images based on a photo by Gerhard Richter


"I am tired of you. You are not prepared to be mine, unconditionally. Goodbye to you and your life." He looked at me for a few moments as I stood there. He then quietly closed the door and was gone.

He has been gone a long time and has not returned. I live as if he is here. I look around me and I see the traces of his life with me, his belongings, as if he could return any moment. Dependent upon him still.

Dependent. I wanted to be dependent. There is freedom in dependency. I left ambition, so-called choice, the pursuit of success, romantic air-headedness - all the things the normal world is blindly following - behind me. What is freedom? Choice? A grand illusion. I felt free under conditions without such illusions, where he would dictate my behaviour. My one choice was simple: to say yes or no, to buy out if I wanted to, to run if the constraints were suffocating me, if the chains hurt. I was free of the troubles, the pressures, the worries, the pains that life presents to mankind (womankind no less!) today .

Still-life with roses

I lie here spread-eagled on our large dining room table. The room is dusky. It is cold. I am naked and masked, as I once was. Like then, candles are placed between my legs, close to my crotch. My private area is highlighted in their glow. I can gradually feel the radiating heat as the candles burn down to stumps. I smell the odour of roses. I imagine I feel many, many fingers traversing my body, feeling here, there, pinching... stroking... probing... Come, feel me, feel me! I will you to feel me!

I remained there until I was stone cold. Untouched by my master.

He took pleasure in exhibiting me, his favourite possession, to his friends. I was first exhibited in this way a year or so ago, in the days my master chose to grace me with his company.

"I will receive my friends tonight. My love, you are what I value most on this earth. When a man meets his friends, he wants to meet them surrounded by the treasures that define him: his books, his paintings, his music ... all these things of beauty. You are my most cherished treasure and certainly at the core of my existence.

"I wish to share you. You will be proud to serve me in this way. My dear, I will mount you on the dinner table for all to see. They will not fail to see you. And admire you, and me through you. You will feel our presence. But you will not see us. Here, you will cover your face with this eyeless mask. Nor will you hear us but faintly, as you will block your ears with earplugs. You will be alone in the presence of many, in the depth of your thoughts and feelings. In the presence of many, you shall be utterly alone and be forced to consider what your role is in relation to me, your master. "

I insert the earplugs, put on the mask and thus isolate myself. He helps me unto the table and I lay down. He wraps my wrists and ankles in cuffs. I feel my arms and legs being stretched as he pull the ropes attached to the cuffs towards the four corners of the table and ties them down. Now he strokes my body, feather-lightly, describing ever smaller circles around my erogenous zones; my breasts, my nipples, stroking, pinching, increasing the force by a minute amount every time; the insides of my thighs, the underbelly, my vulva, probing with his finger, venturing deeper, deeper into my wet, wetter, dripping cunt, flowing, flowing like a river ... With my sensitivity heightened, deprived as I am of my other senses, I am about to be launched ... when he, who knows me so well, stops, one second to lift-off. I cry desperately, savagely, imploring him to send me off - in vain. He leaves me at my own resources: my feeble mind.

I vaguely sense that his friends are arriving - flows of air, dull sounds, contacting of the table. I simply lie there, powerless to move or to participate, react in even the smallest way. Participate - has he announced my exhibition? Are his friends surprised to see me, this woman, here, laid bare before them? Shocked or excited? Does my master introduce me? Or does he studiously ignore me, as if taking me for granted?

I spend eternities alternating between being fearfully cold when I imagine their malicious gazes, or turning hot, wet and hard, imagining their lusty admiration.

He must have put the candlesticks between my legs before they came, for dramatic effect. Or one of them may have put them there, to improve the view.

My meandering thoughts are interrupted, when a tongue starts to suck a nipple and another the other, softly, softly... I jerk in my restraints. The lips are superseded by teeth, that bite my nipples, softly, harder, hard ... Fingers tip-toe along the inside of one thigh, and of the other. My flanks, my lower buttocks are being touched simultaneously, pinched. An army of hands is enlisted to attack me from every possible angle. My defenceless self is vastly overpowered and still the charge continues. My lips are folded open. Fingers probe, penetrate my hole ..... The sensations are incredible. Imagine the simultaneous attention of several lovers. The restraints must be very strong, as I must pull at them like a horse. My orgasm is an eruption.

