Kirsten’s First Morning At The Sanctuary

This little piece is set in a world of Doms who have castles and Subs who seek only to be shaped by their Master. Escapist but fun if you’re in that frame of mind. Enjoy.


Kirsten’s First Morning  At The Sanctuary

(c) Mike Kimera 2001

As the sun rises I focus my attention on the strands of silver in Madam Chen’s jet-black braid. She is small wiry woman with strong hands, a sharply angled face that seldom shows any emotion other than anger or contempt. She is standing between Kirsten’s legs, bending over her naked body like a predator readying for a kill.

Chen’s braid is a calculated provocation: it looks so controlled, so deferential, but speaks of sex and passionate restraint. Every man she passes watches that tightly woven braid bounce off her arse and feels his cock stir in anticipation.

I have imagined wrapping that braid around my fist and forcing her impassive face further down my cock until involuntary tears flow, or using it to bind her hands behind her back and pulling on it like a leash as I push deeper into her arse. I have imagined it, but so far I have held back. Chen is valuable because she is fierce and fearless. She believes herself protected and she has been trained to act without pity or remorse. That is one reason why we are all here.

“ ‘Feng Shui’ combines the five elements: Earth, Metal, Wood, Water and Fire to produce a harmonious alignment.” Madam Chen explains.

She makes the words sound like a threat and in a way they are.

Unfortunately Kirsten is not listening. She is letting herself be distracted by Chen’s assistants, two teenage girls, who are releasing Kirsten’s arms and legs from the cuffs that I used to bind her to the leather bench that she slept on last night.

The first night in The Sanctuary is always spent that way.

The girls are stroking Kirsten’s wrists and ankles, helping the blood to flow. The younger of the two brushes her breast against the back of Kirsten’s hand with each stoke of the wrist. Even from across the room, I can see the girl’s erect nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her cotton shift.

Instead of listening to Madam Chen, Kirsten turns to smile at the girl. The girl looks away but leans further forward against Kirsten’s hand.

Madam Chen takes hold of Kirsten’s chin firmly with her finger and thumb, pulling Kirsten up into a sitting position, bringing their faces close together. Fear washes across Kirsten’s face as she looks up into Madam Chen’s unsmiling face and feels Madam’s sharp fingernails press into her cheeks. Kirsten’s eyes flick quickly towards me, hoping I will intervene.

“Look at me! You have not yet earned the right to look at your Master.”

Madam Chen’s voice betrays the hatred she feels for the flesh she holds. Young flesh, privileged flesh, flesh entitled to freedom and choosing to be enslaved.

I have promised Kirsten that she will not be marked without her consent, but it is obvious to both of us that Chen would like to rake Kirsten’s flawless skin. My imagination flashes me an image of Kirsten’s blood flowing over Chen’s pale nails as they rend her flesh. Kirsten trembles. My cock stiffens. Madam Chen smiles. It is not a reassuring smile.

“Today you will be used according to the principles of Feng Shui. Each time harmony is achieved you will be permitted to come. If you come without permission, you will be punished.”

Madam Chen lets go of Kirsten’s chin; steps back and runs her gaze across Kirsten’s naked body.

“I suspect you will be punished often. I look forward to it.”

It is unusual for Madam to be so provoked. She was born at The Sanctuary, was schooled in our ways. The fact that, instead of becoming part of our breeding pool, or being traded to another House, she has become a Madam is a tribute to her control, her aggression and her complete ruthlessness.

Perhaps it is time to remind Chen that the power she has been given can be taken away? Yet that would a waste and finding her successor would be a chore. Besides, the fact that Chen’s armoured emotions are so easily pierced reinforces my judgement that Kirsten is extraordinary.

Ever since she surrendered herself into my care, with her parents consent, on her eighteenth birthday, I have been nurturing her libido, ensuring she has come, with my permission, at least five times a day, often more. Her body now hums with a hunger that must be fed well and often.

I have being stoking that hunger since we set out for the Sanctuary yesterday. She was given no opportunity to touch herself on the journey. When we arrived, I stripped her and tied her to the tightly to the bench, positioning her with her head facing away from my bed and with her cunt spread and open to my sight.

