Chapter 1
The Canter

“Some folks love to feel pain. Some folks never talk about it. Some folks crave a blue lady. Some folks know it still they doubt it. I’m just no good without it. I’m not a man at all. It makes my skin crawl.” — lyrics from “Some Folks” by Alice Cooper

The Frederick’s of Hollywood six-inch-high-heeled pump is singularly the most vicious torture device ever conceived. The shoe, composed of a plastic leather-like material, forces the front of the foot flat to the ground, crowded into an evil pointed toe. From there it rises sharply, placing the wearer at a very steep angle indeed. Walking in them isn’t so much walking, as it is falling forward with each step, but not hitting the ground. Posture must remain perfectly erect, chest out, head high, shoulders back. Each step one must overlap in a kind of forward zig-zag pattern, which wiggles the ass seductively and sends shooting pains through the lower back, and grinds the balls between the mortar and pestle of the thighs. Pure agony. The feet hurt, the back hurts, the shoulders and neck hurt. Why wear them? Why suffer? Is it because they look so fucking hot on the leg? Is it because they make the calf look so taut and sexy? Is it to look taller or more femme? Probably all of the above and more.

I had time to think about such things, as I walked in my tiny circle around the raised dias in the center of the room. Around and around at an even, unbroken pace. Seventeen mincing little steps in a perfect circle on the hardwood floor of Mistress Barbara Darke’s dungeon.

Mistress Darke was a dominatrix, beating boys’ butts in Northern California, supplementing her income while going through college, where she was majoring in journalism. She was an amazing writer, with a cutting wit and wonderfully evil mind. I was not one of her clients; I was her live-in slave. It’s good work if you can get it, for a perv like me. I was quite the envy of all the other little sissy maids out there. Mistress had long red hair that was always slightly disheveled into a wild, super-thick mane. She was smart and gorgeous. She had very clear ideas of how a slave should look and act, and she was willing to go to whatever lengths required to achieve those results. She was, and is, a very easy Goddess to worship, plus she is funny and imaginative. An imaginative Mistress is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because the slave is never bored. A curse because the Mistress is always dreaming up new fun play activities that quite often mean a lot of suffering on the slave’s part.

So far, I’d completed 75 revolutions around the dias, and I wasn’t really sure when it would stop. I had no choice, I had to keep walking. I was buck-ass naked, but for the aforementioned torturous high-heeled shoes, my arms tied behind my back. Around my balls and the base of my little winky, Barbara had secured a wicked little device called a cock harness. This was made of thick, unyielding leather and very tight. The cock harness was locked in place with a tiny brass padlock. The harness was attached to a rope that rose straight up in front of me, taut over my head, where it was hooked to a steel bar. The steel bar was about three feet long, and was connected to a high-torque electric motor at the top of the dias, which slowly turned at maybe three revolutions per minute. The dias held the motor, that turned the bar, that pulled the rope, that yanked on my wedding tackle. Wherever my tube puppy went, I had to follow. This nasty little torture device is called a Canter.

My god, I thought, what if I stumbled in these wicked heels? A likely possibility given my awkwardness in ultra-high fuck-me pumps. What if I collapsed from exhaustion? I had an image in my head of me lying on the floor, on my back, slowly bleeding to death, watching my John Thomas going by overhead hanging from a rope, like a twisted baby’s mobile. A literal flying fuck.

Sometimes when I am in the middle of some kinky act I think to myself, “What if right at this moment, the walls fell down around me, exposing me to the world?” It’s a silly thought, but I’m a kinda silly person. What would all those passers by on the sidewalk think of this naked person wearing a pair of stripper slippers, being led around in a circle by his dick. Would they be disgusted, horrified? Would they try to lynch me? What would they say about me when they got home, and I came up in dinner conversation? Would they call me a sicko? A pervert? A fag? Would any one of those people try to offer me assistance? Maybe untie me, offer me a coat, call a cop or an ambulance? Would anybody simply try to find out why I was in this situation, or perhaps who I really was? Because I’m really not so bad.

I’m a likable person really. I’m polite, and kind to strangers. I have tons of friends. I may look a little strange, and I certainly know that I don’t really fit in at, say, a meeting of the Promise Keepers... but who wants to join the Promise Keepers? Why don’t they just call it The Wife Beaters Club and be done with it. I’m a smart guy, and a pretty decent artist, if you talk to the right people. I have a powerful sense of honor and don’t take shit from most people. I’m not at all passive-aggressive in any way. I’m kinda funny in an offbeat, mutant, Jerry-Lewis-in-a-dress way. I don’t really regard myself as a cross-dresser, or a drag queen, or even transgendered. I prefer the term “Clownsexual” or maybe “Schtickvestite.” I’m just trying to get through life creating as many good memories as I can, and never having one regret because I didn’t do something I wanted to try. I’m the author of my life and I choose to make it a fun read. Maybe not the Great American Novel, but a good paperback with fun illustrations. So what if some the pages stick together, at least I’ll know I wasn’t boring.

As I write this, my life is just about where I have always wanted it. Knock on wood ( love rapping my wood). I am in a committed D/S relationship (Dominant/Submissive) with two fabulous Mistresses, who share me as their slave as time permits. They are Mistress Barbara and Mistress Kiva. How do I describe Mistress Kiva. She’s slender with flaming red hair like Mistress Barbara. Very sexy and a fabulous dresser. Kiva is also about as kinky and decadent as the day is long. She’s fun and playful and sadistic. Between Barbara’s creativity and Kivas childlike amoral sadism, I really do have a lot of fun. I really am the luckiest little slave on earth.

