Since my kink of choice was one of the rarest, it was one of the most expensive. I wanted to own a man. To control him. To hurt him. To humiliate him. And to use him for my pleasure. In a society driven by men and the pride of men, this was considered one of the worst crimes against society.
After a major social revolution in 2034, pretty much all forms of sexually deviant behavior were outlawed. Ironically, society went along with this for the most part, and everything took on a hideously puritanical slant. For my family, I will admit, this was a good thing. Perhaps in the bigger cities, things were worse, with underground drinking, drugs and crime, but we did not hear much We kept to ourselves.
But I was one of the unlucky ones, I guess because I grew up feasting regularly on my sexual passions, many of which are now considered highly anti-social, deviant, and punishable by time in prison. Needless to say, it put a damper on my play. But I dealt with it, as everyone did.
Men seemed strangely in favor of this new change, and society for the most part was driven and fueled by the working-class fathers. Women stayed at home and raised children.
Tendencies like mine were not only frowned upon but were illegal. If anyone knew, I would be shamed and probably put in jail. No one even talked about it anymore. I kept it out of my head, most of the time, but I will admit, sometimes I could not help it.
I simply had to accept it.
There was a winter evening, I remember, when I took a taxi into the city. Traffic was heavy, even though it was snowing. I walked in my long wool coat and gloves to the corner, that same corner I had visited months before. The corner that I always feared would be gone, but it never was.
He was standing there, leaning against a wall, his hands in his pockets. He looked much older now, cynical. I had twelve hundred dollars in cash in my pocket and was terrified. Last time it had been one thousand, but I brought extra, fearing his price had gone up like everything else in the past months.
I don’t think he recognized me. I wondered how many women he saw like this, a night, how many transactions like this went on. I wondered how many of my friends were doing the same thing, if any.
Since my kink of choice was one of the rarest, it was one of the most expensive. I wanted to own a man. To control him. To hurt him. To humiliate him. And to use him for my pleasure. In a society driven by men and the pride of men, this was considered one of the worst crimes against society. I really didn’t care, it wasn’t a social issue for me, it was just a primal need. I needed the flesh, the sounds, the tastes.
The men that offered their bodies for this were usually young street kids or prostitutes. They lived in ghettos and slums and used the money to eat or buy illegal books and music. I had never seen the same boy twice in my half dozen or so visits to that corner.
I whispered to the man that I was looking for a boy, for an hour, and that I would pay cash. He just nodded and fumbled in his pocket for some keys, picked up his cellular phone and turned his back to me to make some calls.
And I waited. Those minutes of waiting are the worst because there were times that I had been turned away, put back into my taxi and sent home unfed. And each of those times I returned to the corner the next night.
My mouth was dry and my head was spinning. At that point, the hunger becomes unbearable because relief seems just in grasp. He was on the phone with my boy, I could hear him talking softly, and soon I would have this delicate piece of flesh in my arms to do with as I pleased.
He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned. I must have looked like such a desperate woman. He told me it would be eleven hundred dollars so I paid him and he handed me a key and a slip of paper with an address. “His name is Chance, and he’s waiting for you.”
“How old is he?” I asked reflexively, not wanting to break any more laws than I already had.
The man turned away from me and muttered, “Old enough.”
The taxi ride to see Chance seemed to take forever. My clothes seemed heavy, and hot, and my body was already aching for release. His name was not familiar, as I had predicted, and I knew nothing about him other than that he was going to be mine for an hour. Mine to do all the illegal things I had pent up for months.
The apartment building was old and dark. I made my way up the spiral staircase, waiting to see the number “347” on one of the old wooden doors. Everything was quiet and still, haunted. I wasn’t scared, as women weren’t usually in danger or preyed upon like they used to be, I was tenser with anticipation.
I took off my gloves so I could get the key into the lock because my hands were shaking. The door opened slowly and I peered inside but saw nothing but a very old and empty room. The room had a single bed with an old white mattress and a strong-back wooden chair. I saw a faint light coming from the bathroom on the far side of the room.
I closed the door and it clicked loudly. I just stood there, paralyzed for a minute, my heart pounding with the realization that I might just have been duped. I fought the fear and slid out of my trench coat slowly, dropping it into a pile on the floor.
The light flickered in the bathroom and slowly he peered around, peeking his head around to see who was there. In the semi-darkness I couldn’t really see his face. “Are you my Lady?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” I said quietly and just stood there, waiting for him to come to me.
