The Ultimate Submission (Jacqueline's Story)
By Gato Medio

Chapter 21

[The Whipping]

One day, the Marquis had me brought to his torture
chamber, where, to my surprise and delight, I saw my
Master and Mistress. They had come to collect me. The
Marquis himself thought that my rebellious spirit had not
been completely broken yet, but my Master was more than
satisfied with my progress and had decided that I was
ready to assume my role as his slave.

My Mistress had brought some clothes for me to wear,
including my dog collar. As I was getting dressed, the
Marquis remarked, "It's a pity you're leaving now. You're
going to miss the harvest festival in a few day's time."

"We're going to do our own version of Thanksgiving," he
explained for everybody's benefit. "I have already sent
the monks to the farmers in the surrounding villages.
They will acquire the biggest carrots and parsnips, the
fattest cucumbers and the plumpest corn-cobs they can
find for our celebration."

Knowing the Marquis, I was sure he didn't procure those
vegetables for their nutritional value. They were not
intended for the slaves' mouths but for their other
orifices. The thought of what he might do with them
tempted me. But if the choice was to stay until the
harvest festival or return to my Master and Mistress
right away, there was no contest - I wanted to be theirs
as soon as possible.

My Master wanted to know if my stay at Sainte Jacqueline
had achieved its purpose. I assured him that I would be
an obedient slave and would not look for any pleasures
other than to please my Master and my Mistress.

"Is there anything that you would have liked to happen
which didn't occur?"

That seemed a strange question. Did he want me to
evaluate the Marquis' performance? I hated the smug
bastard, but that was understandable. Most slaves wanted
him to go to hell.

"That's not for me to say, Master," I said after some
hesitation.

The fact that I didn't answer with a straight 'no' made
him suspicious. "You have permission to speak. What is
it, you think was missing from your training?"

I hesitated. I knew that he had decided I should not be
spanked, caned or whipped. I also knew that the Marquis
had not agreed with this decision and had obeyed it only
reluctantly. I did not want to take sides with the
Marquis against my Master. But my Mistress encouraged me
once more to say what was on my mind.

"I think I need to be flogged to be a better slave,
Mistress. I know that my Master doesn't approve of it,
but maybe it would help me if I could experience it just
once."

"Are you sure you really want this?" My Mistress asked.

"Yes, Mistress, I'm sure."

"So you want the Marquis to whip you while we watch?"

"No. I want my Master and Mistress to whip me until I
faint."

"Until you faint? Isn't that a bit too much? Where did
you get that idea from?"

"I watched the Marquis do it to another woman," I
answered. "Only this once! Please, Mistress! Please,
Master!" I sounded like a spoilt child begging for a
sweet.

They had asked. They had insisted I tell them. There was
no point in asking and then ignoring my wish. They agreed
to satisfy my request, but I could see that it was with
some trepidation. What disturbed them was that they were
supposed to whip me, and that they would have to continue
until I'd pass out. They were shocked by the ferocity of
my desire to be hurt.

I knew exactly where and how I wanted to be flogged. At
this stage I was familiar with most of the gadgets in
this hall of horrors. There were two large iron rings
hanging from the ceiling, which were normally used to
suspend a victim. But they could also be lowered enough
so that I was still standing firmly on the floor while I
held on to them. My wrists could be tied to those rings
to keep me from falling in case I let go of them.

Another two rings on the floor could be used to hold my
legs in position, slightly spread, but not too wide, to
allow me to get a firm footing. I would be standing in
the middle of the room, forming a large X, accessible
from all sides. As instruments for my flogging I selected
a long horsewhip for my Mistress and a cat o' nine tails
for my Master.

I took off my clothes but kept the dog collar on. As the
Marquis tied me up according to my specifications, I gave
my castigators instructions on what I wanted them to do.
I was so excited, I completely forgot that I was the
slave and they were my Masters.

"I want that long horsewhip to wrap around my body, from
the back to the front. I want it to punish my tits when
you whip my back and my cunt when you thrash my ass. And
I want to feel that cat o' nine tails on my tits and
between my thighs. I want it to bite my cunt without
mercy."

My Masters were visibly shocked by my hunger for pain, my
desire to let the most vulnerable parts of my body be
punished. My Mistress made a hesitant start. The whip hit
my back and wrapped around to my front, but stayed a long
way below my breasts. It stung nevertheless.

"Higher," I shouted, ignoring the pain. "And harder."

The second attempt was better, but still too weak to make
an impact. I had to encourage my Mistress a few more
times until the lashes had the desired force and
direction. I cried out in pain when the tip of the
whipcord grazed my nipple.

My Mistress stopped immediately. "Are you hurt?" she
asked with concern in her voice.

"No," I said with tears in my eyes. "That's part of the
deal. Carry on - and harder."