As I made my 125th circle of the room all alone, I wondered when Mistress Barbara was returning. The noise from the motor on the Canter drowned out any outside sounds. The two windows I passed were shuttered and draped to prevent prying eyes. I don’t think anybody could hear even if I did have to call for help. Looking at the walls that I had painted for the Mistress I kinda had to wince. I had attempted to do a faux finish on them of grey stone blocks. I had screwed it up horribly. I had carefully measured, masked every brick and line of mortar. The final effect didn’t so much look like a real stone wall, but like a stone wall if it was rendered in a video game. Too perfect, too symmetrical. Sometimes my muse is evasive and when she is I screw up. Fortunately Mistress had also hung up several of my fetish erotic art pieces to cover up the travesty. These I was proud of: three airbrush and watercolor pieces, and three of my pen and inks.

The biggest piece was an illustration of two Mistresses in front of a mirror One was sitting smoking from an impossibly long cigarette holder in a black leather corset and green dress, her hair piled high on her head in a very Victorian style. Facing her was another girl in a dramatic ballet pose, wearing stockings and cruel ballet boots, a leather corset and gloves. Her hair pulled tight on her head and was braided into a long pony tail that swirled around her like a bullwhip in flight.

The next drawing was an illustration of a girl in full leather bondage regalia, a horse bit in her mouth and boots that ended in hooves, prancing, one leg raised, straining against her reins. This was followed by a pen and ink depicting a obvious male, strapped elaborately to some kind of mechanical gynecology table. His feet were up in stirrups, his legs spread and tied. His cock was encased in a metal device spouting tubes and wires. Standing over him is the Mistress, in stern cropped hair and a rubber dress, examining a monitor overhead that is obviously draining this poor shmuck of his masculinity.

Weird stuff, and each one I passed seemed stranger than the last. Where did they come from? I wish I could claim they were the products of my subconscious, a part of me I was blissfully unaware of, or that they were commissioned and therefore not my responsibility, but they were not. They were me through and through. Inkblots from the libido, snapshots from a dream vacation with Elizabeth Bathory. They were glimpses into my fantasy world, and each one a self-portrait, or at the very least a window – a window into my psychotic fantasy world I had built for myself, in my head. A fantasy world that I felt the need to depict and design, and someday build in reality, to escape my existence in the mundane. They were blueprints for my dream reality, a reality where Women rule supreme, where sissies like me have a place serving such sublime creatures. This was a place with topography, a city, laws, transportation, infrastructure, and tradition. Needless to say, I fantasize a lot. Truth is, I very seldom visit reality. The only reason I even come here is because this is where I keep my wigs. My fantasy land is a place where people suffered pain for a reason, and not simply randomly, without purpose or poetry. Every experience is heightened and enhanced towards ecstasy. Maybe if I keep drawing and sculpting, this place will come to be, or I can force the universe’s hand to reshape reality to this ideal. It is possible, or at least I have to believe it is. Like a kinky Don Quixote in heels, I keep trying.

I hoped Mistress was at least still in the house and hadn’t stepped out for dinner and a movie. I had lost track of time. How long had I been on this thing? It felt like forever. My private parts had long ago stopped complaining to me. The pain had given way to numbness, which was eerie. I usually can feel my penis anytime I like. It’s comforting to know its there at any given time during the day. It wasn’t speaking its little nerve impulses to the brain, it had its own worries.

“Talk to me, Bob! You don’t look too good, man.” Looking down at the little piece of distended flesh between my legs, I marveled at the toughness of it. It looked so fragile but it really could take a lot of abuse.

Time to think, time to contemplate. Time to face my own little demons, in a magic circle walking the stations of the cross around in a six-foot diameter world. Why did I do this to myself? Why do I seek this kind of abuse out? I am a grown man, who feels the need to wear girly clothes, be humiliated, tortured, and debased, by a beautiful Woman in kinky adornment. Real men don’t do this. My Dad doesn’t do this. At least I don’t think he ever did, but even if he did I don’t think I would ever want to know. Yikes! None of the usual male role models I had grown up with, as far as I know, had these hangups (pun intended). So what is a pervert to do? All the shame, all the social stigma. Living a giant portion of my life in secrecy and fear. Afraid to tell anyone, afraid to even let a glimmer show of my true self.

Why do it? Why not just live the dream my parents wanted for me? The house, the wife, the kids, the pickup in the driveway. The giant TV in the living room. Banging the wife in a straight up missionary position once a week, as prescribed by my local pastor. Why not bowl on Saturday nights, watch the game on Sunday, maybe go to a WWE match on occasion? What is so bad about that? Sure the wife wouldn’t feel fulfilled. The kids would become users or dealers, the house would always be in danger of foreclosure. I’d have to hide the pickup in the garage to avoid the repo guys. I’m pretty damn sure my bowling buddies would throw me off the team, because they would notice there was something funny about me. I know I could never develop a liking for football and WWE events cost a fucking fortune. If I chose to suppress it, I would forever be pining for it. I’d hate myself very deeply, which is far too easy to do anyway. The pain I feel when a cane crosses my ass is nothing to the pain I would feel never knowing what it is to prostrate myself before a Goddess and give her my soul. This need, this passion, had to come from somewhere. I could no more ditch this need in me than I could become a Republican. So where did it start? How did I become this freak, this pervert, this unbelievable travesty of decadence and debauchery?

Keep my mind off the pain in my body and my feet. Ignore the numbness in my crotch. Peer into the windows of my secret world on the walls. The Canter becomes a time machine. The circles take me back with each clip clop of my heels. Around and around I walk, ‘til I meet myself coming back the other direction, from the past, and we talked....
 

– to be continued –