In the old days of slavery, a free woman of colour had the possibility of selling
herself as a slave. Those who did so most certainly did not do it from masochistic urges.
Yet, the idea always intrigued me and the thought never left my mind as I was advancing
further on the path of submission.
I guess it has always been within me. Ordinary sex never made me that excited and
the only time I could climax was when I was playing with myself, dreaming of sexual
tortures, whippings, submission. Over the years I was introduced to the real life side of
it and as my experience grew, I knew I had to go further. When a guy for the first time
had me over his lap to spank me, I was so excited I could die. Sadly enough, the reason I
had been able to talk him into doing it was the whiskey I had treated him with and the day
after he felt utterly embarrassed for what had happened (at least, the parts he remembered
doing). So that was our last date.
I found it very hard to find a truly dominant man, with the right understanding for
this sort of thing. Gradually I was realizing what it was that fired me… and I spent many
years in a fruitless search for my perfect match. Many people could not understand why I
was so cold towards attractive men who were obviously interested in me and some even
thought I was a lesbian. But I could not see the point of going to bed together with
somebody just for the sake of it, while all the time I was dreaming of something else,
knowing that He was out there somewhere, waiting for me. I often went out, by myself or
with friends, in the hope that someday I would find Him. I also answered contact ads but
was badly disappointed every time, as I realized that behind the most exciting description
dwelled some wannabee who may have read about it in books, but had no idea how to treat a
real-life submissive woman, even if she had fallen to her knees and begged him to use her.
So I realized that being a submissive was really not an easy thing.
Soon I started taking things into my own hands. I began experimenting with various
forms of self-punishment, and although I found it thrilling to start with, it was nothing
at all like what I wanted. I used to have a riding-crop beside my bed and often used it on
myself while I was masturbating, but afterwards it always felt so empty. I usually don’t
wear a bra but I made a special one: with tacks inside and wore it sometime when going
out. I tried tacks in my shoes and experimented with needles and clothespins. My passion
for pain grew all the time, as did the disappointment of being all alone. I picked fresh
tree branches and birches to use as an alternative to the riding crop, and although I
eventually got myself some quite nice stripes this way, I wanted to submit to somebody who
would show me no mercy.
Sure, you could say I was a real egoist. I didn’t want to compromise – I’d rather be
alone until I got what I needed. I tried to suppress my feelings and forget about it, but
of course it didn’t work. Once my passions had been awakened, there was nothing I could do
but to keep on searching. I didn’t find the Dom I was dreaming of… but through a long
chain of circumstances I got some contacts which I discovered could help me realize my
dream, although in quite a different way than I had expected.
I felt very secure and grateful to what destiny had placed before me as I fell into
the arms of the lovely Katja and felt her ripe lips pressing against mine. In just a few
hours, I would lay strapped on my back to be brutally ravaged by a number of huge black
men who would never get tired of using their new sex toy and teaching her what she needed
to know to please her customers.
My training as a brothel slave had begun.
Chapter 2
The lashes fell faster and harder on my body and I was desperately tugging at my
bonds, while the whip made me dance. As the heat was spreading in my body, he increased
the force and I begged him not to stop. I could hear excited shouts from the audience, no
doubt urging him to whip me harder. I was steaming hot, obsessed with a fever that just
made me want more. In the back of my mind, I reflected that it was good that the man
wielding the whip was a lot more sensible than I was and that he had complete control over
the situation.
He was a real artist in using the bullwhip. Now he was concentrating on my bottom
and time after time the lash dug into my globes, leaving good welts. Then he lashed out
from above, making the whip sting again and again between my sore buttocks, licking my
anus with a tongue of fire. My screams and moans mixed with the sharp cracks of the black
leather whip against my body and all the time the voices of everybody watching the scene
got louder. I felt very secure in that I knew that no real harm would be done to me,
although I would be thoroughly whipped. And I really didn’t mind some scars and marks on
my body. I do have a good healing flesh and the scars on my body I saw as marks of love.
Marks of lust. Yes, it hurt, but it hurt so good! My entire mind was filled with the
desperate longing for the lash, no matter what happened.
***
“She’s passed out again”. The voice came to me like in a dream and I was totally
unable to move. My tormentor dropped the black leather whip on the floor and soon I felt
the strong fumes of the smelling salt in my nostrils. I slowly opened my eyes and I was
looking straight into two beautiful brown eyes that belonged to the man who had been
whipping me. He looked at me with a neutral expression on his face, just like he would
have been looking at any object. The petite, slender Arab girl who held the bottle of
smelling salt under my nose held me by the hair in a gentle grip to hold my head in place.
I gazed at his oiled, tanned body… his impressive chest and his muscular arms. He was only
dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and shoes and his magnificent muscles were swelling as
he moved. I flashed a smile of gratitude towards my tormentor. Oh, how I loved to be
whipped by this man! He was handling his whip like an artist, all the time making it hit
exactly where he wanted. He knew exactly how to use his whip as a tool to light a fire
within my body, a fire that would just keep on burning and get stronger all the time. I
felt so very fortunate being in the hands of this skilful whip master. My wrists were
shackled to the whipping post above my head and the chains had been stretched to the
extent that I was balancing on my toes. My entire body was on fire and bright red stripes
and welts criss-crossed my back, thighs and buttocks. Also my breasts had received their
fair share of cuts, as the leather whip curled around my body and bit into my flesh.
As was the custom, my inaugural flogging was carried out in public, on a platform in
the patio and everybody, including the customers present at the moment, were watching my
ordeal. Each new girl was always given 500 lashes as an introduction before she started
serving the customers.
After a short examination, the doctor overseeing the flogging gestured that the
whipping could continue. A monotonous voice announced:
“Please proceed. This is number 197”.
As he finished, a sharp crack of the whip was immediately followed by my shriek of
pain. The tip of the black leather whip bit into my left breast and in my hazy mind I was
thinking: “197… that’s another 303 lashes to go… 500 lashes… this is gonna take the whole
day…” At the same time the uncontrollable fire was burning within me. My entire being
yearned for the stinging whip, the lovely, shiny black, heavy bullwhip.
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