From: akasha@netcom.com

*****
  
CHANCE
   
*****
 

After a major social revolution in 2034, pretty much all forms of 
sexually deviant behavior were outlawed.  Ironically, society went 
along with this for the most part, and everything took on a 
hideously puritanical slant.  For my family, I will admit, this was 
a good thing.  Perhaps in the bigger cities things were worse, with 
underground drinking, drugs and crime, but we did not hear 
much  We kept to ourselves.

But I was one of the unlucky ones, I guess, because I grew up 
feasting regularly on my sexual passions, many of which are now 
considered highly anti-social, deviant, and punishable by time in 
prison.  Needless to say, it put a damper on my play.  But I dealt 
with it, as everyone did.

Men seemed strangely in favor of this new change, and society for 
the most part was driven and fueled by the working class fathers.  
Women stayed at home and raised children.  

Tendencies like mine were not only frowned upon, but were 
illegal.  If anyone knew, I would be shamed and probably put in 
jail.  No one even talked about it anymore.  I kept it out of my 
head, most of the time, but I will admit, sometimes I could not 
help it.

I simply had to accept it.

There was a winter evening, I remember, when I took a taxi into 
the city.  Traffic was heavy, even though it was snowing.  I 
walked in my long wool coat and gloves to the corner, that same 
corner I had visited months before.  The corner that I always 
feared would be gone, but it never was.  

He was standing there, leaning against a wall, his hands in his 
pockets.  He looked much older now, cynical.  I had twelve 
hundred dollars in cash in my pocket and was terrified.  Last time 
it had been one thousand, but I brought extra, fearing his price 
had gone up like everything else in the past months.

I don't think he recognized me.  I wondered how many women he 
saw like this, a night, how many transactions like this went on.  I 
wondered how many of my friends were doing the same thing, if 
any.

Since my kink of choice was one of the most rare, it was one of the 
most expensive.  I wanted to own a man, to control him, to hurt 
him, to humiliate him, and to use him for my pleasure.  In a 
society driven by men and the pride of men, this was considered 
one of the worst crimes against society.  I really didn't care, it 
wasn't a social issue for me, it was just a primal need.  I needed 
the flesh, the sounds, the tastes.

The men that offered their bodies for this were usually young 
street kids or prostitutes.  They lived in ghettos and slums and 
used the money to eat or buy illegal books and music.  I had never 
seen the same boy twice in my half dozen or so visits to that 
corner.

I whispered to the man that I was looking for a boy, for an hour, 
and that I would pay cash.  He just nodded and fumbled in his 
pocket for some keys, picked up his cellular phone and turned his 
back to me to make some calls.

And I waited.  Those minutes of waiting are the worst, because 
there were times that I had been turned away, put back into my 
taxi and sent home unfed.  And each of those time I returned to 
the corner the next night.

My mouth was dry and my head was spinning.  At that point the 
hunger becomes unbearable because relief seems just in grasp.  He 
was on the phone with my boy, I could hear him talking softly, 
and soon I would have this delicate piece of flesh in my arms to 
do with as I pleased.

He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned.  I must have looked 
like such a desperate woman.  He told me it would be eleven 
hundred dollars so I paid him and he handed me a key and a slip 
of paper with an address.  "His name is Chance, and he's waiting 
for you."

"How old is he?" I asked reflexively, not wanting to break any 
more laws than I already had.

The man turned away from me and muttered, "Old enough."

*****

The taxi ride to see Chance seemed to take forever.  My clothes 
seemed heavy, hot, and my body was already aching for release.  
His name was not familiar, as I had predicted, and I knew nothing 
about him other than that he was going to be mine for an hour.  
Mine to do all the illegal things I had pent up for months.

The apartment building was old and dark.  I made my way up the 
spiral staircase, waiting to see the number "347" on one of the old 
wooden doors.  Everything was quiet and still, haunted.  I wasn't 
scared, as women weren't usually in danger or preyed upon like 
they used to be, I was more tense with anticipation.

I took off my gloves so I could get the key into the lock because 
my hands were shaking.  The door opened slowly and I peered 
inside but saw nothing but a very old and empty room.  The room 
had a single bed with an old white mattress and a strong-back 
wooden chair.   I saw a faint light coming from the bathroom at 
the far side of the room.

I closed the door and it clicked loudly.  I just stood there, 
paralyzed for a minute, my heart pounding with the realization 
that I might just have been duped.  I fought the fear and slid out 
of my trench coat slowly, dropping it into a pile on the floor.

The light flickered in the bathroom and slowly he peered around, 
peeking his head around to see who was there.  In the semi-
darkness I couldn't really see his face.  "Are you my Lady?" he 
asked.

"Yes, I am." I said quietly and just stood there, waiting for him to 
come to me.  

