The Magic Words
Nexis Pas (nexispas@yahoo.co.uk)
Copyright 2007 by the author
With thanks to Barney--maybe, sort of, well, I'll think about it.
When I opened the door, the slave was kneeling with his head facing the floor. The flickering candle flames danced in the thin coating of oil he had applied to his scalp and body. Those reflections please me so much. The kaleidoscope of multiple images of shifting glowing shapes brought me to a halt. They are so entrancing. I find it hard to pull my eyes away from such beauty. They are pleasures to be enjoyed slowly, to be sipped and savoured like a drop of fine brandy evaporating on the tongue and leaving the promise of more delights to come. I had to force myself to breathe slowly and evenly, to master myself, to find the inner peace and serenity that discipline my desires.
His body is a canvas for me to mark in ways that amuse me. His body is so beautiful. I love to look at it, to revel in my possession of it. I spend hours each week preparing the surface, shaving it until it is smooth and free of hair. I love it when the razor scrapes the foam off and reveals his muscular flesh beneath, the sharp edges of the muscles, the veins that throb at the surface. I oil the body so that it gleams. I paint it with bright colours, fantastic designs that disguise the flesh. I cover it with latex. I pose it and render it immobile to form a visual feast. The lash, the whip, the belt, the paddle, the clamp, each leaves a distinctive trace of its passage. With patience and skill, one can create of portrait of pleasure/pain upon the body. It is structure of infinite variety. And the marks fade, the paints wash off. It is a canvas that always renews itself. One evening's masterpiece is gone by the next day, and the body is ready for a new work of art.
That evening, he held a silver salver, with a belt coiled neatly on it lying in the precise centre. He had arranged the end with the buckle so that it lay atop the coil, and he presented it to me so that the buckle faced me and I could lift it without effort. The slave is so thoughtful of my pleasures, but I am not always ready for them. `I am tired. It has been a long day. Perhaps later, after dinner, when I have had a chance to rest.'
`Please, Master.' His soft voice insinuated itself into my mind. He has such a beautiful voice. I love to listen to it. I found my eyes being drawn irresistibly to the buckle, the way it gleamed in the light. I reached out my hand and traced the edge of the coil of leather. Around and around. The leather on the edge of the belt was slightly abrasive, and it tugged at my finger, drawing it backward. The slave had worked glove oil into the leather so that it shone. He keeps every surface in this house polished. Everywhere one looks a thousand motes of light catch the eye and draw it in.
I touched the buckle, felt its smooth cold surface warm beneath my hand. It felt so good as my hand closed around it, so natural. I should always have a belt in my hand. It feels so good to hold a belt in my hand. Especially this belt. It is a very long belt that the slave found somewhere and brought to me. It would go twice around my waist and probably more than that around the slave's. The buckle is very heavy. When he first showed it to me, the leather was dull, and the buckle was tarnished. He worked on it to restore the leather and bring the shine back to the buckle. It feels very good in my hands, and it is heavy enough that it swings swiftly and accurately through the air. When it hits the slave's body, the sound satisfies me deeply, it is as if it resonates throughout my body, spreading gratification in a widening ripple. It is one of my favourite instruments.
I folded it over and held the two ends in my hand. I lifted the belt to my nose and smelled the leather. I kissed it and closed my mouth across its width, stroking it with my tongue. A great peace pervaded me. I contemplated the slave's body. The first mark of the evening is always the crucial one. All subsequent marks have to grow out of that to create the pattern. A badly placed stroke cannot be redone. It would ruin the entire evening. The first stroke must be firm. The edges of the welt need to be clearly defined. It is the foundation on which the structure of pleasure is erected.
The slave bent over and grasped his ankles with his hands, the left side of his body facing me with his buttocks exposed. Each cheek swelled out in a perfectly rounded mound of white flesh, the deep crack between them in shadow. I lifted the belt and brought it down squarely. It snapped against his flesh. A cry of joy escaped my lips. I dropped the belt to the floor. A red welt formed on the apex of each cheek, two perfect rectangles, exactly perpendicular to the crack. I was very satisfied with the result. The basis had been well and truly laid.
`Thank you, Master.' I felt renewed. All of the day's cares and annoyances dropped away. The slave always anticipates what I need at the end of my work day. He knows how to restore me.
Master, please allow me to help you change.' I nodded my acquiescence. Thank you, Master.' My clothes suddenly seemed so constricting, imprisoning my body within that carapace of business suit and tie. My feet ached to be released from the shoes the slave keeps so brilliantly polished. I led the way to my dressing room, the slave crawling behind me. He knelt before me and removed my shoes, easing my weary feet out of them. It felt so good to have the slave undress me. I feel so good when he performs this service for me. He is so gentle when he frees my body from the costume it has to present to the world during the day and liberates me, the real me.