They brought me a woman, ripe and soft, with pale flesh for my whip to write upon. It took me an hour to bring her to climax. Kirsten could hear her but not see her. Each time the woman moaned I could see Kirsten’s arse clench, showing how much she wanted to be the one feeling the whip’s biting kiss. By the time the woman was carried from the room, Kirsten’s cunt lips were slick and swollen.

In honour of her discipline in staying silence I decided to reward Kirsten. I stood between her legs, not touching her, relieving the aching hardness of my cock. When my cum splashed her belly, pooling in her navel, Kirsten groaned and pressed against her bonds. I knew what she wanted.

“Tomorrow” I said as I put out the light.

Madam Chen has noticed the dried sperm on Kirsten’s belly. It makes Kirsten’s smooth skin pucker slightly, like a scar. Chen scrapes at it, not gently, with one nail.

“Open her” Madam Chen says to the girl massaging Kirsten’s ankles.

She places her face an inch or less from Kirsten’s cunt and inspects every inch.

“Clean her. Get rid of all this hair. I want her smooth and oiled. Don’t let her come.”

“Yes, Madam Chen,” both girls say together.

Madam Chen strides out of the room, braid bouncing off her buttocks. As the door closes all three girls visibly relax.

“What is your name?” Kirsten asks the younger of the two girls. The girl shakes her head and refuses to look at Kirsten.

“Please tell me your name.”

The slap the older girl administers, catches Kirsten completely by surprise. The older girl places one finger across her lips signalling for Kirsten to be silent. The younger girl mimics the action but brings the finger from her lips to Kirsten’s and lets her eyes smile.

Without needing to speak to one another the girls lift Kirsten, taking one arm each and placing it behind their neck, supporting her under the armpits. Kirsten is still unsteady on her feet and seems glad of their support.

As they move with her towards the shower room, I step in front of Kirsten. The girls pause. I am fully dressed, and have cup of tea in my hands. I flick my gaze across Kirsten, reminding her of her nakedness, making her aware that her breasts are touching the girls who carry her. Her nipples harden and to my surprise she blushes. I prize that blush more than the sunrise I have just witnessed from the window of this chamber.

The shower room is tiled from floor to ceiling. At first sight it looks as if the shower curtain is missing, until the eye is drawn to the cuffs hanging from what is not, after all, a shower-rail. The girls raise Kirsten’s arms above her head and fasten them, wide apart, on the rail, then they spread her legs and tie them to rings set in the tiled floor.

I move forward and push my fingers through Kirsten’s hair. I keep her hair short and boyish, it’s easier to maintain and it provides a vivid contrast to her full figure. Kirsten tries to kiss my arm but I stop her with a look. When I hold up the blacked-out swimming goggles, she bows her head. With a practiced motion, I deprive her of her sight.

I step to one side so that I can read Kirsten’s body language. She tenses as she waits. Then the water hits her. She winces as it moves from too hot to too cold and then relaxes as the girls massage her with a high-pressure spray from in front and behind.

They start at her shoulders and work their way down, as if they were washing a car, then move closer, bringing the spray up between her legs from both directions. Kirsten tries to spread wider, welcoming the sensation, trying to dance on the water, seeking stimulation and release.

The water stops. There is silence.

Kirsten cocks her head to listen, seems momentarily puzzled by a sound that is familiar but which she can’t place.

When the shaving foam hits her mound she stands very still, letting the girls spread it with their fingers. She bites her lip; I can almost feel her anxiety as she waits for a sharp blade to move across her tender skin.

The finger pushing into her anus catches her by surprise. The younger girl is smearing lube with fast, light touches, inside and out. The nozzle slips into Kirsten easily, but the warm water that follows has enough pressure behind it to make her moan. She pushes forward, away from the assault on her rear, only to encounter the caress of the razor as it shears her.

I watch as the wisps of curly hair are swept away and her pink skin emerges looking freshly scrubbed.

Kirsten relaxes her leg muscles and lets herself hang from the bar above her head. The older girl pushes a second nozzle into Kirsten, this time into her cunt, flooding her with the scent of strawberries.

Kirsten rise onto tiptoe but there is nothing she can do to free herself from the dual force of the liquids sliding into her. When the nozzles are pulled from her simultaneously she sighs with pleasure. Watching her from the side I picture her as the water nymph statue at the centre of some Seventeenth Century fountain.

