Venus In Leather
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by Eleanor Tremaine
Category: Erotica/Classic Erotica/Classic Literature
Description: Move over, Venus in Furs - here comes a Venus in Leather: a naughty, sensuous redo of the legendary masterpiece of male masochism. Leopold von Sacher-Masoch's novel Venus in Furs is the cornerstone of femdom literature and a pioneering work of bdsm fiction as well. But who can read it? Written in German in the 1870s, it is slow going at best. Then Elenor Tremaine showed up in our offices with Venus in Furs redone as a modern novel. She represents the book in a twenty-first century setting, with twenty-first century characters, moving it to the American continents in order to make it more accessible to today's readers. So get ready to enjoy the pleasures of male masochism, as never before, as once again a submissive man comes under the thrall of a dominant woman in leather. Because, for the cognoscenti, it is well known that nothing beats a good whipping spiced with jolly humiliation to give a chap a roaring good time.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: June 2010
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [232 KB]
Reading time: 143-200 min.
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BAREFOOT IN ZIHUATANEJO
Where will I begin my story?
Of course, the story really began when one of my father's sperm cells wiggled its little way into my mother's ripe ovum. Because at that moment I became who and what I am. I know that I was already, at that moment, a masochist. And, of course, I remain one to this day.
But rather than launching this story with speculations about my parent's love life, I prefer to begin it some twenty four years later. For I was fully mature when I met Wanda. And, in a sense, that was when it all began.
I was on vacation in Zihuatanejo, a tropical town on the west coast of Mexico, when I fell in love.
Although Zihuatanejo is physically located in a region known as the Mexican Riviera, the town is not really a part of it.
Adjacent to Zihuatanejo is the tourist resort town of Ixtapa. It is an area of luxury hotels where the lingua franca is not Spanish but English.
Although I was easily able to walk barefoot from Zihuatanejo to Ixtapa, and frequently did so, the two communities are miles...leagues apart socially, economically and culturally.
I regularly flew down to Zihuatanejo from my home in San Diego when my employer, the San Diego Library System, saw fit to allow me a week or so's respite from my arduous duties as an assistant branch librarian.
The flight from San Diego to Zihuatanejo is pleasant enough, with only one stop in Arizona.
I arrived at my destination with a suitcase full of tropical clothing, a supply of linen rope with which to be bound, and carrying my rattan cane in hand. The better to be beaten with.
I always stayed at the Hotel Pancho Villa, which has very low rates. I might even say dirt cheap.
Because the place is a dump.
The hotel is only a block from La Madera Beach.
No one working at the hotel speaks a word of English. Because no Gringo (other than a wretch like me) would ever stay at the dismal place.
My grasp of the Spanish language is adequate. I need to resort to my Spanish-English dictionary with fair regularity to make myself understood. But I generally am able to satisfy my peculiar needs in Zihuatanejo one way or another.
Why did I come to Zihuatanejo for my vacations? Well, chiefly to read porn, to get whipped, abused and fucked by whores, and to jack off under the palm trees by the sea at night.
In short, because I was into "self-abuse" in any sense you wish to take the term.
What I appreciated about the Pancho Villa Hotel was the ease with which I could get whores into my room. Chuy, the proprietor and desk clerk, could always get his "sister," his "sweetheart," or his "neighbor's girl" for me for twenty dollars American. He assured me that each one was barely sixteen years old. And, of course, was a certified virgin.
In person, the "girls" looked more like I imagined Chuy's mother, aunt or grandmother might appear. Fat, ugly and forty plus years of age.
But I have always hated myself. I am replete with self-disgust. So I never felt I deserved better than that.
And, let's face it. What can one expect for twenty bucks a pop?
I want to tell you about an encounter I had on a fateful vacation I took during my twenty-fifth year.
Chuy sent a whore named Fulana to my room.
She was just what I needed. Fat, ugly, fortyish, with fetid breath and a bad attitude.
I had doused myself well with cheap tequila before she arrived. With the combination of the booze and the whore's unattractiveness I could hardly get it up to begin with. But, as it always did, my potency increased with hearty female abuse.
Fulana well knew what I expected from her. Chuy always prepped the whores about the weird desires of the Gringo loco.
Fulana stepped into my room and unattractively disrobed. Her body was less than appealing.
Without so much as a verbal greeting, she went directly to the rickety dresser in the room and picked up the lengths of rope I had waiting for her.
