When during one of our weekly Mistress lunches, Rebecca mentioned that reading Hamilton’s diary had always given her great insight and helped her chart his slave training, I nearly fell out of my chair. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner? Of course, a slave diary! My questionnaires and surveys had their place, but how much more valuable a diary, especially since I would have complete access to it and be privy to my slave’s innermost thoughts?
I decided that I would use the diary to combine two elements of Danny’s training. The first was the content itself: it would be a window on the soul of Daniel Simon Barton, what was he thinking, how was he faring on this journey of ours. The second element would be to turn the diary into a vehicle to teach my slave cursive writing. I find it a travesty that this skill, which has been shown to stimulate the brain, improve thinking and raise SAT scores, has been dropped from most elementary school curriculums.
In my opinion, the age of email, text, tweets and television has turned our population into a bunch of dumb bunnies. No one writes letters anymore. Carrier pigeons are unemployed. The new generations can barely sign their names. While Danny had a knack for building and repairing all things mechanical, his education ended with high school. I felt he could use improvement in his thinking and writing skills. As a start, my dumb bunny sub would learn cursive writing and make his diary entries in his own hand. His signature, which was a sloppy, illegible mess, would become a thing of beauty.
Not to be totally hypocritical, I confess to watching television; to wit, I’m a Game of Thrones fanatic. The whole medieval thing pushes my buttons, especially palace intrigue, politics, and of course, the sex. There was no texting or tweeting in those days, it was all leather and quill pen. With that in mind, for the journal in which my sub would make his entries, I went online and purchased Barnes & Noble’s Bombay Black Leather Wrap Journal with Tie, the cover made of soft, genuine black leather; 204 hand-stitched, cream color parchment pages within. The perfect gift for my slave.
As for a method to teach cursive writing, it’s nothing more than practice, practice, practice. You can download free worksheets from numerous websites. How perfect that my slave would be humiliated as he carefully copied, “Emma had a new bicycle. It was bright pink and shiny . . .”
Diary-day arrived on a stormy, rain-swept Thursday in mid-December. I had allowed Danny to take my Civic to work. That evening, promptly at seven, I heard its wheels crunching gravel on the driveway. A few minutes later, my slave was at my feet, naked, collared and wearing his cock cage. After he had adequately worshiped my feet (which were clad in knit wool stockings, nothing sexy, an intentional message), I dropped the worksheets to the floor, along with a ballpoint pen. “Slave, while I finish my show, I want you to practice copying these sentences.”
I watched a re-run of Game of Thrones (a Season Four favorite, “Mockingbird”), periodically glancing down to see my submissive scribe working on his assignment. I found the juxtaposition between the violent drama playing on the TV and the quiet labors of my slave strangely profound. I think it was the domestication of a man into perfect obedience without using sword or fire, rather something seemingly innocuous but equally powerful. By the time the episode concluded (note to self: don’t stand too close to Moon Doors, you might get pushed to your death), Danny had completed a half-dozen sheets.
I stood up and put my foot on his hand. “Slave, your handwriting looks worse than a third grader . . . that is, if they still taught cursive writing in third grade. You have a long way to go.”
I set the leather diary book on top of the sheets of paper. “Do you know what this is, slave?”
“A diary, Mistress?” Danny ventured.
“That’s right, slave. Not just any diary, your diary. It’s for you, a gift from me.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
“It will be your slave diary, label it as such. You are starting well after we began, so you have some catching up to do. I want you to make your entries in cursive handwriting, with a pen, understood?”
I caressed Danny’s back, fingertips running up and down his spine, thinking. Where did I want him to begin? When we first met? The first time I spanked him? The morning we signed our contract?
“Slave, I want you to crawl upstairs, lock yourself in your cage, and make your first entry starting with the first gift I gave you as your Mistress. Do you remember?”
Silence from my slave. He shifted on his hands and knees. I could tell he was at a loss.
A little angry, I reached down between the cheeks of his ass and grabbed his balls. I squeezed them, not hard, but firmly. He gave out a little gasp. “Remember now, slave?”
“Uh, the first time you slapped my balls, Mistress?”
I squeezed harder, making my dumb bunny wince. “No, slave, that’s not it . . . this is why I’m having you keep a dairy. You need to pay closer attention and remember these days. Now go upstairs, lock yourself in your cage and see if you can remember. If you get it right, you’ll be given supper at my feet this evening. If you don’t, you’ll go without and spend the night in the cage. Does that seem fair?”
“If it pleases you, Mistress.”
I let go of his balls and gave them a swift kick with my stockinged foot. “Wrong answer, slave.”
Danny’s knees buckled. When he recovered, he responded, “Yes, Mistress, it seems fair.”
“Better. Now crawl upstairs and get started.”
I watched my slave crawl across the living room with the diary in hand, turn out of sight into the hallway. I listened to him go down the hall, up the steps, then heard the cage door swinging open on its squeaky hinges. I bent over and collected the sheets of paper from the floor. His cursive wasn’t all that bad; I saw definite improvement from the first page to the sixth. I wondered if my idea would work. I loved Danny and enjoyed having him as my slave, but our arrangement had already shown me that as much as I enjoyed owning his body, what I wanted equally was the submission of a mind that I could respect as my equal, the way Hamilton had submitted his intelligent, highly educated mind to Rebecca. It seemed to me that I would get bored if Danny was just a dumb bunny submissive. I needed more.