Starting at her shoulders, in front and behind, with the practised co-ordination of a dance, the girls work an oil into Kirsten’s skin, until every inch of her smells of French Vanilla. It is slow thorough work, interrupted three times to prevent her from reaching a climax. Finally it is done. Kirsten gleams in the early morning sunlight.

“Thank you,” she murmurs when the goggles are removed, but the erotic haze she had surrounded herself with is immediately dispersed when she sees that it is Madam Chen who has given her back her sight.

Both girls are kneeling beside Madam Chen, eyes downcast, as she inspects their work.

Her eyes are on Kirsten’s as she tests the smoothness of the shave with the ball of her thumb. She leans closer and pushes two fingers into Kirsten’s cunt and one into her arse. Despite herself, Kirsten moans.

Chen reaches up until her mouth is close to Kirsten’s, fingers still inside her. Just when Kirsten is sure she will be kissed, when she’s starting to lean into it, Chen’s mouth forms, but does not speak, the word SLUT and she removes her fingers with painful speed.

Madam Chen holds her fingers under her nose as Kirsten settles back onto the soles of her feet.

“You have done well girls. You will be rewarded. Put the collar on her and lead her to the Courtyard.”

Madam Chen strides out of the room to prepare Kirsten’s first ordeal.

For a moment, standing between the two kneeling girls whose efforts have made her skin gleam, Kirsten looks so lost and bereft that my heart aches for her.

The girls look at me, waiting for me to provide them with the collar that will show Kirsten’s status here. I move towards her, signalling for them to remain kneeling at her feet.

“Kirsten,” I say, resting the palm of my hand against her face and feeling my pulse race at the restoration of that contact, “are you ready to accept your collar from me?”

Her dark eyes focus on me, like searchlights exploring my soul. She turns her head into my hand and kisses my palm. Her resolve has returned. The strength and capacity for passion that first attracted me to her are apparent in the quiet confidence with which she says, “I am ready”.

The collar is a simple thing: strong black leather trimmed with silver at the edges; and with four matt black D rings evenly spaced at front back and sides. My initials are carved into the leather on either side of the front D ring. The silver edging is more than decorative. It tells everyone in The Sanctury who sees it that Kirsten has chosen a path of self-exploration; the initials show that she is under my protection.

I attach a leash to the collar. Kirsten makes to follow me.

“Not yet, Kirsten,” I say. “First you must reward these girls for a job so well done.”

Kirsten looks confused. She is not sure what I want.

I make a movement with my hands. The girls respond as they have been trained to do and fall forward with their small arses in the air.

“Kneel and finger then to climax, Kirsten.”

I watch for several minutes as Kirsten works with a hand inside each girl. As their passion rises, I remind her that she must not come.

My cock is hard. I free it from my clothes and push the head into Kirsten’s mouth. She is sucking on it, her cheek s concave with the effort, when the girls come on her fingers one after the other.

I pull back from Kirsten, and reward each girl with some of my semen on their foreheads.

Standing, I pull on Kirsten’s leash, then turn my back on her and lead her out into the courtyard.

Blind Faith

I set “Blind Faith” in a harbour on Lake Geneva that I know well. The events described are entirely fictional. Blindfolding is a common element of D/s sex. It is often portrayed as taking something away from the person wearing the blindfold. In my experience, the blindfold often gives the sub the concentration, confidence and freedom fully to enter into the experience.

But of course, any D/s relationship develops its own layers of meaning and significant objects. For Faith, the blindfold is central to her understanding of her actions and her choices.


Blind Faith

Faith hesitated at the arched gateway that led from the Chateau to the harbour. Below her, the wide curve of the harbour wall protecting the small boats at anchor looked like a sleeping dragon that she would be better not to wake. Faith smiled at the image. Waking a dragon was exactly what she was here for. She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and walked along the harbour wall until she reached the beacon at the far end. Then, as instructed, she waited.

She tried to lose herself in the breath-taking view over Lake Geneva. Even after years of living here in La Tour de Peilz she was still awed by the dramatic rise of the Alps on the opposite shore. Normally she would have been able to make her mind as calm as the sun-lit water in front of her, but anxiety broke her concentration like pebbles skipping on the surface of the lake. She could not believe that Thierry had selected such a public place. True, the low wall around the base of the beacon would partially block her from the sight of people in the harbour but she would be exposed to anyone out on the lake or in one of the buildings nearby.

