Archives: Voices from the Past

A Sensual Domina's Initiation

Not that it is really any of your business... but from the age of 18, I recognized that my young boyfriends were simply not suitable lovers unless I painstakingly instructed them in the art of pleasing a woman. Their fumbling in those early days was simply not acceptable to me, a young woman who had always guiltlessly relished the feel of my own hands across my smooth skin and between my silken thighs. I was quite disappointed that other young men did not measure up to the exacting standard I had set for my own pleasure. Rather than settling for less, I began, very early on, to instruct my lovers, to insist upon being pleased, to tell them exactly what I wanted. A few complied to the best of their (extremely limited) ability, but were ultimately put off and made insecure by my insistence on running the show in bed.
I soon grew tired of their whining and tactlessness and vowed to be unattainable to males unless they were willing and eager to follow my direction. In college, I found exactly what I had been missing—in other women. I luxuriated in the attentions of college coeds exploring their nascent lesbianism, and found my female lovers to be a dramatic improvement over the sloppy groping of young males. I could lose myself in a woman's flesh and scent, finding peace at last with those sensual beings who are truly my equals. The desire to play with men never fully went away, however, and one evening I learned exactly what use I could make of males.

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!


Mistress Olivia's Sissy Academy (MOSA)

A Phone Programme for Aspiring Sissy Maids and Other Panty Whores

Mistress Olivia is currently seeking sincere pantywaists who require firm lessons and guided training in the art of becoming a sissy maid and/or panty slave. Interested supplicants should be prepared, upon receiving an audience with Herself, to explain exactly why they aspire to sissydom and what they hope to achieve from these sessions. If a slut is deemed worthy, lessons will commence. Commitment and sincerity are required—all sissies MUST desire to serve Women and please them at all costs, and must be able to withstand all forms of humiliation! Successful completion of this programme will result in the sissy's transformation into a well-polished novitiate maid, with universal appeal and utility to Dommes everywhere.

These are real-life lessons, NOT mere phone fantasy! (Although exceptionally well-behaved sissies will be rewarded with the best of that as well.) Approved sluts will receive their designated sissy name, followed by training, encouragement and/or punishment during sessions, and assignments to complete during session intervals.

All supplicants shall obtain the following items in order to properly begin their sissy journey:

* A journal: preferably a lovely bound book decorated in floral (or similar) prints, with perfumed pages; or a tasteful online equivalent. The sissy slut will be commanded to keep records of progress, fantasies, and misbehaviors, to be reported to Mistress Olivia at Her whim.

* 7 pairs of well-fitting lady's panties (one for each day of the week) in appropriate cuts and colors. No more than 1 pair may be black; no more than 2 pairs white. Pinks, yellows, reds, and baby blues are preferred. The sissy must be able to commit to wearing the panties underneath his unsuitable male clothes at all times; or for no less than one full hour per day. Panty-whore treatment is always given preferentially to those sluts who wear their panties as often as possible.

* 1 large box of regular-absorbency tampons (not to be used until Mistress Olivia commands). Plastic applicators and KY Jelly recommended.

* 1 butt plug (optional: >1). Preferably a set in graduated sizes, for those sluts wishing to one day receive Mistress Olivia's strap-on in their pussy holes.

The sissy whore must also be able and eager to obey the following Rules during training:

* To be honorable, respectful, and deferential to Mistress Olivia, and polite and pleasant to all Womankind.

* To maintain chastity and/or to limit sexual release as deemed appropriate by Mistress Olivia. This may include: resisting the urge to rub their clitties between sessions; saving their nasty cum in a jar; obeying a masturbation regimen as assigned by Mistress Olivia, no matter how harsh; and documenting (and receiving punishment for) any disobediences.

* Practicing and perfecting the sissy arts, including but not limited to: makeup application, curtsying, anal training, body hair removal, and other assignments as deemed appropriate by Mistress Olivia.

Other requirements will be added as MOSA training proceeds. Sessions will be tailored for each supplicant. Phone training will take place at regular intervals, depending on Mistress Olivia's availability and the sissy slut's dedication to Becoming.

Sincere supplicants have permission to call Mistress Olivia for an interview and to petition for entrance into the Academy.

Best of luck, sweeties . . . 


Hollywood at My Heels

André is a high-powered Hollywood producer, with a reputation for having many of his films' leading ladies go the extra mile, on his casting couch, before being hired—or so it was rumored. The idea that talented, sexy women would spread their legs or even suck cock for a job seemed a bit illogical to me. I had spent a lifetime garnering everything I wanted simply by asking for it. Not even Hollywood's most rich and powerful could ever get me to submit to performing sexual favors for money.

I had begun my editing career in Los Angeles only two years prior to meeting André. In that short time I gained a reputation for being superb at my job. But most of my work till then had been on small-budget productions. So when André's assistant, Brandy, told me I was being considered for André's next film, I was really excited. I agreed to come into his office first thing the next morning for what should have been a routine interview.

I arrived fifteen minutes late. Brandy opened the door to André's office and ushered me in. André was a rather good-looking middle-aged man. He was seated at his desk, head down, intently examining some contracts. It seemed like an eternity went by as I soaked up the beauty of the room. It was massive, maybe 1300 square feet. André had a handsome, L-shaped glass-and-stainless-steel desk. On the floor was a plush off-white shag carpet. There was a fully stocked wet bar on the right of the room. And on the left was a large black leather sofa and a glass coffee table covered with industry magazines. A few feet behind the couch was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The wall on the back end of the room was covered with head shots, including those of some very well-known actresses and models.

Brandy finally spoke. "Excuse me, sir, your nine o'clock is here."

André didn't look up. "She's late. I'm busy. Tell her she'll have to reschedule." He was completely dismissive.

I spoke, my voice both flirtatious and sincere. "I'm terribly sorry for being so late. Attention to time is not one of my strong points."

André looked up, and as he would later describe it, I took his breath away. My petite, physically fit, well-proportioned body was of the type normally reserved for adorning the cover of fashion magazines or pornography centerfolds. I wore a brilliant yellow, almost sheer, rayon Calvin Klein summer dress that tied behind my neck, left my back open, and ended three inches above my knees. On my feet I wore powder-blue satin Jimmy Choo sandals: open toe, sling-back, with four-inch heels. My silky, straight strawberry-blond hair was down and reached almost to the top of my nipples, which always seem to remain hard at times like this, when I'm not wearing a bra. My lips were garnished with a pink lip gloss, leaving them sweet and kissable. My long nails were perfectly manicured pale pink, as were my toes.

André recovered quickly and managed to utter, "Thank you, Brandy. Please close the door behind you and . . . hold all my calls."

André was legendary for being a womanizer, so it never occurred to me that his true nature was submissive. Although that morning he gave himself away almost immediately. As soon as Brandy shut the door, I made my way over to the window behind the couch. The Hollywood sign looming in the distance seemed to call me.

"It's an impressive view, isn't it?" André asked. It was, but I had stopped noticing, because I was now focused on a reflection of him in the window—one I don't think he was aware he was casting. It was then I caught him staring at my feet. That pleased me. I relished the control that could so quickly be gained just by wearing the right outfit, or specifically in this case, the right pair of $800 shoes. "Have a seat and make yourself comfortable."

I sat down on Hollywood's most infamous sofa and crossed my legs. I could almost feel the heat from his stare. I found myself musing: I bet if I gave him permission to touch himself, he would pull out his cock right now and drip precum onto his alligator shoes . . .

His words interrupted my train of thought. "The project I have coming up is very ambitious. It's a lot larger than any you have worked on to date. Do you think you could handle it?" he asked.

"I could if the price was right and my schedule permitted. At the moment I have quite a few other obligations," I explained with a seductive smile. I was bluffing. I had been rather underemployed lately due to extreme competitiveness in my field and a bad economy.

He looked at my left shoe. It was dangling, my soft, supple heel exposed for his pleasure. The bulge in his pants was hard to miss, even from this distance. He was excited, and he couldn't hide the quiver in his voice when he spoke. "You'd be very lucky to get this job, Susan. The last three editors to work for me have gone on to win Academy Awards, and any one of them would be happy to land this gig," he replied petulantly.

"I'm just as good as they. Besides, why even mention those men when . . . you want me." I pronounced the last part of the sentence slowly, emphasizing every word. Mister Hollywood, hotshot producer, was not used to a person being this confident and in control around him. He didn't know what to do.

After a second, he conceded breathlessly, "You're right. I do want you. What can I say to make you say yes?"

I licked my lips seductively, tilted my head just a bit and smiled before answering. "Tell me how much you admire me."

"I do admire you. Even more now that I've laid eyes upon you."

"You'd be lucky to have me."

"Yes, Susan. I would be very lucky."

"Tell me you would do anything to get me to take this job."

"I'll do anything."

"You're so very far away. I want you near me when you say it. Come over here." It was a command, but I didn't raise my voice. I never do. I never need to.

He hesitated at first. I think he was embarrassed by how excited he was. Once he stood up, he'd be guaranteed that I would notice his bulging cock, barely hidden behind a thin pair of navy-blue Armani pants. But he did come over and started toward a seat next to me on the couch.

"No, no, not on the couch. You're not worthy to sit on this couch. This couch is for my pleasure and the pleasure of any other woman who turns to you for employment. I forbid you to ever use this couch for your own pleasure."

"Yes, Susan. I'm sorry, Susan. Please don't punish me."

"I want you on your knees in front of me. I want you to beg me to take this job."

