The Ultimate Submission (Jacqueline's Story)

Chapter 21

[The Whipping]

One day, the Marquis had me brought to his torture chamber, where, to my surprise and delight, I saw my Master and Mistress. They had come to collect me. The Marquis himself thought that my rebellious spirit had not been completely broken yet, but my Master was more than satisfied with my progress and had decided that I was ready to assume my role as his slave.

My Mistress had brought some clothes for me to wear, including my dog collar. As I was getting dressed, the Marquis remarked, "It's a pity you're leaving now. You're going to miss the harvest festival in a few day's time."

"We're going to do our own version of Thanksgiving," he explained for everybody's benefit. "I have already sent the monks to the farmers in the surrounding villages. They will acquire the biggest carrots and parsnips, the fattest cucumbers and the plumpest corn-cobs they can find for our celebration."

Knowing the Marquis, I was sure he didn't procure those vegetables for their nutritional value. They were not intended for the slaves' mouths but for their other orifices. The thought of what he might do with them tempted me. But if the choice was to stay until the harvest festival or return to my Master and Mistress right away, there was no contest - I wanted to be theirs as soon as possible.

My Master wanted to know if my stay at Sainte Jacqueline had achieved its purpose. I assured him that I would be an obedient slave and would not look for any pleasures other than to please my Master and my Mistress.

"Is there anything that you would have liked to happen which didn't occur?"

That seemed a strange question. Did he want me to evaluate the Marquis' performance? I hated the smug bastard, but that was understandable. Most slaves wanted him to go to hell.

"That's not for me to say, Master," I said after some hesitation.

The fact that I didn't answer with a straight 'no' made him suspicious. "You have permission to speak. What is it, you think was missing from your training?"

I hesitated. I knew that he had decided I should not be spanked, caned or whipped. I also knew that the Marquis had not agreed with this decision and had obeyed it only reluctantly. I did not want to take sides with the Marquis against my Master. But my Mistress encouraged me once more to say what was on my mind.

"I think I need to be flogged to be a better slave, Mistress. I know that my Master doesn't approve of it, but maybe it would help me if I could experience it just once."

"Are you sure you really want this?" My Mistress asked.

"Yes, Mistress, I'm sure."

"So you want the Marquis to whip you while we watch?"

"No. I want my Master and Mistress to whip me until I faint."

"Until you faint? Isn't that a bit too much? Where did you get that idea from?"

"I watched the Marquis do it to another woman," I answered. "Only this once! Please, Mistress! Please, Master!" I sounded like a spoilt child begging for a sweet.

They had asked. They had insisted I tell them. There was no point in asking and then ignoring my wish. They agreed to satisfy my request, but I could see that it was with some trepidation. What disturbed them was that they were supposed to whip me, and that they would have to continue until I'd pass out. They were shocked by the ferocity of my desire to be hurt.

I knew exactly where and how I wanted to be flogged. At this stage I was familiar with most of the gadgets in this hall of horrors. There were two large iron rings hanging from the ceiling, which were normally used to suspend a victim. But they could also be lowered enough so that I was still standing firmly on the floor while I held on to them. My wrists could be tied to those rings to keep me from falling in case I let go of them.

Another two rings on the floor could be used to hold my legs in position, slightly spread, but not too wide, to allow me to get a firm footing. I would be standing in the middle of the room, forming a large X, accessible from all sides. As instruments for my flogging I selected a long horsewhip for my Mistress and a cat o' nine tails for my Master.

I took off my clothes but kept the dog collar on. As the Marquis tied me up according to my specifications, I gave my castigators instructions on what I wanted them to do. I was so excited, I completely forgot that I was the slave and they were my Masters.

"I want that long horsewhip to wrap around my body, from the back to the front. I want it to punish my tits when you whip my back and my cunt when you thrash my ass. And I want to feel that cat o' nine tails on my tits and between my thighs. I want it to bite my cunt without mercy."

My Masters were visibly shocked by my hunger for pain, my desire to let the most vulnerable parts of my body be punished. My Mistress made a hesitant start. The whip hit my back and wrapped around to my front, but stayed a long way below my breasts. It stung nevertheless.

"Higher," I shouted, ignoring the pain. "And harder."

The second attempt was better, but still too weak to make an impact. I had to encourage my Mistress a few more times until the lashes had the desired force and direction. I cried out in pain when the tip of the whipcord grazed my nipple.

My Mistress stopped immediately. "Are you hurt?" she asked with concern in her voice.