He disappeared back into the bathroom for a moment then came out, walking slowly. His jeans were torn and dirty, his boots had buckles that were hanging loose from them. As he walked over he lowered his head, and when he arrived in front of me moved down onto both knees.
I was breathing hard, my eyes wandering down at him, trying to hold back all the urges at once. Telling me, yes, yes, he is yours. You have an hour, take your time.
Slowly, cautiously, he raised both hands to me, wrists together, and held them up. A gift. His sacrifice. The symbol that yes, he was mine.
My hands were shaking a little when I took his wrists, held them together, watching him intertwine his fingers and clench them together. I leaned down, eyes closed, and started kissing his knuckles, tasting his flesh.
From my standing position I was pulling him up by the arms but he remained on his knees, wrists together, as I held him as if suspending him and moving my mouth down his wrists.
His breathing was shaking, his skin was cool. I slowly let go of his wrists and moved my fingers over the flesh, opening my eyes and looking at his skin. His wrists were bruised, perhaps scarred, some of the marks still recent. Probably from cuffs too tight, or being suspended unsafely.
I reached down and put my hand under his chin and lifted it, then had to carefully push all the dark hair out of his face. His eyes were closed solemnly, his lips barely parted. There was a light bruise on his left cheek. When I lifted my hand to touch it, he recoiled and started shaking.
It occurred to me that whoever had been using him, or perhaps many of who had used him, were not careful, not caring, nor concerned with his body. The thought made me want to cry, but at the same time, I felt tremendous guilt, for I, too, had come for the same thing.
But had I really?
I must have had this really blank look on my face as these thoughts were racing through my mind because he just stared up at me, waiting for me to move, perhaps slap him, degrade him, or make him lick my boots.
My own identity was a muddled mess in my head, wondering if I was just like these other women who beat and abused and tortured Chance then walk out the door and never see him again. If I was just such filth with no regard for human dignity or pain. I started to cry.
Chance searched my face and looked confused, but afraid to speak. Finally, he said, “Am I not what you wanted?” he asked, timid, insecure.
I half laughed and reached up, putting a hand to his face. “Oh god no, you are beautiful,” I said to him, admiring his cheekbones, his delicate skin. “I just can’t believe anyone would hurt such a beautiful creature.”
I must have appeared psychotic to him, this woman standing there who had just paid over a thousand dollars to use him in just the ways I was condemning. But it was making sense to me, somehow, that what I wanted was different. Still, I started shaking with fear and disgust as thoughts crept into my head that maybe I was justifying it.
Chance said softly, “May I stand?” and I nodded, not looking at him. He walked across the room slowly and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the jingling of metal for a moment then he returned and walked back to me, kneeled down and lifted his hands to me.
In them he held old, fading leather shackles, the buckles were worn. They were long, somewhat tattered. The sight of them made my heart pound. I was afraid to touch them. The hunger was coming back, pushing away the guilt. All I felt was need. I wanted to cry.
When I took them he raised his wrists again to me, together, his head down.
Holding them in my hands made me ache with desire. I closed my eyes and brought them to my lips, absorbed the scent of the leather, and felt the cold buckles against my cheek. The wetness between my legs was so strong, so overwhelming. I needed it so bad.
I wrapped the first strap around his wrist securely but not so tight as to rub against his fresh wounds, sliding the leather through the buckle and locking it. He kept his fingers intertwined, his head down.
“There are more things…” he said softly, not raising his head, “In the next room, if you want them. I am at your command.”
I turned and touched his cheek again softly as I made my way into the bathroom, leaving him kneeling there with his head down, his bound wrists brought now close to his chest.
The bathroom was dirty and unkept, and laying across the counter was a wide range of things I had not seen since before the revolution. Paddles, canes, floggers, chastity devices, gags, hoods, chains. I fingered them, smelled them, and held them close to my body. I undressed slowly and stood there in bra and panties, taking one of the long leather whips and running it down between my legs.
I pleasured myself with the whip for some time, imagining more what I could do with it than what I would do with it. The thought that the boy was out kneeling for me, leaving these items for my use, was more arousing than anything. Even though I had no intention of drawing his blood, leaving bruises on his soft flesh, or humiliating him to the point of tears. That he was out there, waiting for that, made me shiver.