And he did. He got on his knees, inches away from my pretty little feet, and begged me to edit the film for him. He reminded me of a puppy, those big eyes pleading with me for my approval. I had to resist petting him on the head. I told him I'd consider him a very good boy if he paid me more money than he had ever paid an editor before. "You do want to be a good boy, don't you, André?" I teased.

"Yes, Susan. I'll pay you any amount you want."

"Very good," I purred, and this time I didn't resist reaching out and running my hand through his hair, wrapping it around my fingers and pushing him down toward my toes. "I'll need a room at the Beverly Hills Hotel, starting immediately, for the duration of the project. And tonight I expect you to pay me a visit at nine o'clock. Understand?"

"Of course, Susan. I'll have my assistant arrange it right away. But please, I beg you to tell me why you want me there tonight?"

I laughed a wicked laugh. "Oh, André, you are a curious boy. Be a dear and massage my feet."

"Yes, Susan." He immediately went for my foot. I kicked him, hard, the heel of my shoe hitting him squarely in the chest. The force knocked him off balance, and he fell on his back. I took the opportunity to stand up. I put my foot on his chest and looked down at him.

"Not now, silly. Tonight, when you come over to the hotel, I want you to massage my feet. Why else would I invite you?"

"Yes, Susan."

Those were the last words spoken before I sashayed out the door.

Once in the waiting area, on the way to the elevator, I paused for just a moment to take notice of André's assistant, Brandy. The poor girl looked exhausted from being so overworked. Yet it was still obvious that she had real potential for killer beauty. With her jet-black hair, baby-blue eyes, sexy figure including slightly large-for-her-size breasts, I thought she was pretty enough to model.

It's a truism that behind every successful man, there is a great woman. For André, that woman was Brandy. She had started working for him when she was still a teenager. She was 19 at the time, and for the last five years she had been there to help him produce every successful film he ever made. With a single shopping spree down Rodeo Drive (on the company credit card) and with a little bit of training (from me, of course), I imagined she could run this company better than André.

I made a mental note of both her beauty and her brains. She and I would eventually be part of a team of woman who would take their rightful place as heads of this industry. But one thing at a time. Today, I just needed to make my way over to the hotel spa and spend the day relaxing before André's arrival. By the end of the night he'd be licking his own cum off the bottom of my feet.


Married Men Are Catnip to Me

I work part time at an upscale coffeehouse conveniently located near my college campus. (And yes, I do wear one of those cute little aprons.) This job lends itself well to my favorite hobby, people-watching, and also affords professional-looking men the chance to rest their gaze upon me. That is precisely how I met one of my most notable benefactors.

He struck up a conversation with me, and I could not help but notice the wedding band gleaming on his left hand. This only made the game more enticing. He talked with me about his career as an art broker. I told him of my true passion in life, printmaking. Under the guise of learning more about my work, he asked me out that night to a very expensive restaurant in town. I could not resist this opportunity to have my work seen, nor could I resist the way he was looking so hungrily at me.

After my shift, I rushed home to prepare myself for our date. I drew a hot bath, readying myself for the long night to come. I decided upon a short, slinky black dress, one that hugged all my curves. Eschewing the many bottles of perfume that cluttered my vanity, I wickedly rubbed a dab of pussy juice at all the pulse points prescribed by Vogue magazine.

I met him at the restaurant, and I immediately saw the glint he had in his eyes. I looked down at his hands and found that he was no longer wearing his wedding band—a very naughty boy. I could tell this meeting was going to be anything but professional.

After dinner, I invited him back to my loft. I told him that I had noticed that he wasn't wearing his ring anymore. He stuttered out an excuse. I told him that I knew he was lying and that he would have to pay for his misdeed. I made him undress completely, with the exception of his tasteful necktie. I made him crawl on the floor, leading him by his tie. He begged for mercy, but he knew that there would be none in store for him on this night.


The Seduction of Mr. Sandhouse

From the time I was a little girl, I always believed that the men around me were put on the earth for the sole purpose of serving my needs. No man could look me in the eye without blushing or immediately glancing away. However, I did not take advantage of this gift until my senior year of high school. 
     It was a bright Monday afternoon, and the school day was almost over. I was wearing a short black skirt with a classy slit on the left side and a cropped black blouse that showed off a portion of my flat tummy. My feet were comfortable in a pair of open-toe five-inch heels, black, to match the color of my compromising outfit. I stood a tantalizing six feet one and made my way easily to my last-period math class. I had been fantasizing about my math teacher for the past several months and was trying desperately to work up the nerve to address the situation. 
     I sat through the boring math lecture, not really hearing a word, plotting the delicate seduction of Mr. Sandhouse. I failed to notice the passage of time and was jolted by the ringing of the dismissal bell. My classmates hurriedly filtered out of the room, leaving me alone with the preoccupied Mr. Sandhouse. Realizing that this was my chance, I quickly put away my books. I took a deep breath, unfastened the top two buttons of my blouse, and then approached with the silky grace of a black cat. 
     Mr. Sandhouse looked up and nervously adjusted his glasses. He swallowed hard, and I could see slight trickles of perspiration begin to build on his upper lip.
     "N-N-Natalia," he stuttered, "can I help you with something?" 
     His shyness excited me. This middle-aged figure of authority could not bear to meet my gaze. He was coming undone. I could feel the wet spot beginning to form on my lace panties as the upcoming sequence of events flashed through my mind. "Put down your pen, Michael!" I said sternly. I had never before addressed a teacher by his first name. I felt a sudden rush of power and confidence. 
     Stunned and increasingly nervous, Michael allowed the pen to slip from his fingers. He turned his chair to face me and attempted to speak. Immediately, I pressed my forefinger against his mouth, dragging my long burgundy nail across his bottom lip, hushing his weak tantrum. I continued to run my finger around the perimeter of his face. Michael closed his eyes and puckered his lips, pursuing my hand with his kiss. He flinched, and groaned in pain when I delivered a harsh open-handed slap across his cheek. As he recovered from the punishment, Michael rashly reached out his arms and began to slide his hands underneath my skirt. Once again, I delivered the thundering blow, knocking the wire-rimmed glasses from his face.
     Shaking, Michael pushed himself from the chair and dropped to his knees. His face streamed with sweat; the shame burned with a fierce flame on his cheeks. Sobbing, he blurted out, "I'm so sorry, Ms. Natalia. Please . . . I never meant for this to happen . . . Th-this could cost me my job—"
     The third attack erupted from my hand with no warning, and Michael gasped as the hot sting penetrated his already raw flesh. A malicious smile crept across my face as I noticed the bulge in my teacher's trousers swell, stretching his tight dress pants to the limit. He looked up at me with the pretension of a young child begging for his mother's forgiveness. When I stared right back into his eyes, Michael immediately faltered, bowing his head. Gently, I caressed his hair and slid my fingers underneath his chin. Michael shivered, and the bulge swelled even more. He closed his eyes and inhaled my essence, allowing the intoxicating natural aphrodisiac to overpower all his senses. He smiled and said, "Do as you will, Mistress."
     My panties were soaked beyond all recognition. I had been waiting my entire life to hear those words drop from the lips of a man. My body tingled in response to the ring of surrender in Michael's voice, but I knew that in order to keep the upper hand, I could not reveal my pleasure to him.
     I commanded Michael to undress. I blindfolded him with his tie and restrained his hands with his belt. Satisfied with my work, I sat behind my teacher's desk and observed him on his knees, nude and bound, eagerly awaiting my instructions. I could no longer resist my urges. Slowly I slid my hand to the rim of my panties. Pulling aside the wet lining, I began to run my nail along the slit of my sex, pushing down harder with each rhythmic motion. I shuddered as my nail caught the hard little knot at the top of my womanhood, releasing a stream of nectar that dripped slowly down my tan thigh.
     Michael knelt silently by my side, lost in the darkness of his blindfold. I stood close to him and lifted my skirt, placing my leg on his shoulder. Without a moment's hesitation, Michael began his feast. With his teeth, he pushed aside the thin layer of cloth dividing his mouth from my sex. He slipped his tongue inside of me with an enthralling starvation, tasting and savoring my wetness. My body was consumed with mounting pleasure as I attempted to muffle my screams, which soon subsided into satisfied sighs. When I could no longer withstand the sensual indulgence, I pushed him away. Michael let out a moan of disappointment, and then cried out at the sting of my palm against his face. In a sultry voice, I whispered, "Greed will not be tolerated, Michael. Be thankful for the gift you received today." He replied, "Yes, Mistress." 
     I composed myself and freed Michael's hands. Standing back, I studied my slave once again. My most sacred fantasy had finally been realized, here in this true temple of higher learning. "In one hour, you may remove your blindfold and leave," I instructed as I walked out. "See ya in class tomorrow, Mr. Sandhouse."

