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He was all she could have hoped for: an extremely experienced, romantically sadistic, cruelly imaginative dominant male-who made her fall to her knees. Handsome in a rugged way with long straight hair and green eyes, he could pin her to the wall with just one look. More than anything, his swift brutality for her infractions brought to mind the ultimate master of uninhibited depravity, the Marquis de Sade. . . . This is the ...
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He was all she could have hoped for: an extremely experienced, romantically sadistic, cruelly imaginative dominant male-who made her fall to her knees. Handsome in a rugged way with long straight hair and green eyes, he could pin her to the wall with just one look. More than anything, his swift brutality for her infractions brought to mind the ultimate master of uninhibited depravity, the Marquis de Sade. . . . This is the true story of Claudia Varrin.
* * *
As with most personal searches, my search for a master began near to home, in New York City, where I lived at that time. How could I know when I began my search to explore my submissive desires that none of the local masters would prove to be suitable? Time after time, upon meeting them, there was no spark, nothing that made me want to submit to them. Their desires and mine were ill matched.
Then one weekend I met Oliver, from Germany, currently living in the UK. Oliver was attending a big BDSM weekend in New York, an event I was also attending with my friend, Walt. Oliver was young and handsome in a blond-haired, blue-eyed Germanic way and he certainly exuded raw erotic power. Being German, one knew he would be precise, an excellent master and trainer. His power shocked me into a shy silence. Physically he was not one of my "types," but I was fascinated by him all the same. There wasn't anyone like him in my neck of the woods.
Since Oliver was German and had traveled from the UK just to attend this event, everyone was doing their very best to speak with him. Naturally, they were very flattered that he had come so far to attend their anniversary celebration. Being a Germanmaster added to his allure, and in no time at all, Oliver had acquired an entourage. Walt was somewhat jealous at all the attention Oliver was getting. As another dominant male, Walt felt Oliver to be competition and he couldn't have been more correct. Walt didn't understand what "the attraction was about that guy" and made his opinion clear to all who cared to listen. I felt the pull of Oliver's attraction, but because I was there with Walt, I didn't want to offend him by running off and joining Oliver's ever-growing following. So I stood there, struck with awe, as Oliver walked by me, his court trailing behind him. The moment had passed but I knew there would be another opportunity. There were parties all weekend and I was sure to meet Oliver at one of them.
The next night there was a private party held in one of New York's most elaborate and exclusive houses of domination. Walt asked me to attend it with him and confirmed that Oliver would be there, reiterating that he didn't know what that attraction was about "that guy." Walt sounded a little peevish to me, so I chose to go alone and try to meet Oliver without the encumbrance of Walt. It would be a chance to strike up a conversation with Oliver and perhaps give him my phone number. I can't, for the life of me, remember what I wore that night, which is very odd indeed. Reflecting on how important this was to me then, and being the vain clothes horse that I unabashedly am, I think I should have remembered my outfit. I do recall that I had put tiny braids in my hair when it was wet, let it dry, then brushed the braids out. This was as close to curled as my impossibly straight hair would allow, and everyone liked it. The braids gave me a headache but it felt sooo good to take them out and brush my hair. Did I mention that I was something of a masochist?
I did get to speak with Oliver privately that night and he did accept my phone number, something a gentleman/master was under no obligation to do. We met at my apartment one afternoon in late June. We sunbathed on the roof, what all New Yorkers called "tar beach," then had lunch at a local Mexican restaurant. After lunch, we returned to my apartment and Oliver tested my responsiveness to him by pinching my nipples between his fingers, very slowly at first then building up more and more pressure. My response pleased him and he decided that we would conduct a master/slave phone and postal relationship before I visited him in England. He was a guest of Wetherole, the local lord in Susingham, and I would be staying in Wetherole's Manor with the two of them. Oliver gave me an assignment that I was to perform each day for seven minutes: I was to get on my knees, spread them wide, and place my head and shoulders on the floor, with my hips held high. Then I was to reach back and spread my cheeks and expose my anus so that my hole was open. As I held this position, I was to think of him and of being his slave. I faithfully did this every day and it had the intended effect on me. I thought more and more about being submissive to him.
This also inspired me to buy a little silver box. One night, I trimmed my pubic hairs onto a sheet of waxed paper and carefully placed them in the box. I would present this gift to Oliver at the appropriate time.
I spent many months of long-distance phone calls at odd hours of the day and night talking with Oliver, and many hours at the word processor writing stories of a master and his slave. I had a friend over to take Polaroids of me in every outfit I owned, and some in no outfit at all, and sent them to Oliver along with stories and other things I thought he might enjoy. All of this helped pass the time, as did performing my ritual, working at my day job, and doing domina sessions at night and on the weekends. Oh, yes, and having fantasies, lots and lots of fantasies.
