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In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the “wicked” witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave, written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe’s narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.


It was a particularly rainy winter, but I soon learned a good master can find plenty of interesting things to do on wet afternoons – and I also counted my blessings that I would not have to be in the public eye for a least a while longer in my role as Master’s slave.

The more the rain lashed the windows of Master’s flat, the more his whips lashed my arse and shoulders. He would spend hours dressing me up in different clothes. I could not tell which of us was more surprised to see what I looked like in a sophisticated cocktail dress, or split-crotch panties and a peephole bra, or naked except for a man’s tweed jacket and Wellington boots. The least I ever wore was four clip-on earrings, two on my ears and two more dangling from my “love lips,” as Master referred to my labia.

We visited London’s top theatrical costumiers, Master constantly looking for sexy outfits. On one occasion, Master rented the white helmet and gloves of the dress uniform of the Royal Marines. With black Karl Lagerfeld boots, Master felt they made a magnificent outfit.

“Private Parsons,” Master shouted, one dark afternoon when I was dressed in boots, helmet, and gloves.

“Sir!” I immediately responded.

“Atten-shun!” Master ordered.

I stood rigid as Master grabbed my nipples saying, “These buttons need polishing.”

“Yes, Sir,” I responded. “Sorry, Sir.”

Master tugged at my pubic hair. “And this bearskin is a disgrace,” he said.

“Yes, Sir,” I responded. “Sorry, Sir.”

Master started up a CD of the Royal Marines Band on the stereo, and said, “OK. Let’s see you parade.”

Although I never marched before, I tried to step evenly, up and down the length and breadth of the main room, in time to a series of different marches.

Master took the Royal Marines helmet off me, whilst I stood at attention. Then Master balanced a book on my head, and switched off the CD player. Master moved to the centre of the room, brandishing a long whip, and motioned for me to march in circles round Master in time to the clicking of a metronome.

“Knees UP, you slack bitch!” Master shouted. “Higher! Keep your chin up!”

It still amazed me how this sort of activity – so foreign to me before meeting Master – excited me sexually. I could feel that my nipples were beginning to swell; Master hit them, the long tongue of the whip uncoiling across my chest.

I bit my lip, concentrating on keeping time, doing very well at first. But as soon as I got the rhythm right, Master stopped me, and re-set the metronome a fraction faster. Even though I knew I was bound to fail in the end, I carried on, glad Master seemed to enjoy watching my tits jiggle.

Finally, the steps became so fast that the book fell from my head to the floor. Master lashed out with the whip, and I stumbled. I had put my hands out to break my fall, but before I could use them to get back into position, Master ordered me to stay where I was — on my knees — while Master fucked my wet cunt from behind.

Master thought up a similar game in which I wear an obscene variation on an eighteenth century naval uniform, and play the part of Midshipman Fellatio Hornblower, dancing the hornpipe for Master – and living up to my name as well.

One afternoon I wore a Jean Muir dress, real silk.

“Great outfit!” Master said warmly, and I curtsied with a shy smile.

“Thank you, Master,” I replied. “I bought it with the clothing allowance you pay me.”

“So it actually belongs to me?” Master asked with a smile.

“Of course, Master,” I responded. “Everything I own belongs to you.”

“Good,” Master said, “Because it needs a little remodeling. You’re not wearing any underwear, are you?”

“Of course not, Master,” I replied, hurt that Master even asked.

“Then hold very still,” Master cautioned.

He took his lock-back knife from a pocket and ran the point of it round the swell of my left breast. I closed my eyes, hating that the beautiful dress was being destroyed.

“Watch, bitch,” Master ordered sharply, and I snapped open my eyes.

Master took a pinch of material in front of my right nipple and dragged it out into a sharp cone. Master slashed the material, and pulled away the fabric, leaving my naked breast poking through a jagged hole.

Despite having been around Master so often in much less than this dress, I felt shockingly exposed. Master started to do the same thing on the other side, except this time he took hold of my nipple as well as the material of the dress.

When Master yanked my whole Sahabet breast taut and raised the knife again, I reflexively screamed and pulled free, terror in my eyes.

Master burst out laughing. “You thought I’d do it!” he spluttered. “You really thought I was going to cut your tit off!”