"No," I said with tears in my eyes. "That's part of the deal. Carry on - and harder."

Realizing that I was determined to carry this plan through to the bitter end, my Mistress resumed whipping me. After the whip had left its marks on my breasts she moved her attention to my bottom. At first the whip licked my thighs as it wrapped around my hips, but on my insistence, it found its intended target. I momentarily lost my foothold when the cord slashed across my pussy lips. This was the most intense pain I had ever felt. It left me dangling on the rings, only held upright by the ropes which tied me to them. Alarmed by my screams, my Mistress dropped the whip. She kissed and hugged me and wanted to know if I was alright.

I soon found my footing again and reminded them that the flogging had to continue until I passed out. My mistress was so impressed by my screams and the marks which started to show all over my body that she refused to punish me any further. Now it was my Master's turn.

As he swung the cat o' nine tails across my breasts, it was almost certain that one of the lashes would hit my nipples. I could tell that he did not use his full strength - far from it. Even though, the contact of the lashes on my already sore nipples was hellishly painful. To my surprise, my Master ignored my screams. He kept whipping me, moving from my left to my right to distribute the castigation evenly across both breasts.

I was in agony. My head rocked from left to right as the lashes cut into my breasts. My screams turned into a continuous wail as the strokes hailed down on me. It took all my willpower to hold on to the rings. Had my Master changed his mind as far as physical punishment was concerned? Did he whip me this fast and furious to bring my ordeal to a quick end? Had he decided to do his part in making this once-in-a-lifetime flogging a memorable event? Or did he get turned on seeing me suffering so defencelessly?

The strokes shifted gradually lower, leaving their marks on my belly, my lower abdomen, my thighs, but never quite reaching my pussy. Eventually, my Master stood next to me, one arm around my waist, and lowered the cat between my legs. First slowly, almost playfully so, until I pushed my pussy forward to welcome the touch of the leather thongs. Then the whip came down with speed and force and hit the most tender part of my body. I screamed louder than I had ever screamed before. My legs gave way and the rings I had been holding on to slipped from my hands. I was dangling from the ceiling, only held up by the ropes which tied my wrists to the rings.

"Have you had enough?" my Master asked, clearly expecting that I would say yes.

I was barely able to speak. "I haven't fainted yet," I whispered, shaking my head. That's the last thing I remember. A flurry of lashes came down on my pussy, making me scream in anguish. Then everything went black before my eyes.

-----

I came to as my Master lifted me out of his car, wrapped in a blanket, and carried me to the lift in his apartment building. My Mistress went ahead, opening the doors as they carried me to one of the bedrooms and placed me gently onto the bed. Both of them seemed relieved that I had regained consciousness. I thanked them for letting me experience such overwhelming pain. "In future, whenever I think of disobeying either of you, I will think back to this experience, and I will obey you," I promised.

My Mistress wanted to sooth my pain by applying lotion to my bruised body. The cool liquid gave momentary relief, but even the softest touch hurt and I asked her to just let me rest to recover.

-----

As soon as I had fully recovered from my flogging, my Masters took me for a two-week holiday to a luxurious nudist resort on the island of Corsica. There I spent my days lazing in the sun and my nights sharing their bed. However, our love-making wasn't limited to the night, nor was it confined to our suite. We found some sheltered coves a short way along the coast and indulged in the pleasure of making love in the open air with the sound of the sea as an accompaniment. During these two weeks we behaved like a conventional - conventional? - threesome. We enjoyed ourselves as a trio, as a duo and there were even some solo performances. It was a wonderful two weeks, a period of respite before my existence as their slave would start in earnest. It made me think of the night with Lola and the fact that we had never taken her up on the promised return visit. I decided to contact her as soon as I would get back to Paris.

-----

Something else we did when we returned to Paris was to put into action a plan we had worked out during our stay on Corsica.

My Masters had noticed how much I liked being naked in front of strangers. I had been naked throughout my stay at Sainte Jacqueline and now I spent two weeks in the nudist resort without ever wearing a stitch. There were a few single men who had gone there looking for some adventure and I enjoyed it tremendously when they watched me sunbathe and tried to hide their erections whenever I looked in their direction.

My enjoyment was not very slave-like, I admit, the kind of pleasure the Marquis had constantly warned me against, but my Masters hadn't yet fully taken control of me. At one stage I must have commented that I felt like walking down the _ Champs-Élysées _ in the nude. This got them thinking. I had already exposed myself by wearing near-transparent clothes or allowed people to take a peek at my panty-less pussy, but now I wanted full nudity for everyone to see. The suggestion to sit as a nude model for an arts class was discarded for being much too tame.

