I haven’t written much about my being given to Marc. But I can no longer hide; I’ve been ordered to confess…

I want, always, to please Blackie; so naturally I knew I’d submit to Marc because Blackie had ordered it.

At least I’d not physically resist. But I also secretly (or so I thought) had a weapon: my spirit.

I’d let Marc do whatever he wanted to me, yet I’d retreat… If not to sub space, than to that place of lofty scorn where nothing can touch you.

Yeah, Marc could use me all he wanted. But I wouldn’t react. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of my tears; I’d master my pain. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of my moans; I’d let my disdain distance me. Whatever he might elicit from me would merely be reflexive and boring.  Like a bully with a stoic victim, he’d tire of me and leave me be.

But I should have known better; I have no secrets from Blackie.

And he made sure I’d have no refuge.

Marc’s introduction to me was more than a bit of play, a test, or even an assault; it was indoctrination.

The morning that Marc arrived back at the house, I had been presented as gift, bound nude on the sofa awaiting him.  My arms were cuffed behind me, my legs bent at the knee and spread so that my pussy was fully exposed.

Marc strolled in, cocky and assured. I assumed the same stance in my mind; in spirit I was defiantly replaying how I’d rebuffed his advances when we first met. I didn’t dare roll my eyes for fear Blackie would see, but I held onto that image.

Marc stood over me, he pawed at my tits and told Blackie he was looking forward to getting to those later. Then he held out his hand, palm up like a doctor waiting to receive a scalpel from a nurse. Blackie slapped the Hitachi Magic Wand into Marc’s waiting hand. The switch was turned on and just like that Marc placed it onto my clit.

I hadn’t been prepared for such an attack! I tried to fight it mentally. I did everything I could to withstand it, using every trick I knew to deny an orgasm. But then Blackie’s breath was at my ear. “How’s it feel to have him take it, darling?” he whispered.  “How’s it feel to have this man you hate in charge of your body, of your most sacred offering?”

His taunts meant two things: one, my cover was blown and two, it was being used against me to violate my resistance.

I was panting and squirming trying to fight it off, but with my hiding place no longer a place to hide it was no use. As the first waves of orgasm hit me, I began to cry in frustration and humiliation.

Marc had won.

“I would say, ‘Take that, bitch,’ but it’s I who takes,” Marc gloated.

Orgasms are about as personal as it gets. Having them forced, taken from you, despite your will is the ultimate bodily betrayal. You blame yourself for not having the mental and emotional strength to prevent it, leaving you crushed, beaten — Mastered.

Forcing that orgasm was more than a confidence booster for an already cocky man, but a way to rip away any pretenses I had about who was in control. There was no place for me to hide. Any attempts would merely be exploited.

They could have left it there, but that would have been too easy, at least in their opinions.