”
Taking a ragged breath that felt like my last as a free man, I pressed the pen to the vellum.
The silver pen felt impossibly heavy in my grasp, a cold, metallic serpent offering a forbidden apple. My hand trembled violently, my knuckles white with tension. My eyes darted from the stark, brutal language of the contract to Maureen’s impassive face. Her glacial blue eyes held no promise of reassurance, only the implacable certainty of a predator that has already cornered its prey. The silence in the room was a physical pressure, broken only by the ragged, panicked sound of my own breathing. Every instinct for self-preservation screamed at me to drop the pen, to flee this beautiful, terrifying woman and her world of absolute surrender.
But I couldn’t. I looked past the legal jargon, past the fear, and saw the promise. The promise of structure, of purpose, of a desire so profound it required the utter dissolution of my old, messy self. In my mind, I saw the memory of her flogger branding my skin, the taste of her on my tongue, the profound peace of kneeling at her feet. My former life—the spreadsheets, the quiet condo, the endless, lonely autonomy—felt like a pale, gray ghost compared to the vibrant, demanding reality of her.
The scratch of the silver point was deafening in the stillness. I signed my name—not with a flourish, but with a desperate, committed scrawl, a signature that felt like a death and a rebirth simultaneously. The pen fell from my hand. It clattered against the hardwood floor, the sound echoing like a cell door slamming shut.
Maureen watched, a slow, triumphant smile gracing her exquisite features. She did not praise. She did not thank. She simply knelt, retrieved the document, and examined my signature with a critical eye, as if verifying the quality of a newly acquired asset.
“The final act of your former self is complete,” she stated, her voice devoid of warmth but rich with possession. She folded the contract with crisp, precise movements and placed it on a nearby table. “You are mine now. Utterly. The training you have received tonight was merely the orientation. Your real education begins tomorrow.”
She extended a hand, not to help up, but to indicate I should remain on my knees. “You will sleep at the foot of my bed tonight. You will not speak. You will not move unless instructed. Your only purpose is to be present, a reminder of my will even in repose.”
She turned and walked toward her large, canopied bed, leaving me kneeling on the rug, my body humming with a terrifying, exhilarating finality. He was no longer Mike from accounting. He was Property. And his world had finally found its axis.
I lowered my naked body to the floor at the foot of the immense, canopied bed, the cold hardwood a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from the fireplace. Maureen glided from the room without a word, presumably to her adjoining vanity. In the semi-darkness, the room’s formidable elegance pressed in on me. The flickering firelight danced over the spines of leather-bound books on a high shelf and gleamed on the dark lacquer of a stern-looking armoire. This wasn’t a bedroom; it was a sanctum, a throne room, and my place was literally at its base.
As I lay there, the adrenaline of the night began to recede, leaving a hollow, chilling emptiness in its wake. The reality of the contract crashed down. Permanent extinction. I had signed away my name, my assets, my entire life. My mind, freed from the immediate terror of her presence, reeled. What had I done? Was this devotion or insanity? The marks from the flogger on my back and ass tingled, a phantom sensation that felt like both a brand of ownership and a warning. A cold dread pooled in my stomach. Had I just made the greatest mistake of my life for the fleeting peace of surrender?
The soft click of a door interrupted my spiraling thoughts. Maureen returned, and the air in the room shifted. She wore a luxurious evening set of deep emerald green silk—Derek Rose, my mind supplied absently, a relic from my old life of noticing expensive things. The fabric shimmered in the low light, draping her tall, exquisite figure like water. The camisole clung to her narrow frame, and the shorts revealed the elegant length of her legs. With her fiery red hair loose around her shoulders, she looked not just beautiful, but radiant, ethereal. A goddess surveying her domain.
She approached me, her steps silent on the rug. Her glacial blue eyes scanned my form curled on the floor, and for a moment, I feared she could read the panic in my mind. But her expression was one of serene possession, not anger. She reached to the foot of the bed, retrieving a soft, woolen blanket. Without a word, she let it fall, a gentle weight that settled over my naked, marked skin.
“Sleep,” she commanded, her voice a soft, final note in the quiet room. “You belong to me now. There is no sense in questioning what is already written.”
The simple act of care, the provision of warmth, shattered the last of my resistance. The dread evaporated, replaced by a profound, aching gratitude. I pulled the blanket tighter, the soft wool a tangible symbol of her authority and her provision. “Thank you,” I whispered into the darkness, my voice thick with a devotion that felt more real than any fear.
She did not reply. I heard the soft rustle of silk as she slipped into her bed. I closed my eyes, the scent of her iris perfume and the dying fire weaving through my senses. The contract was signed. The door was closed. There was no going back. And as I drifted into an exhausted sleep, the last thing I felt was not fear, but peace.
My sleep was not a gentle escape, but a turbulent voyage into the architecture of my new reality. Freed from the constraints of consciousness, my mind wove vivid tapestries from the fragmented sensations of the evening.
In the first dream, I was kneeling, not on a rug, but at the polished base of an impossibly tall ivory tower. Maureen stood above me on a high balcony, dressed in judicial robes of black silk. She dropped the silver pen, and I watched it fall in slow motion, end over end, to land with a deafening crack on the stone before me. The sound was not of breaking plastic, but of a gavel, pronouncing a final sentence.
The dream shifted. I was back in my old office, but the spreadsheets on my monitor were filled not with numbers, but with words from the contract. Surrender. Property. Extinction. The columns and rows began to bleed, black ink dripping onto the sterile white carpet, pooling around my leather shoes. Maureen’s voice echoed from the intercom, calm and inexorable. “Your old life is a spill to be cleaned, Mark. Mop it up.”