Finally the departure date arrived. I was so nervous I almost canceled the trip, but everything was packed and Oliver was awaiting my arrival, so I gathered up my courage and left for the airport. I took the last overnight flight from New York to Heathrow so Oliver wouldn't have to get up too early to meet me. I thought that was the considerate thing to do and I wanted to impress Oliver with my thoughtfulness. Though the flight was unfortunately and unexpectedly crowded, at least there were no babies screaming their way across the Atlantic and I was able to get some sleep. I awoke in plenty of time to monopolize a bathroom and change into the fresh clothes I had in my carry-on bag, put on makeup, and freshen up in general. I didn't want to greet Oliver looking bedraggled and travel weary. I wasn't looking for a mate; I was looking for a master-The One-and my preparations were made with that one thought in mind. Could it be Oliver, awaiting me at the gate?
After the chaos of deplaning, I anxiously scanned the waiting faces for Oliver and found him accompanied by the lord of the manor, Wetherole. Wetherole's nickname was Toby, and he loved having guests in his home. Toby and I had spoken many times in the long months between my agreement with Oliver and my arrival in London. First I greeted Oliver with the traditional European kiss on each cheek, then I turned to Toby, did the same, and graciously thanked him for making the trip and having me as his guest. Oliver took charge of my baggage and pushed the cart up the ramp while Toby and I walked behind him. Oliver's butt looked great in his jet-black jeans and I smiled to myself. Toby was intent on watching Oliver's butt, too, and when Toby and I caught each other's eye, we smiled conspiratorially. Then Toby whispered to me that he was Oliver's collared slave and served no other. Surprised but not shocked, I told Toby that he was a lucky man. Up until that moment, I had no idea that Toby or Oliver were bisexual. I was more than a bit thrilled that Oliver liked men as well as women. Truthfully, it really turned me on.
During the ride to the Manor, I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. I love waking up under foreign skies but the immediate countryside around Heathrow looked very much like New Jersey! As we drove farther south the scenery began to look more like the "England" I expected. By the time we reached the little hamlet of Susingham, it was as picturesque as I could have hoped for. The hedged one lane road that led to the Manor was also a barrier for the livestock of which Toby, as the local lord, owned a large share.
A charming sprawl of old buildings, the Manor was set well back from the road. To the left were stables and the carriage house, which had two apartments upstairs for the caretaker and the gardener. The lower carriage house sheltered Toby's collection of exotic cars. Straight ahead was the Manor with its two entrances: one for the family of privilege and the other, leading into the kitchen side of the house, was for the now-gone servants. We used the servants' entrance although we all slept in the "family" side of the second floor. Behind the Manor was a pond, a lovely garden, and a small maze. I had never been in a "lord's" house before and I was fascinated.
This was all very nice, but what interested me most was the air raid shelter that Oliver had spent considerable time outfitting as a dungeon. The thought of a party in this private dungeon with such skilled, experienced players thrilled me. It was one of the reasons I had suppressed my initial nervousness, gathered up my courage, and undertaken this journey. I had never played as a slave before, although as a female dominant, I certainly knew how to turn that around and play the role of slave-girl. As I entered the Manor, I turned back for another look at the air raid shelter-turned dungeon and wondered what mysteries about myself I would unravel within its timeless black walls. It was like being at Roissy, the famed slave-training chateau from The Story of O. Seeing my wide-eyed attention, both Oliver and Toby laughed. Oliver said I wouldn't have to wait long for my first experience because he had planned a private dungeon party there after a trip to a BDSM club the following night. A frisson ran up my spine as I stepped over the threshold and into the house.
Each carrying a piece of luggage, we clambered up the stairs to the second floor and the family bedroom wing. Oliver and Toby led me to a small but charming room with a working fireplace, armoire, desk, and a twin bed piled high with soft blankets and pillows. My room overlooked the front of the house and the tree-lined path to the air raid shelter with its roof covered in grass from years ago to keep it undetectable from the air during bombings. The other bedrooms were much larger, more elegantly appointed than mine, and overlooked the garden, pond, or maze. But I felt that my room was the best in the house because it adjoined Oliver's room. I thought it was fitting that the slave slept in the smaller room connected to the master's spacious one, ready and waiting for his call, and the connecting door could only be locked from the master's side. To sleep in a genuine British manor from long ago and serve a handsome skilled master was all that a hopeful romantic like myself could ask for.
