Continues from 18. Silvie
The bright summer days of August were slowly fading now. The light was softening and the shadows were getting longer. Fall loomed harsh and ominous. A feeling not unknown to me – I am a child of summer and I revel in the heat and the light and the promise of its long days and febrile nights. The end of summer always seems like a tiny death to me.
I couldn’t imagine life without Silvie and Madame now. These days on Belos had been the most perfect of my life.
I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want to have to return to the university, my thesis, my dull rented accommodation or any of my life as it had been before. I felt as though I had shed a skin and assumed a new life and personality.
I also felt that I would be a stranger to my old friends – a tourist in a once familiar land. I had new secrets and new desires. How could I carry on as before? Who could I talk to about all of these new feelings and the things that were happening to me?
So I sensed a threat approaching. A pain that was far more wounding than that of the whip’s – it was the pain of leaving, parting and separation.
Only six weeks before, in high summer, I had started a train journey which had led, not only to a passionate love affair, but also to a reawakening of my own sense of being. The girl I thought I was – competitive, selfish, self-assured, heterosexual – had been replaced by a woman who was more pensive, more curious, more generous… and far more sexual.
What had I learned in these glorious chimerical summer weeks?
That sex did not need to be gender specific – that it was really a communion of minds through bodies. Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual… These are all just labels.
That I was, for the most part, submissive. My love was submission. Not just of my body but also of my mind. It was like having your ego, or your “self”, removed for a while and then having it returned to you after being spotlessly cleaned. It was as if someone had put new sheets on the bed – a clean, sweet-smelling, luxuriating, restful feeling in the soul.
That I was a masochist and that I enjoyed the exhilaration of pain. The signs were always there, I suppose, in the way I had pushed myself beyond the pain threshold in those intense training sessions in the gym. But now I enjoyed the adrenalin rush of being whipped – my arms outstretched, my hands cuffed, my freedom of movement denied, my pussy, ass and breasts exposed, my nipples tightly clamped and burning – all this was something that aroused me and transported me to a magical realm of transcendence and ecstasy.
And this was even more true if others could take pleasure in my whipping. I was very aware that a naked body, and especially my naked body, could look very attractive under the whip. And if the person wielding the whip had the expertise and the imagination, it was like an art form – a dance – a teasing call and response to love. And there was a grace and stoicism in the surrender that was truly beautiful.
I understood now that pain really could lead to pleasure and that the infliction of pain could actually be an expression of love.
Also – and this was the amazing thing – it led to a sense of freedom and serenity in the one who submitted to it.
And the release, when it came, was mind-shatteringly intense. These past few weeks I’d had the best orgasms of my life.
Yet there were still so many questions, so many things I needed to think about and mull over.
So I decided to write it all down. I found one of the spare laptops that had been lying around – tech was one thing we were not short of at Madame’s house on Belos – and decided to write a kind of memoir. A diary of my summer. It was an attempt to sort all these things out in my mind.
It was, of course, the seed of the blog you are reading now.
Up to that point I had spent most of my free time on Belos either fucking and playing sex games with Silvie or reading and going through Madame’s library, but now I just wanted to write – to put my own thoughts down and give them some kind of organization. I felt the first flash of creativity spark within me. I suddenly had so much I wanted to say.
Silvie often lay beside me as I typed away in bed, sometimes reading what I wrote as I typed it, or afterwards when I was finished and happy with it. She was very encouraging. She had loved my fantasy story of cock-whipping the boy in the woods in Paris and was fascinated, and turned on, by my descriptions of being whipped by her and Madame.
Madame, who had also been busy writing in her studio every day, started to take an interest too. And one night at dinner, after it had become obvious that it was something that was consuming more and more of my time, she asked me to read from my diary.
So, with some nervousness – I had no idea how she would receive it – I read what were to become the first four posts on this blog.
When I finished Silvie gave me the most beautiful smile. Then they looked at each other for a brief second. I remember there was something complicit in the look but I also I detected a show of pride in Silvie’s glowing smile.
And Madame seemed genuinely surprised – and pleased.
“Well. That really is interesting,” she said, “I think we need to hear more. You will come to my room tonite and read more to me in bed.”
Continues 20. La Maîtresse