Realizing that I was determined to carry this plan
through to the bitter end, my Mistress resumed whipping
me. After the whip had left its marks on my breasts she
moved her attention to my bottom. At first the whip
licked my thighs as it wrapped around my hips, but on my
insistence, it found its intended target. I momentarily
lost my foothold when the cord slashed across my pussy
lips. This was the most intense pain I had ever felt. It
left me dangling on the rings, only held upright by the
ropes which tied me to them. Alarmed by my screams, my
Mistress dropped the whip. She kissed and hugged me and
wanted to know if I was alright.

I soon found my footing again and reminded them that the
flogging had to continue until I passed out. My mistress
was so impressed by my screams and the marks which
started to show all over my body that she refused to
punish me any further. Now it was my Master's turn.

As he swung the cat o' nine tails across my breasts, it
was almost certain that one of the lashes would hit my
nipples. I could tell that he did not use his full
strength - far from it. Even though, the contact of the
lashes on my already sore nipples was hellishly painful.
To my surprise, my Master ignored my screams. He kept
whipping me, moving from my left to my right to
distribute the castigation evenly across both breasts.

I was in agony. My head rocked from left to right as the
lashes cut into my breasts. My screams turned into a
continuous wail as the strokes hailed down on me. It took
all my willpower to hold on to the rings. Had my Master
changed his mind as far as physical punishment was
concerned? Did he whip me this fast and furious to bring
my ordeal to a quick end? Had he decided to do his part
in making this once-in-a-lifetime flogging a memorable
event? Or did he get turned on seeing me suffering so
defencelessly?

The strokes shifted gradually lower, leaving their marks
on my belly, my lower abdomen, my thighs, but never quite
reaching my pussy. Eventually, my Master stood next to
me, one arm around my waist, and lowered the cat between
my legs. First slowly, almost playfully so, until I
pushed my pussy forward to welcome the touch of the
leather thongs. Then the whip came down with speed and
force and hit the most tender part of my body. I screamed
louder than I had ever screamed before. My legs gave way
and the rings I had been holding on to slipped from my
hands. I was dangling from the ceiling, only held up by
the ropes which tied my wrists to the rings.

"Have you had enough?" my Master asked, clearly expecting
that I would say yes.

I was barely able to speak. "I haven't fainted yet," I
whispered, shaking my head. That's the last thing I
remember. A flurry of lashes came down on my pussy,
making me scream in anguish. Then everything went black
before my eyes.

                         -----

I came to as my Master lifted me out of his car, wrapped
in a blanket, and carried me to the lift in his apartment
building. My Mistress went ahead, opening the doors as
they carried me to one of the bedrooms and placed me
gently onto the bed. Both of them seemed relieved that I
had regained consciousness. I thanked them for letting me
experience such overwhelming pain. "In future, whenever I
think of disobeying either of you, I will think back to
this experience, and I will obey you," I promised.

My Mistress wanted to sooth my pain by applying lotion to
my bruised body. The cool liquid gave momentary relief,
but even the softest touch hurt and I asked her to just
let me rest to recover.

                         -----

As soon as I had fully recovered from my flogging, my
Masters took me for a two-week holiday to a luxurious
nudist resort on the island of Corsica. There I spent my
days lazing in the sun and my nights sharing their bed.
However, our love-making wasn't limited to the night, nor
was it confined to our suite. We found some sheltered
coves a short way along the coast and indulged in the
pleasure of making love in the open air with the sound of
the sea as an accompaniment. During these two weeks we
behaved like a conventional - conventional? - threesome.
We enjoyed ourselves as a trio, as a duo and there were
even some solo performances. It was a wonderful two
weeks, a period of respite before my existence as their
slave would start in earnest. It made me think of the
night with Lola and the fact that we had never taken her
up on the promised return visit. I decided to contact her
as soon as I would get back to Paris.

                         -----

Something else we did when we returned to Paris was to
put into action a plan we had worked out during our stay
on Corsica.

My Masters had noticed how much I liked being naked in
front of strangers. I had been naked throughout my stay
at Sainte Jacqueline and now I spent two weeks in the
nudist resort without ever wearing a stitch. There were a
few single men who had gone there looking for some
adventure and I enjoyed it tremendously when they watched
me sunbathe and tried to hide their erections whenever I
looked in their direction.

My enjoyment was not very slave-like, I admit, the kind
of pleasure the Marquis had constantly warned me against,
but my Masters hadn't yet fully taken control of me. At
one stage I must have commented that I felt like walking
down the _Champs-Élysées_ in the nude. This got them
thinking. I had already exposed myself by wearing near-
transparent clothes or allowed people to take a peek at
my panty-less pussy, but now I wanted full nudity for
everyone to see. The suggestion to sit as a nude model
for an arts class was discarded for being much too tame.

