She ordered me to her room, dressed in my black lace finery. I sat in my living quarters, powdering my face white and lining my eyes and lips with liquid darkness. I chose a strapless corset in purple and black, and a floor length black silk skirt slit all the way up one leg. I finished it off with tightly woven fishnets, held up by a silken garter belt and a pair of leather high heels. The shoes made decisive clicks on the marble floors as I walked down the corridor at a considerable pace. Wouldn’t want to keep my lover waiting, I think nervously. She has been more and more violent lately. When we met, she was so tender. She would whip me with a razor tipped cat o’ nine tails, then kiss the bloody marks left on my body. She would trickle warm water over my wounds, giving me relief before the next strike.

Now… I rubbed the marks from last night’s whipping, still bloody and sore. I could still feel where the needle had gone into my clit, still feel the ghost of a burn as she pressed the plunger and sent 5 cc of saline into my already abused sex. I swallowed my nervousness, as she could smell the fear coming off me in waves, as well as the arousal that came from being dominated. I pushed my hand against the stone door, and it scraped back across the floor. She was sprawled across the bed, a smile on her face.

“Doll,” she whispered in her accent. Her voice still made me wet. It was husky Russian. It reminded me of a dangerous land I didn’t understand. She lit up a primo, a Russian concoction of tobacco and cocaine, rolled into a neat little stick. Her pupils were huge, she’d been smoking these all night. I smelled vodka, but not coming from her. I saw a glass with the harsh, clear liquid sitting on the nightstand, beside some wicked gleaming tools. She laughed at my look of fear. “Drink it,” she said, “It will help you get through the night.”

I was shaking now, and I barely managed a deep curtsy before I knelt before her and took the glass. “You’re remembering your manners, I see. Good girl” I nodded, and took the glass to my lips. It was heavy crystal, and tall. A triple shot glass, full to the top. I threw back my head and drank what I could manage. I had to lock my teeth to keep from spitting it all over mistress’s silk bedding. That would defiantly be considered bad manners, and I was afraid of the punishment she would offer up. It burned its way down my throat, and my stomach was ablaze. I had to rest my head on the bed frame to keep the vodka from burning its way back up my throat and onto the floor.

Mistress laughed again. “You were never one that could handle your liquor.” She looked at me expectantly. “Well, finish it. You wouldn’t want to be rude…” There was warning in her voice. I gulped the rest of the vile liquid, my eyes tearing up of their own free will. I felt ill, and already tipsy. Mistress grinned, and slapped my cheek. “Feel that?” she asked. “Mnuh” was the best response I could manage. She led me to a stone bench on the wall, and I stumbled pathetically after her. My eyes were bloodshot, my vision blurred, and my rough approximation of where the bench was turned out to be wrong by about 5 feet. Mistress kindly helped me to it. She was being nice again, I thought, as she threw me onto the bench. The stone was cool on my burning skin. So cool, so nice, so dark.

I awoke to the feel of handcuffs biting my wrists. I cracked one eye, then another. Mistress stood over me. She was cuffing my hands to the bench I was sprawled across. The metal was unpleasant, and jerked me back to consciousness. I felt my ankles being cuffed in a similar fashion. I lay on a rectangular bench, my ankles cuffed on either side, my hands cuffed under the bench directly below my torso. My breasts were pushed forward, and my legs spread. I could feel the cool air on my moist sex, a breeze drifting under my skirt.

It was a flexibility exercise if nothing else. Mistress mumbled something about “so much clothes, so little skin” and began pulling away my clothes. She untied my corset and cut it off my torso. I sucked in a grateful breath. She pulled on the buttons of my skirt, the sliced it off my body as well. All that remained was my fishnets and heels. She seemed satisfied, and began rifling through the tools on her nightstand. I closed my eyes again. I was rudely awoken with the feel of metal being clamped on the lips of my sex. The clamps were then attached to ties mistress had looped around my thighs. If I spread my thighs, my pussy lips were stretched. If I kept my thighs close together, it gave some relief. Mistress wouldn’t give me relief just yet. All I wanted was to sleep. The vodka had taken over my system, and I desperately wanted to rest.