Once she had the ropes in hand she deigned to cast a disdainful glance at the bed where she knew I would be lying naked atop the sheets stroking my prick into as stiff a hard-on as I could raise under the circumstances.
I turned over onto my stomach, placing my wrists together behind my back. My pecker was hard enough to make me experience a bit of discomfort from the pressure on it. The aggravation to my staff turned out to be more stimulating, sexually, than the nude woman approaching me.
Like all the whores Chuy had ever sent me, this broad could tie a mean knot. Mexican women of her social caste did lots of tying, tethering and wrapping with rope in their peon lives.
Once she had immobilized my hands behind my back, she brutally yanked me up and onto my feet by the side of the bed.
Still without muttering a word, she jerked her end of the rope down towards the floor, forcing me onto my knees beside the bed, as though I was preparing to say my prayers.
She slammed my face onto the sheets, so my head was pressed awkwardly to the side.
She took a second length of rope, made a slipknot noose of it and circled the noose around my neck.
Then, throwing that rope across the width of the bed, Fulana stepped around to the other side and pulled the rope roughly so that the noose was frighteningly tight around my throat.
She attached the rope to the creaky bedsprings, leaving me uncomfortably gasping for breath and as securely pinioned to that ugly bed as I had ever been bound in my life.
I heard the soles of her big bare feet slapping the concrete floor as she returned to the dresser.
I knew what she was doing. She was fetching my wondrous rattan cane.
What a work of delight is the rattan cane. For centuries it has been wielded by sadistic schoolmasters on the exposed butts of errant schoolboys. The opportunity to beat scholarly bottoms can be a more potent incentive for one of sadistic bent than any monetary remuneration for the would-be teacher. Inherent sadism is a major incentive for cruel men to enter the profession of teaching.
With my head pressed against the bed's surface, I could not observe the expression on Fulana's face as she approached my bare exposed back and ass. But I summoned up visions of cruel glee illuminating her unlovely face.
I could hardly wait for her to begin.
But Fulana hesitated, taking pleasure at the discomfort she undoubtedly knew I felt in anticipation of the painful blows she would soon deliver to my tender naked skin.
She landed her first blow square across the middle of my buns. It was a masterful stroke. Solid, firm and impassioned. The thwack was a physical manifestation of the hatred, disgust and contempt she felt for the creepy Norteamericano who had flown down to her village to get his ass walloped.
It was glorious.
Her second swipe landed directly upon the welt raised by her first smack.
I could tell that this woman had mercilessly beaten recalcitrant burros, disobedient dogs and bothersome children into cringing submission to her will again and again. I had an expert disciplinarian venting a boiling fury upon my despicable being.
What could be more perfect?
I rewarded Fulana by giving full satisfying expression to sobs, screams, moans, tears and curses.
She broke her previous silence by shouting reviling terms at me. I did not understand the meaning of the words. But I caught the import: hijo de la chingada, cabron, pendejo, pinche hijo de tu puta madre, que chinga tu pinche madre...
And this string of abuses coordinated rhythmically with the caning she was delivering to my back, ass, thighs, head, neck, hands, arms shoulders...
The woman was tireless. She certainly expended more physical torment than could be expected for the measly twenty dollars I was paying her.
With the noose around my neck, I did not have great latitude of motion. But there was just enough slack in the rope so I could hump the edge of the bed, back and forth...back and forth.
The combination of the severe beating I was receiving and the coordinated friction of my engorged dong against the sheets caused me to shriek at the top of my lungs as I came powerfully all over the sheet beneath me.
My orgasm appeared to irritate my torturer for she unleashed renewed fury upon my blistered, burning agonizing raw skin.
Oh, the rapture! The pain! The unspeakable delight!
No one on earth can possibly know the sensual delights known to us devoted masochists.
I believe I passed out from the pain at some point. At least, I cannot recall when the blows ceased and the sadistic bitch untied the end of the rope that was secured to the bedsprings.
I found myself in somewhat of a daze when I realized I was being led by my noose into the bathroom.
But, I was aware enough to feel the coolness of the concrete floor as I slumped down onto it.
As I lay there with my hands still bound behind me, my back ablaze from the savage beating I had received, and the feeling of relief in my balls from my giant orgasm, I looked up at the obese woman squatting over me.