The first time I truly felt like my Mistress’s slave was the day I put on her cock cage. She had left it under the seat of my truck (now her truck), and called me on the phone, instructing me to put it on and then come over to her place. Putting on the cage turned out more difficult than I anticipated. The moment I held it in my hand, I got a hard-on, which made it impossible to get my dick into the cage. I tried taking a cold shower, but that didn’t work, and now I was running late. In desperation, I sat down on my couch and focused on my breathing, a Zen meditation coach taught us to calm our nerves before a race. In my mind, I turned the cage into a Speedo swim suit, just something I had to put on for the race. That helped some. My penis got a little softer and I finally squeezed it into the cage and snapped the leather collar around my balls.
Driving over to Vanessa’s Mistress’s house, I found myself becoming super aroused. The pressure of the cage on my cock was extreme and erotic, reminding me of my new circumstances – this wasn’t just bedroom play, this was a reminder of her control outside the bedroom. And I loved it. At her house, I stripped off my clothes, put on her collar and crawled into the living room where she waited for me. That was the beginning of the most amazing 24 hours of my life – amazing because I felt the mind and will of another person completely possess my being. I know that probably sounds strange, and I don’t understand it either. I am adopted, and it wasn’t until age four that I ended up with my parents, who are good people, caring and supportive. They were always loving, it’s nothing they did. It must have been something I didn’t get, something that happened in the first four years of my life, while I was in foster care, but I have no idea what. Or maybe it’s just a void in my soul. Whatever, when I’m Mistress’s slave, the void is filled, my soul rejoices and I feel whole.
The 24 hours:
First Mistress let me pick out some sexy dominatrix clothing from an online store. That was hot. Then we went on a date to listen to this musician we both like at the Southern Café. What made it special was I was wearing her cage. Sitting right next to me was this sexy girl, one that in other times and other circumstances I would have hit up, but now all it did was make me want Mistress more. Having other women make me horny and hard for her is counter-intuitive, but that’s what happens, and it’s awesome.
That night she let me take off the cock cage. The sex was incredible. The next morning, I woke up feeling down, as in, “How do we keep this going?” but she had already thought about that, totally surprising me. She led me downstairs to her basement, hung me by my wrists to a pole, and gave me a flogging that left me on fire, totally hot and bothered.
When she finished, she left me there alone and helpless in the basement, which only doubled the intensity of the experience. I hung there for what seemed like hours, a Zen-like experience that I can’t quite explain but every moment only deepened my longing to be hers forever.
That morning, she had me go down on her while she sat on the toilet. She came hard and I loved it. I’ve always wondered if she wasn’t faking her orgasms, but this time her juices squirted into my mouth and there was no doubt. I *love* bringing her to a climax.
A little later, she made me eat like a dog from a bowl at her feet. It was humiliating but at the same time, arousing, because she was reinforcing my status, making it real. That day we did chores, first raking leaves, then I cleaned out my her truck, then we went to my apartment and she let me have it. I can’t say I didn’t deserve it, I’ve been living like a pig for a long time, getting away with it because no one else cared (growing up, my mom picked up after me).
Mistress wasn’t having it and we spent the entire afternoon cleaning house. She worked just as hard as me. When we finished, I thought she was done with me for the day, but she was still thinking about her slave, way ahead of me, getting inside my head before I even knew my own thoughts. I can’t explain just how arousing that is, but it is, like having someone outsmart you in chess.
She stripped down to her panties and bra, looking incredibly sexy, sipping a glass of wine. She ordered me to beat off while she watched. With the cock cage on, the harder I got, the more it squeezed down on me, which only increased the arousal, a wonderful vicious cycle. Suddenly, she made me stop. She took off her panties and stuffed them in my mouth, then unlocked the cage and took my cock in her hands, saying to fuck the hands that spank me. If that wasn’t over the top, she said I couldn’t cum until she let me beg, which of course I couldn’t do with her panties in my mouth.
Just when I thought I would explode, she pulled them out and let me beg to cum. I barely got the words out before I exploded, squirting all over her, dripping on the floor. She had me lick her clean, which I did fine, but then she ordered me to lick my cum off the floor.
The ultimate humiliation. I just couldn’t do it.
I thought about refusing, thinking that she might try to beat me into submission and force me to lick the cum up. For the first time since we started, I had reached a hard limit. She could beat me to a pulp and I still wouldn’t do it. I was on the verge of saying my safe word, “red.”
I took a deep breath. I thought about where this was going, how she once asked me if she wanted children, what then? I told her that I would abide by her judgement.
Well, my semen was on the floor, carrying the sperm that will help make our children if Mistress ever decides she wants them. She’s certainly swallowed plenty of it. And then I had an epiphany that licking my cum off the floor was not a humiliation, it was a way of honoring her, of worshiping her.
Licking up my cum suddenly became a way to show her how much I adore her, how grateful I am for her gift (the cock cage being the physical gift, the greater gift her loving attention) and that I want to marry her and have kids. Yes, she’s an amazing Mistress, but more than that, she’s shown she loves me more than anyone I’ve ever known. I don’t know my place in this crazy ball of yarn called planet earth, but I know my place is with Vanessa, preferably at her feet.
Danny had never told me he was adopted. He had never fully revealed his bright and beautiful mind. That night, Daniel Simon Barton, the man I love, sat at the table and ate his supper by my side.
Next: The Dilemma