He disappeared back into the bathroom for a moment then came 
out, walking slowly.  His jeans were torn and dirty, his boots had 
buckles that were hanging loose from them.  As he walked over 
he lowered his head, and when he arrived in front of me moved 
down onto both knees.

I was breathing hard, my eyes wandering down at him, trying to 
hold back all the urges at once.  Telling me, yes, yes, he is yours.  
You have an hour, take your time.

Slowly, cautiously, he raised both hands to me, wrists together, 
and held them up.  A gift.  His sacrifice.  The symbol that yes, he 
was mine.

My hands were shaking a little when I took his wrists, held them 
together, watching him intertwine his fingers and clench them 
together.  I leaned down, eyes closed, and started kissing his 
knuckles, tasting his flesh.

From my standing position I was pulling him up by the arms but 
he remained on his knees, wrists together, as I held him as if 
suspending him and moving my mouth down his wrists.  

His breathing was shaking, his skin was cool.  I slowly let go of 
his wrists and moved my fingers over the flesh, opening my eyes 
and looking at his skin.  His wrists were bruised, perhaps scarred, 
some of the marks still recent.  Probably from cuffs too tight, or 
being suspended unsafely.  

I reached down and put my hand under his chin and lifted it, then 
had to carefully push all the dark hair out of his face.  His eyes 
were closed solemnly, his lips barely parted.  There was a light 
bruise on his left cheek.  When I lifted my hand to touch it, he 
recoiled and started shaking.

It occurred to me that whoever had been using him, or perhaps 
many of who had used him, were not careful, not caring, nor 
concerned with his body.  The thought made me want to cry, but 
at the same time I felt tremendous guilt, for I, too, had come for 
the same thing.

But had I really?

I must have had this really blank look on my face as these 
thoughts were racing through my mind because he just stared up 
at me, waiting for me to move, perhaps slap him, degrade him, or 
make him lick my boots.

My own identity was a muddled mess in my head, wondering if I 
was just like these other women that beat and abuse and torture 
Chance then walk out the door and never see him again, if I was 
just such filth with no regard for human dignity or pain.  I started 
to cry.

Chance searched my face and looked confused, but afraid to 
speak.  Finally he said, "Am I not what you wanted?" he asked, 
timid, insecure.

I half laughed and reached up, putting a hand to his face.  "Oh 
god no, you are beautiful." I said to him, admiring his cheekbones, 
his delicate skin.  "I just can't believe anyone would hurt such a 
beautiful creature."

I must have appeared psychotic to him, this woman standing 
there who had just paid over a thousand dollars to use him in just 
the ways I was condemning.  But it was making sense to me, 
somehow, that what I wanted was different.  Still, I started 
shaking with fear and disgust as thoughts crept into my head that 
maybe I was justifying it.

Chance said softly, "May I stand?" and I nodded, not looking at 
him.  He walked across the room slowly and disappeared into the 
bathroom. I heard the jingling of metal for a moment then he 
returned and walked back to me, kneeled down and lifted his 
hands to me.

In them he held old, fading leather shackles, the buckles worn.  
They were long, somewhat tattered.  The sight of them made my 
heart pound.  I was afraid to touch them.  The hunger was coming 
back, pushing away the guilt. All I felt was need. I wanted to cry.

When I took them he raised his wrists again to me, together, his 
head down.

Holding them in my hands made me ache with desire.  I closed 
my eyes and brought them to my lips, absorbed the scent of the 
leather, felt the cold buckles against my cheek.  The wetness 
between my legs was so strong, so overwhelming. I needed it so 
bad.

I wrapped the first strap around his wrist securely but not so tight 
as to rub against his fresh wounds, sliding the leather through the 
buckle and locking it. He kept his fingers intertwined, his head 
down.

"There are more things..." he said softly, not raising his head, "In 
the next room, if you want them.  I am at your command."

I turned and touched his cheek again softly as I made my way 
into the bathroom, leaving him kneeling there with his head 
down, his bound wrists brought now close to his chest.

The bathroom was dirty and unkept, and laying across the 
counter were a wide range of things I had not seen since before 
the revolution.  Paddles, canes, floggers, chastity devices, gags, 
hoods, chains.  I fingered them, smelled them, held them close to 
my body.  I undressed slowly and stood there in bra and panties, 
taking one of the long leather whips and running it down 
between my legs.

I pleasured myself with the whip for some time, imagining more 
what I could do with it than what I would do with it.  The thought 
that the boy was out kneeling for me, leaving these items for my 
use, was more arousing than anything.  Even though I had no 
intention of drawing his blood, leaving bruises on his soft flesh, or 
humiliating him to the point of tears.  That he was out there, 
waiting for that, made me shiver.

I took a handful of things with me and left the bathroom, 
returning to him.  I stood behind him as he knelt with his head 
down and bound wrists held close to his chest.  When I leaned 
down and lifted his shirt he tensed and started shaking a little, 
turning toward the whip I had dropped on the floor next to him 
with a muzzle and cane.

