 |
|||
|
|
Melia: A Feminist Learns, IV
(I write in the third person here as it pleases Me) (Victor Mann)
Melia had resisted passion for a long time, as many “independent,” “liberated,”
women will--- because they intuit the deep secret: if a woman wants to truly
know her passion in every aspect, then she must become a slave. It is the
nature of things. Susan Brownmiller condemned “femininity” as a trap
leading to women’s submission, but what if “femininity” is
an undeniable force in a woman’s being and womb that cannot be casually set aside? Melia was thoughtful in her usual intellectual way, when she heard the Master of her
life slam the door behind Him. She thought of Brownmiller. She could still
savored her Master’s scum in her mouth and felt down to the proud dirtiness he had
left there, a squishing mess that made its point. She had been so forthright
and bold. “But really doesn’t a cunt need the back of hand once in while to
remind her of what she really is,” she thought. This was the underside of her
spiteful feminism--- her deep yearning for self-expression. Feminism had been her
armor for so long. She had denied her real needs as loudly and emphatically
as she could, while knowing in her heart of hearts that it was all bullshit.
Melia took a long leisurely shower. She so looked forward to the clarity that
moving into Victor’s house would give. She would sign a contract that
revoked all her rights before him. Her life would no longer be the free cunt’s
“events” and “programs” and lonely evenings unfucked. There would be
one program now and that would be Victor’s and she was going to devote
every ounce of her being to it. She would show him her mettle. She craved
to show it. Every fiber of her being would be devoted to it.
Showering, she left aside the imagination of her new life with Victor. She had
spent plenty of time thinking of it. But she did let her mind drift to the
deep fantasies that she had kept hidden from herself for many years. She had had only
glimpses of them, quickly and summarily repressed, before she encountered
Victor. There was the naked girl walking in the forest who sees her lover.
Between them is a field of breast high nettle. He could come to her, as he
is fully dressed, but he does not. He leans casually against a tree and coldly beacons
her with a finger to cross the field to him. Her eyes locked in his gaze, she
endures to fall at his feet on the other side, covered in welts, her heart
bursting with love. She yearned in her secret among secrets for a man proud
enough to challenge her like this. Victor had in that bar taken her tit nipples into his
control and savaged them because he knew.
The emotion of the past week had been overwhelming. Her anticipation and
passion racked every nerve. The shower did soothe a bit, but her thoughts
had brought her sore nipples to attention and her clean shaven cunt was
once again swollen with her passion.
Once she had dried herself, she obediently crawled to the coffee table where that Oct., 2004 edition of Ms. Magazine lay, its page open to the offending image. Crawling
to her bed, the magazine in her mouth, she laid back and gazed at it. The picture showed a lovely woman(was Ms. obsessed with pretty girls?) whose mouth had been graphically altered to show grommets on upper and lower lip tied through with laces
so that her mouth was tied completely shut. This image had been conjured by the
female staff of Ms. to give the image that every feminist could revile.
Melia, once, had willfully stoked a cauldron of outrage at images and ideas
like that of the picture of the woman with her mouth laced tightly shut.
“It is time for the women’s silence to end!” such was the thought.
The cauldron was still there in her womb, but Victor had rechannelled it,
as if He flicked a hidden switch.
She didn’t really need Victor’s command to truly contemplate this image. Very intellectually inclined, a myriad of thoughts came at once. She could feel her
mind scream in response to the message Ms. had wished to convey, “Let me
claim my own agency! You will not silence my own authentic voice!” She felt
her prodigious will to defy come forward as she reached for a generous handful of
vaseline to smear in her hairless cunt. It had become so sore. She
fondled her breasts, lightly tweaking the nipples and slowly let her
free hand slip to her crotch. “What if there is unending pleasure in
silence?” she asked the offending magazine as the slip-slide of the
vaseline in her pussy focused her. “What if women have just
become perverted and no longer understand what they are?”
The anger that she once had feigned toward “men” now arose
fiercely in her toward the lies that this magazine purveyed. It
did not take long for the first shivers of profound pleasure to
begin to wrack her. “I am a proud woman!” her inner voice
screamed. “I need my bitch mouth laced good and tight!”
“You are not going to deny me who i am!” “Fucking
feminist bitches!” As she gasped and twisted in orgasm,
she felt somehow Victor’s power holding her in this tight
grasp of pleasure, forcing her to unleash herself.
She was so much His. She was desperate for Him to know it.
Melia basked in the glow of her full release and, as it were, His presence.
Victor had not only knew how fuck her body like no one ever had, but he
knew how to fuck her being. He knew how to penetrate her to the core.
Isn’t that what a Man is supposed to do? She felt all girly and “cunty,”
giddy. Victor would be back in several hours to claim her, and she
wanted to be perfect for Him. Melia had paid slight attention to her
appearance for more than 15 years. She had kept to the feminist faith
that “femininity” was slavery and so she bit her nails and let her
hair be a mess, dressed down and frumped herself. The woman who
had not spent a full 15 minutes in front of mirror for a long, long time,
now had five mirrors in her house, two of them full length.
The front-lacing, levered, black satin corset was the first thing she
approached. If body-shaping garments like this were “anti-woman,”
then she was going to be “anti-woman” in spades. But in her own heart she
knew that in canceling herself, thusly, proudly, she showed a womanhood
that the “feminist” cunts would never know (unless they met a Man with
the wisdom to teach them). She pulled the levers until her breath felt
constrained and then she pulled until she could feel the ache. This was
where little cunts ran for cover and women stepped bravely forward.
For her now the tight, tight corset was her Master’s firm grip on her.
It symbolized in truth her fealty to His liege. She wanted Him to
know it totally.
Slowly and erotically, like in a reverse strip tease, Melia donned
the garments and accoutrements newly bought for her for this occasion,
as the corset had been. Black was Master’s preferred color and the
lingerie was such. The dress was black satin, sleeveless, a simple design.
Her tit nipples, still erect, showed, exposed by the delicate nipple-less
bra she wore underneath. She dressed in front of the mirror being extremely
gentle with every garment as her Master wanted perfection, no runs, crinkles
or stray threads.
She stayed in front of the full length mirror for her dressing, laying out all
her garments in the ambit of her hands. “A cunt without a mirror doesn’t
know what she is fucking for!” had been her Master’s pointed comment. She
turned three-quarters away to look at the seams on her black stockings.
She’d been taught harshly and learned that her seams were to be
perfectly straight. She put on His pointy toed, black leather high-
heeled pumps with 4 ½ inch thin heels and high arches. They were
pristine and beautiful, as He required.
Melia had never worn a ring or a bracelet since college. She donned
now a heavy ring on each finger of each hand. She put on the
beautiful, wide, heavy, silver bracelets that pleased her Master. She put
on the large, glittery, glamour-style earrings that dangled so they
touched her shoulders. The she put the whore make-up on.
|
|
|