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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.

*

Long before Sally came to live with us, Master and I had discussed what historical figures influenced the manner in which Master exercised his domination. I was surprised to learn that Master credited Carl Maria von Clausewitz, the great military theorist, as his strongest influence. According to Master, von Clausewitz believed one must gather all one’s forces and hit one’s enemy where he was weakest. Master, in his inimitable way, had taken this precept and applied it to his practice of dominance, but by standing it on its head. Master did not hit or in any other way attack a submissive at her weakest point. Rather, Master does the opposite: Master uses the greatest force on the parts of a slave’s body where she is least vulnerable to damage. Master’s belief, honed over years of dominating slaves, is that, when punishment is applied correctly, the human body can take more than most people would believe.

Master was fond of stating, for example, that we humans have an immensely strong rib cage, particularly if it is struck with a relatively large instrument. To Master’s way of thinking, this concept naturally led to the boxing matches that made the three of us famous in London S&M circles. It became so popular we did guest appearances in Manchester, Dublin, and Amsterdam. Over one weekend, we even performed at a party in New York.

It took a long time to persuade me to play this particular game, because I did not think women should box and, depending on my brain to make a living, I feared Master might get carried away and hit me on the head. My fears were silly, really, as a good master never gets carried away, and I knew from personal experience just how good a Master my Master was!

Perhaps it’ll be clearest if I told you about one of our shows, exactly as it happened. Not the first one, which we staged at one of Dave and Fuckpuppet’s torture parties, but later when we’d worked out a smooth routine.

Master drove his two slaves to a big house in North London, in St. John’s Wood. Though it was a fine evening, we walked up to the imposing front wood wearing those raincoats you see so much of around S&M parties.

It wasn’t a fancy dress affair, though there’s an element of dressing up at every S&M function. There were masters and mistresses in fine leathers, slaves wearing collars and leashes, and one gorgeous redhead had her head sealed into a steel cage, but the guests were there for the action, and already you could hear the sound of whips cracking and the moans of slaves in pain.

We weren’t the only ménage a trois, either. A stunning, willowy blonde was hanging upside down against a wall while two black men dressed as sailors whipped her breasts and the fronts of her thighs. Another unforgettable sight was a dark haired beauty standing tied to a pillar, everything except her head and her large breasts swathed in cling film, while a scrawny urchin with a crew-cut and a ring through her nose stuck drawing pins into the flesh around each nipple, working outwards to make a complete brass bra. There were so many pins embedded in that soft flesh that the weight of the metal was dragging the breasts down. We stood and watched as the mistress pushed in the last one and grinned. “A hundred polished pins,” she told her slave gleefully. “That’s a dozen more than last time. You’re a shining example to every other bitch in the room.”

Sally and I were transfixed at the sight of this pinned slave. With Sally it was pure lesbian lust; what I was feeling was fear and curiosity, wondering what it would be like to be tied up and pierced again and again, on view to the casual partygoer. We stepped up for a closer look. As well as the drawing pins embedded in the breasts, each nipple was skewered with two long needles. Strangely enough, the slave’s face looked impassive, as if those tortured globes of flesh belonged to somebody else.

“Can I touch?” Master asked.

“Be my guest,” replied the mistress.

Master ran the palms of his hands over the heads of the pins, and the girl winced.

“Smack them,” the mistress suggested. “That’s what she likes.”

Master did so, and the slave moaned.

“They’re very beautiful,” Master said.

“Thank you. I’m going to make her wear them home and sleep like that,” her mistress smugly replied.

Master shrugged. “I was hoping to watch you take them out. You’re a lucky woman. You’ve got yourself a very fine slave.”

“Thank you, Master,” said the slave through gritted teeth.

“Shut your face,” Master Sahabet growled. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Master turned to me, and said, “As I’m always telling you, Meat, no matter how great your tolerance becomes, a way can be found to test you still further.”

I nodded, awed.

Both Sally and I kept looking back as we walked away. That sight, I knew, would haunt our dreams.

