Beecher

So after I spent that time modeling for True, I realized that I could make some extra money in front of the camera. I did that some, fetish modeling, stockings and cigarettes and posed pictures with other girls. Nothing beyond the pale, more burlesque-style, flash and tease, and it was easier than the freelancing I’d been doing for people like Smith, plus I had time to work on my own paintings and try to get them in galleries.

But it wasn’t enough. Smith and True had introduced me to something I wanted to learn more about, living as a submissive, and I started to look around for someone who could take me further down that road. I found him in a bookstore. It’s more accurate to say that he found me, in the sex section, naturally, where I was trying not to be too obvious while I looked at a book about an English girl’s boarding school and all the terrible/wonderful things that happened to her there. She was going to be a hell of a wife if her husband didn’t expect a virgin on their wedding night, and if he didn’t mind a lot of tears while he went about introducing her to the joys of marriage. I was getting a little warm looking at the book and decided I had to either put it down or buy it. A man was watching me. He looked amused, like he knew what was in the book and what it was doing to me, and I blushed and turned away. He took my arm and pulled me to face him again, and it clicked. I knew I was going to go with him, that he was going to show me things. Don’t ask me how I knew, but I did.

There’s no need to describe all the preliminaries. He took me to a bar and we drank and talked and he took my number and called the following Wednesday, and it wasn’t a request about coming over to his house. I went and that’s how it all started.

Beecher was young and wealthy. He’d created some kind of software, sold it for the kind of money you only read about in magazines. He was ready to play, and he wanted someone to play with. Which is when I came along. I became his sub and stayed for a couple of years, and that’s when it took over my life.

Weird how with this new life, I had to pick up my old one and go back to drawing. It wasn’t a problem, really, since I had a good portfolio and lots of contacts. I got most of my jobs through referrals, so I just picked up the phone and made a couple of calls, and soon I was working steadily again. I had to quit modeling. Beecher didn’t care how I paid the rent, but some of what he did left marks on me, especially on my ass and thighs, and they would ruin the shot. Not that I couldn’t have gotten another kind of work modeling, in a dungeon, say, but I wasn’t going to do that. It would have hit a little too close to home. But it was a strange sensation, walking into these tall office buildings for a meeting with some creative director or another, knowing under my clothes I was striped from Beecher’s crop, or that my ass was bruised from a ping-pong paddle. Sometimes I had to wear long sleeves to cover the bruises on my wrists from where I’d hung the night before. The flesh. I guess you could say I’d given mine to Beecher, though it was still attached to me, but it got to where I didn’t feel like I really owned it, not after Beecher worked me over for a couple of hours.

And it wasn’t just the usual bondage & spanking thing. He’d begun to make me eat. He wanted to fatten me up. This was a real surprise, since I have big hips and breasts and had always tried hard to keep my weight down. I hated the gym but did it. That was out now. Beecher made me quit, about the only time he stepped directly into my real life. Not my real life, but the other half of my life. He put me in a yoga class instead. I took to it, though sometimes I had to wear long sleeves and pants while everyone else wore shorts and tank-tops--the marks, again. He took me to dinner and ordered rich foods swimming in sauces and creams and watched until I cleaned my plate, and then came dessert, some wedge of butter and sugar and eggs and drizzled chocolate, and I had to eat that, too, everything washed down with good wines I’d never heard of. My body changed. My clothes got tight, especially my bras, which didn’t matter much because I didn’t have to wear them around the apartment and whenever I was with Beecher, he wanted instant access to my breasts. Some things I squirmed into, and other things, like my jeans, just stayed in the drawer. The old stereotype, “Does this make my ass look fat?” became a home truth. Everything made my ass look fat because it was getting that way, in spite of the yoga, which did a pretty good job of toning up what I did have, but now there was more than before. It also looked bigger because of the corsets. Beecher had a number of them, and he always put one on when I came to his house. Then he sent me home with them, told me to wear them when I was by alone, either in a meeting, at the grocery, or just working at my desk. It was hard to lace them properly by myself so he got me a kind with reinforced buttons. Slowly I got a new body, Beecher‘s body--my waist got narrower, and the new weight distributed up and down. My breasts were huge. Beecher liked that and found more inventive ways to use them. He especially liked working on my nipples, had a lot of toys that made them ache. It was as if my body was no longer my own, which of course was true when Beecher was there. But now it was true even when I was alone. It was heavy and I moved slower, always aware of the extra weight, the new flesh, and it was never far from my mind what Beecher might decide to do with it.