Welcome to the Fun House

DOMINANT WOMEN WANTED, the ad had simply read.
Rope, clothespins, branding irons, a nail-covered punishment stool, weights, violet wands, electrostimulation units, the full complement of CBT implements, nipple clamps, shackles, the hobble skirt, locks and keys, collars and leashes, chastity belts, cock rings, blindfolds, floggers, single-tail whips, bullwhips, riding crops, canes, cat-o'-nine-tails, gags, hoods, and the penetrative devices.
     My head spun as the items were pointed out to me. Here could be found every instrument a wicked heart might desire for corporal punishment. The room itself was suitably furnished, including a St. Andrew's cross, a Catherine wheel, a suspension rack, a spanking bench, a pillory, and a large cage. "And that was just the dungeon," Madame explained.
     My host and soon-to-be mentor led me down the hall to the medical suite. I was later to learn all the wonderful secrets contained within the antiseptic white walls of that chamber. I can only smile when thinking of the medical room's marvelous accouterments: the catheters, enemas, needles for play piercing, sounds, anal dilators, thermometers, speculums, portable toilet, diapers, gas masks, an IV—there was even a gynecological exam table! "Here, we play not only with a submissive's body, but also with his mind," she said, gesturing to a screened-off section where experiments in hypnosis, brainwashing, and mind control were conducted.
     Madame guided me to our last stop, the Pink Room, she called it, where a cross-dresser's every fantasy could be fulfilled, every fetish indulged. "Forced feminization is really our forte," she explained. The contents of this room reflected the more feminine, sensuous side of BDSM. Pair after pair of high heels lined the walls. Hat boxes filled with silk stockings and panties were stacked high; the antique vanity was cluttered with all the makeup and jewelry imaginable. An office job this was not, I thought to myself as Madame completed the tour of the mansion's interior.
     She looked doubtfully at my stiletto heels and commented that she would lend me some riding boots later, when we explored the grounds, where the pony training took place and where the kennels were located. "Oh," Madame said, "I think you will be charmed by the Gingerbread Cottage, where the sissies and adult babies are accommodated. It's ever so whimsical . . . There's an attached schoolroom where Governesses teach classes in gynosupremacy, female superiority, body worship, toilet slavery, Appreciation of Verbal Humiliation 101, all the important subjects for a well-rounded sissy. And you should see the little pansies, all tricked out like Catholic schoolgirls—it's really quite the amusing sight."
     My momentary awe was broken by a knock at the door. "Showtime," Madame said with a wink. My audition was about to begin. With a smile, I led my first unsuspecting submissive gentleman down the hallway. He had been told I was a novice Domme . . . Little did he know that I had eighteen years of experience in being controlling.
     Madame followed us inside the dungeon and ordered our slave to undress and get to his knees. Approaching the submissive, I thought how wonderfully smooth his bare bottom was. Soon that ass would be as red as the crimson lipstick I was wearing. I laughed to myself in anticipation and felt the surge of power course through me. My slave began to tremble as I fastened cuffs on his wrists and ankles. Leading him by the trailing chains that hung from his cuffs, I conducted him to the suspension rack and secured him within the arm and leg holds of the apparatus.
     Lightly trailing my scarlet nails down his spine, I began to slowly stroke his ass. With my palm open, I spanked my little pet, watching in fascination as my handprint began to appear. Stroke after stroke of my hands were followed by lash after lash with the cane. I couldn't help but giggle as I watched this grown man whimper under my hand. My laugh brought a satisfied smile and a nod from Madame, and I knew that I had passed the interview with flying colors.


Discovering Sappho

A sideways glance in the mirror told me all was in place. I turned for a more thorough evaluation and felt myself becoming aroused as I noted the effect created by my choice of apparel for the night ahead. My black hair stood out vividly against my fair skin; the barely-there dress I had selected accentuated my curvy hips and full breasts. I smiled into the mirror; full glossy lips smiled back at me.
     The card had simply read "Pamela," followed by a time, date, and address about twenty-five minutes away. The envelope itself smelled of expensive perfume and arrived on a Tuesday, three days after a call we had done together. After our boy toy had hung up, we had found ourselves still chatting. A natural blonde, 36C . . . I was a bit intrigued and, needless to say, surprised to find that the feeling was mutual. I confessed that I had never been with a woman before. She laughed in that throaty way she has and began teasing me, telling me I wouldn't know what to do with her. I found myself becoming more and more interested.
     As I rang the bell, I was sure she would be able to hear the sound of my heart beating! But as soon as she opened the door, all conscious thoughts were forgotten. She was wearing an even more minuscule outfit than I was. I smiled at her as I tried not to stare at the outline of her breasts through the sky-colored silk of her slip-like garment. Clasping my hand in hers, she kissed my cheek to welcome me.
     "I don't bite," she said with a giggle, "at least, not at first."
     Once inside, I commented on the beauty of the house, praying she couldn't tell that I was on the verge of hyperventilating. She waved a perfectly manicured hand (such long, shapely scarlet nails). "Furnishings courtesy of a few well-selected gentleman benefactors," she said. As my breathing began to return to normal, she led me to the couch. We chatted a bit, talking about things as mundane as the weather, then moving on to the topic of certain pet clients we share. I was finally starting to relax, trying yet again not to let my gaze settle on her breasts. I suppose I was trying a bit too hard. Her soft hands cupped my face, and she stared into my eyes.
     "Don't be shy, darling—look at me," she whispered as she slid her dress down.
     At this point, I was sure my face was the color of freshly picked strawberries! Yet I couldn't help but stare: her breasts were so soft, so round. Hypnotized, I leaned down to touch them with my tongue. I heard her groan. Taking my dress in her hands, she slid it over my head. I heard her moan as she saw the fullness of my breasts, my stiffening nipples . . .
     "Pamela" was all I could say.
     Smiling, she gestured for me to follow her into the bedroom, and I heard the smooth click of the door closing behind me . . .


Turning the Tables

During my senior year in high school, I worked part time as a receptionist in a nearby office. It was fairly mindless work but kept me in the most fashionable of panties and soon proved to be an excellent source of amusement. I had worked there for over a week before I actually met the amusement himself.
     Bursting into the office one Monday morning as was my usual fashion, I came face to face with the infamous Mr. X. During our brief introduction, it was quite obvious that the poor man was rather taken with me. Little did he realize exactly whom he was dealing with. In the days that followed I would smile to myself as I watched his eyes riveted to my cleavage, which is rather ample, to say the least.
     About a month or so later, the mouse had finally gotten caught in the trap, for during a little "office cleaning" (*sighs* curiosity always does get the best of me), I found a package of recently developed film. Apparently the elusive Mr. X wasn't quite as vanilla as I had thought. A plan forming, I placed the pictures back where I found them.
     The next day I sashayed into the office as usual. I smiled at my boss and wished him a good morning. His response was a bit grim.
     "Taylor, your work here has been excellent; however, your dressing habits leave a lot to be desired. The men in the office are not working as hard as they once did, as they spend half the day waiting for a glimpse down your blouse or a glance of your legs."
     I instinctively looked down and realized that I was, in fact, showing a lot of cleavage. At that point I looked him in the eye and proceeded to unbutton the rest of my blouse.
     "I happen to know for a fact some people in this room have a certain fondness for my breasts. I have other facts at my disposal regarding a certain someone's weakness for leather boots . . ."
     Mr. X looked shocked at my retort, and before his face could redden any more, I smiled and said, "Perhaps I should call you 'slave' instead of 'sir' from now on."
     From that moment on, he knew he was mine. Quite literally, as if I'd bought him off the auction block—cock, stock, and barrel. I told him to get to his feet and come lie across my lap. Clearly, a bare-bottom spanking was in order. He proceeded without hesitation, for it was obvious that I had seen all I needed to. As he came closer, I told him to drop his pants. I can still hear him pleading with me not to tell. But the noise was soon blocked out by the sound of my hand contacting his flesh.


The Eternal Question

Frequently Asked of Mistress Olivia...

"You're pretty kinky and commanding... do You ever have, you know, regular sex?"

SUCH a cute question, though rather illustrative of common misconceptions about what makes a Mistress. Ah, the "Ice Goddess" archetype... no man can touch Me, he is but a lowly slave... and so true and appropriate a role for the average male. I'll readily admit to taking liberties in the exploitation of such creatures. But those of you who have had the pleasure of speaking with Me know that, even at My most cruel, "icy" is hardly the correct adjective. Devious, disdainful, nasty, yes... but all spiced with warmth, sparked by the intense sexual heat that I draw from committing such wanton acts of torment with those who would serve Me. Yes, pets... it's all about the FUN and My amusement, such great fun, so very amusing to have you panting and lusting.

And wouldn't you imagine that surrounding Myself with all this lustful desire, nasty talk, and vivid descriptions of mental and physical cruelty (the delightful routine of my work with Jennifer Hunter!)... don't you know that all this sexiness would leave a Mistress with a hungering, hot, wet pussy? Yearning for the attentions that a lowly slave such as yourself could most likely not fulfill? Indeed, the strongest Mistresses have the strongest sex drives, albeit you are unworthy of it. JUST IMAGINE... when your sissy ass is put aside for later use, what pleasures I will pursue...

I'll admit to some shallowness of My desire, no apologies. When I get the itch, I want a man old enough to be past the fumbling, inept phase of youth, but young enough to have the body and cock I crave. Strong body, preferably dark features, but if the cock is hard and well shaped, I won't object to a boyish blond stud. Cock well above average, thick and full, able to fill Me fully, fuck Me to My core. And you, My slave? Would it be too unbearable to watch Me take My pleasure with this well-hung stallion, take My time to fuck him while you wait, bug-eyed and trembling, little cock straining, your whole body pressing hopelessly against the ropes as you watch My little tableau?

You see, a horny Mistress is not one for beating around the bush (so to speak). A striptease, at most: letting My stud sit fully clothed, his hard dick straining at the fabric of his pants, while I dance sensually out of My leather skirt and bustier and wriggle onto his lap, fully and powerfully nude... you've never seen Me this way, have you? Watch Me press My ass and My wetness against his cock, grinding My full breasts and hard nipples against his face.

