EXTRACT FOR
Freedom Is Slavery
(Louis Friend)

sybArtA



I always enjoyed my time with Sybarta.  While I always knew my place (she would remind me constantly, having me refill her coffee, fetching her mail, standing whenever she entered the room, etcetera), we would have rather pleasant, open conversations to relax us both before the fun began.



However today, Sybarta was acting a bit out of sorts. As soon as I was allowed in to her cottage, in the rural outlands, she commanded me to fall and kiss her boots; the signal that our session was beginning. Prostrate, she then commanded me to remove my clothes and sit in her bondage chair.



The wood of the chair was a chilling shock to my bare bottom, as was the metal buckles of the cuffs she used to secure my wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the tall chair. Another, larger belt was then wrapped around my neck and secured to the back. Sybarta gave this one a bit of a tug, choking me slightly to remind me that my life was now in her hands.



While Sybarta may have been old enough to be my mother, she managed to maintain an impressive figure. Unlike the Dominatrices of popular myth, she didn't prance about in fishnets and corset. Rather, she resembled a truck stop patron in her coarse denim shirt and flattering jeans. The only leather she wore were her boots which still carried a strong, heady scent. Sybarta displayed a bit more of herself now as she stood in front of me, unbuttoning her shirt and exposing her bare breasts.  She leaned in close to me and I could smell her clean scent of roses and peppermint. She allowed her breasts to get close to my open, wanting mouth.  I longed to wrap my lips around her succulent nipples, knowing that I could provide her with pleasure and, perhaps, see her visibly shudder with excitement as I had witnessed in the past. She said not a word as she moved in closer, the nipple of her left breast just barely brushing my bottom lip.  Finally, she moved in close

enough for me to latch my mouth onto her nipple and suck.



When I first met Sybarta, I had barely done any "petting" in high school. I was always more than cautious when dealing with the female anatomy. I had never done anything more than kiss a girl's nipples. It was Sybarta who taught me, commanded me, to do more than kiss and lick. I sucked, I bit, and it often felt like I was practically chewing her nipples. The harder I sucked and nibbled, the more she liked it. At first, her moans scared me. I thought they came from pain, not pleasure. Sybarta was the one who first taught me how interchangeable these notions of sensation could be. She removed her left nipple from my mouth and replaced it with the right. Her hands gripped the

top of the chair; one of her fingers absently caressed my right ear. She leaned in to the left and sent shivers down my spine by telling me that I was being, "a good boy."  

 

She straddled my legs with hers, sitting down across from me, her weight on my legs. She stared at me with a look of self satisfaction on her face. An evil glimmer soon came into her eye as she told me, "I'm going to slap you. I just want to hear the noise." She caressed my left cheek with her palm before

pulling it back and striking a blow.  Somehow, knowing that it was coming, combined with the fact that I was taking the pain for Sybarta, helped keep the tears from my eyes, despite the stinging pain. She repeated the same thing on my right cheek and then gently kissed the red marks that came up.



Apparently, Sybarta was in the mood to cause some pain and I was going to try my best to take as much as she could dish out. She liked to push my limits, giving me more pain each time we were together. "It pleases me to hurt you," she would tell me as she watched the tears streaming from my eyes.



Bound as I was, I was powerless to do much more than whimper when she reached down and cruelly pinched my nipples. She looked deep into my eyes as the pain shot through me. She loved reading the fear that my eyes revealed. I was oddly quiet during these moments - while I wanted to scream, she didn't want to hear it. If I was too noisy she would gag me, lowering the chances that I might have something better put in my mouth.



I kept as still and quiet as I could as she placed the first of many clothespins on me that day. Pulling down a bag from a nearby shelf, she fished them out, one by one, and clamped clothespin after clothespin on my flesh. Initially she put them on my nipples and earlobes. Then she began decorating my hard cock with them. She started at the base, going around and around my cock, attaching more and more clothespins until my sex organ looked more like a porcupine than a penis.