It was my Mistress who came up with the idea we all
agreed on. "You know those people who stand on street
corners and in public squares, on a pedestal, pretending
to be statues, with a box for the public to drop some
money?"

We had all seen them. It seems the fad had started a few
years ago. Nobody knew exactly where it had started. We
weren't sure if those people were out-of-work actors, art
students or just a new breed of beggars. They represented
a variety of figures. Characters from 'The Wizard of Oz'
were popular motifs, but there were also historical
figures and images from famous paintings. What they all
had in common was that they stood there, motionless,
leaving the passers-by guessing whether this was in fact
a statue or a human being of flesh and blood.

"What if we get Jacqueline dressed up, or rather
undressed, as a Greek or Roman statue, say Aphrodite or
Venus? She could hold an amphora in one hand and maybe an
olive branch in the other. That would be the only thing
she'd wear."

I knelt down and kissed her feet, so much did I like her
idea.

It was necessary to do some more research. We had to
decide on the exact motif and find out how to produce the
marble effect of an antique statue on my naked skin. We
found out that rice powder mixed with the right amount of
grey would do the trick.

"You know something?" my Mistress asked after having
looked through a few books on ancient statues. The smile
on her face made me feel apprehensive.

"Goddesses don't have any hair on their pussies. All the
statues I've looked at are bare, clean, smooth as a
baby's bottom."

That explained the smirk on her face. My Mistress was
looking forward to shaving my pussy. And she was
determined to make a big event out of it. She stopped
short of inviting friends and neighbours to watch, but my
Master kept his eyes glued to my pussy while my Mistress
went through an elaborate process of first trimming my
pubic hair with scissors, then moistening the remaining
stubbles, applying plenty of shaving foam, and finally
removing the last vestiges of hair with a barber's razor.
She didn't even need to order me to stay quiet while she
shaved me. I held my breath as the sharp blade slithered
around my pussy lips.

To finish the job, my Mistress drenched my now bare pussy
in aftershave. Boy did that sting! I'm sure she knew it
would have this effect when she applied the lotion so
generously. My Master didn't even wait for my gasps to
subside. He couldn't get his cock quickly enough inside
my freshly shaved pussy. It reminded me of how he had
jumped on Lola when he first saw her bare plum.

My Master, but also my Mistress, behaved as if they had
been given a brand new toy to play with and didn't let me
get much sleep that night.

The following morning, my Master and Mistress covered me
from top to toe with make-up and took me to the open
space in front of the _Louvre_, where we had decided my
performance as a statue of Aphrodite would take place.
They had brought along a pedestal which was really a
kitchen stool, draped in black velvet, and helped me to
get into position, an olive branch in one hand, the other
hand resting below my breasts. After putting a collection
box on the floor before the pedestal, they retreated to
observe the events from a distance. A few other statues
had already taken up position in the same area.

My heart beat so hard, I was afraid it would knock the
make-up off my chest. The first people who passed seemed
to be in a hurry and paid little attention to me. Or
maybe they were so used to this collection of living and
breathing works of art that they didn't notice the new
figure. Then, one man who had already passed me slowed
down and turned around for another look. It was the
classic double-take. He came slowly closer and had a good
look. Scratching his head, he walked around me to inspect
me from all sides. When he had done the full loop he
stood in front of me and observed me for a while,
probably trying to see if I was moving. Eventually he
went away, shaking his head.

A group of Japanese tourists took my picture, probably
never suspecting that they were snapping a real woman.
More people stopped and looked at me. One man said, "Girl
you've got guts," as he dropped a generous donation into
my collection box. A group of people formed in front of
me. They engaged in a discussion whether I was or wasn't
a real woman and once they decided that I had to be real,
they tried to figure out whether I was in fact naked or
was wearing a body stocking or some other kind of
clothing under my body paint. As the group grew larger,
it attracted more passers-by who all stopped to have a
good look at me. Some were pulling faces or acting funny
to make me laugh.

I didn't move a muscle, resisting all attempts to make me
give away my real existence. But I was in danger of being
betrayed by my pussy. I was getting increasingly excited
by all those people inspecting me closely and could feel
that I was getting wet. Would my juices seep out of my
bare pussy and mix with the rice powder? 'I should have
put a tampon inside to soak up the juices,' I thought.
Excellent idea, but terrible timing.

Then something unexpected happened. A woman in her
sixties, dressed all in black and carrying an umbrella on
such a warm, sunny day, started a tirade against the
decline in moral standards. I wasn't sure whether she was
complaining about a naked woman exposing herself in a
public place or whether she simply objected to the Greek
Goddess being portrayed so realistically, with all
details clearly visible.