The final dream was the most visceral. I was suspended again, but this time by silken cords that pulsed with a life of their own. Maureen moved around me, not with a flogger, but with a painter’s brush, tracing the welts on my back and ass with a cool, wet pigment. Each stroke was a brand of ownership, and with it, a wave of profound, almost spiritual relief washed over me. The painting was not of a man being punished, but of a man being claimed, his very outlines redrawn by her hand. I felt my identity, the anxious, striving “Mark,” dissolve into the canvas, leaving only the quiet certainty of belonging. It was in this dream-space that the fear finally evaporated, replaced by a deep, anchoring peace.
I awoke with a shuddering inhale, the early morning light filtering through the heavy curtains. The dreams clung to me, not as nightmares, but as revelations. My body ached in a dozen places, a welcome map of the previous night. I was still curled on the floor, the wool blanket a soft haven. The events were not a mistake to be regretted, but a new truth to be inhabited.
A soft sound from the bed made me freeze. Maureen was awake, propped on an elbow, watching me. Her red hair was a glorious mess on the pillow, her emerald silk camisole strap had slipped from one shoulder. Her glacial blue eyes were clear, assessing.
“You dreamt vividly,” she stated, her morning voice a low, raspy melody. It wasn’t a question. “The subconscious always fights the constraints of a new order before it accepts the peace within them. Tell me one thing you saw.”
I hesitated, the intimacy of the request as stark as the morning light. “I saw you… redrawing me,” I whispered, my voice rough with sleep. “Like a painting.”
A slow, genuine smile softened her features. “Good. The foundation is set.” She swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet whispering on the rug. She stood over me, a silhouette of elegant power against the window. “Today, we begin building upon it. Your first task is to draw my bath. The temperature must be exact. You will learn my standards.” She nudged my shoulder gently with her toe. “Now, Property. Attend to me.”
I got up and found my way to my Mistress’s bathroom. It was beyond expectations. It was larger than the bedroom, which was quite large in and of itself. The most expensive fixtures and materials gleamed under discreet, recessed lighting. Once again, no expense was been spared. The room was a temple of marble and polished chrome, its focal point a monumental, oval tub carved from a single piece of white stone at its center.
I moved to the tub, my bare feet silent on the heated floor, and began to draw my Mistress’s bath. The water cascaded from a sleek, golden fixture, steaming as it filled the vast basin. I tested the temperature with my wrist, adjusting it to what I hoped was perfect. As the water ran, the sound and the warmth stirred a pressing urgency in my own body. I soon had a powerful urge to urinate.
Seeing the toilet nestled in a private alcove, I moved to it, my obedience to my bodily need feeling like a transgression. I raised the seat, the simple act feeling oddly defiant in this sacred space.
“What are you doing?”
Maureen’s voice cut through the room’s serenity, cold and sharp. I froze, my hand still on the toilet seat, my heart leaping into my throat. She stood in the doorway, wrapped in her emerald silk robe, her expression dangerously calm.
“I… I needed to relieve myself, Mistress,” I stammered, my face burning with shame.
“That is not your privilege,” she stated, moving toward me with a predator’s grace. “This space, everything in it, exists for my comfort and my convenience. Not for your animal functions.” She stopped inches from me, her glacial eyes boring into mine. “You have forgotten your place already. You are Property. Your needs are secondary, permitted only when I allow it.”
She reached out and slowly pushed the toilet seat down with a definitive click. “You will learn to control your body as I control your will. The urge will pass. Your training in discipline begins now. You will hold it until I grant you permission.”
She turned her back to me and gestured to the still-filling tub. “Finish my bath. The temperature is acceptable. Then you will kneel by the tub and attend to me. Your discomfort will be a reminder of your purpose here.”
I returned to the tub, the ache in my bladder now a potent, humbling counterpoint to the steam rising from the water. My submission was to be total, extending even to this most basic autonomy. I finished the bath under her watchful gaze, every second a lesson in the absolute nature of my surrender.
I knelt beside the vast marble tub, the steam from Maureen’s bath rising in gentle clouds. The ache in my bladder was a sharp, persistent reminder of my new reality—a discomfort I was to endure without complaint. My eyes remained fixed on the water’s surface, watching the subtle ripples as she adjusted her position. Her emerald silk robe lay discarded on a heated towel rail, and she now reclined in the water, her exquisite form partially obscured by swirling bubbles. Her red hair was piled loosely atop her head, tendrils clinging to her damp neck.
“The soap,” she commanded, her voice echoing softly in the tiled room.
I reached for the cake of expensive, sandalwood-scented soap and the soft linen washcloth. My hands trembled slightly as I lathered the cloth. She extended a slender, graceful arm, and I began to wash her, my touch reverent and careful. I moved from her arm to her shoulder, then her collarbone, the soap leaving a faint, fragrant trail on her skin. Each stroke was a lesson in devotion, in attending to her every inch without presumption.
She closed her eyes, a slight sigh escaping her lips. “Slower. More pressure on the muscles. You are not dusting a shelf, you are caring for my body.”
I adjusted my touch, kneading the firm muscle of her shoulder with more purpose. The intimacy of the act was profound—the heat of the water, the scent of sandalwood and her skin, the absolute trust and control implicit in my position. My own need was forgotten, subsumed by the focus required to please her.
She guided my hand lower, to her stomach, then her thighs. “Every part of me requires your attention. Your focus should be absolute.” Her tone was instructional, leaving no room for error or hesitation.
I obeyed, my world narrowing to the feel of her skin under the cloth, the sound of the water, and the weight of her gaze when she occasionally opened her eyes to monitor my work. The lesson was clear: my purpose was her comfort, and my own discomfort was merely a tool to reinforce that truth.
