For those erotica lovers, Story of O, is one of the classics in that genre. It is the narrative of a woman, O, who is brought by her lover to a secret society’s chateau to learn the art of submission. She is later given to her lover’s elder stepbrother, Sir Stephen, a more severe master who sodomizes her and continues her training as a sexual slave. Finally, after she completes Sir Stephen’s biggest request, she learns her devoted love for him is unreciprocated. She is devastated, and although no official ending of the story was ever written, two alternative ones were suggested.
Even though my story is much less dramatic, I had a similar experience as O during the early months of the pandemic. I responded to a post from a bisexual man who wanted to hear about other men’s fantasies. He had just broken up with a woman after a lengthy relationship, had had a same-sex relationship several years earlier, and wanted to experience a bit more man-man sex while being single.
I began writing fantasy encounters with him using his own personal sexual interests, and he emailed me back, not only expressing how wonderfully he was getting off from them, but predicting that when the pandemic was over, we would know each other’s likes and dislikes and be able to satisfy each other more readily. His enthusiasm and his promise of a “meat-up” really spurred me on.
Then, to my surprise, several months later, when I was writing Chapter 6, he emailed me saying he had found another woman and didn’t really want a man-man relationship after all. His tossing me under the bus reminded me a bit about the denouement of the woman in Story of O, so I called my collection The Story of I.
Here is the last chapter in my novella. This finale, like all the previous chapters, was inspired by real-life experiences. Thank you for reading it. Also, because rating the story at the end is much appreciated, I am thanking you in advance for considering that, too.
I was back in the waiting room of Inks, a tattoo parlor just off Main Street. More accurately, I was lying across a couch with my feet propped up on the arm, trying to fight off the dizziness that portended a faint. I would have to go back in. I would have to be with them, although I wasn’t sure my presence really mattered.
My wife, Lily, was getting her first tattoo, at Stephen’s urging, and he was there with her, holding her hand for every stroke of the rotary tattoo machine.
I had been able to watch the initial preparation: the photographing of Stephen’s drawing on the iPad of the artist, Alex; his retouching of it; the printing of the stencil; and finally, its application to her thighs and belly above her groin.
When all of his materials were arrayed on a tray, Alex had begun. He dipped his machine into a little thimble of ink, made a short stroke to transfer white pigment to the skin above her pubic bone. That skin was sensitive, Alex had informed her, telling her to try to breathe, that the pain would give way after several minutes to an endorphin rush, and she could remain in that meditative state for the two hours it would take to complete the tattoo.
She was tough, but this was really testing her mettle. Whenever she started to painfully squeeze his hand, instead of encouraging her to breathe, Stephen would ask Alex to pause. He would then walk around to one of her out-stretched legs to induce a different kind of endorphin rush.
Both thighs were splayed slightly to expose her groin, her labia spilling out of a skimpy thong, the area around which was to be worked on. Stephen reasoned that in order for her to endure the next 10 or 15 minutes of creation and to make the memory of the entire experience a more pleasurable one, he would need to intermittently stroke her womanhood through her thong and bring her to a state of arousal. He would also laud the progress on each petting.
I could almost feel the searing, burning, cutting pain with each of Alex’s mark-making passes, as Lily tensed up with each stroke. But initially she complied and stayed relatively still lying on her back.
When the tattooing proceeded more laterally to her belly, though, Lily’s reactions showed that her resilience was fading. Whimpering, she began to beg Stephen to call it off. Alex rested his gloved hand on her upper belly, soothing her, and reminding her that she was really going to like the completed artwork, and having it only partly finished would detract from the beauty of such a lovely woman as she.
She rallied, but her continual tensing, and the blood that Alex kept wiping away, made me queasy. I felt as if I were about to pass out, hence I retreated to the waiting room.
I was perfectly able to handle such pain, I thought, because I had had a flogging by Stephen one night several months ago when we were getting to know each other. I also had thirty clothes pins attached to parts of my sensitive anatomy by three closeted bi-guys, then removed, all for Stephen’s amusement. Although I had screamed, I could say that I had borne almanbahis it well. But watching someone else endure this kind of repetitive pain got to me.