I took a handful of things with me and left the bathroom, returning to him. I stood behind him as he knelt with his head down and bound wrists held close to his chest. When I leaned down and lifted his shirt he tensed and started shaking a little, turning toward the whip I had dropped on the floor next to him with a muzzle and cane.
The shirt was thin and I considered tearing it off of him, but instead just lifted it over his head, pulling it down to his bound wrists and telling him to hold it there. He nodded, his head down, and held it close to his stomach.
When I stepped back and saw his back in the light I let out a gasp, eyeing the marks, the deep gashes, the bruises. Long, red streaks from fingernails were trailing down his flesh, some marks old and faded some scars, and some as fresh that they were still healing.
“Who would do this to you!” I hissed.
He was shaking, leaning over a little.
I moved around and kneeled down with him, taking his chin in my hand. When I lifted his head he had tears in his eyes and he was shaking.
“I’m NOT going to hurt you like that, Chance. I want to possess you, not torture you. Didn’t they stop when you told them you’d had enough? What about your limits? What about the limits of humanity?”
“I have no limits, my lady,” he said softly.
“I have limits,” I snapped in a heavy whisper.
He lowered his eyes and said, softly, “You can do anything to me. You bought my body. It is yours.”
“I don’t want your body, I want your soul. I want to connect with you passionately, not beat you out of hatred for men or spite. You are beautiful, and sweet, and innocent, like an angel.”
He shook his head slowly. “I am not innocent. I deserve this, my lady. This is what is best for me. Please, do whatever you want for me. I can take it.”
I muttered at him and lifted the muzzle to his mouth. This startled him, I think because I had been so soft to him until then. He took it into his mouth and moaned a little as I snapped it into place, holding it into his mouth, and leaning up nose to nose with him.
“Look at me,” I growled.
He opened his eyes slowly, his lashes wet. He looked at me.
“I don’t care what they do to you for money. I don’t care what happened to you to make you think you deserve pain. I don’t care that you think the pain you submit to will free you from the pain inside of you. It won’t. “
The look he had in his eyes was a combination of fear and realization.
“I am here to own you. You’ll do what I say. But I’m not here to hurt you for the sake of inflicting pain. And you’re not here to accept pain for the sake of accepting it.”
I leaned forward and slid my hand up into his hair, gripping it securely, tightening my fist until he shut his eyes tightly in discomfort. I started to ache again.
I let my breath out and leaned to his ear, whispering, “That is all I need from you, Chance. The smallest sacrifice means more to me than welts in your back or blood pouring from your skin.”
Everything was a jumbled mess in my mind, at that point, as a million thoughts hit me at once. It was true I had beaten my lovers until they had bled when play was still legal. But I did it because pain to them was an element of passion, not torture. And that’s what it took to bring them to sacrifice, to the point we both wanted. I had also had lovers that were tender, and timid, and merely securing their wrists and ankles to the bed as I dragged my long hair down their naked body was enough to make them writhe and beg for release. The passion was still the same. The level of pain was relative to the soul of my lover, and worked with him, not against him.
I tried to figure out how to put this into words for Chance, but I couldn’t. I tried to explain to him that I did not want or need to make him bleed, to bring him to tears. I just wanted him to sacrifice, to submit, and merely having my hand tightly in his hair was enough. He was in enough pain already, I could see. The pain was inside. The smallest physical discomfort brought it to the surface, and allowed him to release it.
I wanted to cry at that point because the biggest tragedy for him was that a beating was probably good for him. Welts on his back probably could help him more than anything, when delivered to him by someone who loved him, who wanted to see him release that pain so he could be free. Someone that held him as he sobbed in her arms, who told him that the pain was ok, that the pain inside needed to come out. Someone that made love to him delicately, carefully, and did not use him as he had been used before. He needed someone that took his pain as a gift and gave it back to him in the way of release and comfort, not someone that purchased his flesh for money and used it as something to be trashed and discarded.
I wanted to cry because I knew I could never be that person for Chance, and seeing him where he was made me feel like he never would have that from anyone.
And Chance just looked at me as the tears came, and I reached out to wrap my arms around him.
I whispered into his ear what I could about what I was feeling. The biggest irony of it all was that I needed him, now more than ever, no matter how much my other side wanted to bathe him and wrap him up in warm towels and put him to bed.