On the other side of the same room, a sweet little curly-headed blonde was standing on tiptoe by the window, nailed by her tongue to the window-frame, breasts flat against the glass. I later learned that her piercing was nothing more advanced than the stud in many tongues these days, but the effect was spectacular — of course, the fact that an elderly man in a morning suit was busy marking the woman’s shoulders and buttocks with a cane added to the effect!

Before I began submissive service, my only personal experience with piercings was having each ear lobe pierced once, so the piercings I saw at parties usually took me aback. Not just because of my conservative professional image, I was relieved to have Master explain to me that he does not care for permanent slave piercings — Master believes piercings spoil the line of lovely breasts, noses or cunt lips. Of course, this did not mean that Master could not employ temporary piercings when he felt they were useful in immobilising a slave with a ring or a hook.

Anyway, to return to that St. John’s Wood party, our host (a young man wearing slave trousers with holes in the back to show off his already beaten buttocks) greeted us enthusiastically. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said, leading the way. “Everyone’s dying to see your performance.” This was clearly true: masters and mistresses broke off from the action to watch us. When we got to the room set up for us, Sally took our coats and piled them neatly on the windowsill.

Sally was wearing nothing but a bow tie and a pair of white cuffs on her wrists. Master had black boxing shorts, with high black lace-up boots.

As we arrived, Master leaned over and told me he thought I looked glorious. I was lightly made-up, my hair done in soft curls. Sally laced lime green boxing gloves onto my hands, which matched my boots and the silk dressing gown over my shoulders with the word “champ” embroidered on the back in purple silk.

Master strode about the room, laying a length of scarlet cord into a square. Then Sally helped Master put on his boxing gloves.

By now the sounds of whippings and moanings had died down; everyone crowding into the one room. Even the brass-breasted girl with the drawing pins in her chest was there, and the girl with the pierced tongue had been set free to enjoy the show. I knew that Master was well-acquainted with many of these people personally, and most of the rest by reputation. Master murmured to both Sally and to me that, to have so many respected masters and mistresses gather round to watch, was an honour indeed.

“Listen up,” Master told the crowd. “This cord represents the boxing ring, so stay outside it. Someone get me a stool for the corner.”

Master hit his gloves together, and I shrugged off my silk gown. I had many humiliation outfits, but this was far and away Master’s favourite. I was wearing nothing but those boxing gloves and boots, with a fair imitation of the Lonsdale Belt slung round my hips. The only thing on my as yet unmarked chest was a touch of lipstick on nipples that were already hard with excitement. I had come a long way from that first party when I wore the beekeeper’s outfit. I stood, proud and virtually naked, accepting the admiring glances of the crowd. We met in the center of the room with our Assistant Cunt acting as referee.

“I want a good clean fight,” Sally told us, “with lots of pain. Shake hands and come out fighting.”

Master adopted a boxer’s crouch and Sally rang a bell to announce the start of the first round.

I raised my gloves above my head and danced towards Master, ready for the first blow to fall, reveling in the knowledge that a whole room full of people loved me with their eyes. After shuffling around the ring a little, Master caught me in one of the corners. A straight left flattened one breast; a right hook set the other one swaying.

The action was tough and violent, but every movement was utterly controlled. The blows that landed on breast flesh were hard enough to sting, but no more. The punches on the ribs were much fiercer. Now and again Master would land a really hard one between the tits that would send me staggering back into the crowd. Strong arms grabbed me and shoved me back into the ring for further punishment.

All eyes were on the loser. When I grunted at a particularly savage blow, women in the crowd let out little cries of sympathy.

Sally walked around us, pretending to referee the match, watching my face in case the combination of pain and the attention of all those masters and mistresses made me come. If a sudden orgasm Sahabet Giriş made me lose my balance and fall, Sally would step forward and catch me. I, of course, never attempted to hit back at Master, and Master didn’t hit below the belt or lay a glove on my face, though my chest was taking one hell of a beating.

After a few minutes Sally rang the bell. I sat on the stool as Sally fanned my face with a towel and Master danced around the ring, hitting his gloves together and threatening the slaves in the crowd. Now and again, if Master thought it would be welcome, Master would punch a proffered breast, but mostly Master just dazzled us all with his footwork.