There, on my back, I scanned the walls of the waiting room, looking at the various designs of tattoos that this artist offered. Dragonflies, ladybugs, mythical creatures; realistic renderings, but abstract designs as well.
Lily was not getting one of those, but one that Stephen had designed for her. How it came about gave me pause, as I was due to have my own tattoo afterward, also one of Stephen’s designs.
How had this man, who I had met only a year earlier, insinuated himself into our lives so seamlessly, with such charm, and come to distort my relationship with Lily?
I could only surmise, but yet, I felt no anger toward him, no jealous retribution, no remorse for what had followed–only my trying ever more willingly to please him.
That all seemed weird. Totally bizarre. Unbelievable. Was it him or was it me? And was it him or was it Lily?
In the beginning it was like a game. Stephen and I initially met on a dating site. After some brief exchanges online, we started getting together. When that happened, we would have a great time out, but when I entered his house, we agreed to assume roles of him as the master and me, the servant. Or him the dominant, and me, the submissive.
I loved the power I had over him–my mere presence elicited an enormous erection in him. My dressing for him, too, had a maddening effect. My willingness to accept others into the role-playing gave him ample opportunities to plan and carry out novel sexual experiences for which he would indulge fully and also reward me with pleasures in all the ways I could imagine, and even those I hadn’t.
And although we pretended that my ass was only his, what that really meant was that it was his to decide how it would be used, and he was always there to make sure it–or I–was not harmed. But lately, those commitments were being stretched a little too thinly for me.
When the blood began returning to my brain, memories began flowing into my mind. Like how insidiously the role-playing expanded from inside his house to outside and from his world into mine.
Again that willingness to please drove me to introduce him to my partner–we called each other husband and wife although technically we weren’t married–and Stephen’s charm worked its wonderment on her.
“Martha, we need you,” bellowed Stephen, using the woman’s name he had given me, reminding me that to him, even as a man, I had an ass-pussy.
I re-entered to find Lily torqued and clutching at Stephen, sobbing, “I can’t go on.”
Alex, trying to stay composed, explained to them that he was 95% there and needed just 15 more minutes. Lily couldn’t spare 15 more seconds.
“You got to perform cunnilingual anesthesia, Martha. Otherwise our completed collaboration will never be realized.”
I walked around obediently to the end of the table to Lily’s feet, and there I saw it. The most beautifully grotesque tattoo one could ever imagine. On each of Lily’s thighs was a cuffed wrist elongating over her groin crease into a hand, Stephen’s hand, with gently spreading fingers. Each hand was tattooed in black onto her abdomen. Stretching between them, and looping around all ten fingers were white strings, like with the game of cat’s cradle.
Whatever power Stephen had over Lily was on dramatic display here. How would she ever wear a bathing suit I wondered or even appear with women friends in a sauna?
Either she was bolder than I imagined or she didn’t think of consequences like that. Or, she was so seduced by Stephen, that she would do anything for him.
And then it struck me: I was, too. My turn to get a tattoo was coming, after Lily was finished. But its design Stephen wouldn’t reveal. He had obviously shown Alex, but I would only see it as I was in the chair, probably naked from the waist down, so there would be no running away.
This attraction and aversion had been the nature of our relationship since its inception. Somehow, after my initial resistance, I always seemed able to comply with Stephen’s twisted wishes or unpredictable requests. Even after he took advantage of me, like making a vague promise of something never realized, I would do it again and again. I would drive an hour for a supposed “special day” and then find out all he wanted me to do was to get him hard, then to come in my mouth or come on my face or come on his own belly and have me lick it all up.
I was always kept guessing, kept off balance, yet I kept wanting to please him, so each time he beckoned, I made the long drive to his house, not knowing if my visit was for his unreciprocated pleasure. But I did find that even though I left his house hard and unrelieved, I could always get gratification at night in my own bed, my head filled with fantasies of what could have happened and what might one day indeed happen with Stephen.
But that too had changed. I had almanbahis giriş introduced Stephen to Lily a couple months ago, and they found out how neatly matched they were in body habitus, culinary interests, and in sexual play.
