Aida

Aida

This story contains scenes of extreme bondage and discipline behavior. If you find that sort of thing a turn off than click your back button now. If you find that sort thing a turn-on, then please read on. You have been warned.

Aida – Doctor B

I met her at a company sales dinner two years ago. I was rather intrigued by her. Normally I would not enter into any kind of flirting with a female co-worker for the simple reason that any conversation could be misconstrued and come back to haunt me. However, since Estelle worked for a subsidiary of ours she was not technically a co-worker.

I found out that she was new to the company and worked in inside sales. I’m a fairly open-minded person and found it quite refreshing that our lily white company would hire an African woman. That’s one reason why she stood out of the crowd, but there was more to it than simple skin color. She was, in a word, stunning.

Her features were distinctly Nubian and refined. Her skin color was somewhere between the deep luxurious color of baker’s chocolate and obsidian. Her face was classically refined, no, that’s not quite right, sculpted would be a better description. She had small ears set rather low on the sides of her head and her cheek bones were chiseled and proud. Her nose was broad and flat but not overly large for the size of her face. As I glanced across the room at her I could not help but think of some of the African art pieces I had seen in museums.

She had long hair done in fine braids that were gathered in large gold clasp high on her head which allowed the bundle of braids to fall to her shoulders. Some might call the hairstyle mop-like, but that would be unkind as well as a poor description. Her hair was a distinct cultural statement, a wonderful ethnic look that an Afro-American could not easily pull off.

Her dress was a fiery red with an African pattern of brown and gold ticking at the neckline and open in the back. Her shoulders were exposed, well defined and slightly muscular. She was the vision of athleticism. No, more than that, she was cat-like energy prowling the room. She mingled and moved from conversation to conversation easily and certainly did not have the air of new employee. She behaved very comfortably in this large group of very tight-assed white people. One could almost say she owned the room.

I approached her and after some simple small-talk I asked her how she was settling into her new job. Her voice was very clear and her English was very proper with faint French lilt to it. I learned later that she was born in southern Egypt and had been raised multi-lingual in France. It was plain that I was fascinated over her origins and her youth and she was kind enough to answer all my questions no matter how stupid. She quietly explained what her childhood in the deserts of Egypt was like and how her parents made a good living out of such a remote place. I loved her description of the area, “Stunning Desolation.” What delightful phrase.

It was when the party was winding down that the subject became less benign and began to turn a bit more flirtatious. The turning point was when she asked if I enjoyed opera. We discussed the subject for a short time until we came to favorites. For me it was a toss-up between Figaro and Aida. For her it was decidedly Aida. As I thought about her answer I told her that she was what Aida must have looked like, a queen unconquered.

I will claim complete ignorance to the fact that I did not know people of such deep color could be seen to blush, but she did, and with a large smile to boot. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Because she was both a queen and slave. Even though her people had been conquered she was not, even in a life of desperate servitude,” I said. “She was willing to die a slave for her love of another rather than live free a queen.” It was time to feel Estelle out on the subject of bondage and discipline and this discussion opened up a fairly polite avenue. If she did not pick up on the hint then no harm would be done. If she did pick up on the hint then incredible and delightful harm would be done.

Her response was equally bold. “Many do not understand that in submission there is great power, n’est-ce pas?”

“Yes, I understand,” I replied with a polite smile.

I had sold the contract of my last personal slave and had taken a year off from that part of my life. B&D or S&M requires an extended commitment and I needed some time off. Ironically I had sold my last slave to a former lover of mine who wanted to try her hand at a female slave, so the timing had been right. Now I was looking to begin again and Estelle fit the bill physically. The dance that was to commence was to determine where her sexuality lay and would she be willing to serve me.

I asked if she would like to get a cup of coffee after the party was over and she politely said, “Oui.” The dance had begun.

Over coffee we danced around the subject with quaint innuendo and vague conversation until I felt comfortable enough with the fact that we both understood the true content of our conversation. I finally asked the question outright, “Estelle, do enjoy submission?”

For the first time she glanced away from me and simply said, “Oui.”

“Have you ever undergone what we, here, call ‘Training’?”

“Oui, I have.” She paused, followed demurely by, “Sir.”

“Very good. Grab your coat and follow me to my home in your car. We’ll talk further, and I do mean only talk,” I said firmly.

“Oui.”

During the long drive to my home I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. On many occasions I had gotten a woman to this point only see her headlights drop slowly behind then to turn around and head safely home. Always I would call to ask why and every time I would speak to a machine and leave the same message with all of them, “It’s a big step and I understand. Call me when you are ready.” One never pursues a slave.