It was my Mistress who came up with the idea we all agreed on. "You know those people who stand on street corners and in public squares, on a pedestal, pretending to be statues, with a box for the public to drop some money?"

We had all seen them. It seems the fad had started a few years ago. Nobody knew exactly where it had started. We weren't sure if those people were out-of-work actors, art students or just a new breed of beggars. They represented a variety of figures. Characters from 'The Wizard of Oz' were popular motifs, but there were also historical figures and images from famous paintings. What they all had in common was that they stood there, motionless, leaving the passers-by guessing whether this was in fact a statue or a human being of flesh and blood.

"What if we get Jacqueline dressed up, or rather undressed, as a Greek or Roman statue, say Aphrodite or Venus? She could hold an amphora in one hand and maybe an olive branch in the other. That would be the only thing she'd wear."

I knelt down and kissed her feet, so much did I like her idea.

It was necessary to do some more research. We had to decide on the exact motif and find out how to produce the marble effect of an antique statue on my naked skin. We found out that rice powder mixed with the right amount of grey would do the trick.

"You know something?" my Mistress asked after having looked through a few books on ancient statues. The smile on her face made me feel apprehensive.

"Goddesses don't have any hair on their pussies. All the statues I've looked at are bare, clean, smooth as a baby's bottom."

That explained the smirk on her face. My Mistress was looking forward to shaving my pussy. And she was determined to make a big event out of it. She stopped short of inviting friends and neighbours to watch, but my Master kept his eyes glued to my pussy while my Mistress went through an elaborate process of first trimming my pubic hair with scissors, then moistening the remaining stubbles, applying plenty of shaving foam, and finally removing the last vestiges of hair with a barber's razor. She didn't even need to order me to stay quiet while she shaved me. I held my breath as the sharp blade slithered around my pussy lips.

To finish the job, my Mistress drenched my now bare pussy in aftershave. Boy did that sting! I'm sure she knew it would have this effect when she applied the lotion so generously. My Master didn't even wait for my gasps to subside. He couldn't get his cock quickly enough inside my freshly shaved pussy. It reminded me of how he had jumped on Lola when he first saw her bare plum.

My Master, but also my Mistress, behaved as if they had been given a brand new toy to play with and didn't let me get much sleep that night.

The following morning, my Master and Mistress covered me from top to toe with make-up and took me to the open space in front of the _ Louvre _, where we had decided my performance as a statue of Aphrodite would take place. They had brought along a pedestal which was really a kitchen stool, draped in black velvet, and helped me to get into position, an olive branch in one hand, the other hand resting below my breasts. After putting a collection box on the floor before the pedestal, they retreated to observe the events from a distance. A few other statues had already taken up position in the same area.

My heart beat so hard, I was afraid it would knock the make-up off my chest. The first people who passed seemed to be in a hurry and paid little attention to me. Or maybe they were so used to this collection of living and breathing works of art that they didn't notice the new figure. Then, one man who had already passed me slowed down and turned around for another look. It was the classic double-take. He came slowly closer and had a good look. Scratching his head, he walked around me to inspect me from all sides. When he had done the full loop he stood in front of me and observed me for a while, probably trying to see if I was moving. Eventually he went away, shaking his head.

A group of Japanese tourists took my picture, probably never suspecting that they were snapping a real woman. More people stopped and looked at me. One man said, "Girl you've got guts," as he dropped a generous donation into my collection box. A group of people formed in front of me. They engaged in a discussion whether I was or wasn't a real woman and once they decided that I had to be real, they tried to figure out whether I was in fact naked or was wearing a body stocking or some other kind of clothing under my body paint. As the group grew larger, it attracted more passers-by who all stopped to have a good look at me. Some were pulling faces or acting funny to make me laugh.

I didn't move a muscle, resisting all attempts to make me give away my real existence. But I was in danger of being betrayed by my pussy. I was getting increasingly excited by all those people inspecting me closely and could feel that I was getting wet. Would my juices seep out of my bare pussy and mix with the rice powder? 'I should have put a tampon inside to soak up the juices,' I thought. Excellent idea, but terrible timing.

Then something unexpected happened. A woman in her sixties, dressed all in black and carrying an umbrella on such a warm, sunny day, started a tirade against the decline in moral standards. I wasn't sure whether she was complaining about a naked woman exposing herself in a public place or whether she simply objected to the Greek Goddess being portrayed so realistically, with all details clearly visible.

