A Sensual Domina's Initiation
I had befriended an assistant professor at my college (I was 20 at the time, she was 33), and we frequently went out to local bars and clubs to dance, often flirting with each other (and teasing onlookers) as we moved our bodies in sensual rhythm on the dance floor. Paula and I became quite close, and during one of our long conversations at one particularly upscale jazz club, I asked her about her experiences with men (and whether they had been as wholly disappointing as mine). She laughed and said, "Olivia my dear, men will never be as suitable lovers as women are... but they DO have their uses." I leaned forward, intrigued. She abruptly suggested that we coax home a particularly attractive specimen, indicating with a tilt of her head a young businessman sipping brandy at the other side of the bar, promising that she would show me exactly what she meant.
I was fascinated, and I immediately agreed. It didn't take much to seduce the distinguished young man whose name I never learned, because as soon as we got him back to Paula's place (where he obviously thought he was about to become the lucky 3rd in a threesome), she firmly took over. Standing before him in her tight leather skirt and white blouse that perfectly displayed her generous cleavage, she told him that we were in charge of everything that would happen, and she'd make him regret it if he was rude or disobedient to either of us. Then, to drive her point home, she swung open a closet door to reveal a rather extensive collection of all matters of discipline. Leather restraints, hoods, harnesses, and dozens of whips, canes, and paddles! (I admit, my jaw fell open along with his!) I recognized the heavy leather crops I used to carry in my competitive horseback riding days; I could already imagine the firm leather smacking in my hand... and then upon the young man's firm ass. I instantly felt my cunt grow warm, and moisten—I felt a new heat emanating from every nerve in my body. I pressed my thighs together, and a low hungry breath escaped my lips.
With a wicked grin, Paula said to our captee: "You've now seen that I am serious. I suggest you get down on your knees and thank us both for the opportunity to be our plaything tonight." I thought the young man might burst out laughing, or call us pushy bitches (as one of my early boyfriends had done). But Paula's instincts about him were quite correct, and he hit the floor as though we'd kicked his knees. He proceeded to kiss our feet, beseeching us to use him and let him please us in any way. Seeing him below me, running his lips over the smooth, finely kept leather of my stylish knee-high boots (and gently caressing the well-pedicured toes beneath) gave me an indescribable erotic thrill! My cunt swelled with slickness and throbbed for attention. I could not wait any longer. I grabbed him by his hair and sharply shoved him backward onto his ass. Holding his short hair in one fist, I yanked up my skirt with the other and leaned forward until my hot, soaked black satin panties were a mere inch before his face. He gasped and moaned as my scent and the sight of my body so suddenly overtook him. Feeling a surge of power, I shoved his face right into my wet panties and ground my hips tightly against his face, rubbing my hard clit firm and fast against his nose, mouth, and chin, muffling his moans and probably limiting his breath. But I was past caring. I rode his face to a fast, explosive orgasm that caused my thighs to clench tightly around his whole head. I cried out in delight and grabbed Paula for a deep kiss, thanking her silently for this wonderful gift. When at last I calmed, I stepped away from the panting boy, his face soaked with my sweet juice, and stepped into Paula's closet to select a whip from the wall.
From that day forward, I sought out solely those males who would serve me in the way I treasure most. Creative, loyal sluts with a deep-seated need to serve a woman of distinction—namely, a sly beauty who happens to possess a mischievous streak, a devious imagination, and a wicked sense of humor. As I am now out of college and working professionally in my field, I satisfy my control cravings on the phone with worthy submissives. If you please me highly, I may reward you with the same treatment I gave to that lucky first man—but don't count on it until you have proved yourself. Heavy breathers, clueless wankers, and stubborn fools need not apply. Be prepared to answer my probing questions if you hope ever to be probed anywhere else!
I graduated with honors from a nursing school in Australia. I had lived most of my life in Australia, so I was thrilled when I was offered a great position as a civilian nurse in an American military hospital. What a brilliant start to my new life. A new career in a different country was an exciting prospect, especially because I was also now ready to begin having men worship me. From Down Under to up on top: in one neat move, I would make my debut as a nurse as well as my debut as a Mistress.
Seeing strong, well-built warriors lying in hospital beds, powerless and looking pitiful was an aphrodisiac to me. There were men from all branches of military service being dominated by Mistress Corrine. It was my goal to have these men sick with desire, willing to give their lives to me, not to their country. My uniform consisted of tight, short skirts with no underwear and revealing shirts with very flimsy bras. My most memorable conquest was a Marine, hospitalized due to a herniated groin. He was a foul-mouthed, misogynistic military policeman. His belief was that a woman was for fucking, and if the Marine Corps had wanted him to have a wife, they would have issued him one.
I vowed that within 72 hours, he would be begging me for a taste of my sweet pussy; by the end of his hospital stay, I would own the air he breathed. I made sure that for the first 48 hours he had only male nurses attending to him. He thought of himself as a ladies’ man and a real sex symbol. No contact with women for two days had him horny as a teenager. The afternoon I executed my plan, I wore my usual scanty uniform. I entered his room with a sly smile on my face. His eyes lit up when he saw my shapely form. My slim, athletic figure, toned thighs, and a uniform so tight and revealing that it almost looked painted on had his interest in a jiff. I carried with me the equipment to perform a sponge bath.
Not even his hernia surgery the day before could stop his cock from rising and throbbing with desire. My nipples tingled with anticipation, for I knew I was only minutes away from taking this Marine as mine. He lay in the bed naked, as I pretended not to notice his bulging cock. He made sexual comments about his manhood and how horny he was—all of which I ignored. Little did he know, this was naught but the beginning for him. As I moved about the room, he watched my every step, licking his lips in anticipation. This empowered me. I noticed his uniform draped over the chair. Being an MP, he carried handcuffs and a nightstick. Hmm, perfect tools for my trade. Quickly, I picked up the cuffs, and whilst he ogled my cleavage and tried to get a look at my naked pussy, I slipped the cuffs around his wrists and chained him to the bed, with his hands suspended above him.
He looked surprised at first, but the initial shock soon faded, and an uneasy, nervous expression crept onto his face as he twigged to his predicament. I could tell he had never been on the receiving end of such treatment. I began soaping his hard body but was careful not to touch anywhere near his huge cock. He was groaning and begging for me to pay attention to his cock. I made sure that he always had a full view of my shaven pussy or my hard nipples and breasts. My indifference to his pleas and whimpers led him to beg, "Nurse, I need to come."
"It’s not 'Nurse' to you!" I spat. "It’s 'Mistress Corrine.
"Yes, Mistress Corrine," he stammered like a nervous schoolboy. "I am yours, Mistress," squeaked the pathetic man below me.
This was too easy. I found his nightstick and pondered what to do with it. I saw his eyes bulge almost as big as his cock as I whacked his thigh with it. He winced in pain but knew better than to yell out. My pussy tingled as he writhed on the bed in agony and ecstasy. I stood on the chair next to his bed. I put one leg up on the arm of the chair and spread my pussy lips, watching him closely as I did so. His face was red, and he made gurgling noises. The symptoms were clear: his cock was ready to explode. I slowly began sliding the nightstick into my now slick, wet folds. As I plunged the nightstick deeper and deeper inside my hot, dripping pussy, he begged for me to release his hands and let him orgasm.
"You need to watch your Mistress, little boy!" I commanded.
"Yes, Mistress Corrine," he cried.
Just as I was about to climax, I stood astride his head as he lay in torture on the bed. I threw down the nightstick and lowered my pussy lips to his face. "Eat my pussy!" I demanded.
"Yes, Mistress," he moaned, as I rubbed my clit over his nose. I ordered him to suck on my clit and to tongue fuck me even harder. I cried out with delight as I came all over his face. I was getting off on the fact that I had control over this warrior, who was now totally helpless—defenseless and at my disposal. He was so desperately aroused; he pleaded, "Mistress Corrine, may I touch my cock? May I come?"
My answer should have been clear to him. My reply was a flick of strawberry-blond hair and a slow exit with a wave of my hand.
I will never forget the pitiful spectacle of one of America’s finest lying handcuffed to a bed, with a bulging, throbbing cock.
Mistress Olivia's response: Very provocative fantasy. Only one problem: I'm not in it! Try, try
Growing up in the South, I felt that people hereabouts subscribed to some downright peculiar notions regarding how one should behave. For example, I was raised to be prim and proper at all times: keep a handkerchief in your purse; never let your perfume arrive before you do; and if you ever find yourself in a compromising position or stressful situation—faint! And to make sure I would become the perfect social debutante in time for my coming-out party, my grandmother sent me to Miss Eunice’s School of Etiquette. Oddly enough, the finishing school was run by a man called Mr. Earl. Now right away you would automatically assume he was gay, but in the South it would be just too impolite to insinuate such a thing!
My grandmother gave Mr. Earl the explicit instruction that I was to finish top of the class; and because I had never really bought into the whole Southern-belle routine and she knew I was a free spirit, she told him that whatever he had to do to whip me into shape, he had her permission. Oh, how he delighted in that. There were eight other debutante hopefuls, but he seemed to take great pleasure in making an example of my tardiness, my table manners, even the way I wore my makeup (the nerve)! Throughout my entire young teenage life I had been taught to act like a lady, so I knew that my social graces left nothing to be desired, and I had had enough. Even though Mr. Earl tried to play the tough guy, I sensed something about him—he could never completely look me in the eyes; in fact, he seemed to focus a lot on looking down at my feet.
At the end of Ballroom Dancing 101, I politely asked Mr. Earl if I could leave early to go meet my grandmother and then return later to speak to him about my performance. He agreed. I couldn’t wait to tell my grandmother about Mr. Earl’s mistreatment of me, knowing that she would straighten things out, but to my surprise, she was not at all sympathetic. She simply said very delicately, "Chérie, I expect great things from you, and part of becoming a lady is being able to handle your own affairs."
I was shocked, but I realized she was right. So I marched back to the school a bit early, only to find Mr. Earl prancing around bedecked in a pearl necklace, a handbag, and a pair of pumps that resembled my grandmother’s—all the while sniffing my handkerchief and sporting an erect penis! I was livid, but I kept my cool. He had no idea I was there, so I left, plotting what I would do next. All the way home, I kept remembering what my grandmother had said, "Handle your own affairs." Suddenly, I had an idea. I went to my grandmother’s yard and pulled a thick vine off her magnolia tree. I sat underneath its shade, gently stripping off the flowers down to the bare vine as I planned my revenge.
The next day I woke up early so I could catch Mr. Earl before anyone else got to the school. I made sure I wore my short, baby-blue Versace tank dress and the highest high-heeled sandals I could find, which brought me up from five three to about five seven. I extended my eyeliner to make my mysterious brown eyes very smoky. I let my long, thick hair cascade down around my face to create a sexy tousled look, glossed my lips to perfection, and neatly tucked my new weapon of choice (the magnolia vine) under my arm.
Mr. Earl was already there, and I was on fire! I stormed those classroom doors like the French stormed the Bastille. I could tell he was caught off guard. And with all the strength my petite five-foot-three-inch frame could muster, I landed a slap that had to be heard around the world. "You filthy little rodent!"
"Nicole, what is the meaning—"
I slapped his other cheek. "Did I tell you to speak?!?" I glared at him so hard I felt as though my eyes were piercing his soul. He must have felt it too, because he dropped his eyes to the floor and began whimpering. "You think you’re so tough, but I know for a fact you’re nothing but a little pansy, Miss Eunice. I caught you yesterday playing dress up. Lest you forget, my grandmother is very powerful; and if she knew, she would have your ass! Whatever’s left of it when I’m done."
He pleaded, like the pathetic pond scum he was.
"From now on, I call the shots around here. And if you don’t want this whole little conservative town to find out about you, you better bow down and greet your new Mistress."
Naturally, he obliged. I lashed his ass with my magnolia vine until I felt myself about to perspire (a lady avoids such unnecessary wetness), and then I made him go set his striped bottom under a faucet of cold water to soothe the sting (because a true lady always takes the time to include these nice little extra finishing touches). Certain that now he understood the force of my wrath, I walked out of Miss Eunice’s School of Etiquette feeling empowered and beautiful.
Clearly, there was no further need for me to attend classes. I had mastered all the material, not to mention the esteemed teacher himself. I did indeed graduate finishing school at the top of my class. Mr. Earl even wrote my grandmother a lovely note on his pale pink stationery, informing her that he had never met so accomplished and poised a debutante. I embraced my new self. The Old South would soon be in trouble. Coming-out party indeed!
Surveying the mall's parking lot but seeing no open spots—as usual, impossible on a Saturday afternoon—we pull directly up to the front entrance. He slips from the car and comes around to open my door. My heels hit the pavement with a soft
"Meet me at Saks, slut!"
Laughing again, I am amused that he has no idea of what’s in store for him. Today will not merely be a shopping trip for Mistress on the lovely slave boy’s credit card; today will mark the transformation of a slave boy into a slutty little princess. Dragging my long red nails lightly over my hips, I feel a sly smile pulling at my lips.
Wending my way through the mall, I savor all the male eyes riveted on me and the feminine glares as my heels beat a rhythmic tattoo on the marble tiles. I finally arrive at the store and begin scanning the floor. My search for the perfect saleswoman to enlist as an accomplice daunting-Mistress has begun.
At last I spy the perfect woman, dressed in a black business suit with sheer black stockings and black stilettos, her hair and makeup flawless. I approach her, and we have a very hasty, hushed discussion. I notice the slave making his servile way in.
She giggles as I point him out and says, "Oh, this is going to be such fun!"
He scurries over, and I grasp the front of his trousers, tugging slightly. He says, "Ma’am, have you found anything you like yet?"
"Oh no, darling, today’s shopping trip isn’t for me, silly. Our fashion consultant, Mistress Candace here, and I are going to begin your transformation into a slutty sissy princess, starting right now."
"But, Ma’am, we’re in public. I kind of thought this would happen at home, you know, in
"Did I ask you to think? No, I didn’t think so. Your thoughts are not relevant at all. Now go and wait by the women’s dressing rooms while Candace and I peruse the store for the perfect items."
Candace and I take our time finding each article of clothing I’m looking for. We settle on a pair of whorish, red lace high-cut briefs and matching padded push-up bra, black thigh-highs and matching garter, and a very short, slutty black dress that positively screams "I need to be used and treated like a whore." Stopping at the shoe department, we pick out the perfect pair of black Gucci stiletto pumps.
Candace and I laugh and chat the whole leisurely way back to the dressing room, knowing that the slave must be dancing back and forth from one foot to the other nervously because we've made him wait so long.
Tossing all the pretty apparel except the shoes at the boy, I command, "Get dressed and come out and prance around for us. Show us what a pretty girl you make."
Shifting restlessly back and forth, he whines, "Ma’am, I don’t want to do this here, please. The ladies in the store will laugh at me. They'll know I'm a boy in drag."
"Isn’t that the whole purpose, bitch? Now go! Mistress Candace will come in and help you, and don’t you dare let that worthless little cock leak all over those new panties, or else!"
Getting comfortable in the chaise longue, I recline with crossed ankles. Such a perfect vantage point. I relax and watch a parade of amazingly beautiful women coming in and out with armfuls of dresses. What an ideal audience they will make.
"Come on, princess, I'm waiting, and my patience is short."
He emerges, trying to hide behind Candace. I can hear her taunting him in a sibilant whisper. I throw the high heels at him and watch as he awkwardly wedges them on.
"Aw, is my little sissy girl embarrassed? Prance up and down the aisle. I want to see how slutty you look." Dragging my perfectly manicured nails over her bottom, I notice with satisfaction her defeated stance as she begins her walk of shame.
"Come on, girl, you look like a boy in a dress. How do you expect to please me like that? I said prance—that means hips swaying, ass shaking, little titties bouncing. Oh, I think your new name will be Samantha. Now prance, Samantha, and I mean NOW!"
I chuckle as I start to hear a building wave of snickering and giggling from our fellow shoppers. I savor the sharp intake of breath from some of the older women as the shock settles and they realize that what was once a man is now a sissy modeling in the women’s dressing area. I hear "Oh my God!" and "What has this world come to?" being muttered.