Faith shivered at the thought of being on public display, but she did not leave. Instead she touched the strip of heavy white cotton that was tied around her wrist. It was her magic amulet. It had the power to transform her from her day to day self into someone to whom amazing things happened. After all, how many recently divorced, thirty-five year old Englishwomen found themselves standing on a harbour wall, looking out at the Alps and waiting for their lover to use them as he wished?

A slight breeze came in off the lake, making her aware that the summer was now over and the dress she was wearing was too thin for the autumn weather. She had chosen it because it was what she had been wearing the first time that Thierry took her, exactly three months ago.

She wanted to hug herself against the breeze but Thierry was probably already watching her, savouring the sight of her silhouetted against the sky, so she stood with her legs slightly apart, her chin up and her hands clasped demurely in front of her, offering him a promise from a distance.

She heard his footsteps on the stone behind her, confident, purposeful steps that were typical of the energy that Thierry put into everything, but she did not turn around. That was not how their game was played. He came up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back against him.

Bending his head close to her ear he said, “Do you trust me, Faith?”

These were the words that had started it all. They had become a ritual with them for meetings like this.

Faith gave the same reply she had always given: “Completely.”

Thierry ran his hands down her arms to her wrists, enclosing her in his strength.

“Show me that you are mine. Put on the blindfold.”

He released her hands and waited.

Faith undid the cotton strip that she wore on her wrist and refolded it. She held one end of the cloth in each hand and pulled it taut, making it a channel for the tension that she was feeling, then she raised it to her lips and kissed it. Thierry had taught her to do this. He had explained that, before a Mass, the priest will kiss the stole that he is about to drape around his neck, because it gives him time to reflect on the transition he is about to make from ordinary man to someone who could summon God.

As her lips touched the fabric, Faith thought about the summoning that she was consenting to by putting on the blindfold. She was calling up a side of herself that she had always kept hidden, had in fact been embarrassed to admit to: the side of herself that wanted to be worshiped, wanted to be subjugated, wanted to be stirred into a feeding frenzy of lust, wanted to lose her mind in the outpouring of her heart’s desire.

Faith raised her head to face the sun and reached up to tie the cloth around her head; willingly blindfolding herself in a public place, in the arms of a lover who required her complete trust and absolute obedience.

As soon as she completed the knot, everything changed. The cloth that denied her her sight also freed her from responsibility for what happened next. She was now both in the world and out of it at the same time. Her existence was defined by touch and taste and smell and sound and most of all, by desire.

“Thank you, my Blind Faith,” Thierry said, his mouth close to her ear.

Faith found Thierry’s Swiss-French accent exotic, capable of breathing new meaning into old words. His voice was gentle and confident and, best of all, edged with hunger for her.

Thierry pushed Faith back against the low wall that sloped inwards in a cone around the beacon, so that she was leaning backwards slightly. The wall came up to just below her shoulders; she could feel the rough stone against her back through the fabric of her dress, hard and unyielding. It made her smile.

“I recognise this dress,” Thierry said. He ran his hands up her body and cupped her breasts firmly, stroking her nipples with his thumbs. “It is the one you wore the first time I undressed you…” He undid the top buttons of the dress and pushed the fabric aside, exposing Faith’s breasts, “…except today you wear nothing beneath it, it seems.”

“Nothing at all.” Faith said and pushed her breasts upwards against his hands.

“Show me.”

For a heartbeat, Faith hesitated, uncertain what Thierry wanted.

“Guide my hand,” he said.

Like a ghost, Faith took his hand, slid it up along her thigh and placed it on her naked sex. Thierry grasped her firmly, pushing her upwards onto the balls of her feet and pressing one insistent finger between her labia.

Without the blindfold, Faith would have tried to wriggle free, but Blind Faith was free to spread her legs and open herself to her lover’s desire.

Thierry massaged her mound until she was so slick she could smell herself. Then he slid two fingers inside her. She rocked on them gently, unconcerned with anything but the sensation.