When I spoke, there was a sob in my voice, reflecting my disappointment at the failure of my trust. “I’m sorry, Master. You’ve hurt me many times, but I should have known you wouldn’t do me physical harm,” I said. “I trust you. Forgive me. It was an automatic reaction.”

“A good slave conquers her reflexes,” Master replied.

“I know, Master,” I agreed. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better in future.”

Master took my breasts in his hands, one bare and the other clothed, squeezing them both until once again I cried out. “I just might cut your tits off one day,” Master mused quietly, watching to be sure he was keeping me unsettled.

“If you ever actually belong to me,” Master went on. “But I’m only renting you, aren’t I?”

“I suppose so, Master,” I replied.

“Suppose nothing,” Master harshly said. “You’re a rented whore.”

“Yes, Master, I am a rented whore,” I said automatically, having learned that blanket agreement with all of Master’s pronouncements made my servitude easier.

Despite my experience and trepidation, I went on, “I don’t think it’s fair for you to say that to me, Master. Call me a whore if you want to. Call me a bitch or a slut. But I don’t think you should throw my misfortune in my face.”

“It’s not an insult,” Master protested. “It’s a compliment. You allowed yourself to be hired, because you were smart enough to see how much trouble you were in, and clever enough to accept a way out when it was offered.”

Master touched the blade to my exposed right nipple, and I controlled my reaction to the cold steel and the implicit threat almost perfectly.

“Better,” Master said. “Much better. Let’s go for a walk. I want the world to see you with a tit hanging out of the front of your dress.”

“No, Master,” I begged. “Please.”

“Shut up, bitch,” Master said, lightly slapping my face. “A good slave does not question a master’s slightest whim.” Then Master took hold of the dress again, and cut a jagged hole for my left breast to poke through, then a neat triangle to show off my cunt hair.

“Turn,” Master ordered. “That’s far enough. Stop.” Now that my back was turned to him, Master slashed a round hole that let my arse hang out of the back, crisscrossed with the marks of a whipping I’d gotten the day before.

Reaching around my body, Master shoved his hand roughly through the torn fabric and tweaked my clit. I slumped, immediately responding to Master’s sexual stimulation. He could have made me come there and then, but Master stopped a few seconds before the orgasm hit, removed his hand, and walked around to face me again.

Master put his fingers in my mouth for me to lick clean, then stood back to survey his handiwork. “Walk over to the window and back,” Master ordered. “Excellent. That’s what I call a good outfit for a rented whore. Better than Jean Muir could ever have dreamed,” Master said with a smile. “Like I said, it just needed remodeling. Thank me.”

“Thank you, Master,” I replied.

“For?” Master sharply responded.

“For making my beautiful dress even more beautiful, Master,” I said, making my thanks more specific and expansive. “Thank you for your care and attention.”

Master put the knife away and smiled. I was glad to see the knife going back into Master’s pocket, but knew I had revealed yet another weakness Master would exploit; he would find a way to use my fear against me, I knew.

It seemed that relief made me giddy, and forward, since I asked Master: “Do you have to leave the toilet seat up all the time?” Not only was I questioning Master, which was forbidden, but I was doing so without permission, yet another infraction.

“Goodness me,” Master cheerily replied. “Do my ears deceive me, or is the staff whore complaining about her working conditions?”

I thought for a moment, then squared my shoulders and stuck out my chin; I really convinced myself that I had nothing more to lose by going on with this ill-planned conversation.

“Yes,” I said. “I am complaining. Other women don’t have to put up with that.”

“Other women aren’t as lucky as you are, bitch,” Master replied sweetly. “They wander through life without the guidance of a strict but fair master. I shall not beat you for this infringement, but I shall lay down some rules.”

My eyes dropped, my relief apparent in the release of the tension that my unthinking complaint had generated. “Yes, Master,” I said.

“When I go to the lavatory,” Master said, “I shall expect the seat to be in the correct position: down if I’m going to have a crap, up if I only want to take a piss. It will be your job to make sure it’s ready.”

“But how will I know in advance?” I asked.

