I could see his wife, they were sitting beside each other basking in the sunshine that came and went. He was Dutch, I am sure, she was British, I think. He was tall, she was rather petite. He had long, unkempt hair; she had soft radiant curls. He had a rugged, world-weary look; she still had an air of innocence about her. He was inked virtually from head to toe; she seemed untouched by any needle. He had seen the world; she had barely opened her eyes to it.
Tempted as I was, tempted enough to give him my very best come hither look, I decided to let this one pass. After all, he was married and on vacation with his wife. His beautiful and absolutely divine wife. I gave myself to the book before me and put him from my mind. I will not deny that my eyes ardently darted in his direction each time I flipped a page, but I took it no further, at least I did not intend to.
He stood up and I noticed the tattoo on his back… Sold, he was one of us, I could not fend off my attack anymore. Little did I know that he was studying the ink on my thigh and thinking along the same lines. We walked into the ocean together where the current would ensure we weren’t overheard. We talked at length; not about our respective countries or our vacation schedules or our professional inclinations, although we did cover that briefly, we talked ofBDSM in our two countries. How radically different yet how underlyingly similar it was. He was polygamous, two ‘long-term’ slaves (Very insistent to make the distinction between a sub and a slave), and a few amorous trysts along the way.
His wife, was not a practitioner of BDSM, instead together they pursued a life of domestic discipline (Once again he was very intent on making the distinction). She was subservient to him, but she was not his submissive.
Despite his rather varied lifestyle, it would seem he had never had an Indian sub, if India is under-represented at the Olympics, then this was non-existence, the country’s ‘honour’ was in my hands.. I had no choice but to take one for the nation, so I did.
‘Would you like to come by to my place in a couple of hours and see I we can’t remedy that?’ I asked, without a hint of trepidation, I already knew the answer anyway. We exchanged information and I showered and left.
It was an Indian he wanted, and it was an ‘Indian’ that I was going to become despite the limited means in terms of clothes that I travel with.
About that afternoon, I will say this, he was stricter than any other Dom that I have been with, nothing was a non-issue. We did not talk or drink or smoke.. Or interact in any other way. From the moment he walked through my gate, he was impassive and downright cold-blooded. He did however insist on both a safe word and signal. I am not one to go into details of ‘sessions’ and write stories on that basis, I do that here, at least in part to… diversify information.
Delighted as he was at my inadvertently Indian appearance, he took way too much pleasure in ripping and tearing my clothes into shreds after he had already tied me into immobility. He behaved quite literally as if I were merely a body and not a person, even more so after he put a few shreds of my clothes in my mouth and taped it shut. He used my anklets and various other trinkets I had adorned and used them to attach my piercings to each other. Not just the obvious ones, all of them; ear to ear, nose to ear, eyebrow to nose.. Pulling on them constantly to ensure they were fixed well enough.
He brought a pillow and began to smother me, unrelentingly. Pushing my head harder and harder into the floor, pulling on the chain holding my ears together each time I attempted to fight. I felt my breath ebb, I felt myself succumb to breathlessness, then fear, finally to panic and then to a place of abject blackness.
He stopped just short of me passing out, with the pillow anyway. Instead, he placed his foot on my face and continued to smother me, holding the chain attached to my nose, he pulled on it and slapped (Slapped?) my face around as he dug his toenails into my cheeks, but he always returned to hold my nose shut.
After a while, he dragged me to the toilet and proceeded to tie my hands, no not hands, each finger to the shower above my head, he pulled my hair back and in a rather convoluted manner tied them to the tap located a little way down, in a way that I was directly facing the face of the shower. I would have fallen (I’m not sure how, but I would have) but he stood on my feet and turned on the water. Difficult as it was to breathe, it wasn’t impossible, well, until he removed the scraps of clothing from my mouth and started using it to block my air passage. The water went from scalding hot to freezing cold and back and forth, just as the opportunities to breathe came and went, fleetingly.
Certain I was going to be found dead in the shower, I began to make.. noise. (*Shame*). Big mistake. He was actually shocked that I had dared to, as if it were.. a cardinal sin. He untied me and quite to me surprise, shoved my face right into the toilet and began to flush. He held me down by my hair as I spluttered and struggled, to no avail anyway.
He urinated into the toilet bowl, right onto my head, I could feel the warmth on the my back and my neck and in my hair. I could feel it in my nose.. even my throat, he took his time and I heaved a sigh of watery relief as he flushed the toilet over my head and threw me back onto the floor.
A few hours later, as evening fell and I lay tied half hanging out of the back window, he fucked (yes, I said fucked) me with an irrefutable fury, till both my mind and legs were numb.
And as he walked out of the house, later, he chucked for the first time ever and said, ‘Indian subs, not a bad bunch’.
Ah, praise enough.