"Do you hear that, slut? All these ladies are terribly humiliated for you."
"Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Mistress, for turning me into a sissy and sharing it with the world. I need to be reminded of how ashamed I should be of myself."
"Okay, Samantha, I think that’s plenty for today. Now thank Mistress Candace, and go pay for your purchases. And we really must stop by the jewelry department so you can pick up a tribute or two for me."
My skin is the pure color of the inner flesh of an almond—do you know the shade? Even the scent of almond clings to me. My hair, a rich and lustrous black, falls from a center part and cascades down my back to my waist. I tend to braid it or twist it up into a bun when I am working, but it’s often down for play. My hair is my glory: it is always shining and smooth. My face is a classical oval—so highly prized in Japanese art—framed to perfection by my hair. My earlobes bear several small gold rings. My eyes are a dark hazel, upturned, and I am fond of making them up advantageously to highlight the green sparks in my irises. I have a straight, pert nose and a small mouth with cupid’s-bow lips. I am rarely without a dramatic shade of lipstick, and if I can’t mark you with my sharp teeth or nails, I’ll certainly try to leave some lipstick on your starched white collar.
My body is lithe and strong, and I am thin enough to have a nicely visible, finely molded collarbone. I have high, firm breasts; I am of Japanese descent, so they are not overlarge: a full B cup. Completely natural and topped with generous, hard, tan nipples, they have proved more than adequate for the purpose of manipulating
My body then curves into my trim 23-inch waist and flares out again into my luscious hips. My ass is round and tight. Men can’t seem to keep their hands off it when I ride the train to my office in the morning. On the other side, dipping between my thighs, rests my beautiful, silky cunt, filled with delicate pink petals and my rich, creamy nectar. I’ve been told I have the sweetness of a jasmine blossom.
My arms are long, lightly muscled, tapering gently to the wrists. Slender fingers with long, glossy blood-red nails adorn a rectangular palm. I wear a
I have legs that won’t quit, and both the flexibility and the strength to trap you between them.
Haven’t you ever dreamed of being caught between a woman’s thighs, forced to bring her to successive orgasms with your tongue while she coats your face with her juices?
I have thin ankles; the bone on the side is prominent—the ideal place to lay your worshipful kisses. I’ve high arches and narrow feet. The toes are fashioned with the same slender grace as my fingers, and I've had the nails done the matching color. A pedicure is my favorite way to pamper myself; my nails are never less than perfect.
This description catches your attention, does it not? I note the flush it brings to your skin, the elevated heartbeat I can detect pulsing in your throat.
Do not allow my name to mislead you: I am the temptation. I am the coiled serpent. I will offer you the knowledge that will destroy you when you come to dwell in my garden of earthly delights.
"Agony of the leaves"— Tea-trade term to denote the reaction of tea leaves during the steeping process, as they fill with boiling water and expand, twisting and writhing.
One assumes that a tale has both a beginning and an end, but you, my dear, enter this story in the center. We will see what you glean from a brief overview of my early life; do try to catch up with the rest of the class.
My father, in his infinite stupidity, whisked my mother and my infant self away from the Upper East Side of New York City to dwell in a town that was, in my opinion, largely full of cows and idiots, in northern Colorado. My father certainly fit the bill.
My mother was a lawyer and greatly outshone my father in terms of both intellect and ability to generate cash flow, even in this tiny village hovel. My mother, whose parents had come from Japan directly to further their business in America, had been raised in the City and had been taught since birth to expect—nay, demand—the finer things in life. When my father proved himself incapable of providing these things and his tenure in Colorado stretched endlessly toward my teen years, my mother took me in hand, and we left him. She never looked back, and to be true, neither did I.
When we returned to the City, my mother told me about the accounts she had hidden from my father and the money that she had saved. We went on a whirlwind tour, ate at the best restaurants, and lived as much of the nightlife as I could fit into my youthful self. I was given the finest tutors that money could buy (my mother approved of private education), and she always dressed me impeccably in fashionable clothing. You see, my mother fancied me to be her protégée. I was meant to be her legacy. I was my mother’s perfectly polished, perfectly poised china doll.
I suppose it is no surprise that I emerged from my adolescence with an utter intolerance of anything that falls below the mark, and with a general disrespect for so-called "male authority figures"—my mother had no time for them; why should I?
She felt a strong tie to her homeland, despite having only rarely seen it. It occurred to her that I should be trained in a fashion not unlike a traditional geisha, and she arranged for me to take classes in tea ceremony. I find the concept of tea ceremony inherently amusing: the tea ceremony is meant to be a glorification of the imperfection of this very fleeting moment, yet the devotees practice for the majority of their adult lives to achieve perfected imperfection. In a way, I could appreciate the idea: I was my mother’s slightly flawed mirror. My father left me with skin a tad too light to be properly Japanese, and my eyes have a distinctly hazel cast to them. That is my brand; that is the thing that kept me from being the most suitable doll.
My mother would bring clients to our home on occasion, and I would serve tea. These men were Americans, and they had no appreciation for Eastern aesthetic. They thought the tea was bitter and did not understand the fine eroticism in the inch or two of inner wrist that I would expose while pouring. There was one guest who had the audacity to confront me later in the hallway, press me to the wall, and attempt to fondle my breasts through my silk kimono. I would have none of it. Despite the fact that it is most proper to remove one’s shoes upon entering the household, my mother considered my deportment to be best when I wore heels. I took account of the available weapons I had at my disposal: a heavy iron tetsubin full of boiling water, or my shoes—the tetsubin would merely make a mess on my mother’s carpets. Instead, I jabbed my pointed heel directly into the man’s disgusting testicles. My mother was very proud. And he was always unceasingly polite to me from then on. After this incident, I decided that men were animals, no better than my father, and that pain was the only teaching method they truly comprehended.
I began to play with my mother’s clients. Many of them were far, far beneath her, but as I said, I was a slightly flawed mirror. I enjoyed teasing them, leading them on—Oh dear, did I accidentally press my cunt against your shoulder when I leaned past you as you knelt at my mother’s table?—only to crush them later. I had a great deal of fun with this. There is one who still mails me a letter every year on my birthday, handwritten, of course, on fine cotton paper, to plead with me to become his mistress. If only he knew.
I am a very busy woman. Since my mother’s death and my subsequent inheritance, I’ve turned my focus back to the small rituals of the tea ceremony that shaped my life. After all, the first time I sincerely wounded a man was during the ceremony, and nearly every man who pled desperately to be allowed a single taste of my flesh did so over tea. I cannot inhale the delicate scent of the leaves without recalling this. I spend much of my time dealing with importers and my own clients who wish training in the Way of Tea. It is business, and it is a business that I love, but it is not enough.
I found that I missed the sight of a pathetic wretch on his knees (Western men have no idea how to kneel properly—it’s most deplorable), trying in vain to hide his naughty erection, staring up at me as I stood over him with my arms crossed and an expectant look on my finely cut features. My mother could never quite understand the delight I took in listening to these supposed executives grovel before my feet, pleading for a taste, a touch, a kiss. Her colleagues were my favorite prey: kings in the boardroom and yet spineless beasts on my floor.
How will you grovel? How will you beg? What sweet cries of pain and torment will you utter for me?
Well, boys, I love to watch quality cocksucking.
Here is the story of the first live show I ever attended.
Warm, luscious mouths waiting to be
I watched, curled into the chair, relaxed, eyes lazily roaming the room. Till I saw him, brown hair falling into his eyes, head bent down, full moist lips parted. I sat up, feeling the familiar tension ride through me—that I
So intent on him that I didn't notice the hard-cocked muscular man until he was standing right in front of him, cock raised stiff past his navel—thick, veiny, the head glistening, and definitely in need of a warm, wet mouth. My thigh muscles tightened as I clenched my legs together. Not a word was spoken between the men. Biting my lip, I watched: as he looked up, brushed a curl out of his eye, slowly opened his mouth, tongue rolling forward, tip pressed into a hard point, lapping at the
I grew up in the rolling hillsides of Chautauqua County. I lived on a farm with my mother, father, and older brother. My father owned thoroughbred horses as a hobby, and I grew up on horseback. We had a stable with five mares (give or take), two geldings, and a blood bay stallion named Dante's Inferno (Dante, for short). The stallion was, of course, my favorite horse to ride. This horse was so incredibly powerful, yet I could handle him. I had a way of disciplining him that seemed to work quite well. I whispered sweet nothings in his ears, used a chained bit to reel him in, and applied spurs or a crop for small admonitions, orders, and punishment. My father was proud of my riding skill and of what he referred to as my "instinct" for horses. Soon I would learn that I also possessed an instinct for handling men, because in the summer of my seventeenth year, my father hired a young stable hand named Billy.
Billy was quite strapping, had blond curly hair and blue eyes, and was basically a simpleton. Those big blue eyes were always glued on me. He would watch me as I trotted and galloped through the fields on Dante. One day, I noticed this new stableboy intently watching me ride when he should have been cleaning out stalls. Fed up with his leering and his laziness, I trotted over to him. Peering down from my elevated position on the glorious stallion, I commanded Billy, “Get back to work, immediately! If I catch you slacking off and spying on me again, there will be hell to pay!” Billy looked up at me with embarrassment, a bright red flush blooming across his cheeks, and apologized profusely before meekly shuffling back to the stable. I felt a fierce wave of power that seemed to originate in my loins as I was issuing orders while seated high atop my muscular beast. Even Dante seemed to notice my unusual state, for I could feel him making minute adjustments underneath me. Clearly, this bore further investigation.
About a week later, I caught that young Billy staring at me and goofing off, again! I thought, This is it! I galloped back to the stable, put Dante in an empty stall without even untacking him, and yelled at Billy, “Get in here, IMMEDIATELY!” Billy quickly jogged to the stable, and I slid the large doors shut after him. It was dark and cool in the stable even though it was daytime. The murmurings of the horses surrounded us.
“Billy, get into this stall,” I said, directing him into Dante’s stall. Stallions make the most mess, so their stalls are always the foulest. Because Billy had been ogling me instead of doing his chores, the stall was truly a sty. I said, “Take off your clothes!”
He looked shocked and said, “No way!”
“If you don't do as I say, I'm going to tell my father what a lazy, good-for-nothing stable hand you are, and he will fire you on the spot!”
Billy reluctantly disrobed and stood before me, blushing and covering his genitals with his hands.
“Move your hands away so I can see your puny little pee hole!”
He actually said, “No.” AGAIN! He would soon learn that “no” had been the wrong answer.
“MOVE YOUR HANDS!” I swatted his thigh with my crop. He flinched from the stinging pain of the whack and quickly withdrew his hands. “What a pathetic little wimp!” There it was: his peach-fuzzed little cock, hard as a rock! Ha! He was so ashamed, standing there naked and hard under my scrutiny! I could feel my panties getting wet.
“Well, just for saying no to me, you better get down on all fours and crawl around this dirty stall that you should have been cleaning earlier today!” He got down on his hands and knees. I could see his cock jumping with excitement as I ordered him to crawl through the muck in circles. Every time he passed close to me, I gave him a good kick in the ass with my boot, which propelled him face-first into the stallion manure and urine. He would turn to look up at me limpidly when he was back on all fours again, and I rejoiced in the sight of the urine-soaked sawdust and horse shit smeared all over the front of his body and his face.
After I had had enough, I grabbed him by the hair. “Get up and hose yourself off—your filthiness disgusts me!"
I needed to untack Dante, who had been patiently waiting for me. While I was taking off Dante’s bridle, I was watching Billy hose himself off, wincing under the freezing stream. I realized there was one more thing I needed to do. I strode over to him and demanded the hose.
He looked terrified, but he handed it over. I said, “We need to wash you inside and out! You are such a repulsive, dirty boy. You make me sick!” I pushed him up against the wall, facing me, and stuck the spout of the hose into his mouth. I put my gloved finger over the hose to increase the pressure of the spray. He gagged and coughed quite a bit, but I continued, reminding him, “It is absolutely necessary that you be clean inside and out.”
When I felt Bully's mouth had been rinsed enough, I had him turn to face the wall. He looked absolutely horrified, but I could still see his stiff cock bobbing about. I spread his cheeks with one hand and stuck the metal ring at the end of the hose into his virgin ass with the other. And I held it there. He writhed and whimpered as the ice-cold water filled his bowels. When water started spraying back at me, I jumped away in revulsion, throwing down the hose. Yuck! I told him never to look at me again, unless I ordered him to. I informed him that we weren't quite finished yet and to report to the stable at midnight for part two.
I had worn a T-shirt and panties to bed, so I threw on a pair of riding jodhpurs and boots. I sneaked out of the house and headed down to the stable. The moon shed a silvery radiance on the fields that night, lighting my path to the barn. When I slipped through the large sliding door into the stable, it was dark, but I could still make out Billy’s figure sitting on a small stool, waiting for me. Eager, I thought, pleased. Little did he know what I had in store for him!
I said, “Strip.” This time, he complied instantly—pleasing me again.
I marched him over to Dante’s stall and opened the door. The moonlight coming in through the window lit up the stall. Once again, I had him get down on all fours. This time he hesitated because the enormous animal towered over both of us as we stood. I gave Billy a little encouragement with a switch on his glowing white ass, and he promptly acquiesced. I said, “First, I want you to eat some hay off the floor.” He looked at me with a slight hint of anger, so I hit him again with my crop, just a little bit harder this time. “Now!” He cringed from the blow, and I could see a red welt developing on his buttocks. He leaned his head down and weakly picked up a very small piece of hay in his mouth.
I said, “You are hungry and will eat the hay like you are hungry! I will not say it again!” So he started chomping on some hay like the pony I was fashioning him into. I giggled with delight. In the meantime, Dante was sniffing and blowing at Billy, wondering what this little creature was doing in his stall. I stroked his velvety nose and cooed to him, and as he relaxed, so did his enormous cock! It slowly dropped until that whole shiny pink-and-black cock was in full view, and about to urinate. I was thrilled! “Billy, get under this horse right now!” Billy scuttled over and positioned himself under Dante. “I mean right under his cock.” Billy seemed a bit upset, but I noticed his tiny cock, erect as ever.
I demanded, “Put your face up to the head of that beautiful cock.” He did so, and immediately, the horse let out a steaming hot torrent of urine. It was beautiful, and Billy was eating it up! It was a golden shower in the most literal sense! I was getting so wet I thought I might orgasm right then and there. Dante finished and pulled his member back up inside himself. I noticed Billy had milky cum all over his belly. Oh no, no! This will not do!
“Billy, did I tell you that you could come?”
“I have just decided that every time you come, my beloved Dante must also experience such pleasure. Start rubbing his dick.”
Billy seemed really shocked now, but I just looked at him with absolute indifference. He started rubbing the soft folds of the stallion’s sheath. Very good! Gradually, the enlarged horse cock was out and pulsating with anticipation. Billy was on his knees, practically using his whole body to jack it off.
“Lick it!” He immediately started licking the length of the stallion cock. I could actually hear him slurping! Billy’s insignificant cock was so hard that it almost looked bigger, and there was cum juice dripping off the end of it. He lapped up and down the horse’s member. Billy then opened his mouth as wide as he possibly could and fit it over the head of the horse’s cock and sucked in short little jerks as he used his hands and arms to jerk off the rest of the huge member. I was going to come myself! The stallion squirted his juice right into Billy’s mouth! It overflowed and ran down the front of Billy’s face and chest. The sight of it sent me into an explosive orgasm.
That was the summer I learned the many differences between men and horses, and men always suffered in the comparison. I could control 1200 pounds of intelligent horse with the merest flicker of my thigh muscles, but with men, one had to take a much harder tack.
Mise en Scène:
In the smokelight, you are invisible. The crowd murmurs around you, the air thick with sexual excitement. Anticipatory whispers slip between friends, and kisses are covertly exchanged by lovers sharing plush sofas. And you’re almost not-there, sinking into a black leather chair, a good single malt cupped in one trembling hand. If it weren’t for the bluesy vibrations rumbling in electric currents through your veins, you’d hardly know whether or not you exist. But you do. And you’re mine. And you’re ready, aren’t you, my darling?
