The Razor's Edge

THE RAZOR’S EDGE
By John Pease
(Honcho.May.1981)

The psychology of S&M always amazes me. Here is a 30 year old man, college educated, employable, capable . . . and my slave.

Of course there's nothing rational about it. It is the twentieth century and emancipation took place long, long ago. There's nothing in the society that encourages it in the least. I have not brought about this situation by means of force or extortion. But irrational or not, It's the reality he lives with.

I, of course, love every minute of it. It amuses me, excites me, empowers me. He could, I suppose, end the whole thing whenever he wanted to. He could stand up and walk away. But his own needs are so strong, so great, that I'm sure he never will. That situation is something I play with all the time.

Like many other slaves he is constantly trying to define how his slavery should be constructed. I let him have all the things he wants — or at least many of them — but I make sure that I am the one who calls the most important shots.

There are things like his whippings.

He adores them when they're accompanied by Gregorian Chants on the stereo and flickering candles and me dressed in full leather.

Now, that's all okay. I do that. Its sensual. But I do that as a reward. For it to mean anything there have to be the times when the whip is punishment. When it's meant to correct inappropriate behavior. There has to be the constant thought in his mind that I could just grab a handful of his hair and drag him screaming and pleading over to the stocks and slap him in to their wooden trap. Instead of all the sensual foreplay he finds so exciting, I leave his clothes on, just ripping off enough of his shirt and pulling down his pants to make sure the leather can get to his ass and back.

That's when the whipping's for real. Then there's bondage. He likes it a lot — almost too much. He would be in seventh heaven if I kept his body tied up all the time. Who knows what he thinks about all that time he spends wrapped in ace bandages or bound into a foetal position in the corner? All I do know is that he keeps his hard on the entire time.

But the bondage can be an excuse. He can make believe that he's struggling against the restraints and maintaining some kind of freedom. Or he can imagine himself capturing and performing for me against his will. I need to constantly remind him that his will is mine.

That's why there are times when I whip his back without tying him up at all. I force him onto his hands and knees and make him take the full force of my belt. Or. I let his hands stay free and put on a heavy set of tit clamps and watch as his arms involuntarily move to free him from the pain. But a quick slap in the face will end that idea.

There are plenty of times when he likes to role play his slavery. He gets all hot and bothered about walking around a leather bar stripped to the waist with a collar around his neck. The theatrics are entertaining, but the means I have to underscore his slavery are much more meaningful.

They work best when they are random, unexpected. Those are the times when he comes back from work and is running around the apartment whistling and having a pleasant evening at home. That's one of the moments when he needs a reminder. The simple command, "Strip" usually brings on the desired result. That certain look comes across his face as he stands there in front of me and removes his clothing, finally falling to his knees, naked. That certain look is a combination of resignation, anger, hatred, love, sex. All of it flashes across him in one split second.

But he always does it.

There are so many ways to remind him of his slavery. One is to have him prepare a fabulous dinner — a roast, fresh vegetables, the whole trip. And then, when it's on the table, give him that order to strip and put his collar on. He gets really angry then. Because he knows I'm going to fix him a special dinner all for himself. He'll get to slurp down cold cereal wetted with a load of my piss out of a dog dish on the floor while I dine in my elegance.

Or, taking him to a bar and only letting him drink piss out of my beer can. Or walking downtown with him and suddenly forcing him into the dirty bookstore where I make him suck off four or five men and then calmly walk out, never mentioning the incident. Or going up to him while he's reading a book and yoking his neck with a newly soaked jockstrap that he'd never dare take off on his own.

I especially like the constant dread he has of dinner guests. I never let him know who's coming over for that reason. We go through a pleasant meal and conversation and then, at some point, I might do something like say "Take good care of him." and leave him in the hands of a friend he'll suddenly discover is an accomplished sadist. Or, I might casually offer the guest a blow job for dessert. Or, just tell him to get on his hands and knees under the table and polish the guy's boots. He never, ever knows what I'm going to pull when someone comes over.

Those are all the amusements. They're games I play to keep him in his place. Other things, like taking away his name and rechristening him "Twerp" are more profound. He understands all that and he accepts all that. And still other things are kept for those profound times when the reality of his slavery needs to be reinforced.

That just happened recently. He was getting cocky. I could sense by the way he was talking that he was getting into that dangerous mode where he thought of us more as lovers than as Master and slave. Those times have to be squelched at once — firmly. I thought about it and came up with a way to handle it. I made the preparations and was waiting for him to come home that night.