I released his wrists from the restraints and muzzle and told him to get undressed and kneel back down. He did so quietly, solemnly, without question or hesitation. When he was finished, I secured his wrists again, this time behind his back. I blindfolded him with a long silk scarf and for the first time kissed him, carefully, gently, but holding his head securely in my hands. He parted his lips willingly for me, accepting my tongue into his mouth.
“If you need me to stop,” I whispered, “just say one word, say ‘salvation’, and I will stop. And you need to promise me that, Chance, or else I can’t lay a hand on you without worrying.”
He nodded slowly but did not speak, lowered his head a little, his long bangs hanging down over the silk that covered his eyes.
I prodded him back toward the wall and then had him sit, his legs down and open. I pinned him carefully against the wall and slid out of my lingerie, moved my naked body close to his, and held his head once more as I kissed him, down his neck, his chest, his collarbone. I possessed his body with my tongue, I took time moving my hands and lips over him as he sat still, shaking occasionally, his breathing the only sound he made.
When I took him fully into my mouth he just arched his back a little and tensed. His taste was sweet, his skin hot. My hands held him still by the hips as I used my tongue and lips to coax feeling from him, the reaction from his body. He shook a little with my touch and bit his lip, lifting his head up and breathing carefully.
I shut my eyes and concentrated on the feel of him in my mouth, how his body surrendered finally to my advances. Holding him steady by the hips made me want him even more. Eventually, I moved them, toward me, slowly, and guided his movements. I controlled his body, the depth, the sensation. I expected a quiver, a gasp, but he remained silent, the only reaction a slight shaking in his body.
I felt a wave of passion come over me as I lifted my eyes to him and saw him there, his head up, the cloth covering his eyes. His lips were barely parted, and his hair was slightly damp with sweat. Part of me wanted to reach down and pleasure myself, but I was enraptured with him, my hands tightly around his hipbones.
There was no warning when he came, or perhaps I was too lost in the moment to notice it was building. He just let out his breath and shuddered slightly, inhaling deeply. I tightened my grip around his waist to hold him steady, to take him in, pulling up slowly and swallowing.
His head was down, he was breathing softly. I leaned up and slid the silk away from his eyes, which were closed. I kissed him at the side of his mouth and listened to him breathing, his eyes shut tight. I could sense he was feeling a wave of emotions, even more so than I.
I just held him, and touched his hair. He was shaking, silent. I think he wanted to cry but couldn’t. I suspected he was confused and spent, tired. His wrists were still bound together but he didn’t ask for release.
I think I held him there for five minutes or so, then reached down and unfastened the buckle, freeing his wrists, expecting him to reach up and hold me, but he didn’t. He pulled his hands up and crossed them over his chest, bringing his knees up close to him, his head down.
“Are you ok, Chance?” I asked softly, touching his bangs.
He nodded slowly but said nothing.
I sat there for a few minutes and he finally leaned over and put his head against me but said nothing. I wanted to cry but didn’t. I wanted to cry because I knew I would never see him again. I wanted to cry because I knew he needed to heal, he needed to heal what was inside of him much more than what was covering his skin. I knew he was blindly looking for pain to release him from pain, and that there were plenty of people ready to give him that.
It had been over an hour and I knew I needed to go. My family would be wondering where I was. I took the extra hundred dollar bill I had and gave it to him, told him to buy some warm clothes. I kissed him on the head and he looked up slowly as I stood to get my clothes.
I got dressed and put his things back, then went to the door. Chance was still sitting against the wall, his knees up against his chest, his arms around them. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.
There was nothing I could do but leave, even though it killed me to do it. “Please be careful, Chance,” I said to him.
He nodded and said, “Thank you,” as I left the room. I closed the door behind me and it clicked, and I left still shaking a little bit. It was a different kind of guilt, it was a deep sadness for something I could never have. I wanted to be the one for him, I wanted to rescue him, but I knew that was not my place. I knew no one could protect him.
When I made my way to the stairs I heard high heels coming up toward me. I looked up and saw a woman, like me, in a long winter coat. She looked at me and me at her, and she smiled. It gave me a chill.
She moved past me with a quiet “Excuse me” and I stopped, looking up over my shoulder as she approached the closed door to his room. Her hand reached out to the door and I saw long, red painted nails, sharpened to a distinct point.
I turned, rushed back down the stairs to the waiting taxi, and cried the entire way home.
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