You watch the red velvet curtain for any sign of movement. A rustle, there? Are we starting? No, it was nothing. Just your imagination, my love. And what an active imagination you have.
In the smokelight, you are invisible, but you see all. In one darkened corner, a young, fit blonde and her lover are working one another up for the festivities. The light is low, but you can see his hand on her pale breast, her immaculately polished fingernails sliding through his hair. He groans low, and she yanks his head back, revealing a black leather collar, a glinting O-ring. Hooking one finger through the ring, she tugs downward sharply. He disappears obediently under the table, and she rakes a hand through her long flaxen tresses, moaning softly as she grinds her pelvis against her submissive little slut’s face. Yes, my love… in the smokelight, you are invisible. And the show is about to begin.
You check your distinctive Girard-Perregaux timepiece. Two minutes to
You’re no better than any of them, but you do worship me properly. Believe me, I knew what I was doing when I ensnared you. I saw your potential, your raw need to be owned and objectified. And I worked cleverly at chipping away your defenses, didn’t I? Small orders at first, seemingly innocuous requests. Get me a drink, darling. I’m parched. Rub my feet, would you? They’re absolutely aching from my pointe class. Be a dear and pick up my dry cleaning, and do have some dinner on the table when I get home from rehearsal. I know I’ll be famished. A steak, please, and bloody. You do know how I like my meat raw.
And later, the requests that sounded more like orders. I’d like a back massage, boy. And then you can rub the lotion into my legs after I shower if you please me well enough. And out in public, at the nightclub: Darling, go tell that gentleman in the Savile Row suit that I’d like to make his acquaintance. He looks to be more a man than you could ever hope to be, doesn’t he? And at home: Here, I’ve a list of errands I’d like for you to run. Don’t forget to pick up that leather collar from Northbound Leather while you’re out. Oh, and speaking of leather… I’ve been craving a pair of those retro-look white leather Christian Louboutin heels. Go purchase them for me, darling, and be quick about it. I’ve got a date tonight.
And before you knew it, you were doing things you’d sworn you’d never do… things that made you feel sick, things that offended your sense of decency and your self-respect. And sometimes you did them with people you didn’t like, or with my other lovers, or people you’d never even met… all because I’d requested it of you. I knew from the moment I met you that you wanted to be devoured, and I’ve had a lovely time making a meal of you. You’ve enjoyed every perverse moment of it, you filthy boy.
And now you’re here, and you don’t know what to expect. But you’ve seen my other shows, and you think you have some idea what you’re in for. Au contraire, silly thing. You may have seen my burlesques, but you’ve never been to the Late Show before, and believe me, my pet, it’s a beast of an entirely different nature.
But you want this, don’t you? You’ve worked hard to get here. The strips of flesh left on your back throb as you remember the agreement we made. Forty lashes in exchange for a trip to Jezebel’s. The biblical irony of it hasn’t escaped you, has it, darling? We’re mixing testaments, but semantics be damned. I take my pleasure as I find it. Your back is still hot from the beating, isn’t it? The bits of ground glass I rubbed into the crop’s keeper have gotten under your skin and I don’t imagine the lemon juice I finished you off with helped soothe the irritation. How clearly it speaks of Mother Nature’s sadism that the juice causes excruciating pain, yet also has antiseptic qualities that will help you heal more quickly so that I can bloody you once again. You sobbed like a child for some time after I’d finished with you. I could hear you from the next room… Please do take some comfort in knowing that I rode my lover to orgasm with your cries of anguish ringing in my ears.
The red velvet curtain rustles again, and this time it’s not a false alarm. The lights fade down on your surroundings, and a spot of warm yellow light rises at the curtain’s centre. The crowd quiets, leaning forward in anticipation. The blonde Mistress in the corner releases her submissive from her thigh-vise grip and tugs him sharply by the collar to a kneeling position by her feet. He curls up around her ankles obediently, sighing with pleasure, his face shining with her glorious cunt-juices. Lucky boy.
And you wait, as you’ve been so well trained to do, my darling. The silence is oppressive, the atmosphere steamy with the promise of wicked entertainment. Your scotch is cold in your hand, beads of sweat gathering on the outside, trickling between your fingers. As the band slides into a sensuous riff, you wonder deliciously if the show will be worth the forty lashes. Of course it will. Perhaps you’ll even be a featured performer.
A moment of absolute still, the air thick with delicious anticipation…
… the curtain parts ever so slightly…
… And then…
There’s very little I adore more than having my boy service my cunt with his tongue and fingers.
Tonight, he was going to do a particularly good job. He had allowed one of my stockings to develop a tiny snag when he was washing them; he knew he was going to have to pay the price, starting now.
We were in my dungeon in the sky. There were treated windows all around us; we could see the brilliant lights of the city, but no one could see in. No one could see the many pieces of furniture arranged across the floor or the myriad toys hanging on the walls and displayed on tables. Only I could see the gleaming ebony St. Andrew’s cross in the corner to my left; only I could see the stocks in the corner to my right.
Only I could see my girl, kneeling in the corner straight ahead of me, her forehead to the floor, her hands stretched out before her. I left her wrists unmanacled; she was utterly submissive, utterly delectable.
These things were invisible to my boy. To him, the only sight in the room was me above him, raised on a platform in the center of the room, commanding the city. I was seated on my throne: my red leather Le Corbusier reclining sling chair, the skins thin and elegant, crimson red, smelling of leather and my sweet pussy.
My legs in their high black boots were spread wide over the arms, the flower of my sex opening under his gaze. I could feel the slickness oozing out of me at the very thought of what I would do to him later.
At the moment, he was obeying my unspoken command. He was crawling toward me on his belly, his hard cock rubbing painfully against the red-and-black carved wool rug that surrounded my dais.
He crawled up onto the shining black platform, his tongue already stretching out to stroke my outer lips. I seized his tongue between my sharp, lacquered nails and pinched it. He tried to smother a cry but didn’t quite succeed.
“Do you think you deserve to taste my sweetness tonight?” His eyes widened. I knew he had hoped to lessen his punishment by servicing me until I was sated. I wasn’t going to lessen the punishment, although I would certainly use him for my needs until I’d wrung out of him everything he had to give.
“I don’t think so.” I opened my legs wider and leaned a little farther back in the chair, bringing my ass to the edge of the seat. I drew his tongue in my pinching, painful grip toward my asshole and placed it directly on my rose. “Lick me there. Use your tongue—ahhh!”
If there’s anything I like better than having my cunt serviced, it’s having a slippery, thrusting, desirous tongue worshiping my ass.
I threw my head back, the dark, curly mass of my hair spreading over the blood-red back of the chair.
“Yesss . . .” I was thrusting myself onto his face and tongue. His nose was smothered between my labia, the bridge of his nose pressed to my throbbing clitoris.
My nipples were tingling, and I was hungry for sensation that night.
“Girl! Come here!”
She was instantly on her feet, eyes downcast, taking the tiny, hurrying steps toward me that I had finally trained her to take, after much exquisite torture. She dropped instantly to her knees again once she reached my throne and pressed her forehead to the floor.
“Mistress?” Her voice was only slightly muffled by her position.
“My nipples. Attend to them.” I was gasping. My boy was outdoing himself, laving his darting tongue over and inside my sensitive hole, insistently and thoroughly, and rubbing his face into my greedy pussy.
She sprang up. Immediately, I felt her mouth attach itself to one sensitive nipple and her fingers begin to twist the other. I knew then that I would reward her later that night.
I reached down and seized my boy by the hair, twisting it painfully, using it as a handle so that I could use his face to reach my climax. My girl kept up the subtle and delicious sucking and pulling.
My stomach began to flutter; my hips began to thrust by themselves. I was smothering him with my wet, swollen pussy. I could feel through my hypersensitive tissues that he was moaning from the pleasure he was giving me. That little extra vibration was about to send me over the edge, but I wanted more.
“Boy! Your fingers! Now!!”
Without removing his tongue from my sphincter, he slid two fingers into my slick cunt. He curled them up, stroking my G-spot insistently as he pistoned his fingers in and out of me. My moans deepened instantly.
He continued licking and thrusting into me for a few more moments, while my girl used her extensive knowledge of pleasuring my breasts to bring me ever closer to climax.
He used his thumb to rub my swollen clitoris.
“Ahhh, yes! Yes!!!” I cried out gutturally, my neck arching back, my hips thrusting into his head, held motionless by my grasping hand.
His stroking fingers finished me. I spurted onto his face, into his hair, his palm filling and overflowing with my cum. The liquid dripped onto the seat of the throne and onto the floor. I shuddered and moaned while his tongue and fingers drew the last of my climax from me.
Finally, my orgasm subsided to occasional tremors and quivers, and I relaxed into my chair.
My girl had quieted her mouth and fingers but hadn’t pulled away. My boy, to his credit, had also stayed in place.
“Mmmm . . .” I stretched luxuriously, and my girl dropped to the floor in a moment. My boy took his cue from her, and he too pressed his forehead to the ground.
I brought my knees together and hugged them to me, and then I extended my legs straight into the air and pulled them toward me, enjoying the stretch. I lowered them slowly, with perfect control, and rested my feet on his exposed back. He made a very convenient and comfortable footrest. I stretched again, making sure to dig my sharp heels into the tender flesh of his back.
I signaled to my girl that I wanted a drink. She scurried off to find a beverage for me.
I relaxed in my chair and mused aloud how I might spend the rest of the limitless evening ahead.
Under my boots, I could feel my boy give the slightest shiver.
As we drove up the long driveway to the stable, I could feel my girl squirming eagerly in the back seat, craning her head, looking for her cart. Today she would be Apple, a work pony, and she could hardly wait.
My boy was driving carefully, as he always does when I am in the car. He was less obviously excited than she was, but I could still see the bulge in his pants. He knew I had worn the pantyhose that he loves, and that soon he would be spending part of the afternoon with my luscious bottom and nylon-clad legs riding on his shoulders.
As my boy got out to open my door, I could see his thinking persona deserting him. I knew that opening my door would be the last human thing he would be expected to do for hours, that he was shedding his personal responsibilities and letting his equine self take over.
Just before he opened the door, I pulled out of my leather satchel a small plastic bag, filled with pieces of apples and carrots, and two bridles.
He handed me out and then stood mutely in front of me, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I watched him intently as he finally blew his breath out between his lips and tossed his head back, shaking his hair from his face.
I smiled then; I knew that my stallion had arrived.
I pulled a piece of carrot out of the bag and placed it on my flattened hand. He lipped it up into his mouth and crunched its sweetness. I stroked his hair back from his face, rubbed the bridge of his nose with the backs of my fingers. “Good boy. Good Racer, good boy.”
I took the larger of the two bridles and slipped the harness over his head and the bit into his mouth. He champed the bit into place as I adjusted the straps of the crown piece, smoothing the leather over and around his head, making sure the fit was secure but comfortable. I handed Racer’s reins to the groom, who had come running at the sound of the car.
Through the glass, I could see my girl looking at me beseechingly from the backseat. I opened the door and leaned in to put her harness on. She had a tendency toward high spirits, and I wanted the lead on her before she got out of the car.
I slipped the leather straps of the bridle over her head, easing the bit into her mouth. My boy had braided her hair earlier, so it was easy to fit the bridle on her dainty head. She came willingly as I guided her out of the car. I stroked her nose. “What a sweet girl, Apple.” She nuzzled me and then tossed her head playfully.
I took Racer’s reins from the groom and walked them both through the great doors into the stable.
I belong to a sorority of seven bratty, spoiled girls. We spend our time in between classes going to the gym, doing our makeup, and making sure we look absolutely delectable for all the campus boys. While college boys are fun to play with, they lack a certain desperation and willingness to please, qualities that you wonderful pets have in abundance. Okay, we will get to all that much later. So, this semester I took a class called Marketing 101. The whole semester, my professor drilled complicated marketing techniques into my head. I had been under the impression that all a girl had to do was look cute, bat her eyes, and she could sell anything, no problem. Maybe not. I vowed to take my studies seriously. I would not rely solely on my genes and body to get what I wanted. I would figure out marketing, which would require brains and a strategy. This is a real-life tale about my adventures in marketing. I have separated the story into three categories.
My sorority sisters and I were invited to attend an underground, exclusive event—a foot-worship party hosted by a local Dominatrix. We received invitations in the mail, scented with some super-sweet perfume. How we came to receive the invitations is an underground secret that I can never divulge. Sorry. When we arrived at the party, we were all inappropriately dressed. We wore Juicy Couture outfits—cute flouncy miniskirts plus teeny low-cut tops in scrumptious colors—and heels. While we looked absolutely adorable, the three other Mistresses that were there had on leather corsets, garter belts, stockings, and high boots. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to wear what they were wearing. They simply looked at us and smirked a little.
All of us girls were directed to the middle of the room, where we sat on throne-like chairs and had a variety of businessmen kiss and worship our feet. They all seemed to be in heaven, sniffing and gently touching our pretty feet, rubbing them all over their faces. Candace, one of my really good friends, was chewing gum and found incredible amusement in sticking wads of it right in the middle of the slaves’ foreheads. The head Mistress came up to me and asked me to follow her into the other room. We walked for what seemed like forever before reaching this room, and there stood a tall man. He was a geeky older guy in his thirties who wore
“Nadia, this is David,” Mistress said, stroking the back of my neck. “He is my gift to you.”
“Princess Nadia, I am a successful lawyer, and I pray that you will have some use for me,” says this David, staring at the floor.
“Oh, she will! Won’t you, Nadia?” the Mistress chuckled.
All I could mutter to the Mistress was thank you. I was at a bit of a loss. I walked back to the other room with David following me like a puppy dog. I explained to the girls that David was now my slave, but it would be a joint effort. They all jumped up and down and giggled at our new toy. The other slaves were groveling on the ground, disappointed and crying that they wanted to go home with us. “Sorry,” we said, emptying out their wallets and taking their money before leaving the event. Now that was fun.
The next couple of weeks were filled with the most intense and ingenious tortures we could devise for our wonderful new slave. The steamy details will be divulged in another report, which I plan to start writing later, after I have updated my winter wardrobe. Our slave ran our errands, ironed our clothes, cooked us organic dinners, and did all the cleaning. We named him Maid Mindy. With his money, we bought him a real French maid’s uniform with antique lace trim, imported from
One day, while I was at home looking for a part-time job, I came up with an incredible idea: I would hire Mindy out for a fee to clean apartments and dorms. Now, of course, I would have to explain the whole situations in the ads I placed. I even took pictures of Mindy in various poses to place with the ads. Turns out the maid’s uniform wasn’t really that flattering—oh well. I got so many responses that I didn’t know what to do. A lot of the businesswomen loved the idea of having a male maid. The dorm residents, whose rooms were absolutely disgusting, couldn't have cared less about who was doing the cleaning, as long as the price was right. The female clients would giggle and laugh at how Mindy curtsied and kneeled at their feet. “Oh, he is so cute,” they would say, handing me the money. Adorable. Naturally, we kept all the money Mindy made. Essentially, we were pimping her out, and she loved every minute of it. After a long hard day of work, Mindy would return to the sorority house, where she would worship our feet, brush our hair, and give us baths. She would then be sent home, wearing a chastity belt, to hump her pillow in frustration that we were all such little cock teasers.
Making the Deal
The sorority girls and I wrote out a four-year contract for Mindy to sign. The contract laid out all Mindy’s daily duties and specified how many houses she was required to clean weekly. When Mindy arrived at the sorority house, we sat at the table in our sexy short skirts, flipped our silky hair around, and told her to sign. That took no time flat. I rubbed her shoulder, telling her what a good girl she was. We briefed Mindy on our new marketing campaign. We were going to open a sissy-training school in a house we had rented with her money (first, last, and security). This school would train slaves to the highest standards of proper maid etiquette. Mindy would serve as the head maid and be the only sissy allowed to come home with us.
This is an introduction to the Sissy Maid Mindy series. I will be starting on this project after I have figured out whether or not to cut bangs.