Oh, boy! It was time for the grand finale.
Fulana slid her body back and forth above mine and peed and shit all over me, smearing her waste from my head to my heels.
When she finished her job, she went to the toilet, wiped her ass and cunt with the newspaper rectangles that served as toilet paper in that hotel and left me, bound, defiled and convulsing on the bare concrete.
No one can know how much I loved that woman at the time. I was eternally grateful to her. I adored her. She was my goddess.
She was Venus.
I struggled for well over an hour to free my wrists from their restraints. To no avail.
Eventually, Chuy came sauntering into the room wielding a butcher knife. He scornfully spit out the word pendejo at me, severed the rope binding my wrists together, laughed cruelly, and left me squirming in my filthy squalor.
How I loved vacationing in Zihuatanejo.
Now where, you might ask, did I pick up this novel form of sexual satisfaction.
I have already told you that masochism was a strand in the DNA I acquired at conception.
While that fact is true enough, the quality was certainly enhanced at home in my childhood.
I was raised by Mommy Dearest, a single mother who hated (and still hates) all men and boys
After her boyfriend Jack knocked her up, the bastard jilted her. You know, "It's been loads of fun, Dear. A gossamer dream, and all that. But I'm outta here."?
The product of that fizzled romance was none other than...Ta-da!...yours truly.
And I was a great burden to Mommy Dearest. How do I know? Simple. She informed me so on a daily basis until I escaped from her loving care when I was old enough to bolt.
When I was six years old, Mommy Dearest (M.D.) brought home a good friend. A bull dyke who hated the male sex with a vehemence that surpassed that of M.D.
"Auntie" Gertrude, the ferocious lesbian, lived in our happy home and, along with M.D. served in loco parentis.
I got regular beatings from either or both of the vixens for infraction after infraction of previously undisclosed rules of the house.
Not that I minded getting my ass tanned. Truth to tell, I purposely committed such infractions as farting at the dinner table, wetting my bed, tracking lawn fertilizer (shit to you) into the house on my shoes, and, oh yes, sassing back.
My favorite provocation for punishment, though, came with the advent of puberty.
When I discovered jacking off, one or the other of the two viragos kept catching me at it.
How very puritanically furious those babes would get when they spied me doing that nasty male thing to my adolescent peter.
If I couldn't set the stage for one or both of them to catch me in flagrante delicto, I would jerk off into a handkerchief or into my underwear and drop the besmirched article into the clothes hamper. Or, there was always an opportunity to splotch jism in a viscous pool on my sheets.
So, before long, I began to associate beatings with orgasm.
The connection was bound to occur to me eventually anyway. But the dynamics of my loving home helped make the tie-in of pain-rapture at a crucial time in my life.
Auntie Gertrude was what I would call today a religious freak. She justified her lesbian proclivities by references to Holy Writ. She believed the Bible to be quite clear in stating that Delilah was a lesbian and that she was obeying God's dictate when she punished Samson for being what she called a male chauvinist pig. She saw Eve herself as the first lesbian ever who sought the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil so women could escape from the sexism that Adam represented.
Chapter by chapter and book by book, Auntie had a ready exegesis to prove that God hated the male sex and created a female version of our race to keep that poor sap Adam in his place.
I myself was never much into religion back when I lived with Mommy Dearest and Auntie. So I did not pay much attention to their religiosity.
Other than what I learned about martyrs.
It was Mommy Dearest who brought me a thick book full of tales about the Christian martyrs. She believed, and Auntie agreed, that if I read the vivid stories about those saintly masochists, it might just get me to mend my masturbatory ways.
That if I paid strict enough attention to the text of that pious book, I might actually see the light and stop flogging the bishop.
Oh how I loved the stories in that book. They sent me into raptures. I particularly enjoyed whacking off to those titillating tales. I always got a ball-stirring glow from stories about how those saints were so keen on being barbecued on gridirons. Or being boiled alive in hot oil or water. I got tingles reading about the guy who got off on being shot full of arrows. Then there were the freaks who proclaimed some kind of religious nonsense so they could be publicly applauded when they were thrown naked to the lions. I caressed myself to a high pitch when I read about the ones who got themselves torn limb from limb on the rack or wheel. And I was sure I would have volunteered to take the place of any of those pain-fetishists who got themselves nailed to crosses.