Then Sally rang the bell for the next round.

When I rose from my stool, I knew it gleamed with my juices. Another slave, a little Chinese girl, dropped to her knees and deftly licked it clean. By round three, the crowd was beginning to get into it, calling out shouts of encouragement:

“Hit the bitch!”

“Whack her tits!”

“Show her no mercy!”

By the fourth round, the crowd had fallen silent again, everyone in the room staring at my chest. Master landed a fierce left that had my sweat spattering across the faces of the crowd. The right that followed caught me full in the chest and sent me staggering. The eyes of the masters and mistresses glittered. The slaves looked shocked; one or two were actually crying.

By now I was letting out little grunts of pain and excitement as the punches landed on me. The essence of a performance like this is that it combines theatre and reality, illusion tempered with the genuine pain proven by the light bruising on the breasts and the heavier marks on my sides. The end was getting close, now: I had taken an enormous battering. I was tiring, but at the same time becoming more and more aroused. Master began to step up the punishment, hitting me hard on the breasts, building up the intensity until the blows on my tits were strong enough to shake my whole body, and until my breasts began to become discoloured by the rain of blows.

This was the fifth round (the most I ever went to was seven). By now, the ring had changed shape. This always happened towards the end of our displays. At the start, the crowd would form a neat square which we would dance round and then, as I stopped moving and it became a simple one-way slugging match, the audience would break ranks and move in closer. I am not even sure they realised they were doing it. In any case, each boxing match ended with a crush of people round us waiting for the last blow to land.

Master was no longer dancing on tiptoe; Master was flat-footed, exhausted, pounding away, his desire building with every blow that fell.

As the punches grew harder, I was no longer aware that we were putting on a show for the roomful of people honouring me with their attention. My imitation of a boxer’s footwork had reduced to a rhythmic swaying from side to side. My nipples were erect, girl juice running down the inside of my thighs. My eyes were hooded, in an erotic parody of a boxer who had taken too many blows to the head. My sight and hearing had closed down, all my circuits concentrating on what was happening to my skin. Master nodded to Sally, who moved in closer. I slumped to my knees, the sign Master had been waiting for. Master stepped forward and knocked me flat with a light punch to the chin.

Master had taught me that, to a true slave like me, being hit can be as arousing as having my clit licked. I lay at Master’s feet, rubbing the laces of my gloves against my nipples and moaning. Nothing existed but my body, and what had happened to it.

Sally stepped forward, counted me out, raised Master’s hand in victory and then dropped to her knees. Sally pulled down Master’s shorts, and sucked Master off, directing his sperm onto the mass of overlapping bruises on my chest, and onto my face.

Master dropped to his knees, Sally crouched down, and the two of them held me and comforted me on the slow journey back to reality. The crowd was silent now, impressed and shocked by the scene that had taken place in front of them.

They fell back as Master and Sally raised me to my feet. I beamed with pride, all trace of shyness gone as Sally and Master stood on either side, holding my hands. The crowd broke from its spell and burst into tumultuous applause, and we bowed.

Afterwards Master wandered round the house with a slave on either arm, enjoying the action taking place all around us as masters and mistresses, inspired by our show, laid into slaves inspired by my docility and tolerance to accept even higher levels of pain.

“Assistant Cunt” was exactly the right title for Sally, because Master concentrated most of his attention on me. Though Master fucked, buggered, and whipped both of us mercilessly, more often than not Sally was called on as witness and helper while Master worked on me. Just by standing there and holding the equipment, Sally put new life in all our games. Sahabet Güncel Giriş Sally added intensity, and a sense of ceremony, that brought every scene to a different level of power.

* * *

One rainy Sunday afternoon, Sally helped Master hang me in a big leather sling suspended from the beams in the Music Room. The room was a blaze of lights, all the overhead bulbs burning and every moveable lamp in the flat carried upstairs to shine on my suffering body. The scene Master set was stunning: Master in his best dominance leathers, Sally in a vinyl maid’s outfit, and me absolutely naked except for leather restraints on my wrists and ankles.