The first sense that returns is my smell. Roses. Have his friends gone? Does my master offer me these lovers' flowers? Is it him who has gone? Has he left me in the care, at the mercy of a friend, or friends? My body is being caressed with silky rose flowers. So soft, such sweet fragrance. Gradually, I notice the soft seduction being interspersed with a faint long drawn irritation: a thorny stem being dragged along my body. Stems, many thorns ... My vital areas are not spared. My vital areas, my breasts, my vulva ... they are the first to be hit. The thorny lovers' flowers as whips, chastisement for my orgasm. Briefly, a minute perhaps (or was it seconds only?); a rain of short, sharp pains. I feel that little drops of blood trickle down my body. Let them stop, let him stop them ...

They leave me. All I can feel is my burning body. The burning subsides slowly, slowly, during what must have been hours. Then I become aware of the radiation of the shortening candles, which will warm my crotch, until they too go out.

An evening out

I walk the streets, naked underneath my raincoat. I wear a dildo in my cunt, which fills me up completely, which moves and stimulates me. I am only half aware of where I am. I bump into other people on occasion, who look at me and shake their heads, or shout at me to watch my step. I pay no attention to them.

I am exhausted and covered in sweat, when I return home. A deserted house.

"You are mine, are you not, mine to possess, to share, mine even to reject and to give away, even if that would break my own heart? You are objectively mine, are you not?" My face grows pale at the thought of him giving me away. I gave myself to him, because I was his, because I wanted to demonstrate my dependency, to show that I was tied to him, in hopes of tying him to me. He, the stronger of us two, could henceforth have me at his disposal and have me satisfy his every whim. But not - my greatest fear - give me away! "I am yours, my dearest master, unconditionally, but I cannot consent to your giving me away. I'd hate myself if you'd give me away."

The next moment; tears in my eyes and a burning cheek, as he has slapped me in the face. "Unconditionally! Do not tell me what to do. I am the one that sets the conditions. I'll be your master unconditionally or I won't be your master at all. I'd leave. You should be satisfied to know that I own you and love you. Understood?"

"Yes, yes," I sob as I fall on my knees at his feet, "forgive me."

He strokes my hair pensively, for a good while. This fails to calm me down. I anxiously wait. "I will try. I hope I can. But you have rocked the foundations of our relationship."

He explains that will put his favourite possession on public display. Every man, woman and their dog outside will have a chance to see me and touch me. Trepidation, as I hear this. As if it worse for strangers to see me as my master's bitch. I have not been outside in the glaring daylight with my master. I am used to private situations, with a limited audience. In those situations, the rules are known. The dependants are admired and, in a fashion, respected as such. There I manage to be proud and wear my dependency like a charm. Why should I be afraid now? Am I afraid of the unlikely event that anyone from my normal life sees me, is afraid himself, herself, is shocked, derides me? The rules are unknown. Anything can happen. Giving me away - no!

He places an ebony box on the table in front of me and sits down next to it, with a hand on the top. "My dear, I am going to show the world what you are. You will be naked and exposed as never before. Please undress, if you would."

I get up and stand in front of him and do as he suggests. How many times I have undressed for him like this! Yet it always stirs up strong emotions, be it different every time. I feel excited, yet fearful. Excited sexually, because I love him and his gaze touches my hypersensitive skin. Excited, because I am proud of my body and am certain that he is proud of my form too. Fearful, because he may choose not to satisfy my desires or, what is more, because he has absolute power over me, which he may abuse, abuse to the point of deserting me, giving me away.

I remove every article of clothing under his gaze and stand there awaiting his commands. He does not immediately tell me what his intentions are. I stand with hardening nipples as he watches me ...

Finally, he tells me to go to the table and open the box. He stands right next to me, when I do so. He strokes my buttocks, the crevice between them, softly probes my second entrance, which he has never used, as I open the box. Narrow leather straps, a belt are what I see first, then two phallic ebony objects, connected to them. "Please remove them from the box, if you would. They will fill you up, all the way." He shows me the first phallus, in the shape of a conventional, big dildo. "To fill your cunt, dearest." The second is shorter, but has a strongly ondulating profile, thinning and thickening - three beads. "To fill your butt. They will see that I am the master of your ports of entry."

The straps form a harness. He makes me step into two loops with my legs. He lubricates the butt plug and inserts it slowly, but steadily. The last bead stretches me. I am to insert the dildo myself, the big smooth head, the shaft. So full, so full! A most incredible feeling. I have to consciously keep myself upright. The ends of both inserts protrude slightly. He closes the wide belt, almost a corset, around my waist and fastens it tightly. Adjustment of straps between my legs and on my hips fixes the dildo and plug firmly in place. My wrists he fixes in cuffs, which are attached to the back of the belt. My attire is complete when he puts a wide leather collar with a leash around my neck. He asks me to walk around the room to experience the feeling.