When she was feeling warm and desirable and safe, Thierry slipped out of her and pushed his fingers into her mouth. Faith sucked on them, taking them as deep as she could

Before Thierry, Faith had not enjoyed oral sex. She couldn’t see the point. Now of course, she could see nothing at all and had discovered the richness of heat and texture and smell that were available to her. She had learnt to enjoy the power and excitement of bringing Thierry to complete hardness with her mouth and to relish the movement of his hot smooth skin across her face.

“Faith, the wall behind you is topped by a steel railing. When I place your hands on the railing you will be spread against the beacon like a figurehead on a ship,” Thierry said. “I want you to hold the railing tightly with both hands.”

Thierry placed Faith’s arms along the top of the railings and stretched her out in both directions, so that her shoulders pulled back and her still-naked breasts rose. Quickly, almost impersonally, he used his feet to push her legs wide apart. Then he stopped touching her.

She listened hard for his next instruction but the only sound was made by wind in the rigging on the tiny fishing boats moored in the harbour behind her.

Faith wanted to call out. She wanted to let go of the railing and cover herself. She wanted to tear off the blindfold and take back control. Instead she gripped the railing tightly and waited.

Thierry would not desert her, she told herself. He would not leave her on display like this, available to anyone who came along. And yet, what if that was the experience he had in mind for her today?

Faith calmed her mind by recalling the promise that Thierry had made her when this strangeness started. “In you, Faith,” he had said, “I see a woman who has been starved of the sensual pleasures her mind and body deserve. If you will give me your trust, and with it, your obedience, I will feed your desires and you will open like a flower at dawn.”

If an Englishman had said that to her, she would have laughed, but Thierry was French and beautiful and she had wanted so much to believe him. So she had agreed and he had started her journey by taking away her sight.

She had never questioned him on what she was going to blossom into.

Seconds ticked by. Faith felt the breeze lift her dress and wanted to let go of the railing and prevent herself from being further exposed. But if she let go of the railing, she would let go of Thierry’s trust. She waited.

Suddenly she felt him covering her, engulfing her like a wave of energy. His big hands enfolded hers. His mouth worked on her neck as if he meant to consume her. He let his weight press into her, grinding her against the wall until she was literally breathless.

She relished his heat and strength but also recognised her relief that she had been right, this time, to hold on.

Thierry kissed her on the mouth, gently, slowly, holding her blindfolded head in his hands.

“You looked wonderful standing there, open and full of potential,” he said.

One hand left her face. She heard him unzip and her stomach clenched in anticipation.

He kissed her again on the lips, more urgently this time. Then he lowered his head and pulled one of Faith’s small breasts all the way into his mouth.

“Fuck me.”

Faith’s words flew out across the water like gulls rising. Once she would have cringed in embarrassment as much for the admission of need as for the crudeness of her language, but Blind Faith’s tongue was free.

“FUCK me.”

Thierry’s hands slid down her body, found the full flesh of her arse and lifted her up off the wall. Faith wrapped her legs around Thierry and, after a moment’s slick struggle, he entered her.

Faith gripped the railing, threw back her head, and let Thierry crucify her lust against the hard stone.

There was no finesse, no tenderness, just a furious rutting that hammered away at her senses summoning up a tide of warmth and release that almost drowned her.

By the time Thierry came inside her, Faith was hanging limply on the wall, unable to move or think or speak.

Thierry gently set her feet down on the ground and helped her to stand. Turning her so that she had her back to him, he re-buttoned her dress and made sure she was covered, then he held her in silence.

“Thank you,” Faith said.

Thierry gave her one final hug, and, as was his way, left her.

Faith listened until she could no longer hear his footsteps on the stone. Then she reached up, removed the blindfold and slowly came back to herself.

It was almost sunset but Faith did not want to linger over the spectacle of the scarlet sky. Vision returned her to the real world. A world where she wanted to be rid of the stickiness she could feel between her legs and at the top of her thighs; where she needed to lie in a bath and soothe the places she knew would bloom into bruises by morning; where Thierry was not just her lover but someone else’s husband.

Except, Faith thought, this world was no more, or less, real than the one she had occupied a few moments ago when she’d been spread wide and used hard.

Faith looked down at the strip of cotton she was holding. All she had to do was open her hand and let it fall and there would be no more Blind Faith.

Before her mind could decide what to do next, her fingers had wrapped the cloth around her wrist. Faith, smiled, turned away from the sunset, and headed for home.


© Mike Kimera 2008 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from


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