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Melia: A Feminist Learns, Part II
(Below, when it suits me, I shall write what I know to be true in the third person, omniscient voice. I, of course, usually prefer the first person as it privileges my own voice. But as Master, I assume Melia and know her thoughts and being. Sometimes the third person can say more about ownership than any other because of its omniscience.) (Victor)
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Melia woke out of her fitful sleep. Forced to sleep in lingerie, her frilly black, nipple-less bra, flimsy, crotchless panties, her matching garter-belt and hose, covered only by a sheer black teddy put her into a intense state of arousal. Each time she woke she was required to do her make-up carefully and completely. The pure contradiction all this presented to her life and long-held beliefs fueled her profound submissive passion incredibly. “The fucking prick-bastard,” she would think to herself, as she’d find herself awakened in the middle of the night by the strange sensations of her new attire, “I’m his personal fucking whore!” Her cunt had begin to become sore from her fierce jacking-off over these last seven days alone, waiting for Victor’s final word of her moving in with him and she had started to pinch her own tit nipples increasingly hard in her masturbatory frenzies. And the touch that made her core molten with desire and need for man-handling was the high arched, pointed-toed, four inch high-heeled pumps that Victor mandated should stay on her feet all night long with all the rest, these last three nights. Here, there was physical discomfort too that made her struggle for positions that would relieve the tension in her feet. “’Femininity’ means being in bondage,” she thought, recalling one of her radical screeds from 1981, when she wrote for “Wymynpower.”
It was
she heard me turn the key in her apartment door. She had been waiting patiently this last
week for me to make the arrangements I had wanted to make so that I could
come to claim her. Her journal entries to me, sent dutifully each night, had become increasingly frantic and servile. The word “slave” had become to hold a charge for her that she savored more and more. I know she had never experienced such emotional intensity and she knew that this was just the prelude. She had just redone her make-up, as instructed, when she had last awoken. She smelled the smoke my cigar, as I entered her room. The smell entwined strangely erotically with the very thick perfume she now soaked herself in. “Master,” she murmured loud enough for me to hear, as I strode wordlessly to her bed. “Suck it bitch,” I said, as I took her prettily coiffed hair roughly in my fist and guided her to my large cock. Her hands were not at play here now and her mouth opened to him softly. Thrusting casually and deliberately I let her have the
obscenities that she deserved: “Feminist bitch, ready whore, cock-hole…”
“Master,” she had written three days before in a passionate daze, “A cunt is an empty
hole without a real PRICK to fill her. I speak now, because of your teaching, to the
primal core of it. I bitched my life away for a long time. I didn’t know what I was
doing, like any little whore. You brought me up sharp, ripped away the fucking veil and made me understand what a woman is truly for--- what I am for. You saw my bitch
emptiness. You saw the cravings I could not admit. The bullshit assumptions about
what women want! The “correct” myths and modern fictions! You step on them
like a hard boot steps on shit. I love you, abjectly! You knew my cunt emptiness and my primal need and acted from that wisdom from the moment you decided to take me. I spit and stomped and talked hard to mask it. They saw me as fearless, tough and principled. You saw me as a scared little cunt, who could not face the powerful, roiling yearnings, the vast passion the she too knew of. She knew! But I needed a MAN,
who could sincerely care, to take me to it. I bask now in my cuntness, in the femininity
that I had to be firmly pushed to. I shave my little bitch hole for you clean everyday
and balm it with sweet smelling unguents so that you will be pleased. I expose there
the dripping heart of me, with no pretense or lie. I wear all night the dainty,
flimsy lingerie that exposes me to you, and to myself. These high heels I wear now
constantly, lift me above the false image I vainly projected and stick my tits out
proud, where they belong. Oh Master! With the make-up that I laughed at, I
cover over the false visage of me; truly the thick lipstick and glamor eyelashes
make my truth clear to anyone who might have thought differently. You are the
only One who knew who I really was. You are the only one who dared call
me at my bluff. I know now I will never get enough. Master, fill up your little bitch and make her whole—make me your mewling puppet fuck. Kneel her down to do the suck.
Come and get me and take me home where I belong.”
She was melded with me now in her stretched-lip glory. My cock was her place
to latch, and steady and be, as I forced it into her face. Casually, as always, I put my fingers to her dripping sex and with the touch felt the convulsion of her breath over my thick cock and saw her extend to find the abject orgasm at her core. Her eyes were shut now, savoring being gone. It was as if her entire being were filled up with cock
and she were nothing but hole--- for me.
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