On my own, I got hold of a wonderful book about the Spanish Inquisition. Oh, what exquisite instruments those priests had on hand to burn, gouge, hack and drown the infidel martyrs. Such lovely torture. Enough to make anyone like me into an infidel martyr so he could experience such sophisticated torture.
There were so many different kinds of neat folks who suffered all that ravishing pain for their religion or for their infidelity to the "true faith." I would love to suffer for my own cult of SEX. I yearned to agonize to express my veneration of a cruel faithless woman who would be willing to punish me for being such a miserable wretched sinner. A Venus in leather.
From reading those two books, I made up a name for my strange and wonderful condition. I decided that what I exulted in was a "martyr complex." All the great martyred Christian saints and Spanish heretics clearly found bliss in their exquisite suffering. The more barbaric and frightful the torture, the more they enjoyed it.
Why, even today there are loads of Christians and Moslems who beat their own backs with whips. And how about those Buddhist monks who set themselves on fire? There are so many people of all faiths who suffer still other kinds of pain in order to enjoy spiritual sexual ecstasy.
Thank you Mommy Dearest! Thank you Auntie Gertrude! I owe you for enhancing my sex life at its very inception.
Because of the social dynamics of my home life, I tended to be a bit afraid of girls when I was in my early teens.
Oh, not that I was or am a faggot. I am in awe of females and their power over me. They are my goddesses. My Venuses in leather.
When I turned eighteen, I began to meet girls at bars. And I got lucky often enough. But I could not manage to get a single one of my dates to spank me. What was wrong with those women who agreed to accompany me into cheap motel rooms?
I finally wised up. I learned to recognize which girls in the bars were hookers. And I hit pay dirt there because word quickly spread among the Cyprians that there was a geeky lad in the neighborhood who would actually pay good money to get himself bound and beaten up. The girls used to vie for my business.
I worked flipping burgers at a fast-food joint at night for a while after I graduated from high school to get a little cash in my pockets. But my measly earnings only allowed me to support my BDSM fetish with the hookers once or twice a month.
Then I received a scholarship to the library science department at Dewey College in Claremont.
My Aunt Sarah lived in Claremont. Unlike Auntie Gertrude, Sarah was my genuine aunt, my mother's older sister. She was, well, still is, a sophisticated lady. The kind who holds salons, is part of the horsy set and is well-read. She is unlike my mother in so many ways. But she is very much like her in one respect. She has the same wonderful sadistic soul.
I have her to thank for my scholarship. She is a member of a number of lay committees of the college and has influence with the scholarship committee. I have a good idea how she wangled it. My grades in high school were good enough. But it takes more than just good grades to get a full scholarship to a prestigious college like Dewey.
I am sure that what it took in my case was a nice dose of nepotism.
Aunt Sarah had always told me I was her favorite nephew. Which was not too odd. After all, I was and am her only nephew.
She did not care much for her sister -- my mother. And she thought a great deal less of Auntie Gertrude.
"Auntie!" How she hated to hear me call my mother's partner "Auntie." And woe betide me if I ever called Sarah "Auntie." Or even "Aunt" for that matter. She would only allow me to call her Sarah.
I thought she was a neat aunt. And I always felt she really was fond of me. And I knew that she arranged to land me the scholarship in order to get me out of the house of her disliked sister and her sister's despicable significant other.
When I arrived at Claremont, arrangements had all been made for me. I had free room and board at Glasscock Hall. My tuition was fully covered in the department of library science. And I received a monthly stipend that allowed me enough spending money to take care of my minimal needs.
When I visited Sarah to thank her for her kindness to me, she met me at the door of her Victorian style mansion attired in leather clothing.
The effect on me was electric. I had dreamed of women in leather for years. I kept a strip of black leather on my bedside table to rub, sniff and run over my stiff prick every night when I went to bed. My dream of a Venus in leather had haunted my dreams since adolescence.
And there, standing in the doorway of her mansion, bidding me enter her home, was a living embodiment of my leather fetish.
When I entered the door, Sarah held out her hand to me as though to shake my hand. But, I looked directly into her eyes and I knew, with absolute certainty, that Sarah did not desire to shake my hand at all. My firm instinct was to lift that hand of hers to my lips. And as I kissed that dainty hand I dropped to my knees.
As I did so I heard her murmur, "Welcome to the purple world, Leo."