You've never seen Me this lustful, have you? I'd rub hungrily against his legs, My clit hard, My lips soaking wet, My cunt clenching at the air, needing to be filled. Fucked. You can almost smell My pussy from your chair, can't you? I will climb onto his lap, tits full against his face, him sucking at My hard puckered nipples. I will circle My hips athletically around his straining cock, rub My wetness all over the tip, until he takes My waist in his hands and presses Me down hard, slides his cock in fully, immediately filling My tight cunt, opening Me. I clench down, a vise-grip on his cock, and I'm moaning now... flushed, riding him... throwing a wry glance over My shoulder and giggling at the look in your eyes, the lust combined with shock, the desperation I so readily feed off. Your helplessness fuels My desire to fuck, and fuck hard. And then I no longer care about your presence, because I'm driving him deep... arms tightly around him as he lifts Me up against the wall and slams into Me standing... we are rutting, fucking deep, I am pulling him into Me and milking his cock, and you can only watch as I take My pleasure.

He will make Me come this way, oh yes, and not only once... clenching around his rigid cock, I will spurt juice down his legs, soaking his balls, dripping... wetting Me further. His cock will feel the spasms that you so desperately long to feel against your tongue, when I allow you even that rare pleasure. Oh, he'll feel every motion as I clamp down, over and over, coming in waves, soaking him further, My teeth against his neck as he fucks Me, him coming hard too, his cock spurting, filling My cunt with his thick, hot cum.

And yes, dear, that's where you come in! Your tireless devotion, managing not to come as you watched Me use that stud for all he was worth. You'll get to taste Me now, slut... you'll get to lick My pussy clean. As deprived as you may be, I'll be sure to put you to good use and reward you for your patience. You'll clean Me thoroughly, won't you, pet? Better show what a good cum-licker you are, and perhaps next time you'll get his cock ready for Me. All in due time...

Naughty Nurse's Bawdy Bedside Manner: A Case Study

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.


The Girlfriend  (written by Olivia's boot slave)

A few years ago I was involved in what I call my first real "boot" relationship. Her name was Christine. To say it was a "rocky" relationship would be an understatement. We just had too many differences. However, because I thought her a good and honest person—not to mention incredibly sexy!—I worked to keep this relationship alive in order to see where it was going.

One day we were sitting on the couch watching TV, and she was flipping through a Spiegel catalogue. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed she was looking at the shoe section. She caught me watching her and asked with a laugh, "See anything you like?"

Deciding to take a risk and bring up the subject of boots, I stopped her from turning the page and pointed to a pair of knee-high, high-heeled boots. "I’d like to see you in those," I said.

She took a closer at the page. "What color?"

"Black," I said.

"Hmm." She looked at the price. "Kind of expensive." She was still in college and didn’t have much money either. I had just gotten my first real job, and the thought of spending $130 on a pair of boots was a bit much for me too.

"Why would you like to see me in them?" She closed the catalogue and set it down—I definitely had her attention.

"Well . . . they look like they would fit very closely to your legs—to accentuate them. And with the heels, I just think you would look seriously sexy in them."

She smiled. "You like boots?"

"I definitely think more women should wear boots. Way too many wear those nasty hippie-sandals."

She frowned for a few seconds, thinking. "You mean Birkenstocks?"

"Yeah, those," I said. "Man, they are ugly."

We both laughed.

"You know, I do have a pair of boots," she said.

"Really? What kind?"

"Nothing fancy. They’re black. Knee-high. Flats."

Not bad, I thought. A good start.

"Wanna see them?" she asked, suddenly a little excited.

"Yeah," I said. She leaped off the couch and went to her bedroom. I could hear her rustling around for a few minutes; then she came out—blue jeans tucked into her black leather boots. They were the style that probably millions of other women have—starter boots. The top cuff could be folded down, and they were available in about any color you wanted. They may not have been fancy, but she did look very good in them. I told her so.

She sat back down on the couch, farther away from me this time. She stretched out and crossed her legs, resting her booted feet in my lap. I felt the soft leather and examined the boots. They were in very good shape and looked as if they had hardly been worn. Even the soles looked good. Feeling confident after getting this far, I lifted one of her booted feet and pressed my lips against the toe and inhaled the leather smell. Christine giggled a little at this, but did not pull her foot away—a good sign.

I kissed it a few more times, and I could feel her toes wiggling inside the boot. My cock was starting to bulge uncomfortably now. I kissed it a few more times and then rubbed the side of my face against the soft leather. To my surprise, she pressed back with her foot, rubbing harder. She shifted her other foot so that the sole was against the bulge in my pants. We continued this for about ten minutes, before I had to stop because I was so wound up. After getting a drink of water, I came back to the couch and placed her feet back in my lap. We began talking about getting her more boots—from riding boots to thigh boots. She was not just humoring me; she appeared to be actually turned on by the whole thing! Christmas was coming, and I was making a list of things to get her.

Over the next week, we explored our shared fetish. I really wanted to have her walk on me while I was on the floor, and she was eager to try. She was definitely in the petite category, so I had no trouble supporting her weight. I loved the feeling of her standing on my stomach and chest. Initially she stepped carefully. But after she learned to keep her balance and saw that she wasn’t hurting me, she stepped with more authority. She liked to plant her booted foot firmly on my balls and then pivot quickly to start walking back up my body. I didn’t argue. Occasionally, she would stop at my chest and then place the sole of one boot on my face.

Other times, I was her footstool as she watched TV. I would get down on my hands and knees while she rested her feet on my back. From time to time, she would take one foot and poke the toe of her boot between my legs and into my balls. It was always playful, never done hard. I loved it.

After a few days, she said, "You know, I think you should be naked when we play like this sometimes. The thought of my naked boyfriend lying at my feet and nuzzling my boots really turns me on." It was obvious that the woman I once thought was conservative was actually quite kinky. However, I didn’t complain—the idea sounded great to me!

She had a small footstool that was only about eight inches high. While she stretched out comfortably with her feet resting on the footstool, I would kneel at her feet naked, nuzzling and kissing her booted feet. I had gotten braver as we played more, and I had begun licking her boots. She greatly enjoyed relaxing with her booted feet resting on the footstool as my tongue covered every inch of the leather. Occasionally, she would tease me, telling me that I had missed a spot. I could not hide my excitement at the whole thing. My dick stuck out in full salute to her. She took full advantage of the situation, batting my bare balls around with the toe of her boot or rubbing the supple leather up and down my shaft.

In her ultimate act of teasing, she tied me naked to a wooden chair—legs and arms immobilized. Then she blindfolded me. She was dressed particularly sexy that night: a short, sleeveless black silk dress worn over a sheer black top, and of course, the boots. Unfortunately, I could no longer see how good she looked. For the next hour, while she watched her favorite TV show, she sat on the couch with her booted feet resting on the chair between my legs, the soles pressed against my cock and balls. Occasionally, she would jiggle her feet or slide them around on the chair, tormenting me. After half an hour, I was begging for relief, but none came. She kept her feet right there, laughing at my increasingly urgent pleas for some release. Finally, I could hear that the show was over. She pulled her feet away but left me tied and blindfolded.

After a few minutes, I felt her soft hands at my cock. She stroked my cock a bit, letting her fingernails glide over my engorged flesh. After a few seconds of this, I felt her climbing onto my lap, guiding my cock into her. We had had sex before, but never like this. I was so turned on by her teasing. She was apparently equally turned on, and it didn’t take long before we both came. I came so hard I thought I was going to pass out. She rested against me for a few minutes, hugging and kissing me, probing my ear with her tongue. Eventually, she climbed off, and I heard her go into the bathroom. I sat there still tied, trying to recover. After maybe ten minutes she came out and whispered in my ear.

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah . . . yeah," I finally got out. "That was just really . . . strong."

I once again felt her hands—and a washcloth—at my now sensitive cock. She was cleaning me up and drying me off. She went to the kitchen, where she got a can of Coke. Leaving me blindfolded, she raised the can to my mouth so I could take a few sips.

"That was really good," she said. "You know I had never thought much about this, but I love the feeling I get from dominating you like this. I assume you’re OK with it? This is what you’re looking for, right?"

I nodded, partially dumbfounded. "Yes. I do like it. Very much."

"Good," she said. She sat back down on the couch and starting watching TV again. With me still tied to the chair, she placed her booted feet back between my legs and proceeded to torment me for another hour. . . .

Unfortunately though, our differences proved to be too great. A week before Christmas, we had a terrible argument. Things were said—mostly by me—that couldn’t really be taken back, and she left my apartment crying.


During the Christmas holidays, I began to wonder if we could patch things up between us. I hated to let a good boot woman go! After days of debating, I decided that it just wouldn’t work. A few days after Christmas, Christine called. She wanted to pick up a few things she had left at my apartment. We were cool but civil to each other; I told her she could come over. Around thirty minutes later she arrived, and I went into shock.

She marched right in and took off her overcoat, revealing a short taupe dress and matching stockings. I had seen this outfit before, but this time she had added something new: taupe thigh-high boots! They had a two-inch spike heel and pointed toe and appeared to be of very high quality. I was in awe. She had never even owned any boots like this before the fight. These were obviously a Christmas present from someone. My thoughts immediately turned to our reconciliation.

She walked over to the kitchen and hopped onto one of the stools I had at the counter. She crossed her leather-clad legs, and I was nearly hypnotized.

"Do you have my things together?"

I snapped out of it. "Uh . . . yeah. Just a minute." I got a box from the bedroom and brought it out to her. "How have you been?"

She was bouncing her foot a little. "I’ve been fine. You?"

"I’ve been all right." I replied. Here it goes, I thought. "I missed you."

She said nothing. She was obviously still upset about our fight, but she didn’t get up to leave. She just sat there, still jiggling one booted foot.

"I’m sorry about the things I said. I was hoping we could talk about it."

"I really don’t think there’s anything to talk about," she said, but still made no move to leave. It dawned on me that she was really going to make me work for this. I got down on my knees in front of her and gently cradled her booted foot close to me.

