Fifty Shades of Submission (25 page)

The painter’s eyes are wide open and
burning with excitement as he watches the sexual tableau unfold before him.

My mistress enjoys multiple orgasms over the next two hours as her two priestesses fuck her. Each time she reaches orgasm the two woman change positions. Osiris is a skilled lover an
d brings my mistress to orgasm by penetrating her vagina and then changing positions with Amun and entering her from behind. She buries her face between my mistress’s thighs and brings my mistress to orgasm by sucking and probing my mistress’s clitoris with her tongue and then she fiercely bites my mistress’s breasts and nipples while manually stimulating her vagina with her long ebony fingers. My mistress writhes and screams in agonized ecstasy.

Finally my mistress is sexually
exhausted and pushes the two women away. “
Enough
,” she gasps. “Enough.”

Since
his beating and sexual assault, the painter has become withdrawn and has not spoken at all. He is overcome by shame and I can see that he is still in pain by the stiff way in which he walks and at how careful he is when sitting down.

He had wanted to experience submission
at my mistress’s hands but he is too hopelessly frail to endure her violent cruelty.

My
mistress is now sitting for the portrait alone while the artist works on the finishing touches of her head, neck, breasts and arms. I have been commanded to stand at the door and watch in silence.

Suddenly
the painter drops his brush and falls to his knees before my mistress, pressing his tousled head hard up against her naked breasts.

She is immediately angry.
"Do you want another application of my whip?" she threatens.

His
gaunt body shudders. "Are you completely without a heart—can't you love
anyone
?" His words are filled with torment. "Don’t you know what it is to be consumed with desire and passion? Can’t you even imagine how I am feeling? Have you no pity?"

"No!" she
says mockingly, "I have my whip." She reaches for it and strikes him in the face. "Now, get on with the painting or get out!" she says coldly.

Without a word, he goes back to his easel and takes
up his brush and palette.

As the days go by the painting begins to take form. The rich tapestry of colors are vivid to the point of being almost surreal. The painter has poured his heart and soul into it.

Now he is painting me and I sit
alone for him for several hours each day.

Suddenly
he looks up at me, meeting my eyes for the first time since the beating.

"Do y
ou love this woman?" he says dully.

"Yes."

"So do I," he says wretchedly. “Is there any hope for either of us?”

“No,” I say truthfully.

He nods as though that was exactly the answer he was expecting.

"She is a demon,
" he says, and continues to paint. “A beautiful, seductive she-devil.”

Finally the painting is finished. I have not seen it yet, my mistress has been secretive about showing it to me. But today she decides to unveil it.

The three of us stand in her little sitting room upstairs which has been
serving as the artist’s studio for the last number of weeks – the mistress and the two men who are obsessed with her.

My mistress
pulls the sheet off the painting on the easel and unveils it to me at last. I am at once astounded and enthralled by its beauty. It is a glorious reproduction of the Rubens painting of Samson and Delilah, and the background of the original painting has been faithfully reproduced. Amun and Osiris have been substituted for the maid and the young man cutting Samson’s hair in the original painting. Both women are naked, both of them looking over Saskia’s shoulder down at me. The painter has captured their dark, velvety skin perfectly. Osiris looks as supple and graceful as she does in real life, and Amun is portrayed with huge breasts and thick, muscular thighs, her smiling face tinged with a hint of cruelty as she looks down at me.

My mistress
is clearly very pleased with the painting. “You’ve done well,” she says to the painter. “I will pay you well. You can leave in the morning.”

The painter
stares at her, eyes tormented. “I don’t want your money,” he says dully and turns on his heel and leaves the room.

My mistress
stands in front of the painting and stares at it for a long time. “I love the look of submission and torment and fear in your eyes, slave. The painter has captured it very accurately. I shall have it framed as soon as possible and will hang it in my bedroom to remind me of you always.”

I am awoken in the night by the noise of wild shouting coming from upstairs. I stumble up the cellar steps and then upstairs to my mistress’s bedroom.  There I am confronted by a scene of heaving naked bodies as Osiris and Amun hang desperately onto the flailing arms of the naked painter.  My mistress, in her nightdress, is looking on, her eyes wide with fear as the two women fight to subdue the painter. He is screaming obscenities at them and there is blood everywhere on his body and about the room.

Later I would learn that he had threatened to kill himself if
my mistress sent him away, and then he had threatened to kill her if he could not have her. He had grabbed the little dagger off her bedside table and had begun to stab himself with it in his arms and thighs as though completely insane, and then he had held the knife to my mistress’s throat. She had managed to scream for help and the two naked women had left their beds and raced upstairs and had succeeded in wresting the knife from his hand. They were still trying to subdue him as I entered the room but he was proving far too strong for them.

My mistress
looks up as I enter the room. “
Help them!
“ she shouts at me. “Lock him in the iron maiden!”

I help the two women and we manhandle the painter
towards the iron maiden while my mistress wrenches the curtain aside and flings the steel door of the torture device wide open.

We push
the painter backwards into the steel cage and my mistress slams the door shut and latches it securely.

