Chapter One

 

~Kirsten~

I don't remember when these feelings began, or when thoughts of extreme sensations overpowered my image of sex. The idea of a dominant man owning my life seems to have been born in my early years, amplified in great detail during my disquieting adolescence, becoming a full-fledged need as the dawn of my adult life now looms before me. Ever since I can remember, this dominant master has claimed my most private thoughts, taking charge of my hours of masturbation with his unrelenting command. Though he remains a faceless master, I need only his voice at my ear to guide me, and I'm sent into a land of physical pleasure that delights every sense, teases my crotch and performs startling and vile acts inside my mind. When my inner fires burn hot, I'm plunged into servitude honoring this master's wishes; and taking my masturbations outside of my simple thoughts, I do his bidding-often before a mirror-exhibiting my base cravings before his invisible eyes, hoping my obedience pleases him. He constrains me to take each turn of desire to great pain. His verbiage tightens unseen tethers about my body, and yet sometimes, those bindings become real restraints. I tie myself with ropes through my crotch, about my neck, letting these cords criss-cross my breasts, creating odd handfuls of flesh that jut out obscenely from my chest. The bonds cut into me to the point that I can hardly move. Then I dance for him before my bedroom mirror, until the need for climax becomes so pronounced, I fall to my bed, rubbing myself to a finish.

I embarrass myself each time this happens, but the physical joy seems to ensure that I'll listen to that ever present voice again, and repeat my masochistic depravity until my body is satiated by this unwholesome release.

Have I thought about finding a real man to fulfill these pressing desires?

Not yet. I've been far too timid to seek anything in men other than something akin to the steamy romance novels that regularly land in the pile of books beside my reading chair. All these, of course, are far too bland with sex. Sometimes, I'll find a scene that tantalizes my imagination, making my body claw with sexual need, but then, it's always me, and my lecherous mind, taking the mere kernel of romance to exhilarating ends, as I breathe animated and shadowy designs into tedious book characters, making their hunger come alive in dark places-in brothels, dungeons, campy estates and forbidding mansions where the most spectacular acts of sexual depravity are commonplace. Sometimes, I feel as though the world inside my mind has gone awry when the chaos of my fantasies descend. I'm grateful to know that there is a sane world on the other side of my private life, where harrowing corporal punishment, bondage and sexual servitude are never spoken of in polite conversation.

I am a very average five feet five inches, my body small and compact. Two sensible round breasts protrude sensuously from my chest, with pink nipples that seem to remain slightly erect most hours of my day. I often wonder if there are some men's penises with this distinct, half-erect feature. And, if so, does this mean they are perpetually horny?

At twenty-one my body is a shapely feminine design so many men seem to enjoy. With a gentle flare to my hips, two slightly plump rear cheeks, a soft bush of kinky pale hair at my crotch, and plump labia hiding in that mass of curls, the center of my sexuality is obviously my crotch. Mostly at the command of my inner master, I've become more bold, shaving away locks of that pubic hair to reveal more of my sexual home to the naked eye.

I find it fascinating that my inner labia are so prominent, hanging from between those outer protrusions as though my body simply cannot contain its sexual impertinence. They seem to beg for something dangling there, some ornament or jewel. While my friends are getting a half-dozen piercings in their ears, doing tongues and eyebrows and belly buttons, I can only think of getting those thin folds of skin adorned with rings as a gift to my lover.

I consider my face plain-at the very least, normal. My looks seem uninspiring, though I'm often told my eyes are remarkably expressive with their curious gold/green hue. My lashes are long, slightly curled, and there's a faint blush on my cheeks. I usually wear my hair back in a ponytail, the natural curls are unruly and hard to manage. I often lighten the soft brown, turning it into a honey-colored halo when I let it float loose. But that is only when I'm feeling wild. I think the voice has some say in this. When I'm most demure and reserved-which seems to be ninety percent of my life-I keep these cursed curls tamed. But when my darker passions surface, my hair falls sexily to my shoulders, sometimes brushed into soft, buoyant waves; at other times, I leave it in its kinky natural state as though to suggest there's something savage in me. I like this look-but only when I'm not facing reality. It's good for going to bars and nightclubs and movie theaters in the evening-and for seducing men.

I have a lot of rules in my head telling me what I should be doing, or how I should dress. Often, the voice contradicts my plans-though not often enough. Most people figure I'm a prude-they have no idea what drives me, what thoughts lurk in my mind, and what truly gives me joy.

 

I know Holly thinks I'm an archaic version of the young and gentle virgin. No, I'm not a virgin-but neither of my two college lovers ever produced an orgasm in me that even approached the depths and heights of the ones I give myself through self-inflicted pain. So, maybe I am a virgin to my real needs. I'm sure Holly would think so. My senior year in the Ivy league, I'm taking a class in modern sexual practices. I knew this would be constant stimulation to my wanting body; and seeing that my prospects for a lasting relationship out of college are unlikely, with no boyfriend at all as I reach these final months, the arousal I get assures me some sexual pleasure-even if it is by my own hand. The class is a whim-urged on by my darker passions, perhaps the first attempt at gaining a lover who'll have a clue to what I so carefully guard inside my mind.

I met Holly the first day of class. She sits in the seat next to me, always in the back of the room; me, choosing that spot because I'm still nervous about the ticklish subject matter, she, because she's routinely late. Holly wears short skirts-usually black, high heel boots, and blousey sweaters or long sleeved tee-shirts when it's cold. Her darkened eyelids, burgundy lips and crazy white hair make her sometimes look deathly-certainly like the poster girl for a heavy metal rock band. Yet, she smiles sweetly, and has a boisterous laugh I love to hear. I wonder about the chain she wears around her neck every day without fail. I imagine it having some religious or sexual significance, but, of course, I'll never ask.

Holly turns to me on the third day of class. "Why the hell are you here?"

I shrug, uncertain how to answer. "Because I need the credits to graduate," I finally blurt out. "And I like the subject matter," I hasten to add, though I think the way I say that doesn't sound sincere. I hate my voice.

Though I'm self-conscious being in this classroom, not everyone here looks like they just stepped from an MTV video. There are plenty of more modest types like me, that you'd never think have secret sexual passions. Maybe, we all masturbate to the reckless voices in our heads, those that make us crazy for some "other" kind of sexual turn-on. We may talk about the deviant behavior and variations like they're oddities and flukes of nature, but I wonder if these peculiarities are more common than this professor thinks. I'm not sure why the man teaches this subject, the way he seems to treat the topics of S&M, bisexuality and other aberrations with such disdainful amusement. Maybe, he, too, is a closet submissive. He hardly looks dominant-in fact, I think he might be gay. Either that, or, being straight, willingly to drop to his knees at the command of a femme domme in leather to have his ass whipped. We talk about all this much too dryly in class; but then what do I expect-we'll all get turned on, and for the final, break out into one wild, pleasurable orgy as we physically enjoy the bizarre acts we've intellectually studied?