“I want to see you do that again, James. You know, behind the garage.”
It was not a suggestion. It was a continued part of our journey down this strange, unknown path. There could only be one reason she carried the camera. It was to assure I could not turn back.
Laitai
I find myself somewhat mesmerized by the puffy white clouds streaming slowly under the wing of the plane. San Francisco to St. Paul is expected to be a trip of over 3 hours, so I settle in and try to relax despite my excitement.
My thoughts turn to mother and all she has taught me over the years. At 23, turning such knowledge into a steady flow of income has been difficult for me. Some in the D/s scene consider me to be more than talented. In thigh high leather boots, matching leather skirt and a frilly but loose fitting white blouse I am considered evilly alluring by those that choose to endure my skills. I have come to find it amusing that some initially react with a degree of aloofness due to my young age or perhaps my slight 110 pound frame. But those are the ones I particularly enjoy making sing. Securely strapped to a padded leather bench, in time they all break. My challenge becomes the matter of the timing to utilize in maximizing the mental torment and what pattern to leave on their exposed flesh to most amuse observers. And for those who are initially aloof, listening to their pleas turn to high pitched, unintelligible bursts of air passing over strained vocal cords, is gratifying. I always think of the sounds as song and overall, those that sing the loudest are the ones that later return and display a newly found level of respect.
The D/s scene in San Francisco is active, but in some ways too active. Professional handlers of submissive males compete with amateurs and worse, people just experimenting and entering the scene as a lark.
Thus Dr. D’s offer of a well paid, lengthy assignment could not be ignored.
As a little girl I watched mother ply her craft, the disciplining of the subservient male. She in turn had learned from her mother who learned from her mother. The passing down of this knowledge went back for countless generations and it all began when my ancestors served the Emperor of China. In those ancient days and continuing right up to the beginning of the twentieth century, the Emperor was served by eunuchs, males who by tradition had sacrificed their genitals for the privilege of serving royalty.
The care, training and disciplining of the Emperor’s young eunuchs was entrusted to my great-great-grandmother. Perhaps the connection went even further back, for it seemed the daughters, granddaughters, etc. continued their service right up to the last Emperor, by whom my grandmother was employed.
Eunuchs have special needs. All of which my mother explained to me in long lectures. But one particular skill that was required for their care, mother continued to utilize and had taught me. That was the firm caning of the buttocks and other receptive areas.
It is well know that Eunuchs cannot experience sexual pleasure in the normal sense. What is not well known is with most altered males there is a very common psychological transition that substitutes the desire to experience pain for the loss of the ability to achieve sexual gratification.
In the Emperor’s palace, there developed a ritual where the firm crack of the cane and the resulting overwhelming signal of pain became the preferred substitute to normal sex. And to have the ritual performed by a young attractive woman added a dimension that the Emperor found to be amusing.
Mother used to revel me with stories told to her of the special room in the Emperor’s palace where sexually frustrated eunuchs were stripped and firmly caned by our ancestors. Large and well equipped, the high ceilinged room was used to restrain the altered male in any number of positions. And the Emperor’s balcony afforded an unimpeded view of all, the antics of the groveling flagellant being a common form of entertainment for both the Emperor and a carefully selected naked and orally gifted
concubine. All the Emperors were appreciative of my ancestors’ talent and made certain the craft was passed by mother to daughter for many generations.
The skill involves more than just swinging a thin strip of bamboo. The flagellator must know the optimal areas of the flesh, how to maximize pain without breaking the skin, how to bring the eunuch to the highest level of pain without permitting him the ironic mercy of passing out. But most importantly, she must be relentless.
One cannot display the slightest degree of compassion and be an effective flagellator. No. The eunuch must understand he will be caned firmly and steadily. Once begun, no part of a session is within his control.
The talented flagellator is closer to being a machine than being human.
And mother imbued me with assiduous talent and ardent desire to inflict.
I looked at the picture of James, which Dr. D had sent me with the plane ticket. The submissive male always had that certain look and I saw it in James. Like that of lost or stray pet, an imploring look, as if seeking to be taken home and sheltered.
He’s considerably older than me, I think. Probably approaching his mid thirties. It’s the perfect age, still young enough to withstand the rigors of the cane, but with the added maturity that will make the humiliation of his subjugation to a girl of 23 to be that much more mentally stressing. Dr. D indicated he took nicely to the leash...
D
Packing was a challenging experience. So much equipment along with thick winter clothing and ski apparel, all of which had to be stowed. The winter climate in the Canadian Rockies is extremely cold with bright sunny days turning to nights of sub zero temperature.
When finished, the numerous bags and trunks forced me to call the cab company and have them send a van rather than a regular car.
James was not much help. He had expressed some reservations the evening before and I had to immerse him in darkness with another tape. Doing this was difficult for me. I was excited by the trip and needed attention. Robert was not available on such short notice so I relieved some frustration by standing before the cage and letting James lap away at my sex through the bars. This also proved to be a effective way of monitoring his progress, his tongue becoming more attentive as the evening wore on, thereby providing an indication of his level of submission.
By early Thursday morning he was pining to be let out so he could better service me. The timing could not have been better. Our train left Union Station at 2:10 p.m. I wanted him groveling in order to get him into the private cars by noon and without incident. Depriving him of food and assuring that his bladder was well filled helped speed the matter. Eventually his needs overcame his reluctance and when I finally deemed him ready for release he scrambled to the bathtub like an energetic puppy released to do his business.
I prepared my apartment for a long period of absence, emptying the refrigerator of just about everything and turning down the thermostat.
Then I just lounged in my favorite chair and had James lick my boots while waiting for the van. I needed to keep him in the right frame of mind and I gently brushed my fingers across the front of his trousers. Yes, the bulge indicated his penis was nicely turgid as he made the black leather shine. As planned and suggested in the hours of subliminal messaging, the act of serving me was becoming a significant source of arousal for him.
Right on schedule, our driver quietly pushed open the door which I had left ajar. A very pleasant black woman stepped in and smiled when she saw James kneeling at my feet with his fortified tongue ardently applying long laps up and down my right boot.
“I have one of those at home,” she announced with a wry smile.
It was nice to learn that I did not need to explain the large dog cage when she stepped into the bedroom to pick up some luggage. And when James stood, the rather prominent erection pushing through his pants was likewise not in need of explanation.