Ecstasy of Male Inferiorist
“Four-legged worm!” Mistress Ivy kicked the man away.
He had been groveling, licking her boots. Worshiping her boots is the only physical intimacy she permits men.
Had it only been three months? Or a year since he gave himself to her? His ability to quantify experience was fading.
Perceptions passed through a haze of misery. Sometimes he forgot his identity. That he was anything more than shrieking nerve endings.
Pain the primary sensation. Healing wounds, diminished suffering. Recovery was shattered by fresh hurts.
He felt like a four-legged worm trod underfoot by a being towering above him. He no longer believed that he was six inches taller than Mistress Ivy.
He met her at a fetish party. One of the few clear memories he retained. Visibly strong, her self-possessed posture reflected more than muscular strength. Unashamedly sadistic. She used men. She despised the gender.
It was worship at first sight. He had played with many cruel women. Recreational cruelty was joyous but incomplete.
Then he played with Mistress Ivy. No safeword. No aftercare. Only welts and sneers. He thanked her. She spat on him.
He begged to be her slave. She ignored him and left.
They played again. Only pain pigs could sate her. Transitory satiation. Once under her breath, she said “man,” he could tell it was not just him. She consigned every male to the trash bin.
He was not so much a female supremacist as a male inferiorist. He longed for a downtrodden life. For a woman’s acid voice to call him scum.
He kept begging. The time came when Mistress Ivy needed a new household servant.
She asked him if he was willing to sell his soul. He was oblivious to the melodrama.
He assented. He agreed to every stipulation. She would never release him. Shackles and chains made sure escape was impossible. Confinement, loss of freedom liberated his heart. At first, he was awash in ecstasy.
She was a hard Mistress Owner. Exhausted and aching, he still reveled in his servility.
Mistress Ivy was never kind. No man could arouse her compassion.
At first, she enjoyed his obsequious compliance. But the more she was around any male, her contempt deepened. The need to hurt him more was irascible.
She wanted to crush his masochismo.
He thought glowing eyes was a trope of bad writers.
Mistress Ivy’s eyes glowed. With hate? Did she hate him? Now he trembled. Feared he made the worst decision of his life.
She beat him more often and intensely. Dungeon sessions might last a full day. Even longer.
Her abrupt condescension evolved into stinging verbal abuse.
She bought a big, heavy cane. A corporal punishment device as fearsome as a sjambok.
Repeatedly she ordered him to climb on the punishment platform.
Strokes of the cane knocked the breath out of him. He feared she would break his bones. Cripple him for life.
He wondered what had become of her prior slave. What would become of him?
Even Mistress Ivy has yet to decide.