When her opinions didn't find much sympathy with the
others, she went away, ranting and raving and announcing
that she was going to call the police to remove this
offensive work of pornography.

I doubted that any _gendarme_ would pay much attention to
this hysterical woman, but I found it better not to risk
it. I gave my assistants the agreed signal for retreat by
letting the olive branch slip from my hand.

My Master and Mistress arrived, dressed in white coats
which identified them as employees of a famous arts
gallery. They wrapped a blanket around me, and then my
Master carried me away while my Mistress took care of the
pedestal. The onlookers stood there open-mouthed and I
could hear that the discussion about whether I was made
of stone or of flesh and blood restarted.

My Master celebrated the successful execution of our plan
by 'fucking a monument' while my Mistress wanted to find
out what it's like to be licked by the Goddess of love.
We only stopped when my body paint was evenly distributed
between the three of us. Then we showered together to
clean up.

                         -----

My letter to Lola returned unopened. 'Not known at this
address', it said on the envelope. I had written to her,
telling her about the changes in my life and my new
relationship. I explained that these changes were the
probable reason why my Master hadn't given any indication
that he was planning a visit to Berlin. But, I suggested,
if she was interested in an adventure, she might show up
unexpectedly one day and see what develops.

The fact that my letter hadn't reached her made me wonder
what happened to her. I decided to call the magazine
which had sent her to Paris to interview my Master. Using
broken English and the few German words I know mixed into
my French, I found that Lola was no longer working there,
but they gave me a phone number where she could be
reached.

Lola's voice sounded as cheerful as ever, when I finally
got through to her. She seemed very pleased to hear my
voice and apologized for not having been in touch. Before
I told her about the changes in my life, as I had
intended, I asked her why she was no longer working as a
fashion correspondent.

"That's a long story," she started. "I published the
interview with Ramon exactly as it had been recorded. You
may remember he talked a lot about my shaved pussy that
day, and also about the things we had got up to the night
before. My readers became curious. They wanted to know
more. Some wanted to see pictures of my pussy. The people
I worked for offered me the job of editor for a new
magazine with explicit pictures and stories and suggested
I should start off the first issue by writing about my
own experiences and include a series of photographs of
myself.

"I thought about the offer - not very long - and accepted
it. Now all my readers know exactly what happened that
night between you, me and Ramon. I also told them the
story about Charlotte's lesson, when I met you the first
time, and many other exciting things which happened to me
since that day. They have seen pictures of my pussy from
every possible angle. I get the feeling I must have one
of the most photographed pussies on earth.

"But my readers wanted more. They wanted to see my pussy
in action: stuffed with a big cock or dripping with cum.
That's when I announced that I was looking for partners
to shoot the scenes people were demanding. You can't
imagine the number of offers I received! Anyway, that's
how I met my owners..."

"Your what?" I interrupted, sensing a case of déjà vu.

"My owners. I'm theirs to use and abuse. Their names are
Ralf and Rolf. Also known as the A and the O. They are
identical twins. It's impossible to tell them apart, so
they agreed to have the letters A and O tattooed on the
base of their cocks. That way I can tell who is Ralf and
who is Rolf. They fuck me like I've never been fucked
before. And we publish the pictures for everyone to see."

Lola paused. There was the sound of a door opening and a
male voice in the background saying something I didn't
understand. Lola said a few words, I assume in German,
then I heard her gasp.

"They've come back and want to fuck me," Lola reported.
"Ralf's already stuck his cock into my ass and Rolf is
waiting for me to suck him. I've got to go. Stay in
touch." She spoke with difficulties. It seemed like
someone was pounding his cock into her for all he was
worth.

I sat still for a moment, the phone still in my hand,
thinking about Lola. Was she in trouble? Did she need
help? Were those people she called her owners using her
against her will? I came to the conclusion that there was
no reason to worry. She was well capable of looking after
herself and if anybody abused here, then it was because
she wanted to be abused. And I wasn't really in a
position to panic about her confession. Hadn't I intended
to tell her that I now had a Master and a Mistress? That
wasn't very different from her situation.

                         -----

I now have a Master and a Mistress, and I have to follow
both their orders to the letter and without hesitation.
Sometimes their orders contradict and I am left with the
difficult decision whom to disobey, as they don't accept
the excuse that my other Master had told me to do
otherwise. They tell me this is my own problem as I had
chosen to start a relationship with two Masters - now I
have to suffer the consequences.

The words 'punishment' and 'reward' have taken on a
different meaning in our relationship. The things my
Masters do to me as a special treat, a reward for good
behaviour, would normally be considered severe punishment
or completely unacceptable as treatment of a loved one.
On the other hand, if my Masters feel I deserve to be
punished, they don't touch me. My punishment consists of
being ignored or being tied up and having to watch them
make love. I always enjoy watching them, because it is a
pleasure to watch these two beautiful people fuck, but
the fact that I can't join them and can't even bring
myself off while I watch is a severe torture for me - and
they know that.