I was part of a trio at the outset, still being able to satisfy Lily better than Stephen could, but it didn’t take him long to figure out what really turned her on, and then he was able to find things that could even outdo what I was already doing.
He was really good, and far from being jealous, I was full of admiration. Seeing my Lily turned on to the point she was, well, not only was it making her happy, but it was getting me uber-aroused too. But as time went on, it became more of a duet with me sitting by watching, stroking myself, and maybe getting sloppy seconds after Stephen had finished fucking her.
But then again, Stephen would sometimes give me first dibs, letting me wet him up then wet her up, to make it so that he didn’t have to work so hard but could just slip in and pump away.
Today, we were omitting part one of that pair of activities, and I was to go directly to Lily’s groin, to hopefully wet her to sedation, to provide that lingual stimulation that would anesthetize the pain that she had been enduring. With her in such a transcendent state, the artist could continue his last quarter-hour of work, and, then, after a short break, do my tattoo.
I started to move my wife’s soggy thong gently to the side but it hurt her too much. Because she was in protest mode, refusing to move, I couldn’t take it off. I was given scissors to cut through the crotch.
I clambered up onto the table and crawled between her splayed legs up to her groin.
Despite the almost two hours of pain which she had already endured, Lily was still very receptive to my tongue, lips, copious spit, and all the wonderful things that I learned how to do with my mouth.
I gently blew cool air onto her vulva, then my hot tongue passed up and then down with multiple strokes in both directions to adequately moisten and wet her shaved lips. She began to sigh, and gently mouth the words, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
I blew some more cool air on her, before I returned with my hot tongue slowly circling her clitoris but never touching it, getting her to beg for that touch, by moving her groin in my direction. But I didn’t yield.
Once again, I blew cool air over her now wetter nether lips which made it even cooler to her. I was substituting different sensations for the tattooing pain she was feeling and it was helping her to dissociate from one experience to another.
I began again with my tongue and this time lightly circled her clitoris and gently bent it upward, sending her into a shriek of delight, before closing my lips upon it and began my alternating bubble-blowing then straw-sucking.
Soon she was gasping, tensing her legs, and readying for an explosion of what I knew would be vaginal fluid pouring out of her and most likely all over the table and onto the floor.
It came with a tremendous roar, followed by another one, and another one until minutes later she was spent and her thighs relaxed.
Her whole body melted into a puddle on the tattoo table and she uttered the words, “Fucking finish it.”
Stephen gave me the sign with his hand to back away, which I was about to do anyway, and Alex, shocked at never having seen anything like this before, but yet relieved to be able to go back to work, hurriedly waded through the womanly come, moved his tray of tools over, wiped down the area with some alcohol, and began his coda.
I watched until it was over and then went out into the waiting room to wait my turn.
I reflected on Alex’s introduction to Lily. From its practice in the ancestral cultures, the art of tattooing had advanced in our more modern times. To some, who carry the old ways even to the present day, like the Māori people of New Zealand, the practice had special significance. Their tattoo, called a Ta Moko, represented an individual’s ancestry and personal history. It was often done on the face, as the head was the most sacred part of the body.
The Māori practice had significant social and spiritual significance, I thought, contrasted with the drunken decision which some western men and women found themselves in, waking up with a tattoo that they didn’t recall ever getting. Or having it done impetuously at a home tattoo party.
Alex told us that some thirty percent of younger Americans have some body ink. Most of those receiving a tattoo were not at one or the other of those extremes, as they chose their own design because it had some special significance to them. But for each of us, Stephen was choosing the tattoo because of the significance it had for him!
The door to the tattoo parlor opened and Stephen ushered Lily through the waiting area, she limping and whimpering, and he supportively uttering superlatives, praising her heroic endurance, her stamina, her inner strength.
He almanbahis yeni giriş glanced over to me, quietly voicing his intentions.
“I’m taking her home, getting her settled, then coming back. Should be only half an hour. Alex will come and get you in a couple minutes and start the prep. I’ll be back before he starts. You’re gonna like what I have designed for you, Martha.”