“A good slave learns to anticipate a master’s Sahabet Giriş every whim,” Master replied. “In the meantime, you’ll be punished every time you get it wrong.” I could tell from Master’s face that he was not angry with me or even disappointed that I had strayed from the behavior he demanded. In fact, I came to realize, that I once again had given him yet another extra reason for beating me.

Like any hard-working entrepreneur, Master brought his work home. As he played CDs of the groups he managed, as well as those in competition with them, he kept time by spanking me to the latest tunes.

Whenever a new song topped the local “Top 20,” Master would make me go out and buy it. Once I got it back to Master’s flat, Master would play it over and over until he got to know it, spanking away, with an especially fierce attack whenever they added something interesting. For instance, I never hear the beat that comes in when Shania Twain sings, “That don’t impress me much,” without feeling a stroke on my arse.

Whenever I got back with a new CD, Master would be sitting in the main room, holding a paddle or a quirt.

As instructed, I would knock on the door; Master always would make me wait a few minutes before telling me to come in. Early on, I thought Master delayed summoning me to demonstrate how even something as simple as opening a door was in his control. As my service progressed, I realized that, not only did the delay reinforce that Master was in charge, it gave me time to think about what was going to happen once the order came to open the door. I found that the pauses gave time for my imagination run wild, emphasing the inevitability of my submission: no matter what I think I want, I know I am going to give in to Master’s demands.

When Master eventually allows me into the room, neither of us says anything. I execute a deep cunt curtsey, and throw my clothes onto the floor before putting the new disk in the CD player. Once the CD was set to play, I get down and move over to Master on my knees. Master picks up the remote control, motioning with it for me to stand. Once I was in position in front of Master, there was another wait for the music to begin. Before I began my submissive service, I preferred ballads, becoming involved in the stories being told. When music became associated with strokes from Master, up-tempo songs were preferable: they gave Master less time to bring his arm back and hit me harder.

A rainy winter led onto a rainy spring. Just when I was getting used to our informal fucking and dressing-up games, Master pulled out his “Spank-a-Rooney” box. “Spank-a-Rooney” looks like the kind of commercial board game they sell in your local high street, though it’s deeply obscene. It grew out of a variety of games Master had played with other slaves in the past.

In the long evenings when Master had no serving submissive, he sorted activities he liked best into a finished game. Master had laser-printed the board and covered it with clear plastic film. The mechanics were based on “Monopoly,” with two pieces going round the outside edge of a board. One piece was a miniature whip, representing Master; the other was a tiny pair of handcuffs, representing me.

The pieces moved according to the throw of a pair of dice. Some squares make you miss a turn. Others move you forward. Others move you back. In one corner was a graphic scanned directly from the “Jail” square in “Monopoly”: if either of us landed on that square, my next four turns were played with my wrists and ankles chained together.

Just like in “Monopoly,” the most interesting squares were the ones to pick a card from one of the stacks in the middle of the board: not “Chance” or “Community Chest,” but blue for the master and pink for the slave.

A master card might read, “Slap your slave’s right breast” for instance or “Drag your slave round the room by the hair.” A slave’s card would say something like “Light a candle and drip hot wax on your belly” or “Shove a banana up your cunt and stand on one leg.”

Sooner or later, I would turn up a card that said something like “Suck Master’s cock and drink his sperm” or Master would get one reading “Come on your slave’s tits,” and the game would be over. Because Master always set out the game, he would place those final cards high or low in the packs, depending on how he felt and how much time he had to spare.

Master’s home is two flats joined together, and is very spacious. One evening, Master instructed me to bathe and dress for dinner whilst a catering service came in and prepared a cordon bleu meal in the kitchen, laying the table and decorating the dining room with flowers.

When I joined Master in the dining room, I was dressed in an olive green Nicole Farhi dress and Patrick Cox stilettos. Master was dressed for this particular occasion in a Tommy Nutter tuxedo with maroon velvet reveres.

Master told me how good I looked.

“Thank you, Master,” I replied, moving forward into the room.

Master pulled my chair from Sahabet Güncel Giriş underneath the tablecloth to reveal a lurid purple dildo jutting up towards me from the centre of the seat.

“Sit down,” Master told me. “And I’ll ring for the waiter.”

“I can’t sit there, Master,” I said, scandalised, knowing the catering staff were nearby.