When her opinions didn't find much sympathy with the others, she went away, ranting and raving and announcing that she was going to call the police to remove this offensive work of pornography.

I doubted that any _ gendarme _ would pay much attention to this hysterical woman, but I found it better not to risk it. I gave my assistants the agreed signal for retreat by letting the olive branch slip from my hand.

My Master and Mistress arrived, dressed in white coats which identified them as employees of a famous arts gallery. They wrapped a blanket around me, and then my Master carried me away while my Mistress took care of the pedestal. The onlookers stood there open-mouthed and I could hear that the discussion about whether I was made of stone or of flesh and blood restarted.

My Master celebrated the successful execution of our plan by 'fucking a monument' while my Mistress wanted to find out what it's like to be licked by the Goddess of love. We only stopped when my body paint was evenly distributed between the three of us. Then we showered together to clean up.

-----

My letter to Lola returned unopened. 'Not known at this address', it said on the envelope. I had written to her, telling her about the changes in my life and my new relationship. I explained that these changes were the probable reason why my Master hadn't given any indication that he was planning a visit to Berlin. But, I suggested, if she was interested in an adventure, she might show up unexpectedly one day and see what develops.

The fact that my letter hadn't reached her made me wonder what happened to her. I decided to call the magazine which had sent her to Paris to interview my Master. Using broken English and the few German words I know mixed into my French, I found that Lola was no longer working there, but they gave me a phone number where she could be reached.

Lola's voice sounded as cheerful as ever, when I finally got through to her. She seemed very pleased to hear my voice and apologized for not having been in touch. Before I told her about the changes in my life, as I had intended, I asked her why she was no longer working as a fashion correspondent.

"That's a long story," she started. "I published the interview with Ramon exactly as it had been recorded. You may remember he talked a lot about my shaved pussy that day, and also about the things we had got up to the night before. My readers became curious. They wanted to know more. Some wanted to see pictures of my pussy. The people I worked for offered me the job of editor for a new magazine with explicit pictures and stories and suggested I should start off the first issue by writing about my own experiences and include a series of photographs of myself.

"I thought about the offer - not very long - and accepted it. Now all my readers know exactly what happened that night between you, me and Ramon. I also told them the story about Charlotte's lesson, when I met you the first time, and many other exciting things which happened to me since that day. They have seen pictures of my pussy from every possible angle. I get the feeling I must have one of the most photographed pussies on earth.

"But my readers wanted more. They wanted to see my pussy in action: stuffed with a big cock or dripping with cum. That's when I announced that I was looking for partners to shoot the scenes people were demanding. You can't imagine the number of offers I received! Anyway, that's how I met my owners..."

"Your what?" I interrupted, sensing a case of déjà vu.

"My owners. I'm theirs to use and abuse. Their names are Ralf and Rolf. Also known as the A and the O. They are identical twins. It's impossible to tell them apart, so they agreed to have the letters A and O tattooed on the base of their cocks. That way I can tell who is Ralf and who is Rolf. They fuck me like I've never been fucked before. And we publish the pictures for everyone to see."

Lola paused. There was the sound of a door opening and a male voice in the background saying something I didn't understand. Lola said a few words, I assume in German, then I heard her gasp.

"They've come back and want to fuck me," Lola reported. "Ralf's already stuck his cock into my ass and Rolf is waiting for me to suck him. I've got to go. Stay in touch." She spoke with difficulties. It seemed like someone was pounding his cock into her for all he was worth.

I sat still for a moment, the phone still in my hand, thinking about Lola. Was she in trouble? Did she need help? Were those people she called her owners using her against her will? I came to the conclusion that there was no reason to worry. She was well capable of looking after herself and if anybody abused here, then it was because she wanted to be abused. And I wasn't really in a position to panic about her confession. Hadn't I intended to tell her that I now had a Master and a Mistress? That wasn't very different from her situation.

-----

I now have a Master and a Mistress, and I have to follow both their orders to the letter and without hesitation. Sometimes their orders contradict and I am left with the difficult decision whom to disobey, as they don't accept the excuse that my other Master had told me to do otherwise. They tell me this is my own problem as I had chosen to start a relationship with two Masters - now I have to suffer the consequences.

The words 'punishment' and 'reward' have taken on a different meaning in our relationship. The things my Masters do to me as a special treat, a reward for good behaviour, would normally be considered severe punishment or completely unacceptable as treatment of a loved one. On the other hand, if my Masters feel I deserve to be punished, they don't touch me. My punishment consists of being ignored or being tied up and having to watch them make love. I always enjoy watching them, because it is a pleasure to watch these two beautiful people fuck, but the fact that I can't join them and can't even bring myself off while I watch is a severe torture for me - and they know that.

