“I want to be defiled by the hands of a Japanese Mistress until I am broken into pieces.”
On a night so frigid it felt as if the snow would begin to fall at any moment, an American man knelt before me and uttered those words.
Without even glancing at him, I gave my command: “Strip off everything you’re wearing.”
His body was devoid of a single scratch or scar; it was glaringly obvious that he was a complete novice to the world of SM. I thought to myself, Another spoiled brat who’s all talk, and I had no intention of taking him seriously. However, I was curious to see just how much backbone this massive American had, so I decided to play along until he cried for mercy.
My style of sadism is best described as “torture.”
I handcuffed his wrists behind his back, forced him to kneel naked on the cold floor, and used my scarf as a blindfold. Robbed of both his sight and his freedom, he was visibly trembling with excitement. I crept up behind him without a sound, grabbed the back of his head, and slammed it into the ground. Though he showed a flash of bewilderment, his arousal remained unshaken. If anything, the air around him felt heavy with anticipation for the torture I was about to inflict.
Sensing that atmosphere, my switch flipped instantly.
I lashed a single-tail whip across his back. I lost count of how many times the sound of tearing air echoed through the room. My whipping is not like the aimless thrashing of slaves in Medieval Europe. Every single strike is heavy; I listen to each sound as it hits the filthy skin of a slave, savoring it as a form of art. Even the worthless noises produced by a low-life creature like a slave are reborn into a beautiful harmony the moment my hands touch them. Combined with the sound of the slave holding his breath, my adrenaline surged even higher.
I wonder how many hundreds of strikes I delivered… When the slave finally let out a voiced cry, his back was a dense map of swollen welts. I switched my instrument to a cane, continuing to provide even sharper stimulation. Before long, the slave lay powerlessly on the floor, blood seeping from both his front and back.
Thinking he was reaching his limit, I took a drag from my cigarette and blew the smoke directly into his face. The corners of his mouth twitched upward slightly; the seeds of his excitement had sprouted once again. I do like a slave with some grit.
I made my way to the bathroom and sank the slave into the empty bathtub. Straddling him, I removed the blindfold. The moment he regained his sight, I unleashed the massive stockpile of Holy Water I had been saving, drenching him completely. He writhed in shock, and his reaction was so amusing that I laughed out loud. The Holy Water, splattering further from the impact, thoroughly “disinfected” his entire body. Inflicting direct wounds is fun, but aggravating those wounds indirectly is far more intoxicating. That day’s Holy Water was thicker than usual—it must have served as the strongest antiseptic for his bleeding gashes.
Feeling refreshed after emptying myself, I moved on to water torture for the slave rolling beneath my crotch. I blasted him with cold water from the shower to wash away the disinfectant. Once he was clean, I plugged the drain and let the tub fill, submerging him in the rising icy water. He stared up at me, shivering and frozen. I used the heel of my high shoe to push his head back under the water. In the pitch-black bathroom, the way the bathtub lights glowed in seven colors was quite beautiful.
Even as he was being held down by a Queen’s foot, I highly valued the life force he showed as he resisted my leg out of a raw instinct to survive. Occasionally allowed to surface, he would take great gulps of air as if realizing the weight of being alive. Watching him choke on water or cough as I blew cigarette smoke at him was so entertaining I could have watched for an eternity. Heh, poor thing.
Coming out of the bathroom, I removed the handcuffs and this time bound him in a “mummy” restraint while he stood upright. The sight of the transparent wrap clinging to his wounds and blood excited me further. Having exhausted my energy, I ordered the premium tokujo sushi from room service. I had him dive face-up onto the bed with only his head exposed, using his face as a seat for my chair.
It was time for my meal.
When I stretched my legs, they rested on the slave’s stomach. Eating premium sushi while dressed in bondage gear made the flavor of the fish feel even more noble.
Before I knew it, the sky began to turn white. Morning was approaching.
The slave lay beneath me with a peaceful expression, doing nothing but breathing. It seemed his wish to be “defiled until broken” had been mostly fulfilled without my even realizing it. Outside the window, white flakes—I couldn’t tell if they were rain or snow—wavered through the air.
I prepared to leave the room, leaving a smile for the mummified slave. Looking down one last time at the man who no longer resisted or struggled, I whispered, “You… you’re a masochist with a little bit of promise.” I didn’t even know if he understood Japanese, but he smiled contentedly and closed his eyes. It seems a night of torture brings a deep sleep.
Leaving that sight behind, I walked out. The sensation of the whip hitting his flesh and the feeling of my foot sinking into that “water balloon” still lingered in my body. That heat leads me to even greater heights.
I felt it was a good session, the first in a long time. I intended to soak in this exhilaration for a few days, but my reunion with that American man happened that very same night.