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Tragedy I

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Megan sat quietly in the large, overstuffed chair that had been relegated to her guestroom because it did not fit the decor anywhere else in her country cottage home. Actually, the plush monstrosity did not really fit in here either. The chair arms' thick, velvet-pile upholstery was now permanently crushed by the wall on one side and the room's bed on the other. It was just as well, though, for tonight she had a vigil to keep, and the chair, at least, made that onerous task a comfortable one.

In the dim lighting provided by the small bed lamp, she once again looked over at the restless form bundled up in the bed covers. Every once and a while, the man on the bed would whimper or moan, and she would bounce up to get a closer look, to take a pulse, to check his temperature.

Fortunately, the medication had thus far kept him from coming fully awake, while giving him surcease from the physical pain if not from the mental and emotional anguish. For those hurts, the sedative only provided a short reprieve, a moment of drug induced separation from the full and unknown consequences of this night's travesty. Which was a not all that insignificant a blessing, she admitted. For all her will and fortitude, Megan knew she herself was not yet sufficiently recovered from the past day's ordeal to deal with those injuries. She, therefore, welcomed this brief respite -

watching over the man she had only recently realized she loved.

It was hard to believe that just a few short hours ago, she had been so exultantly happy. Tears welled up in her eyes as she made herself remember one more time the joy, and then, the horrible grief and torment that had followed. . . .


Megan left the small private club in the Adams Morgan neighborhood with a spring in her step. She was so incredibly happy that she could barely keep from laughing out loud as she unlocked the driver's side door of her sporty Honda Prelude.

The dashboard clock read 9:23 as she started up the engine -

an early departure for a club night, but Megan had things to see and more importantly, a *very* special person to *do* this evening. And besides, because of that person, she was not particularly interested in the evening's scheduled exhibits and demonstrations at Club Domaise.

She'd floored her friends at the club with her announcement tonight, but they had, without exception, been very happy for her. Of course, Deirdre had not been there tonight. Odd that, Megan mused to herself, because Deirdre hugely enjoyed exhibitions like the one planned for tonight. Deirdre loved anal sexplay with her male submissives, and particularly with newbies and virgins. Well, Megan had always enjoyed that type of play, too. Megan had even participated in such play with the other woman in the past, and had, on occasion, enjoyed double teaming a couple of male subs into making out with one another with Deirdre. Tonight, however, she was glad the woman had not been there. Deirdre would have been sure to make snide remarks about Megan's plans. The woman was a fine technical top, but she did have her blind spots where men were concerned.

She pulled out of the little parking lot with a foolish grin on her face as she once again hugged her special secret to her. Mistress Megan MacBride, lifestyle dominant and successful entrepreneur, was giddily, irrevocably in love and was loving every minute of it.

She'd never expected it to happen to her, and in fact, had resigned herself to a life without a special someone, without a soulmate. Her past relationships had always burned hot, but in so doing, had burned quick. She acknowledged that much of that was her fault. As a domina, she was stern, demanding and strict with her submissives, and had very little patience with "me-me" types. Her intensity was legendary among the scene players in the greater Washington DC area, and she was greatly respected for her ability to train and to get the most out of chosen submissives. But it was a double edged sword, for few submissives could maintain that peak of near perfection for any length of time.

Life got in the way, usually. A job, a family, perhaps another less demanding dominant, and Megan would be in the market for a new male to train. Since she'd moved to DC ten years ago, only three submissives had stayed with her longer than a year, and none had made it a second anniversary.

Until Andre.

Andre Pedoran had been her submissive for nearly three years now, and had all but lived with her for the last year.

Remarkably, at each crisis point in their relationship, Andre had found a way to keep them together. When his job as an advertising junior executive looked to become a impediment, he had quit his job and had come to work for her in her marketing business. When his older sister had tried, on several occasions, to set him up with a "nice old fashioned girl", Andre had politely declined each time until finally, he'd told her, outright, that there was no one else for him but Megan as long as she would have him.

And it was not as if she had gone easy on him, either. If anything, over the past year, she had been even more demanding and less accepting of anything less than perfect service.

Punishment sessions had become more frequent as each little slip had been documented, tallied and dealt with firmly.

It was after one such session that had involved a rattan cane and a heavy paddle, both implements that she *knew* he did not enjoy in the slightest, that Megan had asked him, point blank, *why* he stayed.

His simple answer had floored her. Through bitten and swollen lips, with tears still freely flowing down his sweaty cheeks, he had smiled at her, oh-so-very-tolerantly. "Because I am in love with you, and cannot imagine being anywhere else than with the woman I love."

Those heartfelt words still awed her, and had marked a major turning point in their relationship because in that moment, she realized that she was in love with him, too.

She'd taken him to *her* bed that night in her own private room. She'd never done that before with *any* submissive.

Not to that special, private place that was hers and hers alone. Not to that refuge where she had always gone simply to relax or to take a moment's time out for herself. But that had been a night of many changes, and she had desperately needed something physical, something *special* to express and to celebrate that new and frightening emotion.