I now visit the apartment every Wednesday in addition to spending the weekends there. My Master plays five-a-side football on most Wednesday evenings and I am usually at my Mistress's disposal. On the weekends my Master is in charge, although he generously shares me with my Mistress - or with anyone else who shows up.

Both my Master and Mistress are keen to see me complete my studies at university. They follow my progress and punish me when they feel that I'm not concentrating enough on my studies. I am grateful to them that they have allowed me to move to another university. Having to face all the students I sucked and licked during the phase when I was just a cunt would have caused me deep embarrassment and might distract me from my studies.

I felt a strange sensation of nostalgia when I returned to the _ École Supérieur Sainte Denise _ to clear out my room. It had been my first home away from my father's house and there were many fond memories attached to it. I even thought of Arlette and that I wouldn't be able to impress her with my beautiful all-over tan.

Maybe it was a good thing that I didn't get a chance to parade my tanned body in front of Arlette. Wasn't showing off an expression of vanity, and wasn't pride the motivation behind vanity? I knew that I had to avoid these vices.

I now study at another university, which happens to have the advantage of being nearer to my Master's apartment. My room at the new university is very similar to the previous one. I have a new roommate, an American girl from Clear Lake, Iowa, called Beverly. When she talks about her home town I get the feeling that it's even more provincial than Villiers. Its only claim to fame seems to be that a famous country music star died in the vicinity when his airplane crashed into the cornfields.

My Masters have given me permission to have sex with my new roommate if the situation should arise. But I have my doubts that it will happen. When I met Beverly she had just stepped off the plane from the USA. One of the first things she said was that she couldn't understand why the French get so hung up on sex. I have the feeling that, along with improving her French, she's also improved her French kissing and is gradually developing a taste for sex herself. Sometimes I fantasize about taking her with me to the apartment and making her submit to my Mistress and Master.

My Mistress has picked up where she left off before the 'chance meeting' with my Master which brought about this dramatic change in my life - she puts clamps on my nipples and then stimulates me for ages with her vibrators without letting me come. When she finally pulls the clamps off, I erupt in the most powerful orgasms imaginable. She told me how amazed she had been about my strong reaction when she caressed me with a feather for the first time. She had never seen anyone come this hard.

On some days, when I'm due to visit her in the evening, my Mistress phones me at the university during my lunch break and orders me to go to my room and put on the nipple clamps. Wearing them all afternoon leaves me steaming with excitement for the rest of the day. The clamps make my nipples extremely sensitive and every touch, even by the smoothest and lightest fabric, makes me squirm. By the time I get to the apartment I'm a bundle of desire and beg my Mistress to make me come. But, with her being the Mistress she is, it takes a lot of begging and pleasuring her before she fulfils my wish.

One such afternoon, Beverly came into our room just as I was attaching the clamps to my nipples.

"What on earth are you doing, Jacqueline?" she asked, her eyes wide open in horror.

I hadn't planned on her seeing me like this. Now I tried to act naturally, as if nothing unusual was happening.

"Oh, I'm just putting on some jewellery, so I can leave straight after my last lecture. I've got an appointment this evening." I tried to make it sound as if nipple clamps were an indispensable fashion accessory for the modern woman.

"Jewellery?" she gasped. "This looks more like a torture instrument to me."

"Not really. It's not as bad as it looks. Do you want to try?" I moved towards her, offering her the clamp I hadn't yet put on.

"No way, José," she shrieked, moving away from me.

I knew it was better not to insists. She was slowly warming to the idea of letting one of her more persistent pretenders make a woman of her. I had encouraged her to take that step, but trying to push her too far too soon might put her off.

So I just fitted the remaining clamp and then carefully buttoned my blouse over my hardening nipples. Then I set off across the campus to attend my afternoon lecture, knowing that the next few hours would be hell.

That's how I earned my unofficial nickname, 'Jackie Nipples', wearing the thinnest possible blouse so that the textile wouldn't stimulate my already sensitive nipples even further. I call it my unofficial nickname, because nobody's ever called me Jackie Nipples to my face. But I've heard it often enough behind my back to know how much my male fellow students - maybe some females as well? - enjoyed peeking at my breasts through the flimsy material. I treat all my admirers politely, but when they ask me for a date, I tell them in the nicest possible way that I am already spoken for and that they don't stand a chance.