I was unable to speak to her, for I was in a true state of bliss. Her beautiful little hand was so delicate so rounded, so dimpled and so sensuous. And its luminous color was alabaster white.
I remained on my knees before Sarah, fondling that hand. She responded by graciously extending the other hand down to me. I fondly embraced those hands, one at a time, then clasped them together so I could worship them both. I kissed and I licked them. I sucked the fingers. I ran my tongue across the palms.
I fantasized how glorious it would be if she would ever deign to masturbate me with those sensuous hands. I was aware that that neither could nor would ever happen. Only in a dream. But how I longed to dream that very libidinous reverie. I knew that when my meeting with her was over, I would and could rush off to some private place and jack off, imagining it was Sarah's divine hand riding up and down my stiff pole.
At length, Sarah lifted her hands. And as she did so I rose up off my knees to where I could look into her eyes.
Her view descended from my face down to my groin.
Her vision dwelt on the massive hard-on that danced behind my fly.
"You are standing before me boldly with an erection, Leo," she said softly yet decisively.
"I know, Sarah," I admitted. "I am sorry. So sorry. It is quite indecent of me."
"Don't you believe you deserve punishment for such outright bawdiness and vulgarity?" she asked me. This time her tone had a touch of disdain in it.
"Mamma always used a hairbrush to spank me with when I was naughty," I told her.
"How very common and bourgeois," Sarah scoffed. "It is about what I would expect from my seedy sister."
I had no retort for that.
"Were I to condescend to administer chastisement to you, I would consider my riding crop to be a more suitable instrument than a...um...hairbrush."
I nodded my head as a sign of encouragement on the direction her thinking seemed to be going.
"I keep my crop in my den," she explained. "Would you care to see it?"
Oh, Boy! Would I ever, I thought.
But verbally I only said something boyishly stupid like "That would be nice."
She turned heel and walked away from me. I supposed that was an invitation for me to follow her.
So follow her I did. And when she opened the door to her den, I stepped in behind her with my heart palpitating so furiously I felt sure she must be able to hear the thuds.
Sarah haughtily ordered me to remove my jacket, shirt and undershirt. I desperately wanted her to tell me to remove my trousers as well. But I knew she would feel that to be extremely improper.
I was resigned to having my nude torso be all the target her riding crop would ever even consider.
She returned with her whip from a closet and flung the leather thong a few times into the empty space in the room. It had a lovely sharp snap to it. My boner had shrunk some since my love session with her hands. The sight of her right hand wielding the crop, the grace with which she flicked it and the snapping sound when the leather thong reached its apex were all enough to revive a grand gush of blood right to the crown of my Johnson.
"Get down on your knees, Leo, and beg me to whip you for your impolite priapic behavior in the foyer."
I did a pretty convincing bit of beseeching.
"All right, then, Leo," she agreed. "I will administer twenty lashes to your back. That may be sufficient to punish you for your infraction this time. Do stand straight and tall, shoulders back, head up and face the fireplace with your back to me."
I stood there as rigid and proud as a Marine recruit.
And Sarah beat the hell out of my back. I could not stifle my sobs and moans. I was in Heaven.
After the twenty lashes were duly administered, Sarah told me to get dressed again.
"I have seen your class schedule, Leo," she told me. "I observe that you do not have any classes on Wednesdays at two in the afternoon.
"I would be willing to receive you on that day and time whenever you feel the need to atone for the disgusting thoughts and actions in which you engage."
I dropped to my knees, kissed Sarah's feet, and thanked her and left the mansion to go "shake hands with the mayor."
Every Wednesday for the remainder of my stay in Claremont I paid a dutiful call on my aunt. I always had a world of sins to atone for.
And she was always gracious enough to grant compensatory welts to my back in response. And, equally important to me, she always condescended to allow me to worship her voluptuous hands.
Oh, those joyful college years.
But after graduation, when I got my job as an assistant librarian and learned what I could get for twenty bucks a shot in tropical Mexico, the world was my oyster. Except for one flaw. Like all real masochists, I wanted my bondage and whippings administered by someone I loved. But, someone other than my maiden aunt who loved me enough to gratify my needs by humiliating and beating me.
But who was, after all, still my aunt.
Which leads me to tell you about my expedition to Ixtapa-Zihuatanejo. For it was there in that tropical paradise that I first caught sight of Wanda, my goddess, my Venus in leather.