POINT OF VIEW
CHAPTER 6 — TRAVELLING.
She is kneeling in front of him, in her first natural position.
K. has responded well to Mister Talv’s discipline on every level. She has mastered her positions—and much more—and every release is a new capture. It seems each time he is getting stricter, but of course this could just be K.’s imagination, which has been known to run away with her, hasn’t it…?
Some of the things she has seen in his apartment have yet to be named, and they fascinate her. Mister Talv says her turn will come if she is good.
She is open to him in every way. She has learned to respond to him exactly as he wishes to be addressed, which seems to accelerate the penetration she craves. But she thrills to the lash across her buttocks, and sometimes gets things wrong just to feel it.
“Everything opens to you,” breathes K. “My cunt is always willing. J’suis ta pute.”
Her mouth technique is a vast improvement on the original meme—something fresh for me to carry to another beneficiary one day. What is rather wonderful and strange is that she still harbours this residual good-girl discomfort about the whole thing. Yet she can’t stop. She wants what she wants, and she knows what she wants, but she doesn’t know why she wants it, and sometimes she doesn’t want to want it, but want it she does.
Sometimes Mister Talv makes her wear … things … while they are out. She is both pleased and frightened by the attention these things attract.
Sometimes Mister Talv takes K. with him on his trips to Europe. Mister Talv has business interests and friends in London, Paris, Moscow. Sometimes she dances for them, entertains them, amuses them. The Russians in particular always ask Mister Talv if she will be coming along.
Occasionally, when he’s away on the West Coast for a couple of days, he locks K. in her belt for safekeeping.
Sometimes Mister Talv leaves her in her collar.
Sometimes, he doesn’t—he lets her off the leash, to run free and seek her pleasure elsewhere.
Very often, she does.
What is identity?
Some people might argue that this is no longer little K. at all; that a perfectly nice, normal girl has been turned into a completely different person, a raging sex slave in thrall to a maelstrom of foreign qualia.
From another point of view, all I’ve done is to help her understand and embrace her own deeply buried desires; she is now free to express her true self—we’ve self-actualized together.
But wait a moment! K. now appears to be comprised of equal parts nymphomaniac teen, Algerian whore, Cajun cockpleaser, and Parisian bondage slut, with a couple of dashes of Czech lap dancer and … “other ingredients” … thrown in just to leaven the mix. Surely she’s no longer K. at all.
Another point of view: don’t we all change at different paces and in different ways?
If you replace one bit of a car, and then another, and then a third, until every piece has been replaced by something the same and yet new and different, is it still the same car? What if you soup up the engine? Or change for better tyres, better seats, make it a more comfortable ride, add a new sound system, a new muffler?
Same car / different car?
It all depends on your point of view.
You decide.
K. is killing time. This time he has been strict and she’s firmly on the leash—sitting bolt upright on a barstool, gently throbbing to the pulse of the vibe in her pussy. Every twitch and shift of position sends a new jolt of sensation though her. The heat and arousal is killing her. The collar sits heavy around her slender neck.
Each time, it’s the same. She tries to pick the lock but hasn’t got the skills to do it, and in any case it’s inaccessible behind her back, and in any case what would he do if she disobeyed, and in any case … she doesn’t really want to. She tries to touch herself—but the belt is tight, and she can’t even squeeze her fingers through. She tries to roll with the vibe lodged deep inside her, and it moves, but not enough, and all she can do is get closer and closer, hotter and hotter, more and more frustrated and desperate.
(Frankly, it’s driving me nuts too.)
Sometimes, locked up and left to stew in her own hot juices, she will offer her mouth to a man, and imagine it’s him, her … owner.
Later this evening, she will do anything at all to be free, and to feel him inside her again.
She fingers the steel band around her neck. “C’est dur mais juste ... ...” she murmurs, under her breath. “La discipline, c’est nécessaire pour me permettre de réaliser mon plein potentiel.”
She breathes deep and feels the vibe shift. She sits straighter on her stool, feels the shaft’s sweet penetration, and whispers, exactly as he has trained her, and as she will whisper at his command later that evening: “J’suis une esclave-chienne en chaleur. Je dois servir.”
As we nurse our one drink (truly, I am a cheap date), I start to get that feeling that it will soon be time to go. This is what it’s like, the hundredth, the thousandth, time around. You tire of the endless parade of men, and the ever present taste of them, and then the inevitable domination and ownership by one. At some point, I know K. will rebel, but unable to escape her desires, she will simply crave the bondage of another.
You start to yearn for something new.
(I remember my time in Macau. Perhaps it is time to make my way back there, see what’s changed. That is, if I can manage to hitch a ride to the airport, which might involve all sorts of complicated manoeuvring. My disembodied life is full of challenges.)
While K. tortures herself trying to find the—exact-right-position-to-sit—I consider my options. I’m starting to conclude I might just ride out one more session with K. and her current master this evening before moving on, when my reverie is interrupted by a shriek from across the bar.
“K., oh my God, is that you? How are you? You look fantastic! Where have you been this last month?”
As K. turns on her bar stool, we see it’s her old friend Clara from college, waving from across the bar. I experience her pleasant shock of recognition. Long time, no see!
A petite young woman with bright green eyes and a slightly crooked smile.
“Clara! It’s been ages! Come here, honey!” cries K.
Clara sashays through the crowd. “What’ve you been up to, K.?”
“Ah, loads,” stammers K., sitting straighter and suddenly aware of all that has happened in the few weeks since she last saw Clara. She steps down from the stool and feels the stab of deeper penetration up near her g-spot. She flushes and tries not to let it show.
“I’ve been … learning some new skills. Like, ah, French. Je m’appelle K., et … et je suis une pute fou. See? I’m getting really good! Ma maître me dit, je lui monte comme une fille salope, et je suce la bite comme il n’y a pas demain.”
Naturally, K.’s vocabulary is almost exclusively drawn from the memories I have gifted her. I will leave it to her to learn the basic social pleasantries in her own time.
Clara, knowing not one single word of French or any other foreign tongue, stares blankly at her friend.
“That’s way impressive, K. Why’re you doing that?”
“Mmm well, I’m thinking about going travelling, in Europe, y’know,” says K. “It’ll come in handy. See… ah, moi, je voudrais voyager et sucer la bite dans tous les pays, vraiment … et si j’suis baisée dans le cul comme une chienne aussi, de préférence en même temps, je serai au paradis. Voila. See what I mean?“
K. pauses, slightly breathless and well aware of what she’s just said, even if her friend is none the wiser. Now she thinks about it, she would love to do exactly that… It’s good to have an ambition.
She collects herself. The vibe throbs deep, a constant reminder of what lies in store for her later. Self-expression to the max.
“And, ah, what about you, Clara?”
Clara hoists a bag onto her shoulder and beams at K. “Speaking of travel: I quit my job. I’m off to Mexico tomorrow, then down through Guatemala, Brazil... time for a bit of freedom, you know? Let’s just see where the road takes me.”
Brave curvy little Clara. Wide awake in the world.
“Babe, you’re going to have such a great big wonderful adventure!” exclaims K.
“Let’s drink to it!” says Clara, and they squeal and hug like schoolgirls.
They say it’s all about the journey, not the destination—right?
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