One of my favorite little fuck-toys was a wicked little thing I met two years ago while I was a counselor-in-training at a posh summer camp in southern
One night, on my way home from a hot rendezvous in my supervisor’s cabin, I saw little Miss Mischief herself in the distance, walking toward the wooded area down by the water with a towel in her hand, clearly hoping to sneak into the lake for a midnight swim. Now, I admit that I may be a bit on the spoiled side myself, but was I really *such* a brat when I was a young teen? I still had my bag of tricks at my side, since I was on my way home from a date. I decided the time was ripe to take matters into my own hands and give this girl her comeuppance once and for all.
I kept myself hidden until she was naked and swimming out toward the lovely little
I didn’t have to wait long before my bratty little camper made her way back to shore. What a sight she was! Dripping wet, gleaming nude in the moonlight, she shivered and looked around warily, knowing full well that she had been discovered.
I walked out from behind the oak tree and made my way to the shore. She moaned slightly when she saw me but bravely stood her ground.
“Couldn’t resist another swim?” I observed. “Why don’t you come with me down to the director’s cabin and we can tell him how dedicated you are to the Aquatics program?” I looked at her with an arched eyebrow, my steely gray eyes withering her with their stern gaze. She looked down at her ankles and shivered, dripping in the moonlight.
“Oh, please!” she begged. “Not again! I just got in trouble for sneaking desserts out of the kitchen last week! I don’t want to be stuck scrubbing pots again.”
“Well, I don’t think you deserve that kind of punishment either,” I replied. “It obviously hasn’t taught you anything. I think you need some help learning how to follow
She tilted her head and looked at me, as if she thought I couldn’t have possibly said the words that she heard.
“W-w-what?” she stammered.
“You heard me, brat. Get. On. Your. Knees.”
She quickly dropped to the ground, still shivering slightly, her eyes focused on a small patch of ground directly in front of her. I paced around her slowly, taking her in. She was one of the tallest girls at the camp. Long, slim legs, a firm, rounded ass, a strong swimmer’s back. Her breasts were well developed, her tight little nipples awakened and erect from her dip in the lake. Her arms and legs had achieved a deep tan, but the gleaming white skin of her torso mapped the outline of her favorite bathing suit, so obviously missing as she knelt before me. Her long raven hair was in a wet, messy ponytail, with a few loose hairs clinging to the nape of her neck.
I poked the end of my slim black paddle into the soft, firm skin of her neck. She gulped but otherwise didn’t move a muscle. I flicked my wrist, tilting her chin up so she was forced to look directly at me. Her expression was serious, but there was a hint of mischief brewing behind her hazel eyes. As I gazed at her, I noticed one of the corners of her little mouth twitching. She was trying not to smile!
The brat knew that she had piqued my interest, and I realized then and there that this girl was more like me than I had previously thought. You know the kind of girls I’m talking about—the beautiful ones, the ones who always get what they want because everybody desires them and no one ever tells them no. The kind of girl who pits all the kids against each other and laughs at the theatre of backstabbing that ensues, each one eager to win her attention. The kind of girl whose attention you can’t live without.
I smacked her across the face with my little leather paddle. The satisfying slap brought a glint of tears to her eyes. I walked around to her back and pushed her onto her hands and knees, giving her three hard slaps on her ass for extra credit. She moaned, but from the muffled sound, I could tell she had managed to keep her mouth shut.
I pulled the bitch back up on her knees by her mop of wet, messy hair and paddled each of her tits until they were a lovely shade of pink. She took it admirably, and when I stopped to admire my work, she softly murmured, “Thank you, Miss Catherine.”
“You naughty little slut,” I replied. “You’ve been misbehaving all summer! Well, you can stop all these silly little cries for attention. I see what sort of discipline you really need.”
I stepped closer, until the bulging fly of my jeans was three inches from her face. “Unbutton my jeans with your teeth, you little skank. I want to see what you’ve been practicing out in the woods with the boys all summer.”
My girl dutifully tugged at my jeans with her mouth, and I noticed she still wore braces on the bottom row of her teeth. Liberating my smooth silicone cock, she gasped. “Ooh! It’s so pretty!”
“So, you like what you see, princess? Well, show me a good time tonight, and I’ll see what I can do about cutting you some slack for the rest of the summer.”
She daintily kissed the tip of my cock and took the very end of it into her mouth. Exasperated, I grabbed her ponytail and pushed her head forward, scraping past her little white teeth and into her hot little throat. She moaned around the phallus, and I felt the vibration all the way through the base of it, tickling my clit behind the red vinyl harness.
“That’s more like it,” I said sweetly. She swallowed the cock, rocking her head back and forth, the delicious waves of pressure smacking my clit rhythmically until my pussy was wet and nearly dripping down my thighs.
I pulled her up off my dick, spun her around, and pushed her forward onto her hands and knees. This girl had obviously learned a lot about cocksucking during her little field trips in the woods with the boys this summer, but it was time to see if she knew how to fuck. She held her ass in the air so prettily, I couldn’t resist paddling it again, bringing it up to a nice rosy shade to match her swollen pink tits. Her pussy was surprisingly wet for a girl who’d just had a swim. She’d obviously been enjoying herself as she worked my cock. She later told me she’d been rubbing her clit while I fucked her face. What a brat she was!
I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the girl could fuck, and I jammed my cock into her pussy and then her ass, paddling her back and shoulders in rhythm. I felt my pussy clenching hard against the red vinyl straps of my harness, and I held my breath until the pounding pressure on my clit gave me the most delicious orgasm. Spent, I curled up with her under the oak tree, almost purring with delight.
That summer was long and hot, and although my spoiled little pet made several more clandestine skinny-dipping excursions over the course of the season, everyone remarked at how well-behaved she had become after that evening by the lake.
My favorite ladyboy had been a very good girl that week before the play party. She invited Me over for an evening of pampering. She put on her prettiest maid’s outfit, bathed Me and made sure I was properly smooth, cooked Me a wonderful dinner, brought Me drinks, listened as I spoke without interrupting even once, and serviced Me well before My sleep. She also made a point of beginning every day by phoning to tell Me how devoted she was.
Being the loving Mistress that I am, I thought back to a conversation we'd had the previous month about a fantasy she had not yet fulfilled: she had confessed that she longed to be forced against her will to wear a pretty, über-feminine dress in public. Given her recent excellent conduct, I decided to execute her fantasy on Saturday night, when we would be attending our city's largest monthly play party. This particular gathering typically draws a crowd of
Since sissies simply love surprises, I didn't utter a peep about the special treat in store for her at Saturday's gala. That evening, she showed up at the party dressed more boyishly than is her wont, which just played into My hands all the more. After the party had been underway for a while and a T-cross became available, I began laying out My things. She was curious as to My plan, for we had not discussed the scene beforehand, nor had I indicated that she would be watching while I did a demo with another sub. I said nothing, continuing to set up the space.
Eventually, I called her over to Me and told her to remove her shoes, shirt, and pants, which she willingly did. I then put leather restraints on her wrists and ankles. I showed her the contents of My bag: a very frilly blue-and-white Bo Peep outfit, complete with cap and apron, with a separate petticoat, frilly white panties, white thigh-high stockings, and her shiniest Mary Janes.
She positively howled in protest, saying there was no way that she was going to put on such a "girly" outfit. And furthermore, I could not make her.
Of course, she knew full well that I would not tolerate such insolence from her. And in any case, I could already see a wet spot forming on the front of her panties. But her tantrum had drawn the attention of other guests, and I could hardly let her get away with such a public display of bad manners.
Not that I would in private, either.
I grabbed one of her wrists and dragged her toward the cross. She squirmed and protested, but her slippery socks slid on the smooth floor and made it impossible for her to break loose. I deftly lifted her arm to the cross and slipped the hook into her cuff. She immediately tried to open it, but I picked up My riding crop and smacked her across the ass and thighs repeatedly, telling her to leave that restraint alone. She was so distracted by the blows that it was merely a matter of seconds before the other wrist was within easy distance of the second hook. Snap. Before I could get her ankles restrained, however, she figured out how to unhook herself with one hand! Secretly, I found it amusing, but there were many eyes on us, and I certainly could not allow such outrageous conduct to go uncorrected. I quickly put a spreader bar on her ankle cuffs as she went for the second hook. Her arms were temporarily free, but the spreader bar hampered her escape, and she managed to wriggle only a few feet away before I grabbed her. Taking no chances this time, I secured her leash to her collar, dragged her back to the cross, and lashed the leash around it, immobilizing her head. She put up a good struggle as I rehooked her wrist and ankle cuffs, protesting the entire time that there was no way I could make her wear such a stupid, frilly, girly dress, but in short order I had her back in place.
I had to punish her for disobeying Me. I pulled her panties down to her knees so that she was completely on display for everyone to see. Her insolent attitude continued unabated, even as her precum dangled from between her thighs. I picked up My rubber whip—one of My favorites due to the sharpness of the strike and the marks that it leaves—and began flicking it at her pretty ass. She struggled valiantly, but with her leash tied firmly to the cross, she couldn’t see to get her wrists free again. Very soon, she was apologizing loudly for all to hear: Oh, how sorry she was for having disobeyed Mistress! I left her with a very sore, red ass for her troubles.
While her eyes were closed and she was recovering her breath, I unhooked one ankle cuff at a time so I could remove her everyday panties and put on the very frilly white ones. I put her in the fluffy petticoat and rehooked her cuffs. I then pulled her panties and petticoat up to her waist. At this point, she opened her eyes, but unfortunately, she also opened her mouth—and had the audacity to argue with Me, yet again! Some pinches to her already tender ass fixed that attitude problem in no time flat.
In that manner, I completed her toilette—put one piece on, get attitude, smack her sweet ass and remind her that she has no choice but to do as I wish, get apology—and so the cycle continued. Finally I had her completely dressed from head to toe.
I began telling her how very pretty and feminine she looked, but as a last act of defiance, she refused to open her eyes and look for herself. I took hold of her hair and brought her lips to Mine, and she happily returned My kiss. I reached up under her petticoat and stroked her panties against her once, very gently. She moaned into My mouth. I told her to open her eyes and see what a pretty girl she had become. She did so, audibly gasping at the look of the dress on her, the heavy frills of the petticoat, the big bows, the little girl shoes. She seemed very happy, fulfilled even, as she looked down at herself. I removed her wrist and ankle cuffs but left her leash on. I instructed her to twirl and feel the petticoat swirling around her thighs, and twirl she did, like a top. I then paraded her around the room, showing off her beauty. She received many compliments, and each one made her glow that much more.
But I wasn’t done with her yet.
I continued promenading her around until we reached the bathroom. I wanted her to look at herself in a mirror, and a big one at that. As soon as she saw her reflection, she became shy and a bit belligerent again. I grabbed her leash and dragged her closer to the mirror. I told her to bend over and rest her hands on the counter while examining herself. I had had just about enough of her impertinent attitude for one night, and My tone of voice was such that this time, she obeyed Me without a struggle.
I pulled her frilly panties down and commanded her to say, “I look pretty.” When she did not immediately comply, I smacked that tender ass of hers. She jumped and mouthed the words, but she was mumbling and looking away. I smacked her again, eliciting a better performance, but still too quiet. I continued to spank her ass hard until she said the line correctly, as if she believed it, as if she was proud of it, and loudly enough for the people outside to hear. I then pulled her new frilly panties up, took her in My arms, and told her that she was pretty, and it pleased Me so to see her looking beautiful, because her beauty redounded to My credit. She hugged Me tightly and thanked Me.
For the rest of the evening, she modeled a succession of different outfits at My whim, never looking happier. And every time someone brings up that evening in conversation, she still smiles.
Hello, My darlings—My ladyboys, pets, doormats, and whores,
I'm looking forward to meeting all of you at last. To tide you over until O/our tête-à-tête, I thought I'd take this opportunity to introduce Myself.
I have My preferences of
Your secrets are safe with Me. Share them.
Should you wish to make O/our time together more personal, I might sometimes choose a toy or item of clothing from My own collection for you to wear as a reminder of your training. I may even make a piece of apparel especially for you, as costume design is one of My passions. If you wish to be taught how to walk in heels, to practice good posture, to sit like a proper lady, or need other feedback of a visual nature, I am willing to observe you via webcam, provided that you’ve already proved your good manners and that you take proper precautions. I very much like to hear of progress being made as you learn to apply makeup or increase the size of the toy you can take, and preferential appointment time is given to those who keep track of their progress and report it to Me on a regular basis.
Welcome to My world,
You always remember the first time you indulge in something decadent and forbidden. It lives on in the mind, growing more vivid as you replay each delicious moment. My breath still quickens when I think about the first time I embraced the tigress within and acted on my desires.
I had just started at the University when we met. My father had employed him to complete the remodel of the great room. He was tall, with jet-black hair and the sculpted body of someone whose days were spent hauling lumber. I caught him watching me one afternoon, but when I turned to catch his gaze, he lowered his eyes and blushed. He had to be at least ten years my senior, but every time our eyes chanced to meet, he averted his gaze, his skin turning a deep crimson.
Father had always forbidden my interactions with the men he hired. I suppose he worried that they might take advantage of his beautiful young daughter. But the desire to march up to this man, tangle my fingers in his wavy hair, and pull his eyes up to meet mine grew stronger with each lost look until I could no longer contain it.
I waited, and then one day, when I was confident we were alone, I approached him. He smiled politely and started to lower his gaze and turn away. And that is when it happened. I commanded him to remain where he stood and look at me. When our eyes finally met, a flare of raw passion ignited.
“Why do you glance away whenever our eyes meet?” I demanded.
He quietly replied, “I have not yet earned that privilege, Mistress.”
I had never even heard the term used before that day. I had no idea what it meant to be a Mistress. But he recognized my true nature before I was even conscious of it myself. That day I began an amazing journey, one of domination, sadism, and erotic pleasures beyond imagination.
A journey I look forward to continuing with you.
First, you tape down the edges of a tarp, because fluids would ruin the floor.
Then, you layer blankets and foam padding to create a cushioned surface. Sandbags on the corners, of course, to hold the whole thing down, because when she squirms (and she will), you don't want the padding to get rucked up.
She's been waiting, outside. She thinks it's just one of your usual sessions, fun with whips and crops and fingers. So she waits, disciplining herself for what will come.
Most of the time, you start as equals; with a tug of hair, the power moves and flows, and the equality shifts and becomes fluid. You go out to her and find her sitting, finishing up what she was working on, half-distracted with thoughts of others across the miles.
“Bitch, come here.”
Her eyes widen. Startled, she looks toward you. This is something you haven't done before, something she doesn't know how to react to. There are no clues, no patterns, no familiar routines for her to follow.
As she stands, you step into her space. With a slap to her pretty face, you correct her. “On your knees, whore.”
She does better with directions, with firm control. As if with relief, she drops to lay her head on your feet.
“Raise your ass.”
Squatting in front of her, you run your hand down her spine, under the top of her skirt, under her panties, across her asshole. Teasing, circling, pressing just a bit to remind her of what is possible. You pull upon the back of her underwear, so that it rides through her slit, across her clit, on the edge of pain, and barely over it.
As she gasps in response, you draw back. “Look at me, my pretty cunt.”
When those blue eyes meet yours then look away, as she struggles to maintain eye contact in her already half-flown-away state, you smile. “You remember your safe words, don't you, little slut? You remember to let me know if I go too far, don't you? You remember to tell me about yourself? You remember to take care of my property, don't you?”
With a whimper, she licks her lips and nods.
“Say it. I want to hear you say it—tell me what you are and what you want. Tell me that you'll be my good girl.”
The blush looks painful on her cheeks. Again her eyes fall downward, her voice a hushed and small thing barely reaching your ears. “I am yours. I want you to do to me whatever you wish. I will be good.”
With a tug, you raise her chin, pinching it between your fingertips. “Close. I want you to be more specific.” You can feel her heart speed up, feel the heat of her cheeks as the blush spreads across her face, down her neck, over her body. Sweet blood rushing to the surface, a sign of her arousal.