She pulled up behind me and got out of the car. My house is larger than many in the area but not grandiose. I guessed to her it was quite large as she looked around and let out low sigh of surprise. “It is very remote here and I suspect very quiet as well, is it not?”

“Follow me two steps behind,” I said firmly.

“Oui,” was all she said.

Upon entering, I took her coat and I lead her through the large main entry into the kitchen area and stopped before a door that looked like every other door except for the alarm keypad next to it. Unlike the alarm pads for the exterior doors this one worked only for this door. I entered the code which was followed by an affirming little beep and led Estelle down into the ‘Play Room’.

My play room was very elaborate and had various cages, a rack, cross frame, and several hoists. There was equipment for electric play, enemas, and a set of stirrups on a hard plank for various types of ‘physical’ exams. The sound-absorbing black tile ceiling was just bristling with eye hooks and on one wall I had one of almost every type of whip, mask, restraint and bondage toy made. Off to one corner was my favorite toy, an antique barber’s chair which was modified with restraining hard points and a unique vacuum restraint system.

By the look of her Estelle was fascinated. She wandered around the room examining it carefully. “Such a wonderful collection,” she said, more than to just herself. She touched one of the whips and picked up a large flexible red cane that hung from a leather thong. She moved it around to get the feel of it until she swung it as hard as she could. The cane made a sickening buzz as it ripped through the air. She carefully replaced it on its peg. She then turned and approached the barber’s chair and cautiously touched the leather seat.

“May I ask a question?”

“Yes my dear, anything you wish.”

“Would you use this chair on me?”

I smiled at her warmly. “You know the nature of this game Estelle. I would do nothing you would not want me do. Do you want to be in this chair?” I asked.

She looked at the floor and I could see that she was considering carefully what to say next. She then stood proud and tall and looked me in the eye. “Monsieur may do as he wishes without complaint from this slave. If monsieur wishes to make me hairless for his enjoyment then this slave’s desire is to make monsieur happy,” she said in her faint French accent.

“I would very much like to have you in this chair. Do you not agree that a slave should be well groomed at the foot of her master?” I asked.

“Oui, a slave should look as good as she can for her master in whatever manner master may demand,” she replied.

“Very good my dear. Then it’s settled. You may leave for the evening. You are to return on Friday evening at exactly 6:00PM and we will discuss the rules further. You will be properly groomed by Sunday night, so I would recommend that you take care of purchasing a wig before then so that you will presentable at work. You will wear exactly what you have on now except for two things. First, no undergarments of any kind. Second, you will wear this,” I explained as I tossed her a strap-on vibrator. “Once it is in place, turn it on and come to me. Only I will be able to turn it off.”

“Oui, monsieur. I shall not be late, and monsieur will please use the red cane as well?”

I replied invitingly, “That and whatever else you beg for, my dear.”

After she left, I could simply not wait until Friday.

On Friday at 5:50PM there was a polite but firm knock at my door. “Good evening Estelle, and welcome!” I said and led her into the foyer. She looked stunning in her red dress and her hair was in the same braided style. The expression on her face gave away the fact that the vibrator was wearing her down. It had taken her over an hour to get to my home and you can well imagine the long-term effect the vibrator had taken.

As I again led her through the house to the play room she let out a soft sigh. “Wonderful, another orgasm,” I thought. Once in the play room I commanded her to stand in the middle of the room and I immediately cuffed her hands behind her back and spread her elbows with a wooden bar. I next cut her dress from her body with a large knife. Her eyes followed my every move and her muscles tensed several times as the dull side of the blade touched her skin.

With her stripped naked I walked around her examining her in a very clinical manner. I very forcefully removed the vibrator and her knees weakened for moment before she recovered. I noted satisfactorily that her sex was completely shaved and the outer labia were fully engorged and opened.

I nodded my approval to her. This young creature was very fit and lithe. I lowered a rope from a pulley in the ceiling, gathered her hair into strain relief sock, and tugged very hard. She raised up transferring her weight to the balls of her feet as her hair began to take some of her body weight. How long she could remain this way before her calves gave out was going to be her first test.

I left her that way through the night; alone in an unfamiliar dark room held by her hair. She was in no danger of course. The rope was hooked to a ring in the ceiling equipped with a simple limit switch and timer. If the rope took the load for more than five minutes straight an alarm would go off in my bedroom indicating the slave had collapsed.

Much to my surprise the alarm never sounded through the night. I was quite impressed with her stamina and resolve.

The next morning I undid her restraints and fairly whipped her into the shower. There she cleaned herself exactly as I ordered. I made sure she shaved her crotch, legs and underarms. I guess she knew what was coming as she asked if she should undo her fine braids. “No my dear, we’re going to have a little fun with them,” I responded.

Clean and dried I put her in a hard arm bar. I frog-walked her to the barber’s chair.