I now visit the apartment every Wednesday in addition to
spending the weekends there. My Master plays five-a-side
football on most Wednesday evenings and I am usually at
my Mistress's disposal. On the weekends my Master is in
charge, although he generously shares me with my Mistress
- or with anyone else who shows up.

Both my Master and Mistress are keen to see me complete
my studies at university. They follow my progress and
punish me when they feel that I'm not concentrating
enough on my studies. I am grateful to them that they
have allowed me to move to another university. Having to
face all the students I sucked and licked during the
phase when I was just a cunt would have caused me deep
embarrassment and might distract me from my studies.

I felt a strange sensation of nostalgia when I returned
to the _École Supérieur Sainte Denise_ to clear out my
room. It had been my first home away from my father's
house and there were many fond memories attached to it. I
even thought of Arlette and that I wouldn't be able to
impress her with my beautiful all-over tan.

Maybe it was a good thing that I didn't get a chance to
parade my tanned body in front of Arlette. Wasn't showing
off an expression of vanity, and wasn't pride the
motivation behind vanity? I knew that I had to avoid
these vices.

I now study at another university, which happens to have
the advantage of being nearer to my Master's apartment.
My room at the new university is very similar to the
previous one. I have a new roommate, an American girl
from Clear Lake, Iowa, called Beverly. When she talks
about her home town I get the feeling that it's even more
provincial than Villiers. Its only claim to fame seems to
be that a famous country music star died in the vicinity
when his airplane crashed into the cornfields.

My Masters have given me permission to have sex with my
new roommate if the situation should arise. But I have my
doubts that it will happen. When I met Beverly she had
just stepped off the plane from the USA. One of the first
things she said was that she couldn't understand why the
French get so hung up on sex. I have the feeling that,
along with improving her French, she's also improved her
French kissing and is gradually developing a taste for
sex herself. Sometimes I fantasize about taking her with
me to the apartment and making her submit to my Mistress
and Master.

My Mistress has picked up where she left off before the
'chance meeting' with my Master which brought about this
dramatic change in my life - she puts clamps on my
nipples and then stimulates me for ages with her
vibrators without letting me come. When she finally pulls
the clamps off, I erupt in the most powerful orgasms
imaginable. She told me how amazed she had been about my
strong reaction when she caressed me with a feather for
the first time. She had never seen anyone come this hard.

On some days, when I'm due to visit her in the evening,
my Mistress phones me at the university during my lunch
break and orders me to go to my room and put on the
nipple clamps. Wearing them all afternoon leaves me
steaming with excitement for the rest of the day. The
clamps make my nipples extremely sensitive and every
touch, even by the smoothest and lightest fabric, makes
me squirm. By the time I get to the apartment I'm a
bundle of desire and beg my Mistress to make me come.
But, with her being the Mistress she is, it takes a lot
of begging and pleasuring her before she fulfils my wish.

One such afternoon, Beverly came into our room just as I
was attaching the clamps to my nipples.

"What on earth are you doing, Jacqueline?" she asked, her
eyes wide open in horror.

I hadn't planned on her seeing me like this. Now I tried
to act naturally, as if nothing unusual was happening.

"Oh, I'm just putting on some jewellery, so I can leave
straight after my last lecture. I've got an appointment
this evening." I tried to make it sound as if nipple
clamps were an indispensable fashion accessory for the
modern woman.

"Jewellery?" she gasped. "This looks more like a torture
instrument to me."

"Not really. It's not as bad as it looks. Do you want to
try?" I moved towards her, offering her the clamp I
hadn't yet put on.

"No way, José," she shrieked, moving away from me.

I knew it was better not to insists. She was slowly
warming to the idea of letting one of her more persistent
pretenders make a woman of her. I had encouraged her to
take that step, but trying to push her too far too soon
might put her off.

So I just fitted the remaining clamp and then carefully
buttoned my blouse over my hardening nipples. Then I set
off across the campus to attend my afternoon lecture,
knowing that the next few hours would be hell.

That's how I earned my unofficial nickname, 'Jackie
Nipples', wearing the thinnest possible blouse so that
the textile wouldn't stimulate my already sensitive
nipples even further. I call it my unofficial nickname,
because nobody's ever called me Jackie Nipples to my
face. But I've heard it often enough behind my back to
know how much my male fellow students - maybe some
females as well? - enjoyed peeking at my breasts through
the flimsy material. I treat all my admirers politely,
but when they ask me for a date, I tell them in the
nicest possible way that I am already spoken for and that
they don't stand a chance.