I have the impression that the frequent and prolonged use of those clamps has made my nipples grow bigger. Or maybe they're just getting used to being constantly aroused and are sticking out in anticipation. They're always attracting attention, even when I wear a thick sweater. It's almost impossible not to notice them. When I mentioned this observation to my Mistress, she confirmed, "Yeah, that's the idea. I like them big and very sensitive. I want to be able to make you come just from trailing a feather across your breasts." I got extremely wet just thinking at the prospect.

She has similar plans for my clit. She bought a few special clamps which come with a number of weights that can be hooked into a ring to increase the pull on my clit and multiply the discomfort. My Mistress attaches the clamp to my clit, selects a weight and then makes me lick her while she lies on her back. The weight dangles between my legs and tortures my clit with every move I make. It's sheer hell, but I love it!

Sometimes my Mistress spanks me, but there isn't a lot of force behind her swats. The purpose isn't really to punish my backside, but to make the weights attached to my clit swing every time her hand makes contact with my bottom. Charlotte had once said that it takes a woman to give another women the maximum pleasure because only a woman understands the female body well enough. I would add that it also takes a woman to torment another woman to the maximum - for the same reason.

The treatment seems to have the desired effect. My clit keeps poking its head through my pussy lips, trying to make contact with the outside world. It has become almost impossible to wear tight trousers, because they stimulate my clit so much that my excitement immediately produces a wet patch between my legs.

My mistress went absolutely crazy when I told her about the Marquis' 'cunt-opener'. I had assumed she'd be interested, but I hadn't expected such an enthusiastic reaction. In fact she had noticed that my labia had been gaping open and allowed a good look into my deeper secrets the day she had come to collect me from Sainte Jacqueline, but she hadn't given the reason for this much thought. Now, she was determined to get hold of this toy and immediately contacted the Marquis, even though the two aren't on very good terms, and asked about where she could get such a gadget.

As soon as she got her hands on the cunt-opener, my Mistress started to experiment with it and invented a new game which she calls 'Christmas tree'. It starts with me kneeling with my legs slightly spread and my hands tied behind my back so I can't interfere. Then she fits the cunt-opener and attaches clamps to my clit and nipples. She says it makes me look like a decorated Christmas tree. I have seen my reflection in the mirror and don't really see any similarity, but, of course, I wouldn't dare to contradict my Mistress.

The only thing which doesn't meet my Mistress' approval is the fact that my ass is occupied by the butt-plug. It keeps her from sticking one of her vibrators in there. But she makes free use of my other opening and uses a variety of sizes and speeds to stimulate me until I'm no longer able to hold my kneeling position. Then she lets me experience the most powerful orgasms I can remember.

My Mistress has noticed that I produce copious volumes of juice when she treats me like this. "Looks like you have turned into a little squirter," she said with a mixture of astonishment and delight. Now she places a small bowl between my legs to catch my dripping juices and then gives them to me to drink. Drinking my own juices like this seems to be the pinnacle of perversion. I'm so grateful to my Mistress that she makes me do it.

When my Master returns from his Wednesday night football match, he is often tired and downtrodden and barely acknowledges my presence. But sometimes he is in a triumphant mood and claims me as the winner's trophy. Those nights, when my Master fucks me after my Mistress has played 'Christmas tree' with me are unforgettable. It seems that my Mistress has just warmed me up so that I can reach higher, hitherto unknown levels of pleasure in my Masters arms. My orgasm starts as soon as his cock enters my still highly sensitive pussy lips and only ends when he sprays me with his cum. My pussy gushes juices like an overflowing fountain and our lovemaking leaves me drained and exhausted.

"Look what a mess you've made, you two sex-mad pigs," my Mistress scolds us afterwards. "If it goes on like this, I need to buy some plastic sheets for you." But then she stops being the concerned housewife and licks us both clean; first my Master and then me. I don't think this is the kind of thing a Mistress is supposed to do to her slave, but I love it nonetheless.

On the weekends, my Master puts me through my paces, supported by my Mistress and by the occasional visitor. My Master has installed the modern-day stocks, the equipment I had first seen at _ Le Chambre Séparée _, in his apartment and I spend many hours tied up in it. A number of people drop in at the apartment without prior notice. They see me walking around naked except for my dog collar, tied up and suspended in the pillory or taking my meals crouching under the table. Sometimes my Master lets those visitors play with me.

