Date: Mon, 5 Nov 2007 23:12:53 +0000 (GMT)
From: Nexis Pas <nexispas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Magic Words

The Magic Words

Nexis Pas (nexispas@yahoo.co.uk)

Copyright 2007 by the author

With thanks to Barney--maybe, sort of, well, I'll think about it.

When I opened the door, the slave was kneeling with his head facing the
floor. The flickering candle flames danced in the thin coating of oil he
had applied to his scalp and body. Those reflections please me so much. The
kaleidoscope of multiple images of shifting glowing shapes brought me to a
halt. They are so entrancing. I find it hard to pull my eyes away from such
beauty. They are pleasures to be enjoyed slowly, to be sipped and savoured
like a drop of fine brandy evaporating on the tongue and leaving the
promise of more delights to come. I had to force myself to breathe slowly
and evenly, to master myself, to find the inner peace and serenity that
discipline my desires.

His body is a canvas for me to mark in ways that amuse me. His body is so
beautiful. I love to look at it, to revel in my possession of it. I spend
hours each week preparing the surface, shaving it until it is smooth and
free of hair. I love it when the razor scrapes the foam off and reveals his
muscular flesh beneath, the sharp edges of the muscles, the veins that
throb at the surface. I oil the body so that it gleams. I paint it with
bright colours, fantastic designs that disguise the flesh. I cover it with
latex. I pose it and render it immobile to form a visual feast. The lash,
the whip, the belt, the paddle, the clamp, each leaves a distinctive trace
of its passage. With patience and skill, one can create of portrait of
pleasure/pain upon the body. It is structure of infinite variety. And the
marks fade, the paints wash off. It is a canvas that always renews
itself. One evening's masterpiece is gone by the next day, and the body is
ready for a new work of art.

That evening, he held a silver salver, with a belt coiled neatly on it
lying in the precise centre. He had arranged the end with the buckle so
that it lay atop the coil, and he presented it to me so that the buckle
faced me and I could lift it without effort. The slave is so thoughtful of
my pleasures, but I am not always ready for them. `I am tired. It has been
a long day. Perhaps later, after dinner, when I have had a chance to rest.'

`Please, Master.' His soft voice insinuated itself into my mind. He has
such a beautiful voice. I love to listen to it. I found my eyes being drawn
irresistibly to the buckle, the way it gleamed in the light. I reached out
my hand and traced the edge of the coil of leather. Around and around. The
leather on the edge of the belt was slightly abrasive, and it tugged at my
finger, drawing it backward. The slave had worked glove oil into the
leather so that it shone. He keeps every surface in this house
polished. Everywhere one looks a thousand motes of light catch the eye and
draw it in.

I touched the buckle, felt its smooth cold surface warm beneath my hand. It
felt so good as my hand closed around it, so natural. I should always have
a belt in my hand. It feels so good to hold a belt in my hand. Especially
this belt. It is a very long belt that the slave found somewhere and
brought to me. It would go twice around my waist and probably more than
that around the slave's. The buckle is very heavy. When he first showed it
to me, the leather was dull, and the buckle was tarnished. He worked on it
to restore the leather and bring the shine back to the buckle. It feels
very good in my hands, and it is heavy enough that it swings swiftly and
accurately through the air. When it hits the slave's body, the sound
satisfies me deeply, it is as if it resonates throughout my body, spreading
gratification in a widening ripple. It is one of my favourite instruments.

I folded it over and held the two ends in my hand. I lifted the belt to my
nose and smelled the leather. I kissed it and closed my mouth across its
width, stroking it with my tongue. A great peace pervaded me. I
contemplated the slave's body. The first mark of the evening is always the
crucial one. All subsequent marks have to grow out of that to create the
pattern. A badly placed stroke cannot be redone. It would ruin the entire
evening. The first stroke must be firm. The edges of the welt need to be
clearly defined. It is the foundation on which the structure of pleasure is
erected.

The slave bent over and grasped his ankles with his hands, the left side of
his body facing me with his buttocks exposed. Each cheek swelled out in a
perfectly rounded mound of white flesh, the deep crack between them in
shadow. I lifted the belt and brought it down squarely. It snapped against
his flesh. A cry of joy escaped my lips. I dropped the belt to the floor. A
red welt formed on the apex of each cheek, two perfect rectangles, exactly
perpendicular to the crack. I was very satisfied with the result. The basis
had been well and truly laid.

`Thank you, Master.' I felt renewed. All of the day's cares and annoyances
dropped away. The slave always anticipates what I need at the end of my
work day. He knows how to restore me.

`Master, please allow me to help you change.' I nodded my
acquiescence. `Thank you, Master.' My clothes suddenly seemed so
constricting, imprisoning my body within that carapace of business suit and
tie. My feet ached to be released from the shoes the slave keeps so
brilliantly polished. I led the way to my dressing room, the slave crawling
behind me. He knelt before me and removed my shoes, easing my weary feet
out of them. It felt so good to have the slave undress me. I feel so good
when he performs this service for me. He is so gentle when he frees my body
from the costume it has to present to the world during the day and
liberates me, the real me.