Then there was my hair. It wasn’t a surprise when Beecher announced my pubic hair had to go. Beth had been shaved, and I’d seen enough of True’s pictures to know that a lot of subs went bare between their legs to show their availability, or to take away that last little fig-leaf to hide behind. Beecher being who he was, though, devised a more stylish way of doing it. He took me to a salon, very expensive, and followed me into the room where a matron with a cold face led me. I climbed into the chair and Beecher pulled my arms behind my head, slipped off his necktie, and lashed my wrists together. That matron saw that and the purple marks on my thighs where Beecher had paid me a visit with the crop two evenings before. She didn’t bat an eye, but I did when the waxing began. The tears ran down my face because of all of it, the pain of the waxing and my exposure and being tied down and the matron smiled, once, and she could have been Beecher’s sister at that moment. She knew, I thought, and then laughed at myself. What with the welts and the restraints, how could she not?

Beecher didn’t just get rid of the hair below, he changed the hair on my head. Had it cut and shaped and dyed a rich red. It took all afternoon and I had to sit there, the skin between my legs burning, the welts on my ass aching, and all the women in the salon looking openly at me, since I guess word had gotten around as to the special nature of their new client. Beecher returned when my hair was almost dry, a box in his hand, a new dress that I had to go change into, a pinafore, pink. And mary janes and a straw hat, and a pair of cheap nylon panties that looked as if he’d found them in a store with mirrored windows. He had them plait my hair into braids that hung from either side of my head and he led me through the salon by the hand, as if he were my daddy or something, and the place went silent, and all I could do was look at the floor and wonder why it all made me so wet.

We mostly kept our lives separate. I worked and painted and came over to his house when he called. Beecher did whatever he did, which was only what he wanted to do, being rich and all. He didn’t take me out much, though when he did, he dressed me up in some kind of costume like the pinafore, or a plaid skirt and blazer and knee-socks or something. One time we were having lunch and ran into a friend of Beecher’s. Introductions were made, and Beecher said, “This is Sally, my puppet.” His friend raised an eyebrow. Beecher clarified: “My fuck puppet.” The friend smiled and took my hand and said something corny like, “And a lovely fuck puppet she is.” I sat there blushing, staring at my salad, trying not to tear up. What Beecher and I did, I thought he’d keep it private, but no, it was another lesson, announcing my role, my status--and since it was obvious I wasn’t being held captive, his friend had to know I’d volunteered for the job, was some kind of depraved woman who got off on being used. It was true, but I thought it was my little secret. Now this stranger knew, and he was chuckling about it, and who knows what he imagined what I’d do or let be done to me, but I had to sit there while he and Beecher talked about a dinner party he and his wife were going to throw, was Beecher going to be there, and he hoped Beecher would bring his new toy. Naturally I got wet hearing myself talked about that way, like an object, and when the friend left Beecher slid his hand between my legs to confirm that I was, even held his hand up so I could see his fingers shining in the candlelight.

I learned some things about Beecher while we were together. He didn’t really have much experience in the whole slave/Master thing. A lot of what we did was experimenting while he figured out what he liked and what he didn’t. He discarded a lot of things after one or two tries, like the cane, which he decided was too brutal--a good thing, too, because it really hurt, a deep-down marrow-pain, and it left marks that took a couple of months to fully heal, nothing sexy about it. I told him so when he asked me, as if he hadn’t already figured it out when I screamed. We spent a lot of time going around to sex shops and talked about the different things you could find there. Beecher wasn’t a leather-mask sort; he might dress me up but he kept it simple, himself--with the exception of riding boots and jodhpurs, which was funny because he’d only ever been on a horse at summer camp. He wanted to know what I thought about different dildos and vibrators and he’d have me pick some out and take them up to the counter and then he’d pull out some bills, hand them to me to pay the clerk. The clerk couldn’t have cared less, might as well have been selling toasters, but it was always embarrassing for me, because it was obvious that I was going to be the one getting off with them. Back at his house Beecher would watch while I fucked myself with a black silicone cock or strapped on a little vibrating piece of plastic over my clit, and he’d ask me to tell him how it felt, or laugh when I lost control and came.