Enveloping the chair is a large bag into which she now stepped. I made sure she was seated comfortably and then sealed the bag around her. It’s an ingenious contraption that I developed from a vacuum bonding system used in our composite manufacturing group. I switched on a vacuum cleaner which is housed in silenced enclosure so that only loud hum can be heard. Slowly the bag began to deflate around Estelle until it began to suck to her skin. After that it pulled her into the chair and locked her arms to the arm rests and her feet to the foot rest. With just three or four pounds of vacuum the bag will exert an incredible restraining force. The trick is to use enough vacuum to both restrain the slave and make breathing tolerable, but difficult. It’s not as fine a line as it may sound. Having tried the contraption myself I can say it’s like using a two-foot long snorkel tube while fully submerged. Disconcerting but by no means dangerous. Estelle was completely helpless and was in fact literally part of the chair.

At this point I would have normally run a set a clippers over a slave’s head and then shave her several times. In this case, I wanted to keep some of the fine braids and weave them into a set of restraints for her. That and use her own hair as restraining rope. So, very carefully and meticulously I placed a small tie around each end of each braid. This was very time consuming.

After that I snipped each braid close to the scalp. I purposefully left two dozen or so braids on her crown. I wove these remaining fine braids into a rope-like ponytail, interweaving the fine braids so that the ponytail ended in a loop. I inserted a steel lifting ring through the loop. To reinforce the weaving I used a sail-maker’s needle and heavy linen thread so that when I was done the central third of the ponytail looked like the end of a sailing mast stay. This permanently-attached rope would come in very handy for use as a restraint. In a month or so, I would shave this as well. That is, when she begged me to.

It took quite some time to snip each braid. Estelle sat snug in her cocoon breathing with moderate difficulty but never once hinting at a need to use the safe word. With all the braids gone I fired up the clippers very close and behind her left ear. She tried to jump but couldn’t move.

I ever-so-slowly ran the clippers over her head. She half closed her eyes and moaned moving her head subtlety into the motion of the clippers. She was enjoying this quite thoroughly. I needed to stop that so flipped off the clippers and slapped her hard on the cheek. She was shocked out her reverie.

“I’m very sorry sir. I apologize for showing pleasure. I await your punishment,” she said with downcast eyes.

I continued with the clippers and Estelle never made another sound. If she still enjoyed what was happening, which I’m sure she did, you would never know it. Her face had become a mask.

With the scalp around the large braid clippered it was time to beginning the shaving. I applied an ample amount of shave gel to her exposed scalp. The color contrast was quite striking and a bit comical. Here was a vacuum-packed woman with extremely dark skin and a big white lump on her head as if a possum had died on her head. It was really quite odd.

I slowly stropped a straight razor in front of her face. Her eyes watched the blade move forward and backward across the old piece of leather. “You really want this don’t you?” I asked.

She only nodded and then lowered her head in anticipation of the blade.

Very slowly and very carefully I began to shave her head one square inch at a time. After perhaps fifteen minutes all the lather had been shaved away. Using her new rope-like ponytail I jerked her head up very hard to face me. She had a meek look to her.

The final steps in the process were to use a hot towel and soften up the remaining fine stubble, reshave her and give her final polish. The polish was my own special touch.

I pulled a steaming hot towel out the steam chest and unceremoniously dropped it on her head. She sucked in a deep breath of pain at the sudden heat and almost shook her head to get rid of the piping hot towel, but to her credit she didn’t do it. I left the towel in place for about ten minutes, removed it and quickly spread a thick layer of fresh gel.

For the second time, this week anyway, I used the straight razor to scrape away the lather and her hair. Since her scalp was basically hairless at this point I used longer and more flowing strokes. The sharp blade fairly glided over her scalp loosing large swaths of white foam. The last part was to very carefully shave around her ears.

The shaving complete I dried her head with a towel and then a blow drier set on low. I use a blow drier to make sure that absolutely no moisture remains on a slaves scalp because the last part of her grooming is to use a hot beeswax and a buffing cloth to give her head incredible polished luster.

I quickly rubbed the softened wax over her scalp and kneaded it in. Allowing it to dry hard, I next used a buffing chamois attached to an old-fashioned barber’s scalp/hand massager. Slowly moving the makeshift buffer over her scalp, in manner similar to waxing a car, the effect gave her head an incredible polish. I had learned this trick quite by chance from a program about ancient Egyptian household life on TV.

When I was done Estelle’s head was completely naked but for the central rope braid which stood out straight from her head. Her shaved scalp shone so brilliantly from the polishing as to reflect the lights in the room clearly. She was the vision of subjugation.