I felt something cold being poured over my clit, and trickling down into my pussy. It burned as it passed my hole, and I screamed, not understanding where I was or what was being done to me. I felt a pinprick on my swollen clit head, and then the sickening feeling of foreign fluid being forced into my love button. It began to feel good, but then the pressure became too much. I tried to look between my legs, but I lacked the coordination required to lift my head that far. I felt a tearing inside my abused clit, and then it burst. I felt fluid, most likely blood and saline, trickle down my pussy. I was dumbstruck for a moment, and then the screams began, real and raw. I didn’t know where I was, I didn’t remember I enjoyed pain, I didn’t remember it was my beloved mistress that had de-clitted me.

“Well, well, you’re a screamer,” a woman remarked with a Russian accent. It seemed vaguely familiar. Then I felt the brutal sting of a needle, this time going all the way through my inner lip. There was some tugging, and a piece of cold metal remained through my flesh. I felt a similar sting on the other lip, and bit back cries. I was so dizzy now, and colors danced for me. The pain seemed faraway, and I had no control over what was happening between my legs. I let the colors become shapes become figures, all telling me to relax on the cool stone. I felt four more stings, but they were from a different universe. This world, this world of rainbow colors and nature, was so much more beautiful than the dark world of marble and stone I used to be trapped in. I felt so freed…

I woke up, my head pounding, a fierce pain in my sex. It reeked of smoke and booze. I reeked of booze. I tried to turn my head to retch, but the pounding in my skull made that impossible. My hands were cuffed below me, underneath a bench. My legs were spread. When I tried to close them, a pain shot through my spine. I cried out, surprised. Mistress was passed out on the floor by her bed. She looked around sleepily. Her eyes were red from coke burnout, and exhaustion stained her voice “You’re awake,” she rasped, “Let me help you” She stumbled over to un-bind my limbs. I managed a weak nod. She freed me, and I rolled off the bench and onto the unforgiving floor. I landed with a thump, on top of a knife that had been carelessly discarded the night before. It bit into my right breast, and I whimpered. Mistress looked into my eyes apologetically, and licked the blood away from my new wound. “Im afraid it will scar,” she muttered, caressing my once prefect breasts. I nodded, not particularly caring. I just wanted my head to stop pounding and spinning, my sex to stop aching, the new cut in my breast to stop bleeding. Mistress looked like she felt about as good as me. We stumbled into her bed, and lost ourselves in the silk sheets and feather comforter. I was surprised she was being so kind, surprised she let me into her bed, just surprised in general. However, sleepiness was my dominant emotion, and it took over.

I awoke much later, to find mistress gazing at me lovingly, holding me in her arms. My head was better, though my entire groin area still ached. She kissed me with real passion, no threat or predatory move. I relaxed into her body, and felt the crunch of dried blood on my breast and her sheets. I jumped up, causing my crotch to send trails of fire up my spine. “I’m so sorry! Look the bed, mistress please forgive m-“ I stammered on, and mistress shook her head. “Don’t worry. I can have it cleaned up…” she hesitated. “How do you feel?” I was surprised. She never asked me that. “Fine, mistress, and you?” I bent to scrub my blood off the floor, and she stopped me.

“Not mistress, not anymore,” She whispered. “Call me by name, like in the beginning, please,” She was pleading with me, not demanding. “Of course, dahlia…” her name felt strange on my tongue. She had just been mistress for so many years. Dahlia… it brought me back to the early times, when our relationship was about how pain complimented pleasure, not how pain was more important than pleasure. When we were just college girls, normal, college girls. We got swept away with the BDSM scene. We moved into her mother’s gothic mansion, and we lost each other, having only pain to link us together. Dahlia, mistress, got wrapped up in her primos and vodka, alcohol and drugs. I was wrapped up in pleasing her.

Now, the past 3 years were forgotten. She was just Dahlia. And she loved me. The room was a mess, reeking of sweat and blood and smoke. I was sore and dirty. Dahlia was wild eyed and bony. But we were just like we had been, but….

I looked between my legs to see my clit gone, three rings in each side of my labia, laced up with a pink ribbon, tied in a bow where my clit used to be. Dahlia broke into tears. "I'm so sorry, baby. I-I... I don't have an excuse. I wasn't thinking. I should have asked you, I shouldn't have done that, and now its gone and you cant feel the pleasure you always gave to me..." I couldn’t help think how beautiful it was. I told Dahlia so, and she smiled through her tears. I proved to her, in the four hours we spent making love,that i did not need my clit to feel pleasure. I slid two fingers inside her, and showed her a deeper feeling than she'd ever known, and we both orgasmed more times than we had in the past year we spent together.