We watched videos, too, all sorts. Straight sex and lesbians and orgies. Other kinds, as well, darker things he ordered, with animals or fisting or pee, and I’d sit on his lap, my arms curled around him, and maybe his thumb in my mouth while all this stuff went on in front of us, and we’d talk about the difference between fantasy and real life, between watching and doing, and one night Beecher solemnly promised, “No donkeys for Sally.”

One thing we talked about was semantics. Beecher was a reader (the day he found me in the bookstore, he was looking to pick up a fresh installment in a series about a brave young girl who’d been captured by pirates and later sold to a Spanish nobleman; her virtue was being constantly outraged, but even in the midst of her shame and despair she retained a purity of spirit, which made her ordeals all the worse…). He read everything from the cheapest letters-- ”And then she proceeded to--” to the kinds of Victorian stories where the narrator’s cock is called John Thomas. And he’d developed a theory of semantics that encompassed sex and desire. Which is to say, he figured out what got him off. A lot of it had to do with body parts and objectification. Like breasts. That’s what I call them, but for Beecher, they were tits. A vagina was a cunt. His penis was a cock; here it got a little more interesting, his theory being that a dominant male has a cock, whereas a vanilla male or a sub has a dick, which seems somehow smaller and a little ridiculous. But if a sub is sucking one, it doesn’t much matter whether she’s sucking dick or sucking cock, both phrases being equally evocative. So while Beecher was transforming my body, he was also renaming it. My vagina was a cunt, something for his use. My breasts were tits, something for him to play with, clamp, pull, twist, slap. We both agreed my asshole was just that, whatever one did with it. Considering all the possible words for these body parts (flower, rosebud, valley, balloons, mams, etc.), our lexicon was pretty limited, but it worked, probably because the words were so direct, crude and unmetaphorical. That talk made a big impact on me, and as Kelly will tell you, they’re words I still use every day.

Which isn’t to say we spent all our time talking. Beecher was still learning, but he’d settled on some home truths pretty early, which included the idea that his puppet needed regular spankings and lots of sodomy. Or rather, he needed them, and he never asked me if I agreed, though I did, and heartily. And he wasn’t into denying me my orgasms. He wanted them, wanted to see me cum (another of those words; spelling counts) even better if the tears from my last spanking were still drying on my cheeks. And he had another quirk: he liked to be called ‘Daddy.’ We’d tried out ‘Sir,’ but it didn’t fit right, given that we were just about the same age, plus he looked like he was still in college. So you’d think Daddy would have been even more of a stretch, but that’s what he wanted. Even though we talked about a lot of things, I didn’t want to delve into just what about being called that revved his engine, and I sure didn’t want to examine why I liked saying it. It was of a piece with the pinafore and the plaid skirts, and I guess it was just another expression of control. He rarely called himself Daddy, but I was supposed to say it, like when I was licking his cock and would tell him, “Daddy’s cock tastes so good,” or when he told me to lay across his lap and I’d ask, “Is Daddy going to spank me?” He didn’t look the part, and he didn’t much like kids, so there was something else at work, the authority figure, the man who takes care of things. Biker daddy, voodoo daddy. The magic man, and me the supplicant, kneeling at his feet, taking his cock out and slowly stroking it and saying, “Daddy’s cock is beautiful.” Like he was there and watching himself at the same time.

Another odd thing about Beecher was restaurants. He took me out to eat when he wanted to try out a new place, the closest we ever got to conventional dating. But it was always his show. Of course he’d choose whatever I was going to wear, and you don’t have to wonder whether I had a plug or dildo or nipple clamps or something else besides the dress and shoes. But he had rules about how I ate. The first was how I held the fork. I’d always held it underhand, sort of propped on my fingers, as you hold a pen. That was out. Beecher taught me to hold it overhand. My mother would have died, seeing her daughter eat the way she thought white trash did. I ended up kind of shoveling in my food because the balance was a little precarious. But Beecher liked the way it looked. He also liked to keep me from using my napkin until I was done, which meant that my mouth and chin ended up greasy and slick. There was something a little animalistic about it, aside from the obvious issues of body control, especially because Beecher always chose what I ate and invariably picked something that had lots of sauce or marinade.