“I want you to use me, to fuck me, to make me your whore. I want to be your slut. I want you to beat me, to slap me, to rape me. I want you to leave your marks on me so everyone will know what I am.”
“Better.” You reach into your back pocket and pull out the collar. As you fasten it around her neck, you can feel her shivering. Collar in place, you add a new element: a blindfold.
On her knees, blinded, she waits for what your will shall bring her. Her hair makes a good handhold, as you drag her to the prepared space in the next room.
Every Saturday I go to the pool hall to watch the men at play. When I find someone intriguing, I engage him by challenging him to a game of pool. You can tell a lot about a man from how he plays pool. The way he holds his stick. The way he watches the table, circling around, looking for the best shot. How he plays against another man, as opposed to against a woman. If he likes to show off. Whether he just wants to win, or if he truly enjoys the game. If they don’t enjoy the game, I won’t waste my time.
I had been watching him for a while. He was a well-built man with broad shoulders, just the way I like them. He looked so manly, so in control, but I could sense the deep desire in him, the need to abdicate control and have someone else take over. I had played many games with this particular man—interviewing him, in a sense, to see if he really wanted what I could teach him.
This was to be the night; I invited him to join me for an evening he would never forget.
In the car, I blindfolded him. I drove around for over an hour, going fast, slowing down, making hard turns, stopping abruptly, and finally swerving as if we were going down a long driveway. You see, I truly enjoy the game. I pulled up to our destination and told my bitch to stay put; someone would be back for him. I laughed as I let him sit there, seeing him squirm. I walked over to the car door and opened it. He could hear the soft clicking of heels. I grabbed his hand roughly with my leather gloves. I told him to get out, and I slowly walked him into the house.
I had him stand in my entryway. “Take all your clothes off,” I directed in a neutral tone. He started to protest, and I quickly slapped his face, putting a little English on it. “Once again: take your clothes off, now!” Shivering, he complied. I grabbed him by the balls with my gloved hand and led him over to a chair. I told him to sit. Then I gently kissed his neck and whispered to him, “You are mine.” I tied his hands to the arms of the chair and strapped his shins to its stout wooden legs before removing his blindfold.
I sat on a bench about ten feet from him. Slowly I parted my legs, running my fingers inside my wet pussy, showing him how damp it was. I approached him and put my fingers to his lips. He sucked on them, excited by the taste of me. I walked away laughing and said, “Wait for me”—as if he had any choice. I left the room; it must have seemed an eternity to him.
I returned with a black satin ribbon. I rubbed it against his cheek then let it fall between his legs. Looking right into his eyes, I peeled my gloves off slowly, as if I were doing a striptease. I have beautiful hands, and I’m good with them. Then I slapped him hard across his face. He let out a whimper, and I smacked him again. I loved seeing the red handprint bloom across his face. I enjoyed seeing his dick rise even more.
I dropped to my knees, blowing warm air onto his sac, before winding the ribbon tightly around his balls. His cock grew very hard, and I slapped it, watching as it grew harder still. I trailed my fingernails up his chest, reaching the nape of his neck, where I grabbed at his hair, pulling his head back. He winced. What a little protester! I like them this way, with a tear coming out of the side of the eye. I laughed as I kissed the tear away, let go of his head, and struck him across the face again. “I have a special toy just for you,” I murmured, letting him feel my breath against his ear.
I retrieved my cat-o’-nine-tails, which could certainly tell more than nine tales. I stood before him, running the thongs across his chest before waling into him. Oh, how I loved his little sissy cry. I brought my red stiletto to his scrotum, digging the tip of the heel into his wrapped balls. When I grew tired of this, I removed my pleated miniskirt. He flushed when he spied the strap-on and began shaking his head no. I slapped his face again and shoved my cock into his mouth. I grabbed the back of his head and pressed deeper into his throat. Loving to see those sweet tears fall, I pulled it away. I then freed his arms, only to retie them behind his back. I released his legs and guided him over to my leather ottoman, positioning him stomach down, securing his spread legs.
I then began smacking his tempting ass with my hand: oh, there's that red handprint again. He was crying, moaning, complaining that his balls were tied too tightly. I reached down and grabbed his balls, saying, “I’m really going to give you something to cry about.” I prodded the tip of my strap-on against his asshole, as if feeling for the aim spot on the cue ball. I had just been fucking with him before; now I was going to fuck him.
And I was brutal to his little ass, spurred on by his groans. I withdrew my cock and spanked him hard until he began pleading for more, more, more. Laughing, I brought the dildo to his mouth. He begged me not to make him lick it, but I insisted. Plunging it back into his bottom, I reached around and felt his hardness. I must have miscalculated, because he climaxed right away. I chastised him and made him lick his cum off my hands. He was sweating and panting. So cute! I could see in his eyes how much he loved it, even though he was pretending to be humiliated.
I allowed him to get dressed before blindfolding him and driving him back. We came to a stop in the parking lot of the pool hall, and I removed his blindfold. I was amused by the look of relief that swept over his face as he registered the familiar territory. “Good game. Good night,” I said. Even so, he hesitated to get out of the car, apparently seized by a spasm of male separation anxiety. “Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “I’ll be putting you behind the eight ball again real soon.”
In my line of work, I tend to put in long hours and frequently come home late in the evening. I couldn’t cope if it weren’t for my servant, James. It had been an endless day, and I was looking forward to one of James’s amazing creations, turbot en croûte perhaps, or some other tantalizing French concoction. James was an excellent chef, and I let him indulge himself in the kitchen—the only place I allowed him any indulgence. As I stepped into the apartment, I realized something was amiss. The air was cool and lacked the usual warm and savory aromas that typically greeted me from the kitchen. “James?” I called. No answer. “JAMES!” I yelled. The only reply was a loud metallic "clank" from the kitchen. I strode into the kitchen to find James lying on his back, wearing his usual frilly pink apron and nothing else, head and shoulders inside the oven, tools scattered all around. I ground one of my stiletto heels into his scrotum and asked sweetly, “James,
I picked up the phone and placed an order with my favorite Thai take-out down the street, the whole while glaring at James. “That should arrive in an hour. Your repairs had better be done by then.” I slipped out of my suit jacket and skirt and into the welcoming embrace of the steaming bath. As I lay there, allowing the day to dissolve into the water, I began to think about what sort of punishment James deserved for his ineptitude. I emerged from the bath and called James into my bedroom. I stood nude, my arms crossed, my stern glare piercing him to the quick. He knelt before me and stared at the floor as I spoke: “You’re quite the disappointment tonight. Did you fix the stove yet?” “No, Mistress,” James mumbled. I gently raised his chin and gazed into his eyes, which were beginning to water as the reality of what was about to happen seeped in. “I’m so sorry, Mistress. I
We retired to "the playroom"—my home office, actually, but on the walls were several strategically placed eye bolts. I pushed James up against the wall while I retrieved two pairs of nickel-plated handcuffs from the desk drawer. I attached each pair to an eye bolt and then to one of James's wrists. The result gave the appearance of crucifixion, although what was to follow would be anything but holy. I could feel my breath coming faster and deeper with anticipation. I reached around behind him and untied his little pink apron, tossing it on the floor. James's body was spectacular, a paragon of masculine beauty. I raked my fingernails down his muscular chest, eliciting low, guttural groans of pain and pleasure from him. "You like that?" I questioned sarcastically. "Oh, that's right—I put that ball gag on
I lit the large green candle that was sitting across the room on my desk. It was a pillar candle that generates an ample reservoir of melted wax when it burns. As I left the candle to build up a nice little puddle of wax, I returned to James, the lighter still in my hand. As I ran the lighter’s flame under his heavy sac and thickening cock, I could hear his breath coming in short pants and gasps. I glared at him. “Don’t you even fucking think of coming, or I will destroy you!” James’s eyes shut tight, and I could hear him growl behind the ball gag as I slapped and tugged on his semi-hard dick. After a couple of minutes, I released James’s cock and turned my attention to the pillar candle, carrying it over to him. I passed the flame slowly beneath both of his nipples and under his scrotum. James gasped and whimpered as the flame licked his sensitive skin. His rigid cock was the first to feel the stinging heat of the molten wax. I poured a small trail down the length of his shaft. James screamed through his ball gag as the burning hot wax singed his skin. I smiled evilly as I licked and nibbled at his nipples. James moaned as I tongued the tip of his left nipple. “You like that, do you?" I grasped his cock again and began stroking it. Again, James’s breath began to come in the short pants and gasps that meant he was close to orgasm. I bent forward at the waist to allow him a better view of my full, round, gorgeous breasts. I stared up into his eyes. “Remember what I said: you don’t have the privilege of orgasm.” I began stroking him faster and faster. I would break him—the mind and spirit may be strong, but the flesh is much weaker. James put up a valiant effort, but in the end, it was hopeless. He screamed in panicked desperation and despair as his semen squirted all over my pumping hand.
I stood up and ripped the ball gag from his mouth. “I told you you didn’t get to fucking come! Look at this mess. You make me sick! Lick it off. Lick your cum off. Make sure you clean every one of my fingers, from base to tip!” James obediently lapped every last bit of his semen from my palm and each one of my slender, red-tipped fingers. “What do you have to say for yourself?” I asked angrily. “I’m very sorry, Mistress; I couldn’t help it. It was too much for
I unlocked the left handcuff and attached it to the right. “It’s time now for your punishment.” I spun James around and scraped my fingernails down his back. He let out a low moan as my fingernails dug into his ass cheeks and spread them apart. I grasped the big black Punisher dangling between my legs and pressed the head of it against James’s puckered little asshole. I reached up and lovingly caressed his cheek as I whispered into his ear, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me!" With that, I plunged my thick rubber cock deep inside James’s ass. He screamed as the dildo vanished into him. I began to thrust it in and out of him, plunging nearly the entire length of the big silicone dildo into his tight asshole with every stroke. After the third or fourth stroke, I noticed that one of the straps on the harness ran right over my clit and was rubbing against it with every jab. I began to fuck James savagely, oblivious to his screams as my own orgasm began to build. I sank my fingernails deep into his balls, and my hips bucked wildly as I inched closer and closer to climax and then slipped over the precipice into a satisfying full-body orgasm.
I sank back against the wall, recovering, my juices oozing around the base of the strap-on and seeping down the inside of my thighs; my chest still heaving from the exertion. Limp and dazed, James hung by his wrists against the wall, his legs having long since given out on him. I sighed with satisfaction and smiled. “Apology accepted, James. Try not to let it happen again." As I stood up, the loud buzzing of the doorbell cut though the rushing of my own blood in my ears. Ah, my pad woon sen and larb had arrived—excellent timing! I tied my black silk robe around me, leaving James to “hang out,” and headed for the door.
From the very beginning, I had an inkling that men—any men, all men—owed me a certain respect. A
It's something about the way their eyes shift when they look at me—out of the corners of their eyes, before we're acquainted. Or once in thrall, eyes gazing up from a face tilted down, worshipful; eyes rolled back with a gasp as he's overcome, before he recovers himself and begs my forgiveness.
Yes, beg my forgiveness. Boyfriends are for girls, but supplicants are for goddesses. Which one am I? I'll let you guess.
He knew what he was in for when he knocked.
Was that your knuckles knocking, or your knees? I tease demurely as I let him in. His lips start to move in response as he sets the bags he's carrying near the door, but he's already run out of words. As I click the door shut behind him and draw the lock, I add quietly: Speaking of your
He falls to them in front of me.
His eyes start at my toes, my henna-flowered calves, and slowly, painstakingly, move upward over the curve of my long left thigh, my hips, my breasts—partially veiled by the line of blue silk sarong draped across them. The fabric is gossamer thin and very soft. The tasseled edge hangs tantalizingly open, just enough for him to be aware that something as light as a breath or a draft of air might push it aside and reveal more. Finally his searching eyes meet mine: his face open, placating, and mine calm, focused, my gaze probing and penetrating him, my cheekbones framed gently by the loose red waves that fall around my face and across my smooth, uncovered shoulders. He lets out a slow breath. Is it relief, to be within my walls again?
Why are you here? I ask him.
"To worship you, Goddess," he responds—grateful to have suddenly recovered his tongue.
Worship me, then, I tell him. And I smile.
A flicker of my eyes is all he needs to be on his feet and carrying his bags into the kitchen, hustling to unload them quietly and prepare the succulents he's brought me. Fruit and honey, sweet goat's milk, fresh plum tomatoes from his garden. Only the most perfect, the choicest and most unadulterated morsels for his Lady. He piles berries into bowls, pours milk and honey, arranges them all, and brings them to a low table near the fireplace. I am standing there watching him silently, my toes curling into the luxurious rug—deep, white alpaca—as I consider the signs. He is breathing quickly still, his relief punctuated by a sweet anxiety. Will I approve? Will I grant him his desires? Or will I find his offerings wanting—will I find him wanting—as I have done before?
I haven't decided yet. I'm feeling whimsical this evening.
I catch him leaning over the sink to clean a drop of honey from the smooth stone countertop, and the cloth in his hand stops mid-air. The pulse in his throat flutters twice before I slip my hands around his hips. He is frozen, waiting.
You're far too tall, I say teasingly, and the quality of his frozenness takes on a new uncertainty. The hand holding the cloth starts to drift down toward the honey—he's thinking perhaps that I've overlooked it, or won't admonish him this time. No, I say, and he freezes again. The smallest of smiles tickles the corner of my mouth. Your mouth, I suggest.
His pulse flutters again, and he leans forward over the counter. I am behind him, the curves of my stomach and breasts against him, my hands still resting near his belt, the tips of my fingers brushing the skin above his waistline. His mouth presses against the cool stone where the drop of honey has fallen, and he sucks at the surface, licks with his tongue, laps at the countertop carefully. As he leans forward, I lean forward as well, pinning him, and my hands slowly begin to undo his belt. The zipper slides down. His pants slide down, too, and I feel his warm muscled thighs on my hands as they go.
You can't be done already, I comment archly when he pauses. Once again he begins to lick and suck the countertop where the honey had been. I touch his belly and lower with the tips of my fingers, tracing the edge of his briefs. His hair tickles my hands. I brush his pubis and then his penis with the edge of my thumb. I hear his breath hitch, and I stop for a moment—but he is continuing his ministrations to the stone countertop, a good and respectful boy, a very smart boy. I begin to peel the briefs away, pushing them down to the floor.
He's standing naked in my kitchen, my body pressed along the side of his, and the only thing that separates us is a thin blue layer of silk.
He didn't expect to be so close to me so quickly, and his pulse comes faster. He never looks up from his task. I think perhaps he's wearing a hollow in the stone, his mouth moves so diligently upon it. The honey is long gone, but I haven't told him to stop. He knows that it is only my desire, my wish, my whim that impels him.
I move the palm of my hand over his naked ass. You were careless with the honey, I say.
"Yes, Goddess," he breathes.
The first smack has a deep, sharp sting—and though I hear his gasp, he remains perfectly still. Yes, a very smart boy. The flat of my palm strikes his bottom again, and my other hand slips in front of him, just barely grazing, just barely stroking my fingertips across the flesh of his inner thigh, the hollow of his hip, the flat of his lower belly. Pet, stroke, soothe, smack. He's hard now, and my mouth is watering. In many ways, this boy, this body, is simply another delicacy brought for my enjoyment. What would he never expect? What will terrify him? What portion of him shall I employ to worship and adore me? Another smack, and I caress the soft skin at the root of his cock.
He breathes and moans and squirms, just a little. Just enough.
I tell him to open the window so that I can hear the
I part my sarong with a finger, tracing the long line of blue silk, teasingly exposing one full
Over my lap, I say, and he crawls toward me.
We're on the floor, on the soft, deep rug, and my slicked fingers are inside him. Shifting across my lap slowly so as not to disturb or upset me, he takes my cock in his mouth—carefully, tentatively, as if I might deny him this pleasure at any moment—and yes, I might, but perhaps not yet. I watch his lips move down the dark blue silicone to the base as he presses the head into the opening of his throat, straining to please me. His eyes gaze up at my face, worshiping silently. I drill into his ass with my fingers, and his moans vibrate my pubis. He begins to suck along the length of me. Lick me, I tell him, and he doesn't wait to hear it twice; he didn't expect to hear it at all, and he is dying for a taste of me, far sweeter than the honey so carelessly spilt. His cheek slides along my cock; his tongue finds the harness's black leather strap around my upper thigh and then, behind it, a soft lip, my inner labia, the warmth and wetness of Her whom he worships.