Then he returned his attention to Lily, opened the front door for her, and they were gone.
Not knowing what Stephen had in store for me, and being at the mercy of his unpredictable creativity without voice in the choice seemed unfair. It was different than a transient sexual act. It was my body that would forever wear his art.
And yet, weirdly, this need for his attention, his respect, his love kept making its case.
But was it love? Or the love of his gigunda cock up my ass. Or was it him throwing me to the mercy of his friends, then swooping in to rescue me which gave me assurance that his love would always be there. Even now, with the bulk of his bulky cock’s attention being given to my wife, I kept alive the hope that one day, he would be back at my back door. Because how I loved his knocking.
It was in this reverie that I lingered for I didn’t know how long, little intruding doubts being shown out the door, as I returned to some of my finer moments with Stephen.
I alighted on my favorite one, which occurred just after he had made love for the first time to Lily. He had invited me to his place again, informing me that he wanted to thank me in a way for “giving your wife to me.”
His gift, he announced upon my arrival, was a seven-chakra massage by a master masseur, versed in Tantra along with other eastern practices.
I remembered the opening scene: I had to don a red-print sari after showering in Stephen’s guest bathroom. I was asked to take my time and get everything clean. When I emerged, my masseur was already setting up his massage table, wearing a violet sari around his waist, and Stephen, standing by, had wrapped himself in a shiny silvery one.
Stephen did the introductions. Neehar was his name, a man whose grandparents were Indian, so he was second generation American. He motioned me to the table, asked me to remove my wrap, and to lie naked face down on a towel on the table.
He nodded to Stephen to begin the music, an unrecognizable South Indian raga with what sounded like a bamboo flute and Indian slide guitar. Then he motioned for the incense stick to be lit and the shades to be drawn to subdue the sunlight.
Neehar said very little, maybe to keep distracting conversations from disturbing the sacred atmosphere he was creating. He rubbed, between his hands, a dollop of oil with an aroma I could not identify, but which smelled exotic. Then he gently laid them on my back, resting them there for several seconds, maybe even minutes, before slowly moving his fingers down my spine to my tailbone.
First in small circles, then in ever expanding ones he massaged my coccyx, buttocks, and outer thighs. Gradually he migrated the touch to my mid back, my neck, and then my scalp, concentrating on the occiput, or crown. With hands more oiled, he repeated the motion, but detoured first to spend time with my shoulders, arms, wrists, and hands.
When he was back on course again and moving down the spine, he slid slippery fingers in between my butt cheeks, before going all the way down my inner thighs to my toes and then returning back on the outside. Taking his time, he had me soft as putty, my grunts and sighs guiding him as to where to concentrate his pressured touch. He then asked me to turn over on the towel to lie face up.
Neehar spent several more minutes with the changing tempo of the music, moving over all four of my limbs before nodding to Stephen to approach the table. In what must have been a choreographed act, Stephen unwrapped his sari. To me, the show up to this point had been asexual, but Stephen’s erection revealed otherwise.
Neehar, formerly a man of few words, uttered to us both that we would begin the seven-chakra massage, beginning with the first, ascending to the seventh, then descending again to the first. That would be necessary to contain and to cycle the energy properly.
Stephen was to initially stand at the foot as Neehar, at my side, applied the oil liberally to his hands. With another nod to Stephen, my knees were bent up, my feet planted with space between them, before the foot of the massage table was folded down. Stephen moved opposite to Neehar to rest his hands on my knees and then separate them.
“The First Chakra,” was all he said. Then his hand reached between my buttocks and he began to slide one finger inside my anus, pressing on what must have been my prostate.
“We have to excite the Kundalini energy,” he explained.
It was working, if my filling phallus was any indication.
With his opposite–and clean–hand, he gently took hold of my cock, announcing, “The Second Chakra,” and just as gently extracted his finger from my anus. He spent several luscious minutes rubbing his oiled fingers up and down the underside of my shaft, which was driving me wild. Neehar could no doubt tell, as he declared, “We are getting the Kundalini energy moving upward.”