"Please, Christine. I made a terrible mistake. I’ve missed you so much. Isn’t there anything I can do to make this up to you?" I placed a kiss on the toe of her boot and looked up at her. She smiled a little, but appeared unconvinced. I kissed her boot a few more times. "Please. I was wrong. I’ve felt horrible since you walked out of here."

"Then why didn’t you call me earlier to say these things, if you felt so bad. I would have."

"Well," I said as I nuzzled her foot, "you’re a better person than I am."

She laughed at this. "You know, I believe that you’re sorry. I really do. I forgive you. But we can’t get back together. It just won’t work."

I was starting to get worried. She wasn’t just dragging this out to make me pay, she was serious. I pulled her foot closer, pressing the sole against my chest, the toe actually touching the base of my neck.

"No, I mean it, Christine. What do you want? Name it and I’ll do it. Please." I was scrambling for the right words.

She shook her head. "I really don’t think there’s anything you can do."

I tried to kiss her boot again, but she gave me a little shove with her foot, and I toppled over backward. She grabbed her stuff and headed over to her coat. I crawled over to her on my hands and knees. Once again, she smiled but kept putting on her coat. I knew I looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care. I grabbed one of her feet and began kissing and licking the soft leather, occasionally taking time out to mumble a "please." Leaning back on the couch for support, she placed her other foot against the side of my head and pushed, trying to get herself free.

"NO!" she said loudly enough to finally snap me from my trance. I released her foot. She stood in front of me, rather haughtily, I thought, and wagged a finger at me. "Look at you. You should be ashamed of yourself, groveling like this."

She looked so sexy and powerful standing in front of me as she chastised me. She had pulled on matching taupe-colored leather gloves. I was more in awe of her than any other woman in my life. I crawled forward to her and placed my head on the floor between her feet. "Please, Christine. I’m sorry," I pleaded one more time.

She laughed a little, moving one foot closer to me and rubbing the side of my face with her boot. I pushed back. She sighed.

"We did have some good times, didn’t we?"

I looked up at her. She was frowning a little, a combination of annoyance and pity. "I’m definitely seeing a different side of you here," she said. "You know you really pissed me off?"

I just nodded. She stepped back a little and extended one leg so that her boot was only a few inches away from my nose. She gave me that wicked little smile that had always turned me on.

"Lick the sole of my boot clean."

I swallowed hard at this, but leaned forward and pressed my tongue against the sole and began licking. I continued for at least a minute, covering the entire sole, ignoring the particles of dirt and other debris I came across. I pulled away and looked at her.

She lowered her leg, shifted her weight, and extended the other leg. I repeated the process, dutifully cleaning the sole of her boot. As I licked the sole with my eyes closed, I did not notice her reach into her purse and pull out a Polaroid camera. A flash and a whir of the camera made my eyes pop open, and I looked up at her to see her waving the developing photo.

She looked at the photo and began laughing very hard. "Oh my God! I can’t believe you did it! That’s disgusting! You are so pathetic. I can never, ever, be involved with someone like you. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking all this time."

She turned around, opened the door, and walked out. I could hear laughing in the hall as she walked out of the building.

I was in shock, and I felt like an idiot. I had crawled and groveled at her feet for nothing, and I had an enormous bulge in my pants that betrayed me. I never saw or heard from her again.


A few months later, I was doing some shopping in a local grocery store when I saw a female friend of Christine’s. I had met her only once before, but we had gotten along well. Her name was Olivia, and she was the most stunning of Christine’s friends. She had silky dark hair, beautiful features, and was the same height as Christine, but with more curves. We talked for a while. I eventually asked her what Christine was doing. Olivia said she had moved to the other side of the state and was involved with some engineer.

I had already started to walk away when she said, "By the way, how did those soles taste?"

I was confused. "What?"

She was laughing now. "Christine told me and our other friends at a party. Those boots weren’t even hers—they’re mine! She had no intention of taking you back; she just wanted to make you beg and humiliate you for being such a ‘pain in the ass,’ as she put it." She was laughing harder now. "We all thought it was hysterical, but we didn’t really believe it until she showed us the picture! So how did those soles taste? Did you find anything good?"

I could feel the hot burn of humiliation all over me. I just walked away as she continued laughing.

I spent the rest of my time in the grocery store desperately trying to avoid her. I peeked around corners to make sure I wouldn’t run into her in another aisle. When I had everything I needed, I hurried to a check-out line, threw my items on the conveyor, and quickly paid. There was no sign of her anywhere. I rushed out to my car, placed the bags in the trunk and pushed the cart over to the nearest corral. I turned to head back to my car, when squealing tires announced Olivia’s Mustang stopping beside me.

She was still chuckling a little and flashed me a wicked smile.

"What?" I exploded. "What now?"

This made her laugh harder. "Calm down," she said as she reached out and stuffed a folded piece of paper into the front pocket of my jeans. "Just because Christine is gone doesn’t mean that we can’t be . . . friendly." She shifted her car into gear, but before pulling away, she said, "Besides, those boots are mine, you know."

I retrieved the piece of paper while watching her pull out of the parking lot. Carefully unfolding it, I couldn’t help but let out a little smile when I saw that the paper revealed her phone number, 215-627-5366.


The Empress's New Clothes

I found out that I was a born Domina when I was laced tightly into my first corset and saw the way men stared at me . . .

I leaned against the wall with my hands outspread, bracing myself, as my beautiful roommate pulled the black laces tighter and tighter. I kept losing my balance as she tugged back against my rib cage. I had never worn a corset before and trembled with anticipation as my breathing became more and more restricted. We were going to The Chamber, a popular fetish club in Los Angeles, and I had nothing of my own to wear. I had just moved to L.A. a few months before, to start college, and desperately wanted to sin in the City of Angels; all I needed was the right look. My breasts heaved and spilled enticingly over the top of the red satin corset, which was embellished with black lotus flowers, and a rosy flush began to paint my skin.

She finally spun me around and asked me what I thought. My skin began to tingle as I slowly inspected my curvaceous hips and small, cinched waist. My eyes wandered appreciatively over my body, from my subtly sculpted shoulders and arms, to my large, full breasts, to the perfectly trimmed triangle of hair between my thighs, to my small bare feet. My chest rose with every shortened breath. I looked seductive and soft, yet still beautifully tough and incredibly sexy.

"Do you have anything else I could, um, try on?" I asked, raising a mischievous eyebrow as I flashed my brilliant smile. I was soon pulling her best delicate nude-hued silk thigh-high stockings over my long legs and clipping them to a black lace garter belt that sat low around my hips. After making sure my seams were straight, I slipped into a cool and commanding pair of size 7.5 black stiletto heels, pivoted to the mirror—and nearly came from the jolt of power I experienced upon seeing myself standing there looking so strict and dominant. I wiggled into a tight knee-length leather skirt and began to fantasize as I zipped up the back and felt the leather hug my round ass.

I slowly pulled a pair of handcrafted black leather gloves up my tan arms to my soft elbows, enjoying every second as the leather sucked my fingers like a warm mouth. My long dark brown hair was parted on the right, and my side-swept bangs hung slightly over my left eye, allowing glints of green to shine through seductively whenever I laughed. The rest of my shiny mane was gathered back into a tight ponytail that lay between my bare shoulder blades, falling softly to the small of my back. Smoky eyes and red lips completed the look . . . almost.

I stood back to examine this wild and enslaving goddess that I had become. I was strong and confident and far sexier than any of those silly girls one might see in a lingerie catalogue or fashion magazine. My roommate went into the other room and returned with a beautiful medium-sized riding crop. "Every femme fatale should have one!" she joked as she handed it to me. I admired the delicate craftsmanship of the handle and slowly traced the small wedge of leather up my leg, over my hip, and along the shiny silver clips that led straight up my torso to my firm breasts. I ran it slowly across my delicate collarbones, up the side of my neck, across my hot cheek, and to my full lips. Seductively, I kissed the cool leather and licked my lips as I cracked the crop down on my palm, making a loud smacking noise.

It was then that I knew I was a Mistress, and I couldn't wait to wrap a man around my dominant little finger.

The minute I strode into The Chamber, every man in the room seemed to stop what he was doing to look at me. Their eyes told of a longing for me so desperate that they would face any and all forms of pain and humiliation to be in my good graces. Desire seemed to come at me in waves from all directions. It was utterly arousing and completely empowering. 

Three men approached me, each still smelling like the office or law firm he had worked in earlier that day. They had left their ordinary lives and traded in their ties for black collars with large silver rings, their suits for different assortments of leather gear, from pants to harnesses. I was the Mistress of their wildest fantasies, and I soon had one slave worshiping my feet, another slave lighting my roommate's cigarette, and one especially hardheaded slave enjoying the sting of my crop across his backside.

I left the club with a newfound love for the art of female domination, glowing with the satisfaction that comes from hearing a man obediently say "Yes, Mistress."


The Value of a College Education

As a teacher, I always stress the importance of higher education. After all, it wasn't until I hit college that I was introduced to the magical world of S&M.

Early one afternoon, I heard some titillating noises coming from my roommate's bedroom—a curious symphony of chains rattling, heavy breathing, odd slapping sounds, and soft moaning. I wasn't sure if I should be afraid for her, but I was becoming strangely aroused. I decided to open my door a crack to ascertain if she was in any real danger.

The noises had stopped. My curiosity getting the better of me, I slowly crept down the hall and stood before her bedroom door. What seemed like an infinite amount of time passed. I heard nothing and began to head back to my own room. At that very moment, there was a loud zap, followed by some groaning. I jumped and let out a gasp. Then suddenly the bedroom door flew open.