And it had been so very beautiful. . . glorious . . .

transcendent. Megan still remembered being overwhelmed by that exquisite loving they'd shared - so much so that she'd been a little frightened the morning after. Frightened of what she'd gained, and more than just a little bit afraid of what she might have lost.

Only she'd lost nothing, as she'd discovered the next time she had worked Andre in her subterranean dungeon. Throughout that magical scene, and ever since, he had continued to challenge her, to encourage her, to exalt and honor her. And to love her. Never once had he tried to play upon their newly formed bond to deter or inhibit her as his Mistress.

In fact, in all their time together, he'd only denied her one thing she'd ever wanted or asked of him. Denied was not quite correct, she admitted to herself - actually he'd negotiated it as a hard limit - his only such limit. That limit was one reason why she'd left the club early tonight - the exhibitions were about an aspect of play she could not, would not indulge with her favorite.

Odd, she mused to herself as she accelerated onto the interstate, how she did not really mind that limit anymore. A thoroughly proprietary grin lit her red lips. One aspect of that limit might mean sharing him and she no longer had any desire to share what was well and truly *hers*.

That, in and of itself was quite a change for a woman who had never had any compunction about sharing any of her other toy boys. For that matter, she'd never before failed to seduce and tease one of her chosen submissives into eventually willingly offering up to her any and all supposedly hard limits. Before Andre, that had always been a matter of pride, that ultimately, none of her submissives would deny her anything. Now, that did not seem to matter anymore. At least, it no longer seemed to matter with Andre.

The ride home went quickly enough, but her anticipation of what was waiting for her grew with every mile, stretching out each minute, each second. She found her eyes slipping to the small, matching boxes resting on the passenger seat. Andre was going to be so surprised, and she hoped, so very pleased.


Another groan of pain brought her back from her memories.

Quickly, she made yet another check, and found him still asleep. He'd tried to roll over and even the sleeping medication could not protect him entirely from that painful shock of that action. Poor baby, she mused lovingly, he did so hate sleeping on his tummy. She'd learned that early in their relationship, the very first time she'd bound his hands loosely behind his back for a night sleeping at the foot of her dungeon bed. She'd finally had to restrain him further to force him to *stay* on his stomach because his tossing and turning had kept interrupting *her* sleep.

Gently, she brushed back a lock of his thick, almost-too-long black hair from his face, and all but wept at the ravaged torment she saw in a face that found no rest in sleep. He looked so . . .so diminished.

Not at all what she had anticipated finding when she'd finally pulled into her driveway.


The house had been dark when she'd arrived home, but that was in keeping with the orders she'd left for him. She did not believe in wasting electricity just to come home to a well lit house. He wouldn't be expecting her quite this early, and she'd just see if he was following her orders precisely. A darkly mirthful grin lit her face - a nice little hiding might be *just* the spice this brew needed to be *really* memorable.

Nothing *too* rough, though. Certainly, nothing that would impair his . . . performance or his enthusiasm in Megan's bed later on.

It had been oddly, eerily almost-quiet when she'd let herself in the garage door. There hadn't been any real discernable sound, except that she'd been aware that the house was not truly silent. Some second sense made her pause to listen carefully, and then urged her to move as quietly as possible toward the stairs to her room.

She'd been halfway up the stairs when she'd finally heard the first actual sound - the hissing wheeze of a overtaxed voice, rasping out nearly noiseless sobs of pain and despair. A sound that came from now menacing darkness of her own room.

How she'd gotten into her room so quickly, Megan would never remember, just as she would never forget the sight that had greeted her when she'd clicked on the overhead light inside her bedroom door.

Andre had been restrained to the bed, his wrists and ankles stretched incredibly tightly to the corners of her brass headboard and footboard. Her knowledgeable eye had immediately seen that this spread eagled position was not the fairly gentle self bondage as she'd ordered. In fact, there was no way Andre could have possibly done this to himself. A bolster had been wedged under his hips and the bindings had been pulled so tight that no part of his body, except his fingers and toes, could touch the mattress.

She'd walked around behind the bed and had stopped dead in her tracks at the first sight of his ass. In all her experience as a domina, and she had thought she'd seen or done it all, Megan had never seen an ass in such a pitiful condition. He'd been brutally whipped with a very heavily caned implement.

More welts than Megan could bear to count criss-crossed his buttocks, making it appear like some incredibly large waffle iron had been pressed to his backside. Reddish brown tracks, looking like dried rust, meandered down the sides his ass and hips from many of the weals where blood had been drawn time and again.

>From the top of his buttocks to the crease formed by his cheeks and his thighs, not one square inch of skin was normal flesh toned. Blacks, purples and reds combined and blended into something one might find hanging in a gallery of modern art.

But that was not the worst of it.

Alan had been horribly, brutally raped. Wet blood still trickled down the crease of his ass and then down the length his of his shriveled penis to drip onto the comforter. Only years of self discipline and control kept her from crying out and sobbing aloud, because that would not help Andre. He needed far more than her grief if he was going to triumph over this tragedy.