We never ate at his house. Except on the occasions when I stayed the night, and then he’d have me fix breakfast. This was a production, as well. Not the meals, which were simple enough, eggs or pancakes, coffee and juice. But he liked having me wear a tatty old nightgown or shift; he found them in thrift stores and they never fit right. Some of them were stained or threadbare, and all of them had only straps, no sleeves. Barefoot, too, and I felt like a slattern, whipping up the eggs and setting them down in front of my man, especially if, as was often the case, I was sore from a beating--besides, when I stayed over, I slept with Beecher’s cock in my mouth, which meant that first thing in the morning I gave him a blowjob, so his taste was in my mouth while I cooked. I got used to washing down his cum with orange juice.

As I said, Beecher’s experience with dominance had been exclusively theoretical until he met me. He’d read the books, he’s been to the websites, and he could talk the talk, but he used me to work it all out. And when he had, I found out why. I’d been a willing subject, and I genuinely liked him, his sense of humor and his imagination and the way he looked. And I knew he liked me, but love wasn’t in the cards, not for us. It just wasn’t there. Attraction, yes, and we gave each other something we wanted. But I was really a test subject. Because he got engaged. Later I was glad I wasn’t naked when he told me, not long after I arrived late one afternoon, sweating heavily through a deep and humid August. Beecher gave me time to mop up and then sat me down, opened a bottle of cold wine and poured me a glass. Her name was Margaret and her hair was dyed red like mine. He showed me her picture. They were going to get married in nine months. He wanted to bring her into his world the way I was. That’s why he had been so experimental. Everything we did, the costumes and the fucking and his control, was an education, theory made flesh. Now he knew what he liked, and he knew what he wanted his wife to be.

“Does she know about me?” I asked. I didn’t know how I felt. I wasn’t sure how I should feel. I hadn’t had another lover since I met him, but not from any compunction about fidelity. I hadn’t wanted one; what Beecher and I did was enough.

“She does. But I’m going to marry her. I can’t have two women. I don’t want two.”
“Does she know what we…what I am?”
Beecher nodded. “She knows that what I know, I learned through you.”
“She’s like me?”

“No.” Beecher smiled. “You’re pretty special. She wants to be like you, though. I want her to be like you.”

“So, you’re breaking up with me.” It was so silly, a sub and Dom ending it like college sweethearts. I lit a cigarette, the first I’d ever had in front of him.
“I guess so.”

I inhaled and thought a moment. “You’re not getting a goodbye fuck, you know.”
He laughed. “I know.”

It took three suitcases to get my outfits and toys all packed. Beecher insisted I take them and I understood. He wanted new things for Margaret, things he picked out for her. He loaded my car and waved when I pulled out of his driveway. Goodbye, Beecher.

I stayed in my apartment for several days, didn’t go out or answer the phone. I didn’t even bathe. It was strange. Beecher and I hadn’t been exactly romantic, but we’d been about as close as you can be, and we knew things about each other that no-one else did…but Margaret would. Once I started to cry, but the tears stopped almost as soon as they came, maybe because I didn’t love him, hadn’t loved him, and didn’t want to pretend my heart was broken. I wasn’t even sure it was a failure, and looking back now, I don’t believe it was. Too much good came out of it, not just the orgasms but the discovery of all sorts of ways to live this life, and it slowly turned around to where I began to get excited about the future, about finding a new Dom. If only I knew how to go about it.

They sent me an invitation to their wedding. I thought about it, at one point made up my mind to go, and then decided otherwise. I didn’t want to be a distraction. I sent them a wedding gift, though, four lengths of indigo silk, figuring that they’d find something interesting to do with them. When their picture appeared in the Weddings section of the paper a week later, I wondered what Margaret was wearing under her dress.