Testing the Submissive

By: Al Daltrey

The Story & Confessions of a Masochist


PREFACE


Abigail Watson…

I knew there was a part of me that was different from most, if not all, of my girlfriends.

Sure, every girl dreams of a beautiful wedding. We all want to fall crazy-in-love with a cool, fun, smart, sexy, successful guy. I guess I wanted that too, in a way. But I never saw myself as a Princess. I never wanted to be fawned upon. There was something a little different happening in my head.

Late at night, under the covers, in the private darkness of my bedroom, my fingers would wander, along with my thoughts. The storyline wasn’t rooted in romance. Instead, I would envision myself strung up from the ceiling, hanging by my wrists, body covered in sweat, tears falling on my breasts, while some man I cherished stood behind me with a whip.

The more the guys around me in college catered to me, the less interested I became. Don’t get me wrong, I like sweet attentive men – as friends, maybe. But guys like that just don’t excite me. To find one’s way into my late night fantasies, my suitor required an entirely different style.

I craved a strong unforgiving dominant that would put me in my place.





CHAPTER 1: MY FIRST INTERVIEW


Meeting Lewis…

I guess you could say that Lewis became my pimp. Or my agent. In some ways, my owner. Point is he arranges ‘assignments’ for me. These assignments involve whippings. The subject being whipped, in all cases, is me.

In our discreet and underground bdsm network, I am referred to as a ‘whipping bitch.’ Clients, both inside and outside the circle, whip me for a price. I’m paid well. Lewis makes all the decisions, all the arrangements, and he takes his cut of the action – 30%. For my part, I’m severely whipped on various areas of my body, or possibly on all of it, then almost always thoroughly fucked, or used sexually in one way or another. It’s my job, but more importantly, it’s my life.

The terms of my contract with Lewis were discussed over an interview. I say discussed and not negotiated, because I really had no say in the terms. My input was basically a yes or no thing. The interview ensured that Lewis had my consent. He has never, and would never send a submissive out on an assignment, without her genuine consent.

So here I found myself: standing completely without clothing in front of a man ten years my senior. He was fully dressed of course, and barely acknowledging my naked form. I stood in the classic submissive pose, unbound with my wrists behind my back and my fingers intertwined. My feet were planted about a foot and a half apart, slightly further spaced than a normal person would stand. The room wasn’t cold, but I was trembling a little, more from nervousness than the temperature. The room itself was remarkably large. This was one of the most expensive loft suites in the city. The building itself had been around for almost a century, originally as an industrial structure. The best architects from near and far bid on the re-design with a firm from Japan ultimately winning. Each suite featured polished concrete floors, custom kitchens, exposed duct work, expansive style windows and open concept floor plans. Indeed, this guy had money and the word was it was all self-made. Financial Services apparently. I couldn’t have been more nervous when I asked the security guard in the lobby to buzz me up. The guy looked me over, and I couldn’t help but wonder how many other women had endured his stare.

Once inside the suite, there was very little small talk before the interview commenced in earnest. I’d been told to remove my clothing as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and away we went.

“I take it you’ve been whipped before?” Lewis asked with indifference in his voice.

“Yes,” I answered as confidently as I could.

We talked about my past. I told him about my ex boyfriends, those early experiments in college with bondage, my first spanking, my first lesbian experience, the first time I sucked two cocks in one night. The truth was, I was not nearly as experienced as I tried to let on. Lewis saw through that pretty quick. Nevertheless, he knew I had potential. He could sense I had a high tolerance for pain, and a naïve willingness to let practically anyone do almost anything to my body.

In addition, Lewis had no hesitation talking to me like I was less than human.

“So, basically you’re nothing but a dirty little tramp, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.” I answered, my eyes lowered.

“A total slut, willing to be whipped like a common whore, is that what you are?”

He wanted me to spell it out. The humiliation of having to explain myself, reinforcing my true consent.

“Yes, Sir. I must be. I’m sorry for what I am. It’s true. I am a slut. And yes, I enjoy being whipped.”

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