Shades of Gold
We met on a fetish website. I guess lots of people do now, its not as hard to find people who want the same things you want. I wanted to try different things, to feel corrupted and controlled. To be forced, changed to be who He wants me to be, to feel degraded. Different things for different guys, I figured, but this isn’t a puritan age when there’s something wrong with that. Before I could settle down with anyone, I wanted to explore all the different things I could do.
First I found a nice guy who shared an interest in behaviour modification, and I asked him to hypnotise me. To change me, change the way I feel, change the way I act. Its all about the words, he said, so he didn’t even need to ask where I live. We could do this one on the internet, and still be real.
It was incredible, but he was such a gentleman. Everything I’d been curious about, he made me do. And I don’t mean some kind of role-play either, I mean he made me do things. We chatted online, he said the magic words, and I couldn’t disobey. If he told me I was horny, suddenly I was so wet I couldn’t believe, and squirming as I begged for permission to finger myself. I knelt before the computer, and it felt like I was kneeling in front of him, looking up in desire.
His favourite trick was asking me to count down, and orgasm as soon as I reached 1. And every time, it happened. As soon as I started counting for him, my excitement was growing, and the more excited I got, the more I wanted to obey. Even fighting made me crave the next step that much more. It was a countdown to feeling exactly what he wanted me to feel, and once I’d started there was no getting off this trip. My mind was completely ruled by my cravings. I’d said I wanted to be controlled, and I was. Disobeying those words seemed as incomprehensible and walking to the moon; but with all the power he had, he never made me do anything that I didn’t enjoy, and never pushed me further than I was willing to go.
He even said once that he wanted to make me his sex slave, to own me body, mind and soul. But he didn’t, because he knew I had that lust to explore as well as my lust for him. There were things I’d want to try that didn’t interest him, so he said that he’d let me free until I’d experienced those things, and decided what mattered most to me. It was a wonderful gift, of freedom, because I knew if he’d said I’m his property, I know I would have been overjoyed to explore no further. But even then, without even seeing the guy, I knew a part of me would always belong to him. I’d wanted to know submission and helplessness, and now I did.
I said I wanted to be trapped, and punished. I chatted with a guy who had a very sadistic sense of humour, and after a week I went to visit. I spent an amazing evening strapped down on a bench, while he tortured my back and thighs with canes and paddles. He cut off my undies with a sharp knife, and I could feel the fine edge of the blade against my skin. My body was flooded with adrenaline, I was terrified and overjoyed at the same time. He brought back the cane, and for a while I didn’t know what would come next. The sting of a switch on my ass, or a gentle finger on my clit, teasing and bringing me closer. After a while the pleasure and pain ran into one, and I came as much from the burning,stinging of the whip as from the forceful pressure of his hands.
We hadn’t even talked about sex, really. I’d been so eager to learn what he could do with pain, his experience with all manner of implements and my eagerness to learn. But suddenly I felt him thrusting into me, hard and fast. I couldn’t have stopped him if I’d wanted to, bound and gagged, and the helplessness made it even more exciting. Three times he took me, marking me, making me his. When I eventually passed out exhausted, he put me to bed in a cage, spacious enough to fit in but not to stretch out fully. I couldn’t have escaped if I wanted to, I was totally helpless until he woke to release me, and I loved it. I’d wanted to know pain and restraint, and now I did.
I saw a picture, a friend’s slave kneeling in the bathtub with an arc of golden pee spraying onto her face. She looked so joyful, it was an act of worship. Like she was giving everything to her Master, pure in intentions but oh so dirty by the standards we’ve grown up with. I wanted to be dirty, I wanted to look up at a strong guy and feel his piss running down my skin, to kneel before him in the ultimate degradation. So that’s next, I posted on the site looking for someone to show me how that feels. “Tell me what you want to do to me,” I posted, and I was already wet in anticipation.
An hour later, I had a reply. That’s the advantage to being a cute, young girl on the fetish scene I guess. Everyone wants to be the first to show me the things they enjoy, and I could pretty much have my pick of the guys. I glanced at the first message; he said it might be easier to talk about it in person, so we’re not always waiting for a response.
I looked around the woodlands, and smiled. I didn’t even remember getting dressed up for a date, packing a bag, and waiting for him here. I guess something in my subconscious was excited enough to gloss over the unimportant details. We wandered through the woods, away from the eavesdropping of family or the shock of passers by, while I mentioned the few golden shower fantasies I’d read on the message board, and how I felt. In return, he told me he wanted to piss on me out in the woods, make me strip and then fuck me on a secluded tree stump, only a hundred yards from the footpath, where a straying dog-walker could so easily find us. It was humiliating, degrading, dirty, and his story turned me on so much.
“Why don’t you go first?” he asked, as I was searching for the words to tell him how hot that sounded. I didn’t get it at first, but he was happy to explain. If he was going to pee on me, let me drink his golden juice, then he wanted me to wet myself first. It was a surprise, but I already knew how much I wanted to feel dirty and degraded. Maybe it would be just as hot to feel my own piss running down my legs, and his on my chest, all at the same time.
“Well, why do you think you’ve got a change of clothes in your bag?” he asked, “But I don’t want to rush you. You need time to think about it if it’s going to be as embarrassing as it can possibly be. Why don’t you count down from 10 to 1, and then when you finish, you can wet yourself.”
I stammered and hesitated, “I don’t know, I never even thought about doing … ten … doing things like that, Sir.” And then I realised that I didn’t really have a choice here. I hadn’t even thought about how I’d got out here, hadn’t recognised him until he wanted to be known. But even as I heard myself whisper “Nine” I felt the pressure in my bladder growing, almost as fast as my arousal. I hurried off the path, desperately wanting to be away from public eyes before it happened. Yes, I’d only counted to eight, and already there was no doubt in my mind that by the time I hit one I’d be unable to hold it any longer. I’d wanted to be degraded, and helpless, and owned, and fucked; and that chain was set in motion. Trying to resist the next number was like sitting on the brink of an orgasm, trying to think my way back to calm. The more I held out against the craving, the harder it got to think of anything but how good it would feel. “Seven” and I knew that when I hit one I would piss my pants. I knew that as I let go I would have no thought but to kneel before my owner and be the target for his stream. I knew that when my clothes were drenched with both our pee, I would have no choice but to strip, and to lie back against a tree for my Master to fuck me. And when he came inside me, I knew that I would have no choice but to call him Master, to be his property and to follow his will in all things for as long as he wanted me.
I’d wanted to explore, and I had.
I’d wanted to be taken, and I was.
I want to be His.
And I am.