Someone had just broken his hard limit for him, and had broken it savagely.

Fear burned at her gut as she suddenly recognized the implication of the liquid red rivulet still flowing from his anal aperture when all the cuts on his buttocks had already coagulated and dried. He was still hemorrhaging, inside his rectum.

She had to free him, *had* to get him to a doctor. Without thinking, she'd reached for the key chain she'd always ordered him to keep around his neck during this type of self bondage session. For safety reasons, he'd been directed never to lock that last handcuff until he heard her enter the house. That way, he would still be able to free himself in the event of an emergency.

But her fingers touched nothing but skin. The chain, and the key that was supposed to be hanging from it, was not there.


The key had been no where to be found, but since all her toys used the same key, she'd quickly had him free. She'd tried to help him to his feet, tried to get him to the bathroom where she could clean and dress his wounds, but the moment he'd been upright, the trickle of blood out his ass had turned into a spurting fountain. That had put paid to her idea of taking him to a scene friendly doctor she'd met at Club Domaise.

Fearing for his life, she'd grimly called 911.


Megan closed her eyes hard against the dark memories, as if that would stem the horror movie that played over and over again in her mind's eye. Sadly, what had started out being *merely* horrible somehow became progressively worse.


The EMT's had arrived within minutes, although it had seemed like hours. They'd had Andre on a stretcher with an IV in his arm in moments. She'd tried to go with him, but they had made her follow in her own car.

Once she'd gotten to the hospital, no one would talk to her.

She'd tried to be patient, knowing that these people were busy fighting death, but *her* Andre was in there and *no* one would even *talk* to her. Finally, she'd introduced herself as his wife to a very "in-charge" - looking nurse, and that finally had gotten her some attention.

Shortly thereafter, an incredibly young looking doctor in blood stained surgical greens came out to talk to her. The compassionate look on his face changed to furious anger the moment he saw her clothes. Megan caught a quick glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror and was dismayed to see she still wore her club garb - a leather bomber jacket with tight leather jeans and boots. That was bad enough, but her favorite flogger still hung, tails streaming gently down her thigh, from the utility ring on her belt.

"Don't you know enough to play safely if you are going to do this kind of crap with your husband?" the young doctor hissed at her. "That man is seriously injured. We've stopped the bleeding and he will be all right so long as no serious infections set in. It is not as bad as it first looked, but it was a near thing. Another rip or tear in the wrong place, and he might have bled to death internally before you would have known anything was wrong. Dammit, woman, you have to be careful when you stick things up a person's ass."

Megan answered without thinking. "I did not do it, he was raped."

"What?!?!?" The doctor was no longer whispering. "Where?

What happened?"

Megan had explained that she'd gone to the club alone, and had returned home to find him in that condition. The doctor had turned on his heels and walked away, leaving her gaping at his back.

Minutes later, the cops arrived, for all the good they *didn't* do. She'd soon found herself longing to wipe the smirking looks off their faces, but in the end, she'd restrained herself. She'd tried to answer their damned questions, but it was obvious that they did not believe her when she told them that she had not done it. Their shifty eyes had kept stealing not-very-subtle looks at her flogger, before looking heavenward, as praying if for divine strength and patience with this lying female.

The doctor returned to tell the officers that Andre was lucid and could give a statement. Without another word, all three men had left a furious Megan behind.

The story that Andre told the two snidely grinning cops was one of two burglars who had broken into the house and caught him unawares. He'd told them that he had been tied up when they arrived and had not been able to get free quickly enough.

They'd caught him, bound his other hand and then tightened the restraints. They then proceeded to beat him and rape him before making their escape with Megan's jewelry case and some art work.

After the cops left, all but chuckling, the doctor had let Megan into his hospital room to see him. She had stood in the door, just watching those bastards walk away, wishing she could do something that would pound just a bit of basic human compassion into their unfeeling souls. For the first time in her life, she was seriously tempted to work someone over non-

consensually, so that those heartless piss-ants could feel even one tenth the agony her man was feeling.

"Fortunately," the doctor had said, breaking her train of thought, "there was no semen on the swabs we took. Whoever *they* were," and the doctor's tone indicated his own doubts about the burglary story as well. "Evidently, if they were male, they used condoms during the rape."

That was something, Megan had mused. They had at least practiced "safer" rape. Probably more for their safety than for Andre. Someone, she promised herself quietly, was going to pay for this. Someone was going to pay big time.

The doctor had kept Andre overnight for observation, and had wanted to keep him there longer, but Andre was having none of it. Megan had considered ordering him to stay, but had discarded that thought the moment she'd seen the grim determination in his eyes. She'd compromised by saying he could leave the hospital only if he came home with her and promised to stay in bed. That way, she could ensure that he took his medication because she didn't trust the stoic, anti-

drug submissive to take the pain meds if he went to the apartment he still kept, but rarely used any more.

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