“You will,” Master told me. “It’ll fit you perfectly. That dildo is the same size as my cock.”

Still I hesitated.

“What’s the matter, bitch?” Master demanded. “Don’t tell me you’re wearing panties.”

“No, Master,” I replied.

“Then sit down,” Master said. “Or should I say slither down?”

“But the waiter will notice,” I protested. “He’ll see the way my skirt looks at the back.”

“He might,” Master acknowledged. “But then, the news that you’re a whore is bound to leak out sooner or later. Sit down, or I’ll ring for the waiter and let him watch while that thing goes up your cunt.”

Master picked up a small silver bell, property of the catering firm, and held it up ready to ring.

I sighed, pulled my dress up to my waist and attempted to manoeuvre myself onto the purple spear.

“Hurry up,” Master said testily. “I’m getting hungry.”

“It’s difficult, Master,” I whimpered, “I’m dry.”

“Your cunt is dry, you mean,” Master corrected.

“Yes, Master,” I agreed. “My cunt is dry, Master. Sorry, Master.”

“Then make it wet,” Master said. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”

My hand snaked between my legs and I tugged and plunged desperately, but to no avail.

“I’m sorry, Master,” I explained. “This is making me anxious, not excited.”

“Then wet the dildo,” Master said. “Hurry,” and then rang the bell.

In a complete panic, I knelt down and licked the dildo, spitting on it, rubbing my saliva over it with my fingers, trying to keep quiet the slight slurping noises my activity was generating. Master moved his chair closer to watch.

In any other context, the bright purple dildo would have made the scene slightly ludicrous, but I knew to take things very seriously indeed. As I licked my way up the dildo’s shaft, my fingers curled round it just as they did round Master’s cock. Realising that, I glanced over at Master’s lap, and saw his cock jerk to attention. For a moment, I lost myself, intent on licking as if the dildo really was Master’s cock. And then I snapped into the present and began to hurry up with the job of sucking and spitting till the dildo glistened in the candlelight.

“Hurry up,” Master warned. “The waiter will be here in a second.”

As I lifted my skirt to sit down, Master rang the bell once more. I settled myself onto the chair, impaled by the purple dildo, and realised that Master had employed yet another deception. He must have told the waiter to enter the room only after the bell rang a second time, which Master timed to ensure I was in my chair before the waiter entered.

As the waiter served us vichyssoise, he showed no sign of noticing the way my skirt bunched up in the back and spread on either side of the chair, but as the meal progressed, he began to shoot curious glances at me. I tried to reassure myself that he was just curious about us in a general way — people who do that sort of work like to speculate on the people they’re serving each night; what else have they got to think about?

“How’s the soup, bitch?” Master asked.

“Excellent, Master,” I truthfully replied.

“And how’s the dildo?” Master went on.

“Large, Master,” I said, “Very large.”

“And how’s the cunt?” Master continued.

“Stretched, Master,” I confirmed.

“Good,” Master said happily. “We must do this in a proper restaurant some time. I’ll take you to the Gavroche, or Simpsons in the Strand.”

“But how will you arrange,” I began, my curiosity once again prompting me to speak without permission.

“How will I manage to get big fat dildo up your cunt in a public place?” Master interrupted with a smile. “You’ll wear one inside your panties, of course. In fact, I’m planning to make you a G-string out of chain just to hold vibrators up against your clit or dildos in your cunt while still letting the air get to your smelly bits. What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, Master,” I replied.

“Then I’ll tell you what to think, bitch,” Master said. “You’re to think that you’re a lucky slut to have such a considerate man spending all that time and energy thinking up new things to do to your cunt.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Thank you, Master.”

Every time the waiter came in with a new course, I could feel my blushes fire up, even though Master had not done or said anything untoward when the waiter was serving us. Now and again Master would interrupt the flow of the conversation, asking me to pass the salt. Master knew doing so would make me stretch forward, lifting my hips, raising me to the tip of the dildo – giving him another opportunity to watch me settle back down again.

“Have you finished your main course?” Master asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, thank you, Master.”

“Then lift yourself up a little,” Master said. “Now down. Now do it again. That’s excellent, Meat. Fuck yourself for a bit while my digestion settles. You’re the guest of honour, but you’re also the evening’s entertainment.”

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