I have the impression that the frequent and prolonged use
of those clamps has made my nipples grow bigger. Or maybe
they're just getting used to being constantly aroused and
are sticking out in anticipation. They're always
attracting attention, even when I wear a thick sweater.
It's almost impossible not to notice them. When I
mentioned this observation to my Mistress, she confirmed,
"Yeah, that's the idea. I like them big and very
sensitive. I want to be able to make you come just from
trailing a feather across your breasts." I got extremely
wet just thinking at the prospect.

She has similar plans for my clit. She bought a few
special clamps which come with a number of weights that
can be hooked into a ring to increase the pull on my clit
and multiply the discomfort. My Mistress attaches the
clamp to my clit, selects a weight and then makes me lick
her while she lies on her back. The weight dangles
between my legs and tortures my clit with every move I
make. It's sheer hell, but I love it!

Sometimes my Mistress spanks me, but there isn't a lot of
force behind her swats. The purpose isn't really to
punish my backside, but to make the weights attached to
my clit swing every time her hand makes contact with my
bottom. Charlotte had once said that it takes a woman to
give another women the maximum pleasure because only a
woman understands the female body well enough. I would
add that it also takes a woman to torment another woman
to the maximum - for the same reason.

The treatment seems to have the desired effect. My clit
keeps poking its head through my pussy lips, trying to
make contact with the outside world. It has become almost
impossible to wear tight trousers, because they stimulate
my clit so much that my excitement immediately produces a
wet patch between my legs.

My mistress went absolutely crazy when I told her about
the Marquis' 'cunt-opener'. I had assumed she'd be
interested, but I hadn't expected such an enthusiastic
reaction. In fact she had noticed that my labia had been
gaping open and allowed a good look into my deeper
secrets the day she had come to collect me from Sainte
Jacqueline, but she hadn't given the reason for this much
thought. Now, she was determined to get hold of this toy
and immediately contacted the Marquis, even though the
two aren't on very good terms, and asked about where she
could get such a gadget.

As soon as she got her hands on the cunt-opener, my
Mistress started to experiment with it and invented a new
game which she calls 'Christmas tree'. It starts with me
kneeling with my legs slightly spread and my hands tied
behind my back so I can't interfere. Then she fits the
cunt-opener and attaches clamps to my clit and nipples.
She says it makes me look like a decorated Christmas
tree. I have seen my reflection in the mirror and don't
really see any similarity, but, of course, I wouldn't
dare to contradict my Mistress.

The only thing which doesn't meet my Mistress' approval
is the fact that my ass is occupied by the butt-plug. It
keeps her from sticking one of her vibrators in there.
But she makes free use of my other opening and uses a
variety of sizes and speeds to stimulate me until I'm no
longer able to hold my kneeling position. Then she lets
me experience the most powerful orgasms I can remember.

My Mistress has noticed that I produce copious volumes of
juice when she treats me like this. "Looks like you have
turned into a little squirter," she said with a mixture
of astonishment and delight. Now she places a small bowl
between my legs to catch my dripping juices and then
gives them to me to drink. Drinking my own juices like
this seems to be the pinnacle of perversion. I'm so
grateful to my Mistress that she makes me do it.

When my Master returns from his Wednesday night football
match, he is often tired and downtrodden and barely
acknowledges my presence. But sometimes he is in a
triumphant mood and claims me as the winner's trophy.
Those nights, when my Master fucks me after my Mistress
has played 'Christmas tree' with me are unforgettable. It
seems that my Mistress has just warmed me up so that I
can reach higher, hitherto unknown levels of pleasure in
my Masters arms. My orgasm starts as soon as his cock
enters my still highly sensitive pussy lips and only ends
when he sprays me with his cum. My pussy gushes juices
like an overflowing fountain and our lovemaking leaves me
drained and exhausted.

"Look what a mess you've made, you two sex-mad pigs," my
Mistress scolds us afterwards. "If it goes on like this,
I need to buy some plastic sheets for you." But then she
stops being the concerned housewife and licks us both
clean; first my Master and then me. I don't think this is
the kind of thing a Mistress is supposed to do to her
slave, but I love it nonetheless.

On the weekends, my Master puts me through my paces,
supported by my Mistress and by the occasional visitor.
My Master has installed the modern-day stocks, the
equipment I had first seen at _Le Chambre Séparée_, in
his apartment and I spend many hours tied up in it. A
number of people drop in at the apartment without prior
notice. They see me walking around naked except for my
dog collar, tied up and suspended in the pillory or
taking my meals crouching under the table. Sometimes my
Master lets those visitors play with me.