I close my thighs to his face, confusing him, and he stammers. "Please," he says. "Please," he repeats, and his hands shake slightly as he raises them with palms bared and eyes cast upward. My fingers press more deeply, cruelly, inside him. His breath hitches again. Is he near tears? I gaze piercingly into his face.
Why? I ask him.
"Because I am your slave," he cries softly, "because I need to worship you, because you are beautiful, because being in your presence takes me apart. I can't get you out of my head. Please, please, let me please you."
This was previously a powerful man, I think to myself. A man of pride and privilege, commanding the world’s respect—and now, here, he is reduced to a pitiful thing, a pleading servant. He is worthless and weak in my presence, stripped to his most basic emotions. He has surrendered control. He knows that the only one who can give him what he
I open my thighs.
He buries his face in my wetness, grasping my hips with his hands, devouring deeper. With my folds and juices in his mouth, he gasps and shudders.
We spend timeless ages there as he worships. I move slowly and deliberately, letting my head fall backward, my hips undulating, my pelvis grinding rhythmically against his face. I drive another finger into him, three now, slick with lubrication, and he cries out into my cunt. The vibration of his dismay thrills me.
More, I demand, purring, luxuriating. My fingers thrust. He doubles and triples his efforts, licking, sucking, abasing himself, feeding my lust for this pleasure.
It is not much longer before I come hard, writhing ecstatically—and as my movements slow, he rests his face against the satin skin of my thigh. Warm, slick, delicious. His tongue moves over me again gently, over my sensitive clit, my engorged inner lips, the entrance to my core—cherishing the taste of me, whimpering softly, praying that he might stay close. I breathe and thrum and smile, my eyelids fluttering in pleasure, my fingers still wedged deep in his ass. Another smile lights on my lips, and his further trembling tells me that he knows what comes next.
I rock and drive and pound into him in the firelight. My fingernails dig painful grooves in his shoulders; my fingers slip through his hair and pull his head back sharply. You belong to me? I ask, ever the coquette.
"I belong to you," he groans. My cock is buried to the root—he is filled to brimming, and his willpower has deserted him; he cannot hold still; he squirms and shivers.
I push into him more deeply, leaning forward, my breasts firm against his back. I whisper into his ear, and my teeth brush the side of his neck. He tenses and squirms closer. We are soaked in sweat, and I am moving hard now behind him, my teeth and nails leaving marks on his neck, his ribs, his thighs. This body is mine, the marks say. This soul is mine, too.
He wants me endlessly and doesn't know how to cope with it. He would say that he loves me, if he dared. He's never felt more real and honest than he does while he's with me, and I don't blame him; how can he help it?
You belong to me, I repeat, and this time there is no coy question. He reacts physically to those words, his body moving with a new energy and relief as I fuck deeply into him. We are grinding together, melting together, and for this brief moment, he is connected. He is safe in surrender, in worship. He will do anything to maintain my pleasure, anything to please me, and I know the truth of it.
I dared to covet your warmth as you moved on top of me, inside of me, he writes to me later. I drowned in your resonance, in your smell, in your skin. The feelings are indescribable: I feel overfull, brimming, spilling. Every time you move away from me, I reflexively want to move closer, as if I can somehow keep us from parting. I feel safe in your presence, and somehow, when I leave you, I am safer still—no matter where I am, in your thrall, in your power, I know peace. I crave your
Please allow me to hear your voice again, he pleads, his handwriting becoming slightly erratic. Please let my unworthy fingertips touch words you have written. I will lick and kiss the page you've blessed, if only to better remember the taste you've given me.
I know he will bear the distance well, as I read his letter. And if occasionally I may pen him a brief note, or let him hear my sweet voice for a moment on the telephone, what of it? It is more than he deserves, but oh, his begging pleases
I always captured his wimpy little cock first. "Ready to be punished, slut?" I asked, as I tightened the leather strap around his cock and balls.
"Yes, Mistress. Thank You, Mistress," he whispered, gritting his jaw. The broad strap was set with sharp studs inside, like a Kali's Teeth Bracelet. I pulled it tighter, and he whimpered. His cock got stiffer as the pain grew. The harder My ex-husband got, the more the teeth would dig into his cock. It hurt, oh it hurt, but he just couldn't help getting aroused by all the painful and humiliating things I was doing to him.
"Thank You, Mistress," he whispered.
I hung jingly little bells from his nipple rings. They chimed merrily as he writhed in humiliation. Every time he flinched, every time he moved, they would betray his failure to hold position. He couldn't hope to hide his disobedience from Me.
He moaned a little as I locked the padded leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles. He knew that I was putting him in bondage so he could endure a longer, harder session than usual. The bondage was for his sake, a mercy I granted him in My wicked wisdom.
Then I fastened him to a spanking bench. The bench was broad enough to be comfortable, narrow enough that I'd have access to both nipples. I loved seeing him in that position: bent over with ass in the air, knees spread, wrists and ankles fastened firmly. He was so open and vulnerable, so ready to be used for My pleasure. His ass was open, the sweet crinkled rosebud eager to be filled. His poor little cock, purple with arousal, strained against the spiked grip of the leather strap.
Nearby hung the impact implements I loved: several single tails and riding crops; floggers in every weight and material from soft and thuddy deer hide to stingy rubber; narrow, whippy canes of flexible Delrin and rigid canes of steel or carbon fiber; paddles with and without holes; leather straps in lengths from six inches to two feet; hairbrushes, leather rug-beaters, even a heavy knotted rope that left delightful bruises. An antique dentist's cabinet with innumerable little drawers held weights, enema equipment, capsaicin cream, clamps, Wartenberg wheels, medical toys, and dildos. Plus lube, of course. I was a cruel and sadistic Mistress, but also a caring one.
"Now I'll slip on the blindfold. If I'm really feeling cruel, I might gag you as well." As I fitted the cock gag into his mouth, I could hear his nipple bells ringing—the poor little slut was shaking in desire and terror.
I stroked his back gently, lovingly. "Now you're helpless, utterly open to My hands and teeth and will. You never know what might come next."
Despite the cock gag, he smiled gratefully.
Games Sadists Play: Name That Cane!
The blindfolded submissive has to correctly name the cane currently leaving welts on his ass. Correct answers are rewarded with a lengthy paddling. Incorrect answers result in punishment.
The Submissive's Pleasure Matters, Too
My idea of sensual sadism is to lick your nipples as I bite them. The flicking tongue, the vicious teeth. Unbearable pleasure and delicious torment.
When I am Dommeing you, I want to subject you to My will. That may mean expecting you to hold position while I slowly squeeze and twist your scrotum or while I run My nails over the unbearably sensitive surface of your glans. Or it may mean making every decision, ordering for you in a restaurant, choosing when and how you may relieve yourself. If I tell you to wet your pants, I expect to see you sitting in a puddle.
On the Way to the Horse Show
When I was 30, I took my newest lover to the Devon Horse Show. Under his clothes I had him locked into a chastity device. A remote-controlled vibrator was in his ass. In the car going there, I promised him a delightfully kinky day.
"I don't see the point," he whined. "Can't we stay home and fuck?"
With a stern glance, I said, "You will be punished for that."
"Have you ever watched a dressage event? Or show jumpers? Or even a horse race?"
"No. A couple of times I've watched the Kentucky Derby on TV, and once I went on a carriage ride in Central Park. Oh, and those Clydesdales in the beer commercials. I kind of like those. That's about it for horses." He shrugged. "Not a big thing in Pittsburgh."
"They are important to Me, and you do want to please Me, don't you?" I reached across the gearshift and squeezed his balls through the fabric of his trousers. He squirmed delightfully. I stroked him teasingly, and a wet spot appeared on his fly. His sweet little cock was drooling already.
We settled into the excellent (and expensive) seats I'd made him purchase. I wanted to be close to the action—close enough so he could feel the excitement of the event. Instead of seeing horses as a small image on a TV screen, he would be close enough to be impressed by the half ton of bone and muscle and will. Close enough to realize that these huge creatures, so beautiful, fast, and strong, could easily crush a human. Nevertheless they obeyed the rider. And they seemed to like it; they were happier under the whip. All that power, all that grace, completely under the control of a slim rider's hands, knees, and heels—and a few strips of steel and leather.
During the events I explained what was happening: how points were scored, how the rider controlled the horse with subtle signals from her knees, heels, and hands.
"It must take lots of training," he said.
"Now you're starting to get it." I rewarded his insight with quick flicks of the remote controller, buzzing deep in his ass. After all, I wanted him to enjoy it just as I did, and I find that men are easily trained with a system of rewards and punishments.
By the time the show was over, he was starting to understand My fascination with the horse world. He stood still to be harnessed and saddled, and lifted his hoofs one by one. I looked deep into his eyes as I buckled the cheek strap. He whinnied in gratitude when I slid the bit into his mouth. And then I slowly, teasingly, inserted the tail.
The longer I leave a man in chastity, the sweeter and more obedient he grows. If I really want to be kind, I'll allow him to lick My pussy for an hour every night. That should be enough sexual stimulation for any man. When I'm finally ready to let him come, I'll fuck his ass with a strap-on until he's dying to ejaculate. Then I'll milk him with a vibrating cock ring, stopping just as he starts to spurt. It relieves the urge to come without giving him the satisfaction of a full orgasm. I wouldn't want him to get cocky, would I?
My pulse quickened and a derisive smile played upon my scarlet lips as I heard my slave enter my dungeon and begin to disrobe. While I had many slaves, this one in particular had been contemptuous of late: disobeying his prescribed regimen of daily activities, failing to give his Mistress proper and timely updates. He had achieved orgasm without permission, and most egregious, he had recently refused one of my commands in public. He had even allowed the word “bitch” to slip from his lips during his little public tantrum. These were offenses that I could not, and would not, suffer. So over the past few days, while withholding contact from the boy, I had concocted a special set of repercussions that I felt confident would rectify his willful behavior. I had even worn one of my favorite outfits to mark the occasion: knee-high, black leather boots with stiletto heels sharp as my mood; a severely tailored pencil skirt with scandalous slits up the sides; and a black halter top, cut high to the throat while entirely baring my back. Now all my planning was about to come to fruition, but I waited patiently, making the slave ache for my presence, before vacating my chair and slipping silently from my office and into the dungeon proper.
My subject had removed all his clothes save for a thin leather collar that encircled his neck. He shivered as he saw me enter, and I immediately noticed his cock begin to grow. I laughed as I flicked on the light over my steel table, my eyes twinkling as they roamed over the ominous assortment of tools I had laid out for this session’s activities. My gaze stopped abruptly at a parachute collar with attendant weights. I picked up the device and moved wordlessly to my slave, fastening the collar tightly around his scrotum. I proceeded to hang three 5 kg weights from the parachute, heavily weighing down his testicles. The slave grunted in pain as the weights started to take their
I brought the insolent slave to his knees with a sharp kick to his genitals—he crouched there panting, on his hands and knees, as I reached overhead and pulled down two chains that hung from the ceiling, attached to a winch. At the end of each chain dangled a handcuff, which I hastily clamped upon his wrists as he attempted to recover. Reaching above my head one last time, I pressed a button, causing the winch to retract the chains and suspend the slave just high enough that he was forced to stand upon the tips of his toes. He uttered only a single word amidst his grunts and panting: “Why?”
Suppressing a wicked grin and keeping my eyes as deadly serious as possible, I replied: “Because you failed to obey me in accordance with the dictates of our agreement, and because you have offended me with your insolence of late. That is why you have visited these torments upon yourself.”
With a rough slap of his cock and a quick tug of the parachute, I went back to my table of delicious toys, selecting my favorite whip from the collection. I brought this whip out only for special occasions, as it was made from exquisite leather and had a devilish small metal tip to increase the pain. I wasted little time applying the sting of my whip to his body. I moved about the room, taking advantage of every angle to allow the whip to kiss each and every inch of his exposed flesh; I spared only his head. He quivered and cried out as the implement licked his body, leaving small scratches and tiny rivulets of blood where the tip found its mark. Only after I felt enough lashes had been inflicted did I lovingly curl the whip back up and place it upon the table, giving the slave a brief respite from his agony.
Returning to his side, I pulled another cruel device from the floor and attached it to his ankles. His legs were now bound by a spreader bar, forcing them to remain apart, to ease my every access to his body, which was chained to the floor. I tightened these chains as well, causing complete suspension and preventing him from making any sort of movement that I did not permit. His eyes widened as he realized he was fully and utterly at my mercy. Stealing away briefly to my table, I returned with a curious pair of instruments: a softly glowing candle that had been burning for some time and a feather. I removed the parachute, thereby evoking a sigh of relief from the slave. That relief would be short-lived, however. I began slowly and deliberately tickling and caressing his shaft with the feather, causing him to gasp and writhe within his bonds. Once he became fully erect, I paused to attach a wired patch to each testicle and then confirmed that the trailing wires were securely connected to the foot switch.
“You will learn to control your filthy desires until your Mistress gives you leave to release them,” I scolded as I resumed the feather play upon his cock, teasing him occasionally with the soft skin of my hand. The slave bit his lip and chewed upon the inside of his cheeks as the blissful ordeal continued, trying desperately to hold off his impending orgasm. Sensing what was about to occur, I swiftly hit the switch at my feet while simultaneously allowing hot wax to fall from the candle onto the head of his cock. The slave struggled harder and let out a muffled cry as electricity coursed through his balls and hot wax stung his member. After a few moments, I released the switch and stemmed the flow of wax, before once again stroking him with the feather. I kept at this for over an hour, teasing him up to the point of no return, then swiftly punishing him and forcing his orgasm to recede.
When I was satisfied that he had learned his lesson, I removed the probes from his scrotum, replacing them with my hand, which twisted and gripped his balls tightly. “You know not to come without my permission, and you shall not repeat that sin. Today you will go wanting.” I squeezed his scrotum with greater vigor until I received a grunt of agreement. Only then did I release him from my grip.
As I hit another button on the controls above my head, the chains suddenly slackened, dropping my servant to his knees. I freed him from all his restraints and provided him with antiseptic to cleanse the wounds my lashing had imposed upon his tender skin. When he finished tending to his lacerations, he rose, standing with his head down, expecting me to give him leave to exit the dungeon and continue with his daily life. What he received instead, however, was the parachute collar, which I once again clasped round his scrotum. The weight of the device on his already sensitive testes caused him to sink to his knees before me. I attached a leather cord to his dog collar and led him to the bathroom, where I secured his leash to a metal ring near the toilet.
Raising my skirt and sitting upon the porcelain seat as though it were a throne, I lectured my slave: “You have offended your Mistress with that foul mouth of yours. Now you will make amends for the damage your mouth has wrought." Without another word, I motioned for him to come forward and service me. I moaned with pleasure as his tongue laved my tight pussy, worshiping my lips and clit. I clutched at his hair and gyrated against his mouth, pulling him lower so that he might clean my anus as well. Only after I was satisfied with his ministrations did I allow myself to come.
He curled up submissively at my feet, once again assuming his work was done. Frustrated by his repeated assumptions, I rose and pressed the heel of my boot into his groin. I gripped his leash, pulling him up to his knees and pressing his face to the toilet seat. “Now take that filthy mouth and clean my toilet, slave.” I left him there, tethered to the bathroom wall, lapping at my commode, until he had finished his task, before allowing him the sterilizing burn of cognac in his gentled mouth and sending him on his way.
I’m mentally stronger than you. I always have been, always will be. Odds are I’m physically stronger than you as well, at 5 feet 11, 145 pounds, with 15% body fat and chiseled abs, built like a pro volleyball player. Weak and pathetic macho men are such a waste of space, only good for controlling and exploiting. My favorite way to make men toe the line? Physical force.