The shirt was thin and I considered tearing it off of him, but 
instead just lifted it over his head, pulling it down to his bound 
wrists and telling him to hold it there.  He nodded, his head 
down, and held it close to his stomach.

When I stepped back and saw his back in the light I let out a gasp, 
eyeing the marks, the deep gashes, the bruises.  Long, red streaks 
from fingernails were trailing down his flesh, some marks old and 
faded, some scars, and some as fresh that they were still healing.

"Who would do this to you!" I hissed.

He was shaking, leaning over a little.

I moved around and kneeled down with him, taking his chin in 
my hand.  When I lifted his head he had tears in his eyes and he 
was shaking. 

"I'm NOT going to hurt you like that, Chance. I want to possess 
you, not torture you.  Didn't they stop when you told them you'd 
had enough? What about your limits? What about limits of 
humanity?"

"I have no limits, my lady," he said softly.

"*I* have limits," I snapped in a heavy whisper. 

He lowered his eyes and said, softly, "You can do anything to me.  
You bought my body.  It is yours."

"I don't want your body, I want your soul.  I want to connect with 
you passionately, not beat you out of hatred for men or spite.  You 
are beautiful, and sweet, and innocent,  like an angel."

He shook his head slowly.  "I am not innocent. I deserve this, my 
lady.  This is what is best for me.  Please, do whatever you want 
for me. I can take it."

I muttered at him and lifted the muzzle to his mouth.  This 
startled him, I think, because I had been so soft to him until then.  
He took it into his mouth and moaned a little as I snapped it into 
place, holding it into his mouth, and leaning up nose to nose with 
him.

"Look at me," I growled.

He opened his eyes slowly, his lashes wet.  He looked at me.

"I don't care what they do to you for money.  I don't care what 
happened to you to make you think you deserve pain.  I don't 
care that you think the pain you submit to will free you from the 
pain inside of you.  It won't. "

The look he had in his eyes was a combination of fear and 
realization.

"I am here to own you.  You'll do what I say.  But I'm not hear to 
hurt you for the sake of inflicting pain.  And you're not hear to 
accept pain for the sake of accepting it."

I leaned forward and slid my hand up into his hair, gripping it 
securely, tightening my fist until he shut his eyes tightly in 
discomfort.  I started to ache again.

I let my breath out and leaned to his ear, whispering, "That is all I 
need from you, Chance.  The smallest sacrifice means more to me 
than welts in your back or blood pouring from your skin."

Everything was a jumbled mess in my mind, at that point, as a 
million thoughts hit me at once.  It was true I had beaten my 
lovers until they had bled when play was still legal.  But I did it 
because pain to them was an element of passion, not torture.  And 
that's what it took to bring them to sacrifice, to the point we both 
wanted.  I had also had lovers that were tender, and timid, and 
merely securing their wrists and ankles to the bed as I dragged 
my long hair down their naked body was enough to make them 
writhe and beg for release.  The passion was still the same.  The 
level of pain was relative to the soul of my lover, and worked 
with him, not against him.

I tried to figure out how to put this into words for Chance, but I 
couldn't.  I tried to explain to him that I did not want or need to 
make him bleed, to bring him to tears.  I just wanted him to 
sacrifice, to submit, and merely having my hand tightly in his hair 
was enough.  He was in enough pain already, I could see.  The 
pain was inside.  The smallest physical discomfort brought it to 
the surface, allowed him to release it. 

I wanted to cry at that point, because the biggest tragedy for him 
was that a beating was probably good for him.  Welts on his back 
probably could help him more than anything, when delivered to 
him by someone who loved him, who wanted to see him release 
that pain so he could be free.  Someone that held him as he sobbed 
in her arms, who told him that the pain was ok, that the pain 
inside needed to come out.  Someone that made love to him 
delicately, carefully, and did not use him as he had been used 
before.  He needed someone that took his pain as a gift and gave it 
back to him in the way of release and comfort, not someone that 
purchased his flesh for money and used it as something to be 
trashed and discarded.

I wanted to cry because I knew I could never be that person for 
Chance, and seeing him where he was made me feel like he never 
would have that from anyone.

And Chance just looked at me as the tears came, and I reached out 
to wrap my arms around him.

I whispered into his ear what I could about what I was feeling.  
The biggest irony of it all was that I needed him, now more than 
ever, no matter how much my other side wanted to bathe him and 
wrap him up in warm towels and put him to bed.

I released his wrists from the restraints and muzzle and told him 
to get undressed and kneel back down.  He did so quietly, 
solemnly, without question or hesitation.  When he was finished, I 
secured his wrists again, this time behind his back.  I blindfolded 
him with a long silk scarf and for the first time kissed him, 
carefully, gently, but holding his head securely in my hands.  He 
parted his lips willingly for me, accepting my tongue into his 
mouth.