His newly discovered independence manifested itself recently by his slipping into doing things and going places. He wasn't asking permission, which probably would have been granted but which also would have made clear what he was. He was making announcements. As I sat and waited and realized that this night was a particular offense of that dynamic. I was able to work up the necessary steam and anger to get into the appropriate mood.

He sauntered in and smiled. He can be very seductive and I have to watch out for that look of his that could erode my mastery. "Strip" was the only response he got. The clothes came off and soon his naked body was kneeling in front of me. I love that muscular little frame. It's covered with a thick coat of wiry hair. I hate shaving his body though I've had to on occasion just to make sure he had a long term reminder of his station in life. I'd rather keep him furry like he is; but sometimes discipline has to be enforced.

I grabbed his hair and forced his mouth down on my boot. The tongue went out and did its usual good job of licking the rough surface. That, of course, was too easy to be meaningful. It's also the kind of theatrical S&M he enjoys too much to let me get carried away with it.

I grabbed the hair again and pulled his face up till he was once again in a kneeling position. A firm, forceful slap across his cheeks sent a rush of color across his skin. There was more fear than anything else in his expression now. That's the sign that I'm in earnest. No playtime tonight, he knew we were going to be serious.

I dragged him into the bedroom. The slap's fear restrained him from any attempt at resistance. I threw him down on the bed. He stared as I stripped off my own clothes. No restraints tonight, just force. I crashed my body down on top of his and shoved my cock, erect with excitement, up in between the mounds of his ass. A glob of Vaseline and I pushed into his asshole. My cock delights in that tight ass of his. Its pumping motions are almost involuntary once it feels itself engulfed with his hot insides.

He loves getting fucked by me. I just let the lucking go on and let him lose track of that fear that should have been ruling him. One of the other ways I had known that he had gone too far down his route of self-determination was the way he had been acting when I was fucking him. He had forgotten the rules and was too much into the pleasure of his own experience and neglecting his duties.

Whenever I'm fucking him he's supposed to be taking care of my pleasure. My tits are a center of my sexuality. I like having them licked, sucked and played with while I'm fucking him. The rule is that that should be constant and automatic. But recently he had gotten into jerking himself off and forgetting what he was supposed to be doing. Oh, he'd come back when I'd motion his head or hands or if I said something but that shouldn't have been necessary. And he shouldn't have been jerking off without express permission anyway. I had gotten too slack and he had taken advantage of it.

I saw him do precisely that — start jerking himself off and forgetting to suck on my tits. I whispered in his ear. That's another sign of real anger — the whisper instead of the theatrical scream. "You need a lesson." He froze. The slap and the fucking were symbols, but "a lesson" is the ultimate symbol in our language. That means I'm taking him very far, that he's losing sight of his place in the world.

"Please, no," he was desperate. I enjoyed watching the expression on his face. There's a kind of naked fear that flashes over him sometimes. This was one of them.

I kept up the methodical fucking of his ass. I nodded my head — yes. "What'd I do?" he asked with a forlorn look.

"You're forgetting again."

"I never forget," he was pleading now.

"My tits."

He sucked in one of the nipples with a quick lightning motion and a hand went to the other. I maneuvered our bodies so I was flat on my back and he was sitting on my cock, bending over to keep up the work on my chest.

"We could just stop it, you know. You could move out." The strangled words were trying to say no. "I don't think you're into it anymore." His head bobbed up and down and his tongue began a new wave of work on my nipple. "I don't think you even like getting fucked by me anymore." That was a lie, but it brought about a fiercely determined pumping from his hips as he fucked himself on my hard cock trying to prove his delight in having it stuck up his ass.

"Are you sure you're still into it?" The head bobbed some more, more strangled sounds came from the mouth that knew better than to leave my tits unattended. "I'm not sure I believe you." The head moved frantically again.

"We're going to have to prove it. What should I do?" Silence.

My hand went over to the night side table. I pulled out my tools. I laid them on the bed. "I think this is serious. I think we have to do something meaningful to let you have a way to show me what you are."

He couldn't see what was there. His first hint was the smell of alcohol when I took off the cap of the plastic bottle. "Oh. God," he moaned, his first understandable word in an hour. I almost gently took his head off my tit and he appropriately replaced it with his free hand. "Oh, God," came louder when he looked down at the long surgical steel pins that were piled beside us on the bed. He looked in my eyes and actual tears rolled down his cheek. "Please, Lord, please don't. I'll do anything, Lord — anything. I'll be as good as you want me to be."

I dabbed a cotton ball with the alcohol and wiped off one of his nipples. The tears were accompanied by a sob now. "Do you think it should be your tits?" I lifted up one of the needles.