I released her from her vacuum encasement and allowed her time to move her stiffened muscles and joints. She wandered slowly to a mirror near the chair and carefully looked at herself and touched her polished scalp. She turned to me and with her voice shaking said, “This slave is most grateful to her master for this.” She then crawled over to me and asked if she could in some way service me.

“Yes, stand up and move to the center of the room and snap the rope into your braid,” I commanded.

With a light stride she moved to the middle of the room and did as commanded.

I went to the rack on the wall and began to select an appropriate punishment tool. I watched her as her eyes followed my movements taking a cue from her as to what she wanted me to use. As I suspected her eyes rested on the cane. Very few slaves had ever been able to take the cane for a few strokes let alone want it used at all or first.

I again hoisted her onto the balls of her feet and blindfolded her but this time left her hands free. I allowed her to choose a different safe word and placed a kerchief in her hand. Say the word or drop the kerchief and the session would stop. I had blindfolded her. It was now time to test her mettle.

Slaves feared the cane like no other item, including the bull whip which hung alongside it. The object of the cane was inducing terror. The sound is so horrifying that even to me it is scary. Used properly the energy of the blow is completely dissipated prior to making contact such that it stings no more than a hard paddle slap. It’s the psychological impact of the thing that makes it so wonderful.

In the wrong hands the cane had the ability to rip through flesh like butter.

By her choice I had the feeling at that moment that Estelle was going to prove to be an extraordinary slave.

I loosened up by performing some kendo-like exercises raising and lowering the cane and flexing my arms through their full range of motion. As I warmed up the cane’s speed began to increase dramatically. The dull buzz made by the tip as it whizzed through the air began to increase in volume and in pitch until it was a keening wail of hellish fury. The end of cane was invisible as it ripped through the air and the sound can only be described as being like the wail of an artillery shell.

Fully warmed up I ripped the cane past Estelle’s left ear. She flinched violently and her weight fell entirely on her hair. That caused a cascade reaction of muscle movements as she tried to regain her balance, all the while the cane kept moving, its wail filling the room. Estelle did not drop the kerchief.

Once she had become stable again I ripped the cane even closer to her ear. To her credit she barely flinched. It was now time to test her pain threshold. I again ripped the cane past her ear and landed a light blow on her left buttock. Again she flinched violently and her weight fell entirely on her hair. I did not wait for her to regain her balance and landed a harder blow on her buttock. She jumped again and at last regained her balance.

She was learning the pattern so I slowly began to increase the force of the blow. After ten strokes, she was beginning to lean into each blow welcoming it. After thirty, she was pleading for me to keep going. I then began fresh on her right buttock. I was actually beginning to tire. No slave had ever taken more than twenty blows before. The last thing I wanted to do was risk breaking the skin. Was she testing my mettle or I hers?

As increased the severity of each blow I demanded that she drop the kerchief. Each time in a panting scream she said no. Back and forth this went eight times with each blow becoming harder and the welts on her buttocks becoming more severe and ugly. Finally, I had no choice. I had to make her want to stop this because if I stopped it she would know she had won. If I was to make her submit I would actually have to hurt her.

I let loose the most violent blow I have ever used on another person and drew a trickle of blood from her right butt cheek. She let loose a hellish scream and her knees buckled. The kerchief had finally dropped to the floor, thank God. Very quickly I dropped the cane and grabbed her in my arms, lifted her up and removed the rope in her hair. I held her tight, kissed her gently on each cheek, and carefully laid her down on her stomach on the soft mat.

Never in all my years of these games had I encountered someone like Estelle. Her tolerance was incredible and her need for abuse even more so. I was so ashamed of what I had done I began to cry.

I removed the blindfold. Her checks were tear-covered, her nose was dripping snot and she was panting like a racehorse. Through her gasps she was saying, “Thank you for freeing me… Thank you for freeing me,” over and over. I ran up to the kitchen and put some ice in a bag. As I placed the ice on her rent buttocks she gasped and then cooed at the refreshing cold.

“Estelle, why did you want me hurt you so?” I asked through my own tears.

“Because it is what I wanted. No one has ever been willing to injure me for my pleasure. Thank you.”

She was a rare find, this one.

I let her rest for a few hours and she fell asleep tied to the mat. Around 3:00AM I awakened her and changed her position then fed her. Fruit, chocolate, wine and all very messily. I then let her sleep through the night.

As stood over her sleeping form I could not help but wonder what lay ahead. I respected this woman for her toughness, her honesty and admired her desire to pursue what many would never wish consider in themselves. Just like Aida she had found great power in submission and just like Aida’s lover I was willing to do anything to giver her that power. Perhaps I was falling in love with her, I don’t quite know.

I did know one thing for sure; it would not be long before I would use the razor again.

 

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