I admired my body in the wardrobe mirrors. The daily exercises I started a few months ago have had excellent results. They have tightened my muscles and toned them. My evenly tanned body contrasts so nicely with the white body of the slave lying at my feet. His body is white, it almost glows in the shadows along the flow of the room, the red mark across his buttocks still the only mark on his impeccable flesh. I love to look at the two of us in the mirrors. We are reflected from all sides, images doubled and multiplied in the endless abyss of the mirrors.
Master, please may I present your clothes for tonight.' I nodded my acquiescence. Thank you, master.' Of course, the slave was right. Appropriate clothing was needed for the evening. He drew out a garment and held it for me to step into. He stood behind me so that I could watch as he pulled the thong over my thighs and placed it over my groin. The black fabric flowed onto my body in thousands of reflections in the mirrors. He adjusted the straps in back and smoothed it between my buttocks. The cool fabric felt so good against my body. I love wearing thongs. It makes me feel so good to wear thongs. So good. So sexy. So strong.
The slave walked into the closed and emerged a few seconds later holding one of the red leather boxes stored there. He opened it as he approached me so that I could approve of his choice. Please, Master.' I nodded my acquiescence. Thank you, Master.' It was the perfect choice for tonight. The slave removed it carefully from the box and stood respectfully before me. When I indicated that I was ready, he stood on a stool so that he could reach high enough to put the shiny black hood on me. It fits so tightly and has to be rolled down from the top of my skull over my head and face and down around my throat.
It feels so good to wear this hood. I love to wear it. It is my favourite. The sections over the eyes are pierced with hundreds of tiny holes that allow me to see, yet cover my eyes completely. From even a short distance, my eyes cannot be seen. I look so inhuman in this hood. It is as if I have put on a mask that makes me anonymous, that frees me to be cruel. The ordinary morals of the human race are irrelevant to the creature I become. An alien god who entertains himself with the cries of his slave. I moaned in anticipation of the pleasures that soon would be mine.
Master, please, can we go to the theatre?' I nodded. Thank you, Master.' Of course, the theatre was where we belonged. It is the place for our nightly plays. There is no audience, but none is needed. There is no one who could appreciate the masterworks I create there with the slave. I sat in the only chair in the room and waited for inspiration to arrive. It felt so good to sit in the chair and wait. As always, I felt aroused and excited by the prospect of the evening ahead of me.
Master, please may I show you your latest acquisition.' I nodded. Thank you, Master.' The slave took an object from the table on which he had laid out the selection of tools I might use that evening. I could not fathom the use to which it might be put. An oval band about an inch high and perhaps a quarter inch thick of spotless chrome. Spaced an inch apart around the outside were a series of smaller tubes about half an inch in diameter. The slave lifted the object and then place it on his head. It fit tightly about his skull above his ears.
He knelt before me and took a box from the table beside me, removing the lid so that I could see the contents. The box held a dozen wax tapers in various colours. I lifted one of the candles from the box and stared at it and then at the metal device on the slave's head. I motioned him closer. He edged forward on his knees. The candle fit perfectly in one of the smaller tubes. I saw now that the slave was wearing a candelabrum on his head. One by one I fitted a candle into all the small tubes, until each one was filled. When I finished, I had to straighten several of them so that they were all neatly aligned and perfectly upright.
For the first time, I noticed a box of matches on the table. I slipped it opened, and the sharp smell of sulphur rose to my nose. The match snapped and flared when I scraped it against the sandpaper strip. Slowly and ritually I lit each of the candles. The slave knelt motionless on the stage, a corona of flames illuminating his body. I turned out all the lights and sat back down. The slave seemed to float in the darkness, only his head and upper torso visible in the flickering light.
I love candlelight. It is so magical. I love to watch the flames and how they sway. The slave knows this and caters to my hunger for the flames. Since he arrived a few months ago, the number of candles in this house has multiplied beyond counting. I am never far from one, always able to indulge my ability to sit and stare deeply into the flames for hours. I find them so peaceful and relaxing.
My eyes followed a drip of molten red wax as it slowly flowed down the candle. It clung for a second to the holder and then dropped onto the slave's chest. A short red line appeared on his right pec. The next drop followed the same path and lengthened the red line just a bit. Each succeeding drop made the line grow. Soon it was joined by others. I watched with fascination for hours as a random work of art took shape on the slave's body. Eventually, the candles burned down and guttered. One by one they flickered out until we were left in the darkness.
`Thank you, Master.' I orgasmed.
The slave has been with me for only a few months now. I did not begin to live until he came to me. True, he is an expensive toy. I have to work long hours to afford the entertainments he gives me, but I have no other interests now. My days may be tedious, but my nights are a thousand points of light. He is such a polite slave, always saying please' and thank you'.
(The idea for this tale arose from my inadvertent and unwilling exposure to a Barney video at the home of friends. Their toddler was being kept enthralled and thankfully quiet by the cavortings of a purple dinosaur named Barney. Unfortunately my exposure to the beast lasted long enough for the song he was singing to be imprinted on my brain: `Please and thank you are the magic words'. That refrain has since been circulating endlessly in my mind, and this story is an attempt to exorcise it. I pray it will be successful.)