I look up, I raise my head, I am lifted. The dual shafts moving inside ... He slaps my buttocks to restore my senses. He presents me with a a pair of high-heeled shoes, puts a raincoat around my shoulders, buttons it up and we leave the house. The leash is hidden inside the coat.

We live in the city. We are quickly engulfed by the Friday night crowd. The crowd is anonymous. People do not notice, or show no signs of noticing, that the sleeves of my coat are empty, that I have a collar on. We walk to the centre. He guides me along. I need the guidance, as I am being stimulated by the shafts: I am burning, floating, streaming ... I am hardly aware of where I go, where he takes me.

We are in the very centre, five minutes later, among the bars, the restaurants, the theatres and their many visitors, individuals, couples, groups. We see a group of young men in a half-drunk, rowdy, roaring state. They are apparently having a stag party, jeering at and chatting up women with great adolescent confidence. My master steers us towards them. He speaks to them: "Hey, guys! Having fun? You talk as if you know all about women. At the tips of your fingers! I bet you - women are your masters, not the other way round." Protests, laughter. "How would you know? Try us, for fuck's sake!" Cheers of agreement. "Here is a woman for you. Can you take her?" He opens the raincoat and shows them my proud, subservient naked body. They become silent, they grow pale, their eyes grow. He simply hands them the leash and briskly walks away. I stand still for an instant and then step towards where he has gone. The leash pulls me back. I dare not call to him, nor force myself free. He would not allow it.

The young men seem lost for a few moments. They look at me, as if expecting directions from me. I look back, into their eyes, but remain silent. Insecurity turns to rowdiness. They turn loud again and loose their nervousness. They drag me into an alley to remove the raincoat and look at me, throwing the coat aside. Admiring sighs. "What a broad! Just imagine it - walking around dressed like that on the streets. Hands tied, a little slave girl. Hot stuff. Man, I can't resist. I'll be your master. Fuck, yeah! One more time before marriage chains me."

The groom to be touches my face. His hand moves down and touches, clutches a breast. Both hands on my hips, on my buttocks, descending to my crotch. He feels the butt plug, he jerks at it. "What the fuck is that? Hey, guys, what is that?" "She got another one down here! Fucking weird! Are you sick or something?" They half-heartedly pull at the dildo, the butt plug. Both remain firm. "Bitch." They push me around among each other with contempt in their eyes, or is it fear? I let it happen. My master tries me. I must not bend. They finally push me away and kick my butt. "Go fuck yourself. Go, you bitch, to that creep of a master of yours." I stride away, proudly, untouched, towards our house. They follow me, at a distance, yelling, scolding. I am oblivious to the stares, the upset faces, that behold my naked and tied form. I do not notice the disbelieving looks of the people I run into, the shouts, the curses. Some touch or grab me, but I press on, silently. My pursuers give up their chase before I reach home.

I run. So full, so full... I am oblivious...

I am in sweat when I reach the house, my home. The door is ajar. He is there, waiting for me. Without a word, he loosens the straps, jerks out the dildo, pulls out the butt plug and takes me from behind, for the first time.

I am going insane while waiting for him. I long for him. I crave his mercy. He should return, no matter what made him go away, regardless of the disobedience I showed. If he was simply tired of me, let him on his part realise that he needs me in his own way. Or is this simply another test of my subordinance to him? Then the length of his absence should be finite. My waiting should come to an end.

I have chained myself to the wall in the hallway, like he has done so many times before. He has shown me off and received visitors this way. Occasionally, uninvited callers, the postman, a neighbour, have been treated to the sight of me and my proud bare body. He never apologised to them for what they saw. I got the expected looks of surprise, of admiration, of horror, of contempt, of pity. I did not mind. I was proud that way.

I cannot wait for him any longer. Both of my ankles are put in restraints. So is one wrist. The other I could not manage. I have closed the padlocks. The keys I have cast out of reach. I, the unconditional dependent, shall wait for him until he returns.

BDSM is a rewarding lifestyle, as long as it is consensual. One can argue whether the word 'consensual' applies to this story. Possibly not. My defence for publishing it nonetheless is that it is a story, not reality, and that is right. It is a thought experiment. The logical extreme of belonging to a master or mistress is to allow the master or mistress to dispose of one. Yet this is the greatest fear of the slave. A paradox. An interesting thought, but a thought.

Copyright by Vanna Vechian, 1998. Reproduction allowed only for personal use.