A couple of year ago, when I was 23 and first starting out as a personal trainer, it was rough. I didn’t have many clients. It’s a hard field to break into, and even harder if you are a woman presuming to teach men how to weight lift. So the few clients I had, I made sure to control and retain. Granted, some of the techniques I used would not necessarily be found in the pages of the official NASM manual, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
There was this one man by the name of Allen who worked out at the same time of day that I did, and I detested him. He would always run ahead of me to beat me to whatever machine or area I wanted to use. His favorite sport seemed to be interrupting me in the middle of a set to make totally original comments, like “Hey, Hadley, anyone ever tell you you look like that
One afternoon, as I was walking over to the area that I liked to do squats in, whom did I see? Allen. Naturally, he raced over there before me, throwing his crap down on the floor. “Oh hey, Hadley, you weren’t going to use this, were you?” he scoffed. “Oh nooooo, Allen, go right ahead. It’s not like I’m on break and this is the only time I can work out today.” I leaned against the weight rack, kicking one foot over the other and crossing my arms. “Say, Allen? I don’t ever see you training with any of the trainers here. How about I give you a complimentary session? That way you could at least have a chance to see if you like it.” I gave him my brightest smile and an over-clichéd swipe of my hand through my hair so he could see the silky dark-blond strands sway back and forth over my shoulders. “How sweet of you, Hadley, but I don’t know if there’s anything a girl could show me that I don’t already know how to do.” My eye twitched faintly as I reminded myself to stay sweet. “Aw, I understand, Allen, but hey, it’s
I arranged to have Allen meet me at closing so we could have the gym “all to ourselves” with no interruptions, which probably only fueled his excitement. I decided to start with a 45-degree leg press and proceeded to get the equipment ready, periodically catching satisfying glimpses of myself in the multiple mirrors. I had made sure to wear an especially sexy sports bra and matching spandex shorts. The bra was very low cut and so tight that it squeezed my breasts out the top, just barely hiding my nipples. The shorts were no better, not even really
Allen swaggered in fifteen minutes late, of course, and dumped his gym bag in the middle of the floor, like a little boy who’d just gotten home from school. “Allen, don’t you know it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?” He looked me up and down. “Cute outfit,” he said and walked over to the station I had prepared. “So you want to teach me how to use a leg press? Even if I didn’t already know how to do it, it’s pretty straightforward: sit down, push, repeat.” He plopped down into the seat, placing his feet up onto the plate. I started loading weights onto the machine, deliberately leaning over him to let him get a good look at my chest. “Oh, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy, Allen—I’m only having you warm up here, wouldn’t want you tearing a muscle.” I placed my hand on his thigh as I said that, rubbing my palm up and down and feeling his flesh quiver and vibrate at my touch. I loaded the machine with 200 pounds, not even a warm-up weight for me, but close to his max weight. I knew he wouldn’t complain; couldn’t risk his macho demeanor, now could he?
Towering above him, I instructed him to give me ten reps. His quads strained as he pushed the carriage up and down. As he reached his tenth rep, I put my hand on the back of the foot plate before he could fully press it up to the top of the range. His knees nearly buckled at the added resistance, and his thighs began shaking wildly back and forth. “Hadley, what the hell are you doing? Let go. This isn’t funny!” My brilliant white smile reached from ear to ear. “Oh, I thought you were stronger than this? I’m just making it a little more difficult for you, honey pie. Can’t you push past it? I’m at only about half strength holding this plate right now.” I started laughing at him, watching him so desperately fight against me. The panic in his face was priceless, not to mention the dawning of the horrifying notion that he could not beat me; he wasn’t stronger than I, not by a long shot. All he could do was struggle and stare at my gorgeous physique and face, watching my breasts bounce up and down as I laughed hysterically at him. When he finally realized that he couldn’t win, realized that with minimal effort I had emasculated him, stripped away any right he had to be macho around me or to act like an entitled, dominant
“Please, please, Hadley, I’m begging you. I can’t keep it up. I’m going to drop the weight on my body any second. I’ll do anything you ask. Just please help me!” With that, I pushed the plate back up to its resting place in the safety catches. His legs crashed to the ground, his cock rock hard and twitching from the ordeal. I squatted down next to him, wrapping my hand around his shorts-covered dick, and I s-q-u-e-e-z-e-d. “I’m so glad to hear that, little boy. I happen to have a contract written up for a whole year of training sessions for you! I’ll make sure to whip these muscles into shape, especially this one.” I gave another hard squeeze to his package, and he jolted up to his feet. Keeping my hand on his dick, I led him like a little puppy on a leash to the office to sign the paperwork.
The feel of the crop in my hand is as familiar as the sight of my sun-kissed hair, tumbling over my shoulders to kiss the top edge of the short, strapless black leather corset dress that clings to my well-toned curves. I wish I could say I wasn’t looking forward to tonight’s punishment session; but it would be an utter lie, and I’ve long since dismissed the game of lying to myself about anything. After all, honesty is paramount in life, and a lack of honesty can destroy so many things. It is, in fact, why I’m here tonight. Why I’m running the well-oiled crop through my hands, caressing it, as though preparing it for the night’s work. And why I’m smiling. There’s always a sense of amusement that comes with a slave’s attempted deceit. Disappointment, yes, but the amusement cannot be discounted. And after all, it’s not as if any of my slaves has ever attempted to deceive me twice.
You see, F. is playing a very dangerous game, and he’s about to pay the price for it. He’s been with me for going on two years now, and enjoys the finer nuances of cruelty. As I wound my way into his psyche over the months and years, I grew to learn just how much he enjoyed the fear and humiliation—or potential for humiliation—that only I could give him. So I knew, when F. failed to keep his appointment, when he had the absolute nerve to offer excuses, that he was simply begging me to apply my knowledge of just how to hurt him. And while I hate to be predictable, I simply can’t resist the opportunity to really fuck up someone’s day when they think they’ve put one over on me.
As a Domme, I expect and command absolute deference from my slaves. Absolute obedience, absolute reverence. I simply won’t tolerate anything less than totality, and I am certainly not one to accept my slave’s thinking he has the right to service, or to search for, another Mistress without begging my pardon and my permission. If a slave asks to be released, I would consider it. If a slave asks to experience the glove-handed dominance of another Mistress, I might grant
The fact that he has no idea, as he eagerly confirms tonight’s appointment, and no doubt prepares himself as directed, that he will be subject to my disappointment, my punishment, and if he’s very, very lucky, the long climb back into my good
So, much as F. is preparing himself, I prepare myself and my space—so similar, yet so very different. I smudge kohl liner around my sparkling green eyes, and slick blood-red lipstick over my sensuous lips, all the better to distract and seduce my prey. Lotion, perfumed with seductive scent, is rubbed and smoothed into my long, slim legs, my delicately toned arms, and over my collarbones and delicious décolletage. A touch of shimmer here and there, to draw the eye and distract the mind, and a touch more perfume at my heated pulse points. I examine myself in the mirror, critically, and trail my fingertips across my shoulders, down my arms, and over my leather-encased breasts and torso. My jewel-tipped nails flash in the low light, and I continue my tactile examination, skimming my fingertips down my legs. I bend along the lines of my corset until my back is absolutely straight as I examine my perfectly polished toes—red, to match my lips. As I straighten, I slip my feet into ice-pick stilettos and nod to myself in the full-length mirror edged in wrought iron.
Now that I’ve finished my own preparations, I walk downstairs to my play space. The well-appointed dungeon, replete with spanking bench, sawhorses, and Saint Andrew’s cross—among so many other toys and tools—is the last thing anyone would expect to find in my exclusive Aspen Woods home. But after all, if you want something done right, you simply must do it yourself. And between the generosity of my slaves and my day job as a project manager, I’m able to do a great many things for myself, including furnish my dungeon to my own, exacting, specifications.
The low light reveals midnight walls, oiled leather, and polished steel. I tap a manicured finger against my delicately sculpted chin, glad once again that I hadn’t gone with something so clichéd as red walls. As I tell my slaves, the only red that will ever exist in my dungeon will be my lips, nails, and their skin under my ministrations. I occasionally break my own rule, as I do tonight, with a dash of red on the sole of my
The doorbell rings, and I smile: It begins.
I take my time walking to the front door. My slaves know to disrobe immediately after ringing the bell and to wait on their knees for my permission to enter. My corner-facing lot and lush trees minimize the risk, but all of my slaves remain exposed until I open the door. Some love it, some loathe it. F. is among those that abhor every second of wind and sun on exposed flesh, so of course, tonight, I let him sit there as I watch on my security camera. A minute passes.
As sweat pearls on his forehead, his hands clench and unclench at his sides. He raises a hand, considering knocking, and then remembers his place. A good sign, this one can most likely be redeemed. I unlock and open the door and beckon him inside. I greet him with none of the warmth he’s earned over the years, and gesture sharply to the open door of the dungeon. A flicker of fear in his eyes, but he says nothing as he crawls.
Downstairs, he notes the bench, front and center, and the cheerfully burning candles, and he shows the first sign of actual fear. “Mis—” he begins, and I cut him off almost immediately. “Shut up and get on the bench. Not another word.” I punctuate the statement with the lift of a brow and a cruel smile. “B-but,” he starts again. “Did I fucking stutter?” I ask. “Shut up and get on the fucking table.” This time, he complies wordlessly, and I strap him
“Now you may speak, slave, but only when spoken to. Do I make myself clear?” I ask the question calmly, but firmly. “Yes, Mistress,” he replies softly. “Now, F., over the years we’ve been together, we’ve come to understand some things about one another, haven’t we?” “Y-yes, Mistress,” he says. There’s a hitch in his voice. He knows something is wrong, but he’s not sure what. “For instance, slave, we’ve learned that you hate being spanked, and you hate having wax dripped on you. You hate having it scraped off even more. Am I right?” His reply is so soft I can barely hear it. I command him to speak up, and he replies, “Yes, Mistress.” “Good, good. I’m glad we understand each other on that point. In your time as my slave, what have you learned about me, F.?” “Mistress?” he asks, uncertain of the answer I’m looking for. “Answer the question, slave.” “Well, Mistress, I’ve learned that
It’s an e-mail inquiry to another Mistress, one I know and play intimately with on a regular basis. She forwarded it to me immediately, without even the courtesy of replying to the little worm. I can see the exact moment he understands. “Mistress, I can—” “Shut. Up.” All warmth has fled from my voice. “You do not have my permission to speak. You have no permission here at all. You fucked up. And what’s worse, you don’t realize how much smarter I am than you. How much better I am than you. And you don’t realize, if we’re to continue on our path, just how hard I’m going to punish you. So I’ll give you one chance to explain, and one choice. The choice is simply whether you’ll accept your punishment and move on, or if you’ll pussy out and try—in vain, I might add—to find another Domme in this city who’ll even take the time of day from your worthless ass. So what’s it going to be?” My eyes are cold, and they watch as he comes to realize just how pissed I am.
Finally reaching my vantage point, I lean forward to grab a handful of his hair with my free hand, and press the length of my body against his as I drag his head back sharply. “Now, this is going to
But you can hear about the rest another time. If you’re lucky.
A few years ago, I had the pleasure of enjoying a slut named Michael for a time. He was not very tall—a good pair of three-inch heels on my five-six self was all it took to allow me look down on him—but desire to serve a powerful woman spilled from his melted-chocolate eyes. As a bonus, he was hung like the proverbial horse. It quickly became apparent, however, that along with his obvious charms came a tendency to play with said cock anytime the whim took him, despite my instruction time and again that his cock belonged to me and his cum was no longer his own. I soon realized that I would need to take a more active role in his self-control. I went to my favorite website for devious devices, ordered a couple of choice items, and awaited the arrival of a nondescript brown package with some excitement.
One winter evening, a few days after my prizes arrived in the mail, the moment came. I was tired after a full day of teaching followed by SoulCycling and attending a youth production of Fiddler on the Roof in which my students were playing three of Tevye’s five daughters. So it was with very little patience that I entered the bedroom to find Michael sprawled in bed, porn playing on his tablet computer, in the midst of pleasuring himself. Not letting on my considerable annoyance, yet, I greeted him. “Good evening, slut,” I purred, syrupy sweet. “Having fun?”
Before his cum-addled little brain could fully realize the danger he was in, he drawled, “Oh yes, Miss.” He looked up at me then, and something in my body language must have cued him, because he immediately dropped his hand from his twitching cock and started to get up to greet me properly.
“Too late for that,” I said coldly. “You reek of sex and sweat. Get up, bathe, put fresh linens on the bed, and then come and get me for your punishment.”
Not daring to make eye contact now, he said only, “Yes, Miss.” I stalked out of the bedroom and into the living room. Settling on the sofa with the latest J.D. Robb mystery at hand, I idly removed the pins from my hair, shaking my head so that my tawny brown tresses fell from the conservative twist to hang past my shoulders in a silky cascade. I read for about twenty minutes, until Michael came into the living room and kneeled before me. Per my standing orders at home, he was naked except for his black, lacy panties. I could see a little trepidation in his eyes, yet his impressive cock was a rock hard bulge under the lace.
“Very pretty panties, whore,” I said, and watched him flush. It always amazed me that after all we had done and would do together, a simple compliment on his lingerie would still make his cheeks turn pink. “Go along to the bedroom and kneel up on the bed. I’ll be there in a moment.” I retrieved the small package from the locked drawer of my desk, went to the kitchen and filled my 1950s-style ice bag, making sure to rattle the scoop in the ice drawer so Michael could hear it, and then walked up the hall to the bedroom.
Michael was kneeling on the bed as directed, knees apart, hands clasped behind his back. I walked toward him slowly, enjoying the sound of my heels on the hardwood floor and the way he held his body rigid with anticipation. I felt his eyes on me as I walked past him and set the box and ice bag on the side table. I met his eyes as I slipped my fitted blazer off my shoulders and then unbuttoned my blouse and removed it. I took my time going to the closet and hanging them neatly before shimmying out of my tight black pencil skirt and carefully hanging it as well. Devastating in my black lace bra and thong, thigh-high stockings, and shiny black patent leather heels, I turned back to Michael. “Like the view?” I asked, letting him look his fill.
“Is this the image you had in mind when you played with my cock this evening while I was out? Is this what you were hoping you’d get to fuck tonight?”
I watched him swallow hard. “Yes, Miss.”
I stepped in and grabbed his cock through the lace panties. “Is this your cock to play with, slave?”
He looked away. “No, Miss.”
“Did you not understand the rules? Have I not been clear?”
“No, Miss,” he responded in a small voice.
“What was that, slut?”
“No, Miss. The rules were very clear, Miss. I’m sorry, Miss.”
“You’re sorry?” I repeated, annoyed again. I raised his chin and slapped his face with my open palm. “You’re always sorry, my darling, and yet you always transgress again.” I lifted my other hand and slapped the opposite cheek.
“Yes, Miss. I am a bad slut, Miss.”
“Yes, it’s clear that I need to be much firmer with
“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”
“I think a 72-hour hold for this greedy cock should do the trick nicely, don’t you?”
His eyes widened. He had never gone more than half a day without coming in all the time I’d known him. “
“Oh, you’ll do better than try,” I assured him. “But don’t worry; I’ve got something that will help.” I went to the small package on the side table and retrieved the black-and-orange box inside, which read CB6000 in large letters. “Do you know what this is, wanker?” I asked, showing him the box.
His eyes big and a little afraid, he nodded. “Yes, Miss. I’ve seen them online.”
“Oh good,” I said, as I opened the box and began laying out the pieces of the little device on the bedspread beside Michael. “Then I don’t have to explain how this lovely little collection of bits of plastic will keep your cock locked away from those wandering hands of yours. I don’t have to tell you that this little lock”—I held up the small brass padlock—“has only one key. And where do you think that key will live?”
“With you, Miss,” he said, his voice betraying that the idea excited him a little—as did his cock, which remained rock hard. I stroked it with my fingernails over the lace. Walking to my jewelry box, I fetched a delicate gold chain.