Before my eyes stood the most bewitching woman I had ever seen. Her hair was straight and black, and her eyes were green with flecks of gold. Her full lips were stained a deep merlot. She was wearing a black leather cape lined in purple satin over a matching purple corset that cinched up her full breasts. Her fetishistic ensemble was completed by black seamed stockings and black satin high heels. In her left hand was what I later learned to be a violet wand. The item in her right hand, a black leather horsewhip, was immediately identifiable.

Most shocking of all, my roommate, Brigitte, was attached to the very high heel of this siren's stiletto pump by a metal leash. She was on all fours, wearing nothing but a purple leather collar and a startling red ass. She never even raised her head.

I felt a sympathetic rush of blood to my cheeks—poor Brigitte must be so humiliated! Why else wouldn't she look up at me? This woman ordered my roommate to make the proper introductions. Her head still down, she said, "Mistress Claire, this is Haley."

"Your friend is one of My most valuable and submissive pets," the Mistress said. She then walked over to me, tilted her chin up slightly, and said, "I can smell that you could be of service also."

"I'm sorry, Claire," I defiantly replied, "but I would much rather be in your position."

She began laughing and smiled at me. "You have to train to attain this dominant position, chérie. A Domme is born but also made. If you are truly interested, My little slave girl here will give you My telephone number. And if I find you to be a prodigy, perhaps I will adopt you as My protégée . . . Now back to your room! I have business to conduct," she commanded. Gesturing to the violet wand, she continued, "Did the clever student girl catch My electrical pun? It was definitely intentional," as the door closed firmly behind her.

Back in my bedroom, I stood listening at my closed door for the provocative sounds of their sexual war games. My back against the door, I quietly masturbated to release some of my excitement. I had the eerily erotic sense that the Dominatrix could smell my pussy from all the way down the hall. My orgasm coincided with the slam of the front door as our exotic visitor exited.

Immediately, there was a knock at my door. My roommate, still on all fours, appeared, holding a business card in her mouth, delicately clenched between her little white teeth. I could not contain my smile as I gently extricated the card from her rouged mouth. Written in purple ink reminiscent of freshly drawn blood were the Mistress's telephone number and the address of her dungeon. The next day began my training as a Domina.


Charlotte's Web

At my very first job out of college, I had a tyrannical, perfectionist boss who wore a perpetual scowl on his face. One morning I came into the office early. I didn't see anyone as I went into my cubicle and sat down, turning my chair to the desk. Then I felt hands move up between my legs, and I jumped! I looked down and saw my boss between my legs with a finger to his lips, begging, "Shhh, please, Charlotte, let me please you!"

I was astounded. He was begging me! I was completely aroused instantly. My boss was under my desk, begging me to let him eat me! I thought, We're going to get caught—but he had already taken my shoe off and was kissing my foot. He flicked his tongue across my toes, and then I thought, Oh God, I don't care! My feet are very sensitive and love attention. I lowered my chair and pulled my body all the way into the desk, easing my skirt up to my hips. He worked slowly up from my ankles, licking, kissing, and sucking up my legs: first one leg, then the other, sliding his lips along the smooth nylon of my stockings.

I was deliriously wet with delight as his mouth reached the soft, tender skin of my thighs. I realized at that moment how excited I was by this power I had over my boss. I knew instinctively what to do now to get everything I wanted. I pulled my legs shut immediately. "Beg me for a taste, slave," I ordered him. He whimpered in response. I told him again, "Beg me, slave, and then you can lick my pussy." He whispered, "Please, Mistress Charlotte, please, please, let me lick you."

With that, I felt the juices rush between my thighs, and I opened my legs wide and pulled his face to my pussy. All I could feel was his warm, wet tongue and lips licking my clit, up and down and round and round, as he moaned. I slid my hands into his hair and wrapped my legs around his head, holding him tight to me. His tongue sucked and wiggled my clit faster and faster. I started to hear people's voices, but I knew I had to climax now, and I couldn't stop my throbbing pussy. I whispered, "Make your Mistress come now, slave, and she will be very pleased," as I felt my orgasm explode through my body with such force I can still feel it down to my toes . . .

One moment later, I pushed his head away from me and stood up. My boss crawled out from under my desk, smiling sheepishly at me. I had actually succeeded in wiping that ever-present scowl off his mug! I told him, "You can go now, slave, but don't wipe my juice off your face—it suits you." Glazed like a doughnut and docile as a lamb, he turned and slunk back to his office.


Curriculum Vitae

Behold, in your mind's eye: Mistress Taylor, standing five four in Her bare feet, appearing as captivatingly innocent as the girl next door. Dare to kneel at Her perfectly pedicured feet. With the heart of a true sadist and an interest in all that is taboo, Mistress Taylor has experience well beyond Her twenty-two years.
Presenting Herself with an eloquence that is unique to Her, Mistress Taylor excels at making dreams into reality; and reality, into a dream. To hear the exquisite purr of Her voice is to fall prey to Her charms.
I, Mistress Taylor, command all slaves, sissies, and sluts to report at once to My telephonic dungeon, there to succumb to My every whim and desire. Your pain will soon be My pleasure. From sensual torment to severe corporal punishment, My interests go far beyond physical play, to a new level of complete and total mind engagement. I bring to phone domination everything I have learned from My stint as a Prodomme.
Curious about My specialties?
Having been extensively trained in most aspects of medical play, I adore administering wine enemas, bladder infusions, injections, prostate milking, and saline-solution testicular inflation. Here's a peek inside My arsenal of medical paraphernalia: catheters, sounds, speculums, electrodes, needles for play piercing, and of course, one of My personal favorites, the four-quart bag. Feeling suddenly unwell? Perhaps you would like to be strapped down to an OB/GYN table for one of My very thorough medical examinations . . .
The adult babies among you will delight as I, Mistress Dommy, burp and diaper you. Cross-dressers and sissies will flourish in My elite all-girls school for those pretty darlings who need just a bit of polishing around the edges. Learn such timeless skills as makeup application and the dos and don'ts of a proper curtsy.
To get Myself into the right sort of mood for a little session of telephone S&M, I'll often slip into My latex catsuit or don a pair of thigh-high leather boots, perhaps allowing you to listen to the sibilant hiss of the long zipper closing like a sigh. You will find that I particularly enjoy long-term bondage, teasing and denial, CBT, electroplay, heavy corporal discipline, and wielding a strap-on dildo. I revel in role-play and power-exchange fantasies. There is nothing more satisfying than visualizing a man helpless at My feet. The more creative the fantasy, the more outrageous the fetish, the better . . . Challenge My imagination.


The Making of a Mistress

I grew up as a Catholic schoolgirl, so discipline was hardly a novel concept to me. Sister Perpetua was quick to reprimand us for every minor infraction with a swish of her meter stick or chalkboard pointer—maybe we had talked out of turn, or perchance she'd caught one of the boys peering up the girls' skirts with a mirror taped to his shoe. Most of the kids trembled under her perilous gaze, but she was always, shall we say, a little bit more . . . lenient . . . with me. The tiniest disobedience would normally warrant at least twenty licks, but she managed to conveniently overlook the great havoc I constantly wreaked upon the class—the way I would distract my fellow students by sitting with my legs spread wide, unbuttoning my top button to expose just a hint of my budding breasts, staring at the little boys' crotches as they squirmed uncomfortably in their seats. Even in my adolescence, I was aware of my rare power and commanding presence—people thirty years my senior, like Sister Perpetua, knew that I was a force to be reckoned with.

I didn't really learn just how powerful I was, however, until I left my little town and went off to the big city for college. I was very socially active as a freshman and dated lots of people . . . nothing too serious, as I was content just to explore my new environment. By the following year, though, I had settled into a semi-serious relationship with a boy named Craig, who caught my interest initially because he seemed somehow different from the other boys—and kept my interest once I found out exactly how "different" he really was. You see, shortly after we first met, I came home to my apartment one night and found him lying on the floor, wearing my bra and panties . . . He'd crawled in through the window, he admitted amidst damp tears, and rummaged through my drawers. He couldn't control these impulses, he confessed, yet he was terrified to come right out and ask my permission . . . It was only natural, therefore, that I'd ensure he had JUST THAT from that point forward. After discovering his transgression, I made him beg me for every kiss, every stolen glance, every touch, and every bit of satin his little sissy cock needed. In return, he showered me with adulation, gifts, and unending servitude.
Although our liaison lasted but a semester, my bitchy, demanding streak remains—and I'm always looking for some new men to abuse. Step up to the blackboard!

