A little masochist is born

Madame Lule, Dominatrix in Paris.

You don't come across a site like this by chance. It's a real gateway to your abundant universe. The language is elegant, the imagination fertile. On closer inspection, it's not an invitation, it's a spell.
Meeting you quickly becomes a priority.
To abandon my project at your feet. 

As we get close to the meeting place, I can feel the relative confidence I've been displaying until now dissipating. And yet, I feel privileged.
I haven't done much to deserve this.
I've just made that little inner journey, the one that authorizes the experience of forbidden pleasures. Apprehension is present, but it's not fear of pain that has delayed this encounter so long.
I think I was just afraid I'd like it.

In any case, I now find myself in front of you. I've spent the last few evenings reading, watching and listening to you. I was quickly charmed by your wit and humor. In this world where every artifice seems permissible, I found you so natural.
I already knew that I adored your voice, your phrasing, your eloquence. It was becoming difficult to find excuses to refuse you. But right now, those apprehensions seem far away.

I find myself naked, strapped to this St Andrew's cross. You're now testing my reflexes with this Wartenberg wheel, before taking your first bite at my love handles. Like resigned prey, I let out my first little cry, which sounds like encouragement. With a gag in my mouth, it doesn't sound very loud. In any case, it's the first of many. 

On this sunny Sunday, the blows start to rain, paradox of the boudoir. Martinets, whips, badines, dragon tongues, paddle... A veritable concerto just for me. In full control of your score, you alternate power, reviewing your instruments on my little body. You spare no tension. I see them as little intermissions.

The body straightens painfully and already I long for your strokes. Strokes that feel like caresses. Stinging strokes, burning strokes, hurting strokes. God, it feels so good.
Mass is said, in this cruel candlelit boudoir, a little masochist is born.

When you finally untie me from this cross, it's not to set me free. Lying on my back in the middle of the magnificent playground that is the Alembic, I await my sentence with blacked-out eyes. Drops of wax fall on my body. The torment of waiting turns into a delight for the senses.

I regain my view, a privileged witness to a spectacle beyond my comprehension. My legs spread wide, pulled towards the peaks by a set of chains, my little buttocks offered up to you.
You carefully prepare the thing, with your fairy fingers. With that beautiful, mischievous look, you're now harnessed and ready to penetrate me.
My mind dizzy, my body light at your discretion, I now exult under your delicate strokes. What a pleasure to feel you inside me, staring at me as if probing the soul of a lost sheep.

Did you say let go? I haven't been holding anything for a while.

When you finally allow me to cum, I don't hesitate. I explode in a final moan. An orgasm all the greater for having been forbidden until now.    

You embraced me with such gentleness and tenderness, I never expected it. As I catch my breath, I see the obvious as I contemplate you, dear mistress. You make me feel at ease. I feel like I've met a playmate who's an expert in her field, who loves what she does and does it well. 
I didn't think we'd be laughing so hard, but that doesn't spoil the experience, on the contrary.

I'd sensed in the past that I was a bit masochistic in my relationship with my body. But now I realize that I love it. You've obviously understood this. However, your experience allows you to make the necessary distinction between willpower and the ability to endure.

Thanks to you, I'm discovering the outlines of a vast world that I can't wait to explore. But I must prepare this expedition properly.

To complete my apprenticeship, I couldn't have wished for a more beautiful mistress.