Once I had settled into my room, Oliver invited me to take a nap with him in his room. How wonderful to take a nap with the master in his queen-size bed all a-tumble with lots of pillows and piles of downy-white comforters! I was so tired from traveling and from adjusting to the new environment that I thought I would drop off right away. But my nervous excitement got the better of me, and Oliver's presence, his warm and strong body against mine, was more of a distraction than a comfort. Finally I settled down and slept. Our nap lasted right up until Toby called us for dinner. I woke up first then gently awoke Oliver. Together we scrambled to the staircase on wobbly legs like puppies hearing their bowls being filled.
Downstairs, the huge kitchen table in the servants' side of the house was beautifully set for three. Toby had made one of his specialties and Oliver's favorite dish, Chicken Lebanese, which was excellent. Toby had unknowingly prepared one of my favorites, too, Potatoes Lyonnaise, so I complimented him lavishly on his cooking. I started to chatter about the house and ask about its history, especially if there were any ghosts in residence. Toby smilingly obliged me, but I was a little disappointed when he said there were no ghosts that he knew of. After dinner, Oliver and I had a relaxing cigarette while the water boiled for tea. This gave me the opportunity to look around the kitchen.
The floor was set with foot-square gray slate, cold and slightly uneven, and quite old, but in keeping with the rustic decor one would expect in a servant's kitchen. The nicked and distressed wooden dining table was very large and wide and could seat twelve comfortably. The walls were hung with many wooden cabinets, some with glass doors, containing all of the usual kitchenware. One long countertop held an impressive collection of silver tea services, including serving trays, tea pots of various sizes, lidded bowls filled with white and brown lumps of sugar, creamers, tiny sugar spoons, and cups and saucers. A large wooden hutch displayed Toby's collection of china. Although there were modern double sinks under a large window and a microwave oven, the stove was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was enormous and used wood and coal to heat the top burners but used gas for the oven and the "grill," which is what we would call the broiler.
There seemed to be only one house rule and Toby carefully explained to me what they called the "door policy." If the door to the person's room was open, you could just walk in. If the door was ajar, you would knock, announce yourself, and then enter. But if the door was completely closed, you would knock, wait to be invited in, or have the door opened for you. I thought that this was so sensible as well as polite and such a wonderful way of preserving privacy that I adopted Toby's door policy as my own. How else does one get along when living with several people?
After tea, Oliver and Toby drifted away from the kitchen, each up to his own room to relax. I stayed in the kitchen with the remains of dinner. I cleared the table and washed the dishes, happy to be there yet happy to have a little privacy to absorb this new adventure. When I finished in the kitchen, I went up to my own little slave's room with the intention of taking a nice shower and getting into clean clothes. It was quite chilly in my room and I wished I had asked Toby to show me how to make a coal fire. And little did I know that a "shower" was not very British and nothing like a shower in the states, though I was soon to find that out.
The bathroom was next to my room and it was all the bathroom any female could want. It was a dream room, a real room, not the usual undersized five-by-seven box common in so many big-city apartments. The room was spacious enough to accommodate not only the expected sink, toilet bowl, and bathtub, but also an antique vanity with chair, a chest of drawers containing bubble bath, shampoo, bars of soap and the like, and a cedar chest used for storing towels. There was a large window framed in lace curtains, and on the opposite wall was a lovely working fireplace. Best yet, there was still plenty of room to stretch out full length like a cat on the Aubusson rug in front of the fire! I felt like I had stepped back in time and landed in the nineteenth century. I couldn't have been more delighted.
I decided to take a "bird bath," which was to sit in a tub filled with a few inches of water and bubble bath and use the handheld shower head to slough the soap off my body and rinse the shampoo and conditioner out of my hair. Afterward I discovered that a full bath would have warmed me up considerably, and from then on I did just that. Stepping out of the shower curtain-enclosed bathtub into the freezing cold room was quite a shock to my system, and I hurriedly dried my hair, dressed in a sheer floor-length black jacquard robe, and put on light makeup. Exiting the bathroom, I was happy to see Oliver's door wide open. I went into his room, and as I crossed the floor, I could feel his eyes on me, looking me up and down, taking me in. Although my eyes were downcast, I used the old trick all submissives know: how to peek at the dominant through your eyelashes. Oliver was wearing only a pair of dark purple briefs. I knelt next to his bed, head down, hands behind my back, and waited to be acknowledged.
Excerpted from Female Submission: The Journals of Madelaine by Claudia Varrin Copyright © 2006 by Claudia Varrin. Excerpted by permission.
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