Apart from the people dropping in unannounced, there are
scheduled visits from people who I don't get to see
because my Master blindfolds me before they arrive. Those
people come with the explicit intent of using me as I'm
tied up with my pussy, ass and mouth freely accessible. I
can't see them, but I can hear them talk and I believe
that Mirabelle is amongst them. I'm pretty sure that I
recognized her voice.

When I asked my Master whether Pablo and Mirabelle had
been visiting because I thought I had heard Mirabelle's
voice, he didn't answer my question, but the next time he
expected visitors he also fitted me with a pair of
headphones blasting music at a near-deafening volume into
my ears. As I listened to Beethoven's Ninth, I felt
fingers and other objects being inserted into my pussy
and rear and my face being unceremoniously pushed into a
female crotch. I felt an urge to join into the 'Song of
Joy' as I felt an unmistakable steel rod enter my ass.
This had to be Rui and Sylvie!

To my delight, my Master's altruism has its limit. For
most of the time I belong to him and serve him with my
entire body. To feel his wonderful cock inside me makes
everything I had to go through worthwhile. I swoon with
delight when he fills my pussy, my ass or my mouth with
his delicious spunk. He fucks me tied to the stocks,
pinned to the floor, on the bed; wherever and however he
feels like. It's exactly how I imagined life as his slave
to be like and I'm savouring every minute of it.

Sometimes, when I haven't behaved the way my Master
thinks I should, he ties me to the chair which has now
permanently moved from the kitchen to the raised platform
and is irrecoverably soiled with my juices, and makes me
watch as he makes love to my Mistress. Having to watch
those two beautiful people without being able to join in
is still as frustrating as it was the first time, but I
know now that it never takes long before they invite me
to join them. Serving my Mistress and my Master at the
same time is probably the most fulfilling experience of
my existence.

Sometimes the three of us go out, to a restaurant, a
theatre or simply strolling in the park. My Masters make
sure that my attire and behaviour leave no doubt that I'm
just a slave who is allowed to tag along with her
Masters. My Master has designed a complete set of slave
outfits for these occasions. There is always some detail
- along with the ever-present dog collar - which
indicates even to the casual observer the nature of my
relationship to the two people I accompany. Sometimes my
legs are shackled with a fine silver chain, sometimes my
dress is held up only by a set of elaborate nipple
clamps, sometimes my clothes look like they have been
torn by some violent attacker and what's left of them
barely manages to conceal my charms. Whatever my Master
comes up with, my attire is sure to attract a lot of
attention and the curious stares are bound to make me
feel self-conscious and extremely proud of being my
Master's slave.

[The Ultimate Submission]

The way I describe my life today, my readers might expect
my story to end '... and they lived happily ever after'
or some similar words. Yes, it might, if it wasn't for my
rebellious spirit which once again made me act in a
wayward, undisciplined way. I don't regret for one second
what I did, but I know that it could put a severe strain
on my relationship with my Masters, when I tell them.

And I will have to tell them soon, because I don't want
them to become suspicious and start to ask questions. I'd
rather make a clean breast of it and confess what I've
done, hoping they will understand my motivation. I'm just
waiting for a suitable moment to tell them.

I have decided that I want to bear my Master's child. I
haven't just reached this decision on a theoretical
level, I have gone further than that: I have turned it
into reality. Roughly two months ago, I stopped taking
the pill. My period which had been due three weeks ago
didn't arrive. I have taken the test, not just once, a
dozen of times, in different laboratories, and they all
confirm what I had hoped: My Master's child is already
growing inside my body.

It takes all my willpower to contain myself, to hide my
joy. But I will have to tell my Master and my Mistress. I
don't want to wait until they notice the changes in my
body. But I'm also thinking of the child. It would be too
dangerous for the child to let them continue to submit me
to the extreme and painful treatment I have become
accustomed to but I wouldn't want my Master's child
inside my belly to be subjected to.

You probably wonder what made me take this radical step.
Let me assure you that it is not an attempt to compete
with my Mistress for my Master's affection. I did not do
this to make him love me more than her because I'm
carrying his child in my womb. I'm not doing this to make
him feel any obligations towards me for bringing his
child into this world. (My female intuition tells me,
that there is a boy growing inside my belly, but if I
should be wrong and it turns out to be a girl I will be
just as happy.)

My reasons for taking this step are more complex.
Although my Mistress can be quite harsh at times and my
Master is very demanding, I still feel that they treat me
with more leniency than I deserve. They look at me as a
human being and they adjust their demands when they
notice that I am tired or under stress.

A child will not have any concern for these subtle
changes in my disposition. There probably can't be a more
complete, more demanding Master than a hungry child,
eager to get its mouth on my breasts to satisfy its need.
There can't be anybody more tyrannical than an infant who
needs his nappy changed or wants attention any time of
the day or night.