The painter begins to scream and growl obscenities
like a deranged animal. He bangs furiously on the walls of his steel prison with his fists.

“
Let me out, you bitches!”
he screams wildly. “
Let me out!”

My mistress collapses on the chaise, her naked
breasts heaving, clearly shaken.

“What do you want us to do with him?” Amun asked her.

“Leave him for the time being,” my mistress says in a low voice. “I will think of a fit punishment for him soon enough.”

Her punishment is to leave the painter languishing inside the iron maiden for several days while the three women torture him. At my mistress’s instruction, Amun pulled his penis and balls through the narrow hole in the metal door of the torture box. She then tied an electrical cord to his balls straight from the wall socket. She made sure the copper wire was exposed and wound tightly around his balls. And then my mistress commenced the torture by running raw electrical current into his genitals by switching the wall socket on and off.

Day after day I hear
his blood-curdling screams emanate from her bedroom upstairs. On the first day his screams were interspersed with crude and violent obscenities directed at the three women, but by the second day the obscenities had ended and were replaced by desperate anguished howls for mercy. He begged them to stop. By the third day he was pleading and begging them to spare his life. And finally, one night, the screaming stopped and there was complete silence.

The bell in the kitchen rings urgently as I am summoned upstairs.

“Help them get him out of the house,” my mistress commands me.

The door of the iron maiden is open and the painter is lying
collapsed on the floor in front of it, covered in blood from his self-inflicted wounds and from fresh wounds caused by the sharp spikes of the torture chamber.

“
Is he alive?” I ask, shocked at his condition.

Amun nods her head. “Yeah, the pig is still breathing.”

“
Get him out of my sight!”
my mistress spits venomously.

I help the two woman lift him and prop him upright with his arm around my shoulder and we
carry him down the stairs and through the front door and push him out into the cold night. He falls to the ground and moans weakly.

My mistress throws his battered suitcase
, paints and easel after him.

“
If you ever come back here again I will have you killed
,” she snarls through her teeth.

The women go inside and slam the door behind them.

The painter gets shakily to his knees and gathers up his belongings in a daze. His hands are trembling so badly he can hardly hold onto his meagre possessions.

He
looks at me and tries to focus his eyes.

“I should have killed her when I had the chan
ce,” he says dully, and stumbles drunkenly off into the night.

This morning I serve
her breakfast in bed as usual. She eats in silence, in a pensive mood.

“
I almost killed him,” she says at last, referring to the painter. “I could so easily have killed him – if it wasn’t for the obvious consequences. I
wanted
to kill him. I enjoyed his screams and pleas for mercy – it was like sweet music to my ears. I relished breaking him down piece by piece.”

She
sighs. “Now that he’s gone I’m bored. I am bored with your and my silly games and I am bored with being isolated out here in the country. I want to be distracted. Let’s go for a walk. We haven’t walked since we came here. I used to enjoy our walks when you still loved me.”

“
I do still love you, mistress,” I assure her.

She sighs
again. “The love of a slave is as nothing against the love of a free man. I have told you before, slave, your love means nothing to me now, and if you dare mention it again you will be whipped by both Amun and Osiris until you are either dead from pain or they die of fatigue. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“These days my mind is turning increasingly towards thoughts of having you killed. I am tired of your pathetic, suffering looks. I used to love looking at your beautiful body, but now it is disfigured beyond repair and I find it repulsive. You disgust me.”

Her biting words a
re more cutting that her whip. My eyes grow moist.

“Oh for god’s sake!” she snarls and slaps me viciously across the face. “
I am so sick of your tears!
” She wrenches the bell cord angrily, summoning the priestesses. They enter almost instantly, as though they had been waiting just outside the door.

“Get this
wretched slave out of my sight!” she yells. “Take him down to the cellar and lock him up!”

The two black women manhandle me downstairs and hurl me down the short flight of stone steps
onto the pile of hay on the cellar floor. They leave, locking the door behind them.

I am left in the dark. My mistress is growing weary of tormenting me and I know that this does not bode well for me at all. What will she do with me when I no longer amuse her? When she no longer enjoys inflicting pain on me? Will she have her minions strangle me in the dark of the cellar, or will she throw me out
like she did the painter and refuse to see me ever again?

She has said that her cruelty towards me is a drug. Is the drug no longer strong enough? Does she need a stronger
opiate to satiate her lust for violence?

Some hours pass and then I hear the key turn in the loc
k and the door to the cellar opens. In the gloom I make out the dark silhouettes of Osiris and Amun. They close and lock the door quickly and silently behind them.

My heart begins to pound. Have they been dispatched by their mistress to murder me?
What should I do? My hands and feet are free and unfettered so I am able to fight them off. I know that, physically, it would be easy enough for me to overpower and subdue both of them – and then what? Do I go upstairs and take my revenge on my mistress? Do I beat her? Do I mar that beautiful, cold detached face with my fists until it is as disfigured as my body? Do I rape her and then put my hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her? And then what? Do I flee the house, a murderer?