The Mind Wanders . . .  (written by Olivia's panty boy)

Mistress Olivia asked me why I always call Her in such an overheated state from my office. Wherever was my work ethic? She wondered. Shouldn't I be a tad more focused on earning the funds necessary to support Her in a lavish style? What on earth could be preoccupying me so? Hmm, She mused, I think a little essay is in order . . .
My secretary is a gorgeous 32-year-old brunette. Great body, curly brown hair. Very demure usually. Doesn't share much of her personal life. I fantasize that one day she comes to work in a black leather skirt, not too short. A white blouse, just a little transparent, sheer enough so that you can make out the bra underneath. A soft bra, one that barely offers her full breasts any support, but she's young, and her D cups are pretty perky. 
She acts a little flirtatious all day, which is out of character for her. She seems to find a reason to bend down to get files whenever she knows I'm looking at her. The top of her thong peeks out a little over the waist of her skirt as she tucks her blouse back in. White thong. She always wears G-strings, and sometimes the outline is clear when she wears pants. She never wears pantyhose or stockings, nor does she in this fantasy. She teases me all day. She leans over my desk on occasion, letting me peek into her blouse a little. The blouse is open a mere two buttons, so all I see is some of her bra and the exposed cleavage. I can't concentrate all day. I can't get up, because the entire office will see my continuous hard-on.
At the end of the day, she asks me to stop by to see her new house. I did her closing for free—actually, I also gave her some money as a housewarming gift. She says she wants to show me some of the things she and her husband have been doing around the place. I haven't seen the house yet, and I figure I can drop by, since it's on my way home. It's a Friday and I have the time. Before she leaves, she tells me that her husband is at baseball practice (he coaches) and that he probably won't be home until after 7:00. I gulp and say sure. She leaves at 5:00, and I wait a few minutes so as not to appear too eager. I have no idea what to expect . . . just a house tour, or something more?
My mind races as I drive the fifteen minutes to her place. She comes out when she hears the car. Her dog's being a little pesky, so she puts him in the backyard. Good thing. The anticipation has been building, and I kinda have a hard-on (for her, not the dog). She has changed into a T-shirt and jeans and sandals. She shows me around the house, room by endless room. . . . This seemed to be a regular house tour. . . . Now I'm confused. What had all the teasing been about? After some idle chitchat, I begin to say my disappointed goodbyes.
She says, "Wait, I forgot to show you what we bought with your housewarming present." She takes me to the bedroom and points to the four-poster bed. Nothing special about it, just a generic bed with standard wooden posts. She says that the mattress is very firm and asks me to lie on it. I do, and it isn't the firmest thing in the room by this time. She climbs on the bed and bounces a little. No bra under the T-shirt. She asks me if I had enjoyed her tease today. I tell her I'd been going out of my mind, then and even more so now. She comes closer and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek. With that, she tells me to lie down, as she has some more surprises in store for me. 
She returns wearing a low-cut silky nightgown with pearly buttons down the chest. She says that the only way to really appreciate the bed is to take a nap with her (!?!). She volunteers her hubby's pj's, but I decline . . . no need to get him suspicious. I strip to my boxers. We cuddle and kiss. I nuzzle her neck, behind her ear . . . where her hairline begins. I kiss her earlobe and lick inside the ear a little. I tell her that an ear is like a second pussy and that I can make her come by licking it and kissing it if we both pretend that it really is her pussy. I flick and bite the lobe as she moans. She gets goose bumps as I caress and kiss her ear and neck, and play with her curly hair.
"Enough," she finally says. She tells me that my tongue was so good that she wants me to lick her pussy for real. But she doesn't want to fuck. OK with me; I'll start with that. She tells me that she doesn't want us to get carried away and asks if it would be all right if she tied my hands to the bedposts with some of her husband's ties. At this point I'd agree to just about anything. She fetches a couple of neckties from the closet, slips off my shorts, and proceeds to truss my arms to the bed.
She unbuttons her nightgown, so that it's completely open in the front. She moves up my body slowly. Her nipple is right in front of my mouth, and she tells me to lick it. Kiss it. Make the nipple hard. Sure! "Now the other," she says. I eagerly comply. She rubs both breasts against my mouth and wiggles. She climbs farther up and holds on to the headboard with two hands. Her pussy is in front of my mouth now. Dripping. Juicy. 
"Lick!" she commands. God! I lick softly, up and down, gently sucking on the lips, flicking my tongue into the slit. She has a little landing strip of brown hair, but is mostly shaven. Her juices are intoxicating. She tells me to keep her clit in my mouth and to use my tongue to trace out the alphabet. A . . . up and across. B . . . around, around, and down. C . . . lightly around her erect clit. When I get to M, she tells me to make a buzzing noise, "MMMMMMM." She presses her mound harder against my face and rocks back and forth. She's getting ready to come—her back arches a little; she closes her eyes. More "MMMMMMM" until my mouth is going numb. She tenses, then gasps, then shivers. She collapses on my chest, wasted.
I figure that now it's my turn. I beg her to let me loose. But she says again that she doesn't want to fuck and doesn't trust me enough to untie me. OK, I figure that at least I'm going to get a blow job for all my efforts. She goes to her nightstand drawer and pulls out some toys. She tells me that usually her husband uses them on her, but she's reversing that role with me. By now I'm so horny I'd go along with most any proposition.
She gets some ice and rubs it on my nipples. Pulling on them, twisting them. She places some light nipple clamps on them as I moan. She asks me if she can tie my legs so I can't kick her if things get a little rougher. Why not. With that, more ties are produced, and my ankles are bound. She removes my nipple clamps, and oh, it hurts. She rubs more ice on my chest and down toward my cock. She circles the ice over my cock and balls until my balls are numb. She puts a few clothespins on my balls, but I can hardly feel them. She takes out a feather and teases me, up and down my chest, around my erect cock. I beg her to use her hands or her mouth, but she ignores me.
Instead, she finds a candle and tells me that she's going to drop hot wax on my balls as punishment for all the times I have stared at her breasts and ass. Drip. Ouch. More drips, more ouches. I am incredibly aroused as she flicks the hardened wax from my genitals. She asks if they hurt and gives my balls a little kiss to make them feel better. I plead with her to kiss my dick, but she ignores me. She takes out some KY and slops it on her fingers and around my balls. I assume I am about to get a hand job at least, but she has other ideas. She probes for my anus as I begin to squirm, resisting, protesting. But I can't move much, and she eventually gets a finger past my clenched asshole. She slides it in and out, and I start to enjoy the sensation of fullness. I relax a little as she inserts two of her dainty little fingers in my ass. 
I'm moaning and begging her to keep going, but please, please suck my cock. No luck on the cock request. But she continues to probe my asshole. I beg her for some relief. But she tells me sternly that she will not kiss or touch my dick this time. "If you want to come," she says, "I'll let you free, and you can jack off for me." Sounds good to me . . . any port in a storm, even if that port is my right hand. She directs me to slip into a pair of her white silky panties and to slide my cock out the side. Sure. She makes me stand against the wall as she watches from the bed. "Play with it . . . harder . . . faster," she commands. I feel some precum ooze out of the end. She sees it too and tells me that I am not to come until she orders me to. "Stroke . . . faster . . ." I close my eyes and imagine that she is sucking my cock. I want to shoot, and ask for permission, which she denies. I beg. 
"Not yet," she says. Sweat is dripping off me. My right arm is becoming tired as I masturbate for her. Finally, she announces that I will be allowed to orgasm soon. When she counts to 10, I am to ejaculate. Not before or after. The pressure to please her is enormous. I don't think I can do it on command, but when she says "8," it's as if she has me hypnotized. I arch my back and stiffen. I can feel it coming . . . "Now!" As she says "10," I erupt right on cue. Gobs of cum all over my hand, my dick, and her panties. I collapse onto the floor.  
Looking up, I realize that she is playing with herself. She asks if I want to see her climax. Of course I do. "One condition," she says. I have to lick her panties clean as she plays with her pussy. "A deal!" I lick as she rubs. The faster she rubs, the more eagerly I lick. As I am soaking her panties, she is soaking her pussy. She leans back with one hand on her clit and the other on her left nipple. She's ready to explode. Finally the long-awaited "Oh my God!" comes breathlessly out of her mouth. She beckons me to the side of the bed and has me lick her fingers. Such a sweet aroma!  
Even though I have developed another huge erection, she says we have to stop playing 'cause hubby is due home soon. She promises me we will play again, although I still won't be allowed to put my dick in her pussy or mouth. I agree to those terms . . . secretly thinking I will be able to convince her to go further at our next encounter.
She kisses me lightly and whispers in my ear, "If you want the game to continue, you must wear my panties to work tomorrow and flash them for me to prove you're wearing them." Hey, why not. I get dressed hurriedly and stuff the panties in my pocket.
I hid them before I went to bed so my wife wouldn't find them. I didn't rinse them out, and they got stiff overnight, and a little musty smelling. None the less, I wear them the next day instead of my boxers. Quite a sensual experience. We exchange fraught glances all day. At 5:00, she comes into my office, and I show her the top of the panties. She smiles and blows me a kiss and tells me that the adventure is just beginning. I can't wait for the second chapter.

Mistress Olivia's response: Very provocative fantasy. Only one problem: I'm not in it! Try, try again . . .


A White Man's Black Dream

I like to humiliate the men I date and get them to commit to doing anything to please me. I wanted one guy I dated to suck cock for me, and as part of his training, I would tell him explicit bedtime stories and then laugh with delight as his cock got hard from listening. Here is one of the tales I told:

Once upon a time there was a man named Officer Galvin. He was 41 and had been a cop for eleven years. He had been married for nine and had three children, two boys, ages six and eight, and a daughter just three years old. He liked his job, his wife, and his kids and didn’t really want to give up his life. But he had a secret that haunted him. Any hint that his secret might have been detected drove him into a frenzy.

One night, many years ago, a group of his police buddies sat drinking with him at a local pub. They teased him relentlessly for seeming a bit effeminate. They were only joking. While he did appear a bit sissyish, nobody really believed Officer Galvin was gay. His wife was hot. Mrs. Galvin was pretty enough to model. Anyway, the incident changed him. He became ruthlessly macho.   

His beat was in South Central Los Angeles, which is a high-crime area. You know, he dealt with typical shit like drug dealing, pimps, gang bangers and the like. To prove he was a man, he overcompensated in the field, often using extreme force when commandeering bad guys. During one particular incident, he came across a petty drug deal going down. A couple of dime bags of weed were all that was at stake. The perps were two black teenagers. Darryl was the dealer. Darryl had lost his job of two years at McDonald's (it was determined he was giving free food to his friends) and found out he was going to be a father, both on his eighteenth birthday. Two weeks later he stood on a corner directly across the street from a discarded mattress centered squarely between two abandoned row houses. Several very young boys were using the dirty mattress as a trampoline and having great fun at it. Their innocence, should we believe they had any, would soon be lost.