My Mistress with her persistent use of clamps and the
cunt-opener has managed to achieve some physical changes
of my body, mainly my nipples, my clit and my pussy lips.
But this is nothing compared to the changes my body will
undergo when the child inside me grows bigger and bigger.
What is the discomfort caused by being suspended in the
pillory or by wearing the cunt-opener compared with that
which accompanies a pregnancy: the morning sickness, the
swollen limbs, the backache from the weight of the child
in my belly? No matter how much my Master's big cock
stretches my vagina, it is insignificant compared with
the stretching I will experience when I give birth to his
child, when the infant's head will force its way to the
outside.

All these thoughts passed through my mind when I took
this important decision. And I want to assure you that I
did not take it lightly. I see it as a way of taking my
submission to my Master one gigantic step further.

I'm sure that my Master's son will not hesitate to accept
my submission. In fact, he will demand it. The thought of
how he will be looking for my breasts to quench his
thirst and satisfy his hunger makes me wet my panties. I
wonder if other mothers find feeding their children as
sexually stimulating as I do. My child will not have to
look far to find the objects of his desire. Not least,
because my nipples will be sticking out like two
lighthouses situated on the hills of neighbouring shores.
He will clasp one of them with his lips and suck without
the least consideration for my comfort.

My breasts will always be at his disposal, giving him a
plentiful supply of nourishment and also providing the
much needed physical contact. Just as my breasts will
provide his first oral experience of the outside world,
the rest of my body will be the playground on which he
will make his first tactile discoveries. His little hands
will roam over my body, grasp, pull my hair. The touch of
his skin on mine will be as fulfilling as the most
intimate caress.

Maybe it will help me to shed some of my pride when I
change his nappies, wipe his bottom, dry and powder him.
I will perform these humble tasks like thousands of
mothers do every day, but none of them does it with more
devotion and as free from any resentment as I will.

I can't wait until my Master's child is born so that I
can submit entirely to my child Master - I'm ready for
the ultimate submission.


                         The End

[Closing Comments]

When I started to write this piece, roughly a year ago, I
did not expect it to develop into something which is more
appropriately called a book rather than a story. What
started out as 'Jacqueline's Story', became 'The Ultimate
Submission', but I decided to keep the original title in
brackets, as a kind of subtitle.

'Jacqueline's story' didn't start out as a 'BDSM' story.
Some people might comment that it still isn't one. I
won't argue with them. It isn't one of my life ambitions
to fit neatly into a clearly defined category, and it
seems that my stories also resist attempts at putting
them into pigeon-holes.

The story was conceived as the account of a young woman
whose curiosity about sex makes her want to try out
whatever comes her way. I had no clear idea where this
might lead and let Jacqueline, the main character, find
her own way. Other characters asserted themselves too.
Caroline, who had been assigned only a supporting role,
claimed a place on centre stage.

While I let the plot develop and allowed Jacqueline to
get involved in a number of adventures, I wrote four,
considerably shorter stories and posted them between
February and May 2004. The response to these efforts
encouraged me to carry on with Jacqueline's expanding
saga.

When I read those four stories on the internet I noticed
that quite a few errors had slipped through and that some
things might have been worded better. There are probably
errors out there which I didn't spot - an author reading
his own work often sees what he expects to see, not
necessarily what is really there.

I decided that my first big story would be reviewed by an
editor before being posted. I consider myself lucky to
have had the help of Peter Z who scrutinized my
scribbling and pointed out errors and other problems. He
amazed me by keeping a cool head amid the hottest scenes,
finding errors and inconsistencies without letting the
orgasmic screams of the protagonists distract him. There
is no doubt in my mind that the final product has gained
considerably from Peter Z's contribution. It gives me
great pleasure to use this opportunity to extend a heart-
felt 'Thank you' to Peter Z.

I also want to thank those who have taken the time to
send me their feedback. Your comments are appreciated,
regardless of whether they are terse or elaborate,
enthusiastic or critical. Amongst the readers who have
sent me their comments, one deserves a special mention.
Mistress Fortuna sent me enthusiastic, elaborate and
thoughtful observations about many of the early chapters
and promised to give a final verdict when the story has
been posted completely. With readers like you, Mistress
Fortuna, the effort of writing and publishing stories
becomes worthwhile.

Finally, a word, or rather three words, to those readers
who haven't yet sent me their comments: Do it now! Your
feedback is the only way I can know what you like about
my stories, what you don't care for, and what you feel is
missing. The fact that you've got to this point seems to
indicate that you didn't consider reading this story a
complete waste of time. So why don't you just think of
one thing you liked and one thing you disliked about the
story and send them to me. Or maybe three things you
liked and one thing you disliked - I think you get the
picture. In return for your effort you'll get an e-mail
with the electronic autograph of the author. ;-) And
possibly an even better story next time around.

Gato Medio