Apart from the people dropping in unannounced, there are scheduled visits from people who I don't get to see because my Master blindfolds me before they arrive. Those people come with the explicit intent of using me as I'm tied up with my pussy, ass and mouth freely accessible. I can't see them, but I can hear them talk and I believe that Mirabelle is amongst them. I'm pretty sure that I recognized her voice.

When I asked my Master whether Pablo and Mirabelle had been visiting because I thought I had heard Mirabelle's voice, he didn't answer my question, but the next time he expected visitors he also fitted me with a pair of headphones blasting music at a near-deafening volume into my ears. As I listened to Beethoven's Ninth, I felt fingers and other objects being inserted into my pussy and rear and my face being unceremoniously pushed into a female crotch. I felt an urge to join into the 'Song of Joy' as I felt an unmistakable steel rod enter my ass. This had to be Rui and Sylvie!

To my delight, my Master's altruism has its limit. For most of the time I belong to him and serve him with my entire body. To feel his wonderful cock inside me makes everything I had to go through worthwhile. I swoon with delight when he fills my pussy, my ass or my mouth with his delicious spunk. He fucks me tied to the stocks, pinned to the floor, on the bed; wherever and however he feels like. It's exactly how I imagined life as his slave to be like and I'm savouring every minute of it.

Sometimes, when I haven't behaved the way my Master thinks I should, he ties me to the chair which has now permanently moved from the kitchen to the raised platform and is irrecoverably soiled with my juices, and makes me watch as he makes love to my Mistress. Having to watch those two beautiful people without being able to join in is still as frustrating as it was the first time, but I know now that it never takes long before they invite me to join them. Serving my Mistress and my Master at the same time is probably the most fulfilling experience of my existence.

Sometimes the three of us go out, to a restaurant, a theatre or simply strolling in the park. My Masters make sure that my attire and behaviour leave no doubt that I'm just a slave who is allowed to tag along with her Masters. My Master has designed a complete set of slave outfits for these occasions. There is always some detail - along with the ever-present dog collar - which indicates even to the casual observer the nature of my relationship to the two people I accompany. Sometimes my legs are shackled with a fine silver chain, sometimes my dress is held up only by a set of elaborate nipple clamps, sometimes my clothes look like they have been torn by some violent attacker and what's left of them barely manages to conceal my charms. Whatever my Master comes up with, my attire is sure to attract a lot of attention and the curious stares are bound to make me feel self-conscious and extremely proud of being my Master's slave.

[The Ultimate Submission]

The way I describe my life today, my readers might expect my story to end '... and they lived happily ever after' or some similar words. Yes, it might, if it wasn't for my rebellious spirit which once again made me act in a wayward, undisciplined way. I don't regret for one second what I did, but I know that it could put a severe strain on my relationship with my Masters, when I tell them.

And I will have to tell them soon, because I don't want them to become suspicious and start to ask questions. I'd rather make a clean breast of it and confess what I've done, hoping they will understand my motivation. I'm just waiting for a suitable moment to tell them.

I have decided that I want to bear my Master's child. I haven't just reached this decision on a theoretical level, I have gone further than that: I have turned it into reality. Roughly two months ago, I stopped taking the pill. My period which had been due three weeks ago didn't arrive. I have taken the test, not just once, a dozen of times, in different laboratories, and they all confirm what I had hoped: My Master's child is already growing inside my body.

It takes all my willpower to contain myself, to hide my joy. But I will have to tell my Master and my Mistress. I don't want to wait until they notice the changes in my body. But I'm also thinking of the child. It would be too dangerous for the child to let them continue to submit me to the extreme and painful treatment I have become accustomed to but I wouldn't want my Master's child inside my belly to be subjected to.

You probably wonder what made me take this radical step. Let me assure you that it is not an attempt to compete with my Mistress for my Master's affection. I did not do this to make him love me more than her because I'm carrying his child in my womb. I'm not doing this to make him feel any obligations towards me for bringing his child into this world. (My female intuition tells me, that there is a boy growing inside my belly, but if I should be wrong and it turns out to be a girl I will be just as happy.)

My reasons for taking this step are more complex. Although my Mistress can be quite harsh at times and my Master is very demanding, I still feel that they treat me with more leniency than I deserve. They look at me as a human being and they adjust their demands when they notice that I am tired or under stress.

A child will not have any concern for these subtle changes in my disposition. There probably can't be a more complete, more demanding Master than a hungry child, eager to get its mouth on my breasts to satisfy its need. There can't be anybody more tyrannical than an infant who needs his nappy changed or wants attention any time of the day or night.

