Testing the Submissive: The Story & Confessions of a Masochist by Al Daltrey Read Free Book Online Page A

so intensely, we’d almost laugh afterward.  Then we’d hold each other, and either catch our breath or not depending on what we just did.  The sex, like the trip itself, was full of variety. Sometimes rough and raw, sometimes sweet and intimate. Of course, we did bdsm, but not always, and never the same way twice.
    I was v ery much in love. Lewis called me by my first name the whole time, and I almost died when he said ‘I love you’. Sometimes I had to pinch myself.  This was the same guy who let his network associate Grekko beat me with a strap.  This was the same guy who let his driver Victor fuck me all night. This was a man who knew I’d fuck an entire bar full of rowdy men if he told me to. Yet, we’d walk the Champs Elysees holding hands, laughing, telling stories and kissing whenever the moment felt right.
    Victor had picked me up at 6:00 the Thursday that we left. Lewis was already waiting in the car, which of course, was a huge surprise. He kissed me on the cheek and told me I looked beautiful, and then he really shocked me by handing me an airline ticket. His tone of voice was completely different.  When I called him ‘Sir’ he told me to call him ‘Lewis’ for the remainder of the date. It was quite funny flying to Europe with nothing more than an overnight bag. Lewis took me shopping on day two, along Avenue Montaigne. He showered me with gifts, clothing, accessories, and jewelry. Shoes of course! New luggage, make-up, perfume. By mid trip I had enough stuff for a month in Europe. We had so much fun. We jointly selected most of the items purchased. Luckily we had very similar tastes, but it was clear I could buy whatever I wanted. Lewis was very respectful and deferred to me for all final decisions.  It was evident early on that he left his domination of me back in Chicago.  In Paris, we were equals.
    The nine days flew by.  It almost felt surreal ; it went by so fast. It was also the first time he’d ever called me by my first name, Abigail. Sometimes he’d call me Abby for short.  Every, and anytime he used my name, I felt butterflies. I was beaming with pride. He just called me Abby again!
    During the long flight , I kept thinking back to wonderful little memories. In the Musée d'Orsay we had spontaneously drifted apart, each of us enjoying the historic art on our own, wandering, and knowing we’d find each other eventually. Which we did, we’d cross paths, and then separate again.
    “Take a photo of your three favorite pieces in that section of the sculpture collection,” Lewis had suggested, pointing to an area of the Museum, “and afterward we’ll compare notes.”
    I didn’t select from among the more famous pieces, but rather, lesser known ones. I went with my heart. Which pieces stood out for me, which were the most amazing or the most compelling?  Later over foie gras in a bustling French bistro, we had a chance to compare our selections.  I handed over my iPhone, and Lewis handed me his Blackberry.  To our surprise and delight, among the dozens of pieces in that section, we had both selected two of same three sculptures. The odds of that were incredible, and I took it as a very good sign. We had similar taste and style. Artistically, we were simpatico.
    I was still silently reminiscing as I looked out the window of the airplane. We had started our descent back into O’Hare. I had that sad feeling one gets when a vacation is over, and yet, that strange glad-to-be-home feeling.
    Lewis drew me out of my reverie with a question: “Did you get much sleep on the flight?”
    “Um, I’d say I got at least a few hours, yes.”
    “Good. You’ll need it.”
    “Sir?” It was the first time I’d called him Sir in over a week; however, I detected a change in his tone of voice.
    “Two separate limos are picking us up at the airport. I’ll be heading home to sleep of course. You’ll be taken to a private rental residence where four Korean businessmen are staying.  They will