“Both you two bitches are going to love this,” Master told us. “Assistant Cunt, slip a raincoat over those maid’s clothes and go out to the common for stinging nettles. Make sure you get plenty. And you can pick up a few dock leaves.” While Sally was out, Master killed time by telling me exactly what was going to happen.

When Sally returned, she stripped off the mac. “Pull down the top of your uniform,” Master ordered. “Nice and slow; I want to take a good, long look at your tits, because I’ll be working on them next week.” Sally obeyed. She reached up and perched the maid’s cap on her dark, frizzy hair, and then busied herself preparing a tray which she showed to me: nettles, clothes pegs, a row of bulldog clips attached to a length of flex, a thin paddle made from solid hickory, like a slightly broad school ruler, and a tiny nipple whip made from the finest kid.

On Master’s command, Sally covered my eyes with a scarlet scarf, knotted it firmly, and stood by to hand the implements to Master one by one.

Before Sally had me safely blindfolded, I watched Master set up a camcorder on a tripod, train it at my breasts, and then put a microphone near my mouth to pick up my screams. I knew that Master was not doing this to create something he would treasure — we had discussed how the infamous Spanner case in 1990 had showed how dangerous it was to keep a record of erotic torture in Britain. Master’s practice was to play it to me after the session was over, reminding me how brave I had been, and then Master would wipe it.

I heard Master switch on the camcorder as I felt Master’s hand kneading my breast flesh before pinching it between wooden jaws. To start with I just lay there, enduring it quietly, but my mind was frantically reviewing all the things Master had promised me whilst Sally was outside — I knew Master’s plan was to take me further, maddening me with pain. As the forest of pegs grew, firmly planted by Master on each of my breasts in turn, I ground my teeth together and moaned, legs writhing, straining against their bondage.

“Lucky little slut, isn’t she?” Master asked.

Sally didn’t answer.

“Speak up, Assistant Cunt. I can’t hear you,” Master prompted.

Sally sighed, “Yes, Sir. Meat is a lucky little slut.”

Master spread his fingers to strum the tips of the pegs before twisting them one by one, and I sang out my agony.

“Listen to that, Assistant Cunt,” Master ordered. “She’s enjoying this. Hear how much she appreciates my attentions.”

Next, I felt Master attach crocodile clips to each nipple, pulling first one and then the other, making the focus of my pain shift from side to side.

“What do you think, Assistant Cunt?” Master asked. “She seems to be having a good time, don’t you think?”

“Definitely, Sir,” replied Sally sullenly. “The bitch loves every minute.”

“Pay attention, dyke whore,” Master said harshly, whilst removing the pegs one by one from my breasts. “Your desires are showing.”

“I was just feeling sorry for her, Sir,” murmured Sally apologetically.

“So you should,” Master replied, “Because it’s not over yet.”

Immediately, I felt the breeze as Master picked up the narrow wooden paddle and began beating my swollen breasts as if they were the buttocks of a naughty schoolboy, making breast flesh bounce, bringing me to a place somewhere between orgasm and insanity. Then Master quickly removed the alligator clips before applying strokes from a tiny whip, stinging my nipples, making them swell harder than before.

“Master, it’s too much,” I whimpered. “I can’t take this.”

“Yes you can, you lying bitch,” Master replied. “You can take far more. And you will.”

“How many clothes pegs did she have?” Master asked Sally.

“Thirty-four, Sir,” Sally immediately replied, “seventeen on each breast. Plus the crocodile clips on the nipples.”

“Do you think you could take that many pegs?” Master asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Sally responded. “My breasts are bigger.”

“Good answer,” Master said. “How many strokes of the whip have I given her?”

“Sixteen, Sir,” Sally replied.

“Not nearly enough,” Master said. “But I’m tired. You’re the maid, Assistant Cunt. Go downstairs and get me something to drink.”

“What would you like, Sir,” Sally asked.

“That depends on Meat,” Master said, “what would you prefer, my darling?”

“Lemonade,” I said hoarsely. “I’d love a taste of lemonade.”

“So be it,” Master said. “Get me a glass of lemonade, Assistant Cunt. With a straw so I can make loud slurping noises while I’m drinking. That’ll make her feel even thirstier.”

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