My Mistress with her persistent use of clamps and the cunt-opener has managed to achieve some physical changes of my body, mainly my nipples, my clit and my pussy lips. But this is nothing compared to the changes my body will undergo when the child inside me grows bigger and bigger. What is the discomfort caused by being suspended in the pillory or by wearing the cunt-opener compared with that which accompanies a pregnancy: the morning sickness, the swollen limbs, the backache from the weight of the child in my belly? No matter how much my Master's big cock stretches my vagina, it is insignificant compared with the stretching I will experience when I give birth to his child, when the infant's head will force its way to the outside.

All these thoughts passed through my mind when I took this important decision. And I want to assure you that I did not take it lightly. I see it as a way of taking my submission to my Master one gigantic step further.

I'm sure that my Master's son will not hesitate to accept my submission. In fact, he will demand it. The thought of how he will be looking for my breasts to quench his thirst and satisfy his hunger makes me wet my panties. I wonder if other mothers find feeding their children as sexually stimulating as I do. My child will not have to look far to find the objects of his desire. Not least, because my nipples will be sticking out like two lighthouses situated on the hills of neighbouring shores. He will clasp one of them with his lips and suck without the least consideration for my comfort.

My breasts will always be at his disposal, giving him a plentiful supply of nourishment and also providing the much needed physical contact. Just as my breasts will provide his first oral experience of the outside world, the rest of my body will be the playground on which he will make his first tactile discoveries. His little hands will roam over my body, grasp, pull my hair. The touch of his skin on mine will be as fulfilling as the most intimate caress.

Maybe it will help me to shed some of my pride when I change his nappies, wipe his bottom, dry and powder him. I will perform these humble tasks like thousands of mothers do every day, but none of them does it with more devotion and as free from any resentment as I will.

I can't wait until my Master's child is born so that I can submit entirely to my child Master - I'm ready for the ultimate submission.

The End

[Closing Comments]

When I started to write this piece, roughly a year ago, I did not expect it to develop into something which is more appropriately called a book rather than a story. What started out as 'Jacqueline's Story', became 'The Ultimate Submission', but I decided to keep the original title in brackets, as a kind of subtitle.

'Jacqueline's story' didn't start out as a 'BDSM' story. Some people might comment that it still isn't one. I won't argue with them. It isn't one of my life ambitions to fit neatly into a clearly defined category, and it seems that my stories also resist attempts at putting them into pigeon-holes.

The story was conceived as the account of a young woman whose curiosity about sex makes her want to try out whatever comes her way. I had no clear idea where this might lead and let Jacqueline, the main character, find her own way. Other characters asserted themselves too. Caroline, who had been assigned only a supporting role, claimed a place on centre stage.

While I let the plot develop and allowed Jacqueline to get involved in a number of adventures, I wrote four, considerably shorter stories and posted them between February and May 2004. The response to these efforts encouraged me to carry on with Jacqueline's expanding saga.

When I read those four stories on the internet I noticed that quite a few errors had slipped through and that some things might have been worded better. There are probably errors out there which I didn't spot - an author reading his own work often sees what he expects to see, not necessarily what is really there.

I decided that my first big story would be reviewed by an editor before being posted. I consider myself lucky to have had the help of Peter Z who scrutinized my scribbling and pointed out errors and other problems. He amazed me by keeping a cool head amid the hottest scenes, finding errors and inconsistencies without letting the orgasmic screams of the protagonists distract him. There is no doubt in my mind that the final product has gained considerably from Peter Z's contribution. It gives me great pleasure to use this opportunity to extend a heart-felt 'Thank you' to Peter Z.

I also want to thank those who have taken the time to send me their feedback. Your comments are appreciated, regardless of whether they are terse or elaborate, enthusiastic or critical. Amongst the readers who have sent me their comments, one deserves a special mention. Mistress Fortuna sent me enthusiastic, elaborate and thoughtful observations about many of the early chapters and promised to give a final verdict when the story has been posted completely. With readers like you, Mistress Fortuna, the effort of writing and publishing stories becomes worthwhile.

Finally, a word, or rather three words, to those readers who haven't yet sent me their comments: Do it now! Your feedback is the only way I can know what you like about my stories, what you don't care for, and what you feel is missing. The fact that you've got to this point seems to indicate that you didn't consider reading this story a complete waste of time. So why don't you just think of one thing you liked and one thing you disliked about the story and send them to me. Or maybe three things you liked and one thing you disliked - I think you get the picture. In return for your effort you'll get an e-mail with the electronic autograph of the author. ;-) And possibly an even better story next time around.

Gato Medio