“Yes, right here on this chain.” I threaded the key onto the chain and fastened the chain around my neck. The key fell in the valley between my breasts, cool against my skin. I leaned in and breathed in his ear, “Kiss it, slut. This key is your best friend, and you won’t be seeing it for three whole days.”
His breath caught for a moment, and he leaned in and buried his face between my perfect breasts to kiss the key. I was ready for him to become overeager and try to take more than was offered, but apparently my point had been made, because he pulled away respectfully.
“All right, jerk-off, it’s time to put this greedy cock on a timeout. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Miss,” a bit of fear, but mostly excitement in his voice.
“Pull your panties down, but leave them around your ankles like the little whore you are.”
“Yes, Miss.” He complied and again kneeled on the bed for me.
“So hard for me, even with this nasty little chastity device all laid out to lock you away,” I commented. Ignoring his importunate, bobbing dick, I slid the horseshoe-shaped plastic ring behind his balls, fitted the top piece of the ring, and added the spacer. His erection, though, presented a problem. “Hold this,” I ordered, putting his hand on the ring to keep it in place. “You’ll never fit in this little cock cage while you’re so aroused. Whatever shall I do? I’m usually more concerned with keeping this lovely cock hard for me, not making it
“Yes, Miss,” he agreed at once. He knew me well enough to fear my creative impulses.
A few minutes of the ice was all it took to make his cock and balls shrivel nicely. Kind Mistress that I am, I dried his soft little cock with a rough towel before applying the silicone lube and sliding the cock cage onto him until it fit onto the pegs of the ring. I threaded the little padlock, closing it with a loud click.
He looked so deliciously helpless there with his cock shrunken and encased in plastic, I couldn’t help but laugh. He looked up at me, pouting with his eyes. “Oh, my pet, don’t look at me like that. It won’t be all bad. For three days you’ll actually be able to focus on me, as you should.” I teased his hard cock through the holes in the cage as I talked. “And when you come
“Emma, you've got to help me with Felix,” said Charlotte. She was fidgety today. She ran her hand through her curly auburn hair and pulled it to one side over her shoulder, exposing her generous creamy cleavage in her V-neck shirt.
“I always thought you two were so perfect together! He's so affectionate and caring. Honestly I wish I had a boyfriend like Felix.” My mind drifted briefly to his broad shoulders, muscled chest, his wild curly hair and his huge smile. When you saw him onstage in his element playing guitar it was hard not to soak your
“Ooh,” I said knowingly, casting her a side glance and trying to hide my smirk. My long chestnut waves fell across my chest, and I brushed aside some long bangs as I leaned over to take a sip from my still-full latte. “Nobody's perfect you know.” I had heard stories about Felix being distant and unaccommodating in bed. He had a reputation among women—everyone wanted to fuck him, but didn't exactly get the experience they expected if they did get into his pants.
“Emma! I thought he would appreciate how indulgent I've been toward him! I gave him everything he wanted! I even bring my cutest girlfriends around to have threesomes with us. But he thinks he's a total rock star. He fucks me until he blows his load, and never eats me out. He would rather all my girlfriends come around and eat my pussy so he can just watch and doesn't have to do it himself.”
I knew where this was going. “It sounds like somebody needs some discipline.” I leaned to the side and tossed my hair over my shoulder, and the strap of my delicate tank top fell down. Charlotte slipped a soft finger under the strap and eased it back up into place.
“Exactly.” Her gaze narrowed. “Will you have a threesome with us? Trust me, we'll show you a good time. I just need someone to help
The following Sunday I found myself at Felix and Charlotte's place. The nineteenth-century house had elaborate textured wallpaper that hadn't been replaced since the house was built. The high ceilings and stained-glass windows cast a warm but soft light in the bedroom. We sat on their bed, drinking tea and pulling up absurd videos to laugh at. I showed them an amateur video of a woman who peed into an enema bottle and then, to everyone's dismay, stuck the nozzle up her butt and emptied it into herself.
“Ewww! Why did you have to show me that?” Charlotte squealed as Felix laughed at her reaction.
“I found it saved on one of the Reddit accounts I used to share with my ex so we could look for porn. I don't think he realized I actually checked it and knew what he was into.”
“He had some dirty secrets, huh?” Felix chuckled as he stroked Charlotte's hair affectionately.
“Oh, you have no idea.” I leaned back and stretched out on the bed. “He used to ask me to sit and pee on his face while I blew him. Total perv. Used to get him rock hard, though, so I didn't mind.” I saw Felix cast Charlotte a look of desire. This is often how their orgiastic escapades started. A sexy conversation, a knowing glance. Before you knew it everyone was fucking.
“I'd really like it if you sucked my cock right now.” Felix's caresses grew more desperate as he pulled Charlotte closer and grasped her voluptuous round ass.
He raised an eyebrow and seemed a little put off by her request, but his interest was genuinely piqued by the promise of a double blow job. “Uh, okay. I guess if it really turns you on, you ladies can cuff me.” He gave her a flirtatious smile and pressed his body into hers. I sneaked up behind him and slipped my locking cuffs onto his arms as he held and kissed her. Slowly and gently I pulled his arms behind his back and locked them with a short length of chain. He reared back in surprise, still sitting on his knees on the bed.
“Whoa, these are pretty solid.” He tested the chains by tugging his arms apart. He wasn't getting out unless we wanted him out. I let him continue to kiss and flirt with Charlotte while I grabbed a few more items out of my bag. He wasn't paying attention; he was too busy focusing on his lady's hands and tongue in his pants. She motioned for him to turn over on the bed, and he began to look more and more confused as he assumed a submissive position. I assisted in flipping him over, positioning his cheek on the pillow and pulling his hips back so his ass was presented to us in the air.
I lowered my face to just above Felix's, his hands bound behind his back, his shoulders straining. I tugged his chin forward to look up at me. “I hear you've been a nasty fuck boy, Felix. So selfish, blowing your load all the time, without the slightest consideration for Charlotte's pussy. A woman needs to feel special, you know.”
“I know she loves my cock,” he spat with disdain. “You should hear her squeals when I fuck her. But you wouldn't know, because you haven't had sex with her yet, have you?”
A loud slap across his left cheek silenced him. Redness washed across his face. “I hate to break it to you, sweet cheeks, but Charlotte is a generous and indulgent lover to you. She would do anything to keep you satisfied.” I raised my eyebrow in Charlotte's direction, and on cue, she arched her back, bit her lip, and her moans of reckless abandon filled the room. Likewise on cue, Felix's cock stiffened. Though he knew she was pretending, her moans excited him nonetheless.
I swept up my strap-on and pulled it up my taut thighs in one fluid motion, tugging quickly at the straps and moving toward my target. His compact, muscular ass displayed in front of me, I rubbed some lube onto his tense asshole as I pushed his face more deeply into the pillow with my free hand.
“Relax, sweet cheeks,” I purred. “This is going to be fun. We'll make sure to please
“If you get a genuine moan out of her, I'll touch your filthy cock. If she stops moaning, I'll make sure to focus only on fucking your greedy little asshole. Deal?”
Felix moaned an indistinguishable reply from Charlotte's pussy. I smiled as I pressed the tip of my dildo firmly into his tight asshole. He gasped suddenly, and Charlotte moaned. I reached down and felt that his cock was hard and leaking juices as I stroked and fucked him.
“Oh, he's already so hard for you,” I moaned. There's nothing I love more than teaching a lesson to a nasty fuck boy. I focused my efforts on long slow thrusts into his ass, and he started to relax as I entered him fully. He seemed to struggle to find a rhythm for eating her pussy, so I pushed his face in deeper.
“Make your tongue wide and flat against her clit, sweet cheeks! Lick her like it's the last pussy you'll ever have the pleasure to eat.” He pressed his face in deeply and made long slow strokes against her lips, dragging slowly up toward her most sensitive area. When a moan escaped her lips, I was sure to reward him by stroking his straining cock, conditioning him to please her more and more frequently and intensely. As I thrust slowly and firmly into him, he started to moan louder, and his head moved frantically as he tried to find Charlotte's pleasure spots.
“Ahhh, Felix, it turns me on so much watching you get fucked. I'm so close to coming!” Charlotte bit her lip, and her back started to arch. She couldn't hold off much longer. He worked at her pussy, dying for relief from the cock in his butthole, but also extremely turned on by how much it excited her to watch him get fucked. My hand was continuously stroking his leaking dick at this point, and I could feel him stiffening more and more as he approached his orgasm. At this point, I begin to feel my clit tighten in the strap-on from the pressure of fucking him and from the intense dynamic between the two of them. I suddenly became extremely turned on as they both neared climax.
“Charlotte, I can tell he loves getting fucked for your pleasure—isn't that right, boy?” He pressed his face harder into her pussy, and she exploded, from the pressure of his tongue and also from the thought of her naughty boyfriend finally being taught his lesson. While she writhed and moaned, I felt his cock start throbbing as he blew his load all over my hand and their sheets. I thrust into him deeply and felt waves of pleasure, both of our bodies straining as we moaned in chorus.
We all collapsed together and napped for a while until we had enough strength to clean ourselves up. I uncuffed Felix, who snuggled up next to Charlotte, looking satisfied albeit slightly too embarrassed to make eye contact with either of us. I picked up my things and turned to leave them to their cuddling. As I exited the doorway I paused.
“And don't forget, I'm free to join you two anytime Charlotte likes!” I smiled an evil grin as Felix looked at me, and I strode out the door.
Treat. 8 p.m. My place. Don’t be late, Meredith.
“Treat” is a code word for a very special gathering. The text message was from my friend Lilah. It was her turn to play host. We’re both handpicked members of an elite circle of seven kinky, beautiful, accomplished women who pursue decadent pleasures. Let’s call it the Circe Society—a pseudonymous appellation, of course, because secrecy is required.
Since I had a licentious evening planned, a wardrobe adjustment was in order. I’m a counselor and a doctoral candidate, so a professional appearance must be maintained. But due to my hectic schedule, I won’t have to time pop back to my Tudor townhome and then drive all the way to Lilah’s place in time.
I slipped on a playful red thong and a matching demi-cup bra, along with a pair of thigh-high stockings. The sexy lingerie would add a little spice to my day. Before I put on my vintage black business suit, I checked my appearance in the full-length mirror.
I have shoulder-length, poker-straight blond hair, which I pulled into an artful chignon. My eyes are wide-spaced and gray blue. I’m 5'8", taller than most women—6' in heels. Hours spent in barre class had given me a well-rounded ass, framed to perfection by my choice of panties. And now, I’m ready for anything this evening. Ablutions finished, I headed out the door.
The day flew by in a pleasant blur, and hours later, I pulled into Lilah’s driveway, a bit after eight. Her husband was out of town on business this week, and her spacious Dutch colonial is the ideal place for debauchery.
I found Lilah in the kitchen, sprawled atop the marble countertop. Lilah’s in her mid-thirties. She’s petite with dark brown hair and blue eyes.
Lilah took a sip of wine as a younger man stooped between her splayed thighs, licking her shaved pussy. I’d never seen him before, but I admired his technique. Although I’m better at it.
As host, it was Lilah’s obligation to secure the evening’s entertainment. There was never a shortage of eager volunteers—a willingness to obey orders, erotic prowess, and discretion are nonnegotiables. After all, there’s no such thing as the Circe Society—it’s the very first rule I learned.
“You’re late, Meredith.”
“Traffic was terrible.” I poured myself a glass of Bordeaux.
Did I mention my weakness for dry red wine? You could say it’s in my blood. I grew up in Ohio’s wine country.
“A likely story.” Her breath hitched as she spoke.
“Where’s my treat?” I prompted, eager to get started. Between fantasizing and the silky lingerie I wore, I’d been on edge for hours.
“Yes, upstairs in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. He’s ready for you.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” I raised my glass in salute and headed for the walnut staircase.
I turned. “Yes?”
She pouted. “You didn’t give me a hello kiss.”
I smirked. Lilah and I play now and then—if you’d like a label, I’m bisexual. Perhaps omnisexual is more apt. Though, I have a distinct preference for submissive men.
After threading my hand through her curls, I tipped Lilah’s head back and tasted her mouth, impishly biting her upper lip as I finished.
“Have fun.” Her tone was sultry.
“I always do.” And then I stalked upstairs. As I ascended to the second floor, Lilah wailed as she came.
Low, guttural moans came from another room I passed. Evidently, my compatriots hadn’t wasted any time. For a moment, I was tempted to investigate, but tonight isn’t about voyeurism.
This particular evening’s about partaking. Taking.
After I walked in the bedroom door, it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the semi-darkness. Lit candles filled the room, giving it a soft glow.
A man lay spread-eagled on the queen-sized bed. His wrists and ankles were tethered to the four posters by slip knots. He’s in his late twenties, perhaps. But I don’t know anything about him—he’s a blank slate. He has light brown hair with a muscular, medium frame. I can’t see his eyes, because he’s been blindfolded. His impressive cock is leaning to the left, already half-hard.
What a thoughtful present. I must remember to thank Lilah later.
After setting my glass on the nightstand, I kicked off my heels. There was wicker gift basket on a nearby chair, filled with an array of useful items—lube, a strap-on with a thick dildo, and a leather riding crop. How convenient.
The man tensed. “Who's there?”
“You may call me Mistress Meredith. What’s your name?”
“Well, Brian, you agreed to be a plaything for the evening. Having second thoughts?”
“Excellent. I’m assuming Lilah explained the traffic-light system?”
“Green for go, yellow for caution, red for stop.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke.
My smile was wolfish. I could tell he was a bit nervous, which I found charming.
“Good. Use them if you need to. Have you served before?” I picked up the crop and slapped his thigh, just hard enough to get his attention.
Brian jumped. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Then you know your place.” Beneath me, of course.
I slipped off my skirt, jacket, and blouse—neatly folding each item and then placing them on the steamer trunk at the end of the bed. I love making a submissive wait—keeping him in a state of suspended anxiety.
Then I slowly trailed my fingertips up and down the length of his torso. Brian’s stomach muscles bunched in response. I brushed his erection and his hips flexed in reaction.
“I like that, but don’t you dare come without permission.” I squirted some lube into my palm, warming the cold liquid before I encircled his cock with my fist.
“I won’t, Mistress.” His voice was hoarse.
I stroked him until the head turned a dark reddish purple and he strained in my grip. So I released him to admire my own handiwork. The lube had given his shaft a dewy sheen.
Brian whimpered in protest.
“Behave, or I’ll punish you.” I smacked his hip with the crop.
“Please don’t, Mistress.”
Tease and denial is something of a sport with me. Watching a man writhe, leaving him aching for more is delicious. I placed one fingertip on the head of his cock—a light caress—more torment than pleasure.
And I relished Brian’s agonized grunt.
Then I leisurely pumped him, while his hips arched in objection, seeking more contact. It wasn’t nearly enough friction to be satisfying. This went on for several minutes, and the little sounds he made grew more and more desperate.
“Please, Mistress. Please let me come.”
Ah, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.
I let go, and he sighed.
“Not yet. I’m not going to let you come for a very long time.” I straddled him. “Know what I’m going to do first?”
He shook his head.
Tipping his head to the side, I nipped his earlobe. “I’m going to fuck you, Brian,” I whispered. “In more ways than one. There’s a strap-on on the nightstand just waiting for your tight ass.”
“Give me a light.”
“Good boy, but first things first.” After pushing my soaking panties to the side, I rubbed my pussy against his cock, riding him—grinding my clit against the head. “If you come, I’ll walk right out the door and leave you like this. Understand?”
Breath hissing between his teeth, Brian thrashed beneath me. I rode him hard until the orgasm rushed through my body like a tidal wave.
Afterward, I snagged my glass and tossed back the rest of the wine. Brian shuddered on the bed, bound and helpless, still hard and unable to come.
But I hadn’t finished teasing him. Yet.
“Please, I need—”
“I know exactly what you need, but I’m not ready to give it to you. Now, I’m going downstairs to get a refill. When I get back, we’ll try out that strap-on.”
His mouth opened, and then clamped shut. “Yes, Mistress.”
Yes, it was going to a fun night—what a delightful treat.