"If you need me to stop," I whispered, "just say one word, say 
'salvation', and I will stop.  And you need to promise me that, 
Chance, or else I can't lay a hand on you without worrying."

He nodded slowly but did not speak, lowered his head a little, his 
long bangs hanging down over the silk that covered his eyes.

I prodded him back toward the wall then had him sit, his legs 
down and open.  I pinned him carefully against the wall and slid 
out of my lingerie, moved my naked body close to his, and held 
his head once more as I kissed him, down his neck, his chest, his 
collarbone.  I possessed his body with my tongue, I took time 
moving my hands and lips over him as he sat still, shaking 
occasionally, his breathing the only sound he made.

When I took him full into my mouth he just arched his back a little 
and tensed.  His taste was sweet, his skin hot.  My hands held him 
still by the hips as I used my tongue and lips to coax feeling from 
him, reaction from his body.  He shook a little with my touch and 
bit his lip, lifting his head up and breathing carefully.

I shut my eyes and concentrated on the feel of him in my mouth, 
how his body surrendered finally to my advances.  Holding him 
steady by the hips made me want him even more.  Eventually I 
moved them, toward me, slowly, and guided his movements.  I 
controlled his body, the depth, the sensation.  I expected a quiver, 
a gasp, but he remained silent, the only reaction a slight shaking 
in his body.

I felt a wave of passion come over me as I lifted my eyes to him 
and saw him there, his head up, the cloth covering his eyes.  His 
lips were barely parted, his hair was slightly damp with sweat.  
Part of me wanted to reach down and pleasure myself, but I was 
enraptured with him, my hands tightly around his hipbones.

There was no warning when he came, or perhaps I was too lost in 
the moment to notice it was building.  He just let out his breath 
and shuddered slightly, inhaled deeply.  I tightened my grip 
around his waist to hold him steady, to take him in, pulling up 
slowly and swallowing.  

His head was down, he was breathing softly.  I leaned up and slid 
the silk away from his eyes, which were closed.  I kissed him at 
the side of his mouth and listened to him breathing, his eyes shut 
tight.  I could sense he was feeling a wave emotions, even moreso 
than I.

I just held him, touched his hair.  He was shaking, silent.  I think 
he wanted to cry but couldn't.  I suspected he was confused and 
spent, tired.  His wrists were still bound together but he didn't ask 
for release.

I think I held him there for five minutes or so, then reached down 
and unfastened the buckle, freeing his wrists, expecting him to 
reach up and hold me, but he didn't.  He pulled his hands up and 
crossed them over his chest, bringing his knees up close to him, 
his head down.

"Are you ok, Chance?" I asked softly, touching his bangs.

He nodded slowly but said nothing.

I sat there for a few minutes and he finally leaned over and put 
his head against me but said nothing.  I wanted to cry but didn't. I 
wanted to cry because I knew I would never see him again.  I 
wanted to cry because I knew he needed to heal, he needed to 
heal what was inside of him much more than what was covering 
his skin.  I knew he was blindly looking for pain to release him 
from pain, and that there were plenty of people ready to give him 
that.

It had been over an hour and I knew I needed to go.  My family 
would be wondering where I was.  I took the extra hundred dollar 
bill I had and gave it to him, told him to buy some warm clothes.  
I kissed him on the head and he looked up slowly as I stood to get 
my clothes.

I got dressed and put his things back, then went to the door.  
Chance was still sitting against the wall, his knees up against his 
chest, his arms around them.  He looked like he wanted to say 
something but couldn't.

There was nothing I could do but leave, even though it killed me 
to do it.  "Please be careful, Chance." I said to him.

He nodded and said, "Thank you," as I left the room. I closed the 
door behind me and it clicked, and I left still shaking a little bit.  It 
was a different kind of guilt, it was a deep sadness for something I 
could never have.  I wanted to be the one for him, I wanted to 
rescue him, but I knew that was not my place.  I knew no one 
could protect him.

When I made my way to the stairs I heard high heels coming up 
toward me.  I looked up and saw a woman, like me, in a long 
winter coat.  She looked at me and me at her, and she smiled.  It 
gave me a chill.  

She moved past me with a quiet "Excuse me" and I stopped, 
looking up over my shoulder as she approached the closed door 
to his room.  Her hand reached out to the door and I saw long, red 
painted nails, sharpened to a distinct point.

I turned, rushed back down the stairs to the waiting taxi, and 
cried the entire way home.


(c)Copyright 1996. All Rights Reserved.

-- 

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The slave thinks he is freed from bondage           ---  akasha@netcom.com
Only to find a stronger set of chains               ---  Tania on #femdom
					     http://www.webcom.com/~akasha
__________________________________________________________________________