I, (52), am a slave. The slave’s existence fills me. I can drop myself. I am controlled. Fixed. – and yet I feel a freedom, a deep satisfaction that is otherwise denied me. I serve. I discover my limits. I overcame my limits.
I always longed for a mistress. A mistress who takes care of me – not only my body but also my mind. Not only did I want to feel the whip on my skin. I want to be controlled. To be without will. I wanted to serve. Serve without contradiction. I wanted a commander about my will and physique.
My mistress chose me. She saw me as a challenge. The challenge to educate, to shape myself until I met their ideal. That I stopped being, and began to become an object of desire. An object for use. An object without claims. Without expectations – and yet full of longing!
The slave contract was clear. Clearly structured. But a paragraph made me listen to “slave rental”. The slave, that was me! Rental? To whom? Why? At that time I did not understand the meaning behind it. A deep uncertainty seized me. I could feel her making me doubt how she slowly squeezed my throat. This was not hidden from my future mistress. “Concern?” She asked with an indescribable dominance in her voice. A dominance that I wanted to feel. My finger lingered for a moment on the word “slave rental” – this elicited a mysterious, yet demanding smile. She ran her finger over the paper until she stopped at the word “slave rental.” I heard her whisper in my ear: “You’ll never know who you really are unless you’re ready to explore your limits. It is of course your choice. Trust me.”
My choice? Slave negotiation – it was my decision. It could be all or nothing. I wanted this all or nothing. I wanted to discover the dark passion in me. I aspired to sexual freedom. I signed.
I plunged into a world so different from my everyday life. Fascinating. Wicked. Full of excitement. Obviously in their demands and yet obscured in their possibilities. I learned what services a slave had to do. I perfected my services. Let me degrade. Use me. I fulfilled the requirements of my mistress. I fulfilled the paragraph “slave rental”.
We enter a small, nondescript restaurant. It is lost in Sleeping Beauty sleep. No guest is to be seen, just an elderly lady. Silently she sits in an armchair, reading her book in the dim light of the wall lamp. She looks satisfied. I am ashamed. I panic internally. How can I counter this old lady in latex hot pants, fishnet and paint boats? She will be shocked! I want to leave – but I can not. The old woman in her plaid skirt, the pastel-colored blouse and the black cardigan raises her gaze. My breath stops. I am full of shame. She kindly nods to us, gets up from her chair and goes to a thick curtain. I follow my mistress. Willeless – and yet I feel infinitely degraded. Through the curtain, which looks inconspicuous and worn from the outside, we go down a narrow spiral staircase made of metal, down a dark corridor.
Step by step contrary to the uncertainty. Pulling my mistress by the collar directs my way, the leash made escape impossible. But do I even want to escape? Do I want to give myself over to my fear? I trust my mistress. Joy and fear fill me at the same time. What was waiting for me? Who expected me? Arriving at the end of the hall, I see an establishment that is far from any of my ideas.
Surrounded by the decadence of the 1920s with a touch of BDSM. Opulent stucco, red patterned wallpaper, velvet sofas, dim light, St. Andrew’s cross and golden cages. The carpet dampens the pleasurable groaning, the cries of pain, the lashes and the whimpering. I saw mistresses, masters and slaves – naked or wrapped in latex. Only one thing is common to them, no one reveals his face. Hidden behind masks. Wrapped in a secret. Looks eye me. They smile at me. Me the object. Am I here to play? Am I a silent observer? What does my mistress expect from me? What is she asking me to do?
Silently she settles down on a red velvet chair. I kneel with devotion by her side. Persevere. Watch the scenery full of tension. A lady wrapped in latex approaches us. My mistress hands her the leash. She hands me over. Why? I’m surprised, but I have to follow. I will be shown. I am touted. The beats of the whips determine my movements. I am offered to play. To be used. I am rented. Rented to the most bidders! Rented to play.
A black door leads to a secret room. In the Separée in the establishment came only, who bought a slave. Through the closed door I hear suppressed screams and groans. What will expect me? Who will expect me? I am put on a mask that robs me of my sight. I sink in darkness. My pulse is racing. A tremor seizes my body. Anxiety. Lust. I hear the door open. I enter. I am used. I, the slave, was leased to the most bidding people. It is played until the morning hours.
I, Karl (52), am a slave who is rented by his mistress for use. I am an object of desire that has to fulfill the paragraph “slave-rental”.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/8wv1q7/abbatage