They had been hard to find. They were about four inches long, made of the best steel that glistened in the reflected light. He couldn't keep his eyes off it while it stood in the air. Nor could he remove them when the sharp, silvery tip came down and pricked his skin without breaking its surface.

This is one of the times when his slavery is so astounding. Here he sat on my cock. getting fucked and fearing this surgical tool but not daring to make a single move to avoid it.

I put the pin down and refreshed the cotton with more of the strong smelling alcohol. This time I dabbed the head of his prick. "Please." the urgent request had a new flood of tears for a companion. I took the needle back and slid it carefully between our bodies until I could use it to lift his cock up on the shaft.

"I've been meaning to get this pierced anyway. Maybe this is a good time." His hands weren't moving faster on my tits now, nor was he pumping faster on my cock. He knew I liked to have both things done slowly and sensually. He was certainly on best behavior now as he felt the steel playing with his dick. He knew I could do it. His only question was would I do it. He was trying everything he knew to keep me from punching that long needle in.

I played a game. I kept running the tip of the needle over his body. I would stop only momentarily on his cock, his balls and his tits. Every once in a while I'd put more alcohol on him. It was as important to have the smell add its own stimulation as anything else. Once when the needle was pressing up on one of his tits it did break the skin. The sight of the droplets of red blood, so much redder in reality than we think, was a nice touch to the whole scene. I lifted myself up and licked it off his chest.

His tears and the jerking of his chest as he cried or fought back sobs made a beautiful picture. He whispered one last plea. "I'll do anything."

"I want you to prove you're my slave." I stared him squarely in the eyes again.

"Anything."

The needle went over to the other tit and threatened to break the skin again. "What do you think you should do?"

He thought while watching the sharpness of the steel as it made a depression in the muscle of his chest. "I'll sleep at the foot of the bed from now on. I'll only eat out of the dog dish unless you invite me to the table. I won't use the furniture. I'll drink every drop of piss you have. I'll lick your asshole whenever you take a shit, I'll be your toilet paper. I'll do everything around the house. All of it, wear your collar 24 hours a day. I'll do anything you say. Please!" At that moment the threatening needle broke through and produced still another drop of blood.

I'm sure it's my love of torturing him that keeps him in slavery. He has seen me enjoy so much of his pain that he must be delirious thinking about what else I could do to him. And the sight of my licking still more of his blood must have proven the point to him.

I used the alcohol to clean the slight wounds and wiped the whole area. With more determination than before I took the needle in one hand and used the other to grab a lump of his flesh. I positioned the tool and he must have been convinced that I was really ready now.

"Lord!" He was nearly screaming, "Shave me instead. Please shave me instead." Now, since he hates that so very much I must have been nearing my goal. I looked at him.

"Are you sure."

His pursed lips and the look on his face nearly contradicted his reply, "Yes. I'm sure. Please shave me instead. It'll prove I'm your slave. Please do that. Please, Lord, please don't use the needle on me."

It was the indication I needed. It was my evidence that I had broken down his independence and his view of himself as separate from me. I put down the needles and gathered them and the alcohol up in my hand and replaced it on the table.

My cock, of course, was stiff with the extreme excitement of his submission. It had never left that hot home of his ass.

There was real gratitude as his mouth came down over my tit again and washed it with his tongue. I rolled him over on his side; he never let his hands or mouth free from their duties. On our sides I had a clearer shot at a hard fucking of his ass. I pumped and pumped. I had to release myself from the intensity of the moment. I shot a wad of cum up him that felt like it must have been quarts full of juice. As soon as I recovered from my orgasm I pulled out of him, purposely popping the shrinking cock painfully out of his asshole. He laid there and waited for my next move. It's at moments like that that I wonder what goes through his mind. What depths of fear and anticipations of dread must cloud his thoughts!

I had the next step already planned and my body was cooperating. I opened the drawer on the dresser and pulled out rolls of elastic bandages. In a matter of minutes his whole body was resting on the floor every inch of skin covered by the stretched cloth. There was a butt plug up his ass and there were tit clamps on his nipples and a gag in his mouth. I stood over him and aimed my cock, soaking the slave's clothing with an ocean of piss that would first warm him and later turn cold and clammy as I left him to contemplate himself on the floor. The next morning I unwrapped him. The bandages were still dripping with moisture. His eyes didn't meet mine, but his mouth immediately sought out my boots and licked them with gratitude.

I sent him to shower and cook my breakfast. He made no move to put on clothes or sit on the furniture. No sentence was spoken without the word "Lord." No move was made without permission. He followed me like the pet he was as I walked through the house.

Oh, I'm sure he'll forget soon enough and I'll have to find a new way to prove it to him. But for now, he's in his place.