I admired my body in the wardrobe mirrors. The daily exercises I started a
few months ago have had excellent results. They have tightened my muscles
and toned them. My evenly tanned body contrasts so nicely with the white
body of the slave lying at my feet. His body is white, it almost glows in
the shadows along the flow of the room, the red mark across his buttocks
still the only mark on his impeccable flesh. I love to look at the two of
us in the mirrors. We are reflected from all sides, images doubled and
multiplied in the endless abyss of the mirrors.

`Master, please may I present your clothes for tonight.' I nodded my
acquiescence. `Thank you, master.' Of course, the slave was
right. Appropriate clothing was needed for the evening. He drew out a
garment and held it for me to step into. He stood behind me so that I could
watch as he pulled the thong over my thighs and placed it over my
groin. The black fabric flowed onto my body in thousands of reflections in
the mirrors. He adjusted the straps in back and smoothed it between my
buttocks. The cool fabric felt so good against my body. I love wearing
thongs. It makes me feel so good to wear thongs. So good. So sexy. So
strong.

The slave walked into the closed and emerged a few seconds later holding
one of the red leather boxes stored there. He opened it as he approached me
so that I could approve of his choice. `Please, Master.' I nodded my
acquiescence. `Thank you, Master.' It was the perfect choice for
tonight. The slave removed it carefully from the box and stood respectfully
before me. When I indicated that I was ready, he stood on a stool so that
he could reach high enough to put the shiny black hood on me. It fits so
tightly and has to be rolled down from the top of my skull over my head and
face and down around my throat.

It feels so good to wear this hood. I love to wear it. It is my
favourite. The sections over the eyes are pierced with hundreds of tiny
holes that allow me to see, yet cover my eyes completely. From even a short
distance, my eyes cannot be seen. I look so inhuman in this hood. It is as
if I have put on a mask that makes me anonymous, that frees me to be
cruel. The ordinary morals of the human race are irrelevant to the creature
I become. An alien god who entertains himself with the cries of his
slave. I moaned in anticipation of the pleasures that soon would be mine.

`Master, please, can we go to the theatre?' I nodded. `Thank you, Master.'
Of course, the theatre was where we belonged. It is the place for our
nightly plays. There is no audience, but none is needed. There is no one
who could appreciate the masterworks I create there with the slave. I sat
in the only chair in the room and waited for inspiration to arrive. It felt
so good to sit in the chair and wait. As always, I felt aroused and excited
by the prospect of the evening ahead of me.

`Master, please may I show you your latest acquisition.' I nodded. `Thank
you, Master.' The slave took an object from the table on which he had laid
out the selection of tools I might use that evening. I could not fathom the
use to which it might be put. An oval band about an inch high and perhaps a
quarter inch thick of spotless chrome. Spaced an inch apart around the
outside were a series of smaller tubes about half an inch in diameter. The
slave lifted the object and then place it on his head. It fit tightly about
his skull above his ears.

He knelt before me and took a box from the table beside me, removing the
lid so that I could see the contents. The box held a dozen wax tapers in
various colours. I lifted one of the candles from the box and stared at it
and then at the metal device on the slave's head. I motioned him closer. He
edged forward on his knees. The candle fit perfectly in one of the smaller
tubes. I saw now that the slave was wearing a candelabrum on his head. One
by one I fitted a candle into all the small tubes, until each one was
filled. When I finished, I had to straighten several of them so that they
were all neatly aligned and perfectly upright.

For the first time, I noticed a box of matches on the table. I slipped it
opened, and the sharp smell of sulphur rose to my nose. The match snapped
and flared when I scraped it against the sandpaper strip. Slowly and
ritually I lit each of the candles. The slave knelt motionless on the
stage, a corona of flames illuminating his body. I turned out all the
lights and sat back down. The slave seemed to float in the darkness, only
his head and upper torso visible in the flickering light.

I love candlelight. It is so magical. I love to watch the flames and how
they sway. The slave knows this and caters to my hunger for the
flames. Since he arrived a few months ago, the number of candles in this
house has multiplied beyond counting. I am never far from one, always able
to indulge my ability to sit and stare deeply into the flames for hours. I
find them so peaceful and relaxing.

My eyes followed a drip of molten red wax as it slowly flowed down the
candle. It clung for a second to the holder and then dropped onto the
slave's chest. A short red line appeared on his right pec. The next drop
followed the same path and lengthened the red line just a bit. Each
succeeding drop made the line grow. Soon it was joined by others. I watched
with fascination for hours as a random work of art took shape on the
slave's body. Eventually, the candles burned down and guttered. One by one
they flickered out until we were left in the darkness.

`Thank you, Master.' I orgasmed.

******

The slave has been with me for only a few months now. I did not begin to
live until he came to me. True, he is an expensive toy. I have to work long
hours to afford the entertainments he gives me, but I have no other
interests now. My days may be tedious, but my nights are a thousand points
of light. He is such a polite slave, always saying `please' and `thank
you'.


(The idea for this tale arose from my inadvertent and unwilling exposure to
a Barney video at the home of friends. Their toddler was being kept
enthralled and thankfully quiet by the cavortings of a purple dinosaur
named Barney. Unfortunately my exposure to the beast lasted long enough for
the song he was singing to be imprinted on my brain: `Please and thank you
are the magic words'. That refrain has since been circulating endlessly in
my mind, and this story is an attempt to exorcise it. I pray it will be
successful.)