Officer Galvin approached Darryl. “What seems to be going on here, boy?”

Darryl mumbled some words under his breath. Unfortunately for him, Officer Galvin heard them and made them his last words on earth. They were: “Fuck off, faggot.”

Officer Galvin beat him to a pulp. Planted a gun on him and claimed self-defense. The testimony of the young boys who had witnessed the whole affair seemed to have little effect on the jury. They acquitted Officer Galvin, on the basis of lack of evidence, after a one-day trail. Darryl's older brother, Tyrone, swore to himself that he would avenge Darryl's death, but a few days later the thought was all but forgotten, as he had just become an uncle/surrogate father.

It was a bright summer morning nine months later before he would even see Officer Galvin again. Tyrone was standing outside a Chinese food take-out joint, waiting patiently for it to open so that he might order an early lunch of shrimp fried rice and an egg roll. That would never happen, because he found himself with a gun to his head.

Officer Galvin, unnoticed, pulled Tyrone around a corner and into an empty warehouse. “Sit down, Tyrone.”

Tyrone was a menacing, big black guy with broad shoulders. Wore baggy jeans, his hair in cornrows. A thick platinum chain with a rather large diamond-studded cross hung heavy on his chest, which made you think more of the devil than it did Christ. He sat down in the lone chair, seemingly unaffected by the morning's bizarre turn of events.

“I know that you know all the neighborhood thugs. I want you to be my eyes and ears, Tyrone. I want to know who’s doing what and when. Or else.”

Tyrone asked the obvious question, “Or else what, muthafucka?”

“Or else you’ll end up like your brother.”

“Is that so?”


“Suck my dick.”

“What did you say?”

“Suck my dick.” Tyrone’s tone was controlled. It wasn’t quite sexually suggestive, but it wasn't classically insulting either. Officer Galvin's dream, which had begun to consume most of his waking and sleeping hours, of having his face fucked was still unfulfilled.

Standing in the warehouse, he couldn't control his own cock. It was getting hard despite himself. It pleases me now to think about how quickly a man can submit to even the vilest of acts, in the right situation with just a few choice words.

Officer Galvin had his gun pointed at Tyrone, but his arm was beginning to wobble.

“Put the gun down. Get on your fuckin’ knees. Crawl your white faggot ass over here and suck my dick.” Tyrone said the last part of the sentence slow, emphasizing every word. And Officer Galvin did. He crawled over to where Tyrone was sitting and sucked the biggest, blackest cock you’d ever want to see. He didn’t stop sucking it either, until he had swallowed every last drop of nigger cum Tyrone had to offer. Officer Galvin was a really good cocksucker too. In just under three months, he was ripped from behind the white picket fence he had so carefully constructed, that had protected him against murder charges in a court of law, and had become the ghetto's neighborhood bitch.

The Finished Product

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!


Shopping Spree with Sissy in Tow

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 tap . . . leather-clad legs follow as I uncoil out of my seat . . . and seamlessly scissor into stride toward the mall. He rushes ahead to open both doors in time. Laughing softly, I see that he is well aware of what will happen if he is tardy. Public spankings can be rather humiliating. As I halt in the entryway, I let the icy air conditioning glide over my flesh, causing my nipples to pull into hard buds against my black corset top. He notices, of course.

"Meet me at Saks, slut!"

"Yes, Ma’am."

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 private . . ."

"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."


Rx for Submission

The fine day I realized My full power and dominance over men is a day I treasure, and one you shall no doubt enjoy reading about.
I am a registered nurse, employed as an office manager for a very well-regarded urologist, a doctor considered to be at the top of his field. Although his medical knowledge and skills are first-rate, it was an unfortunate fact that his treatment of his nursing staff was deplorable! By the time I went to work for this doctor, I had several years of clinical nursing experience under my belt (more about my belt later, pet), and he hired me because of my knowledge, intelligence, and supervisory capability. He needed someone to take over the office and get it running like a well-greased machine, stat. 
I quickly ascertained the reason why things had gone awry in the office, as evidenced by the low morale and frequent sick days: this doctor's attitude needed some major adjusting! The doctor was a squat, salt-and-pepper-haired man in his early fifties, complete with spare tire, love handles, and double chin . . . but despite his homely exterior, he had a huge ego, one that required some serious deflating. He ordered the nurses around in a gruff manner without addressing them by name, never saying please or thank you, yelling at them frequently for not working fast enough or for any other perceived lapses he saw fit. Many a time during my first week I would happen upon a young nurse in a corner or empty exam room, red-faced and crying softly as a result of his condescending treatment. He manifested all the classic symptoms of a God complex, which, left untreated, had run amok. I knew I had to remedy this situation immediately, and I needed to devise an appropriate therapy plan. 
I had noticed something rather curious about the good doctor. Whenever I went into his big, traditionally appointed office—which featured a huge mahogany desk, oversized leather chair, and hundreds of scientific tomes neatly tucked into built-in bookshelves—the doctor behaved in the strangest manner. He continually stared at my shoes! He seemed mesmerized by them. Being the office manager, I did not wear a traditional nurses' uniform. My daily garb consisted of a well-tailored starched white lab coat with a badge bearing my name and title; a tasteful blouse; a snug, just-above-the-knee pencil skirt in black or navy blue; and black nylons—which, unbeknownst to anyone but me, were thigh-high and held in place with a garter belt. They were pure nylon, silky to the touch, and sometimes bunched ever so slightly at the ankles as pure nylon stockings are apt to do, only adding to their allure. Finishing off my outfit was my shoe of preference: black high-heeled pumps with a low vamp exposing a bit of toe cleavage. My long chestnut locks were pulled into a loose upsweep, showcasing my porcelain complexion and feline green eyes.
The staff had left for the day after seeing our usual caseload: those poor men requiring Viagra for their perpetually flaccid penises; a steady supply of patients due for digital prostate examinations; and those unhappy campers in need of urethral catheterization. The doctor sat at his big desk, completing his case notes, and I knew this was the time to confront him and administer the cure. I strode confidently into his office, nylons whooshing as my legs moved, high heels clicking authoritatively on the floor. I closed and locked the heavy wooden door behind me. 
"Doctor, we need to talk," I stated. Staring at my shoes, he nodded. "I find your condescending and rude manner with our staff to be unacceptable." He looked up at me, surprised. "I want you to tell me something, Doctor. Why is it that you are so interested in my shoes?"
"I don't know what you mean," he stammered, looking a bit flustered, which was quite uncharacteristic for him.
"I believe you do know what I mean. And I want an answer now." He cleared his throat nervously several times, unable to reply. "You like my shoes, don't you? Tell me the truth, now!" 
"Yes, Lauren, I do like your shoes, very much," he practically whispered, his head hanging in abject embarrassment. I knew I had the upper hand! And I was going to bring this MD down.
I pulled up my skirt the slightest bit, allowing me the leeway to put one pump-clad foot on his desk. He immediately took the bait, reaching for my shoe. "Not so fast!" I yelled. "We're going to change things around here a bit. Get out of your chair." He stood up, and I immediately took his place in the large leather chair. "Get on your knees," I ordered, and he quickly complied. What a sight it was, indeed, to see this seemingly powerful bastard kneeling in front of me! "Would you like to touch my shoes?" I asked. He nodded vigorously. "I just might let you . . . but first we have to establish some rules here." He nodded again in agreement, and I continued, "You shall call me 'Mistress Lauren' from now on, do you understand? Let me hear it!"
"Yes, Mistress Lauren," he squeaked.
"Louder!" I ordered.
"Yes, Mistress Lauren!" That was much better.
"You're not the big boss anymore, are you? You're not the one in charge here. Look at you, on your knees, kneeling at my feet!" He blushed crimson, and his breathing was becoming heavy and irregular.
"No, Mistress Lauren, I'm not the big boss!" he answered.
"Now, you will do as I say. I want you to stand up and strip naked. Except for your socks and your tie. I intend to lead you around by that tie, using it as a leash, while you crawl pathetically after my shoes, do you understand?"
"Yes, Mistress." He had become putty in my strong, feminine hands. He stood before me, shamed, and stripped dutifully, leaving on his socks and tie.
"Back on your knees," I commanded. He dropped to his knees with urgency. He looked pathetic in his ridiculous get-up, with his pale, flabby, bulbous naked body and a smaller-than-average erection throbbing relentlessly beneath his spare tire. "What's that!" I yelled. I reached out and smacked his hard cock several times. I could see him becoming more compliant as he winced from the sting of my sharp slaps. "You will, from this point on, treat your staff with the utmost respect. You will give them all a large raise. You will give me an even larger raise . . . and a tidy bonus today and every Friday, do you understand?"
"Yes, Mistress, I understand! I'll do anything, but please, please let me touch and kiss your beautiful shoes and your beautiful feet!"
"Not yet! To prove your submission to me, I'm going to take you for a little walk." I had him get down on all fours, and I grabbed the end of his tie. I pulled him along, leading him around his desk several times, walking faster, listening to him grunting and breathing hard to keep up with my clicking heels, as I observed his complete and utter submission to me. I was in the zone, and I knew right then and there that this is what I was always meant to be—dominant, commanding, and controlling, demanding complete respect and submission! From that moment forward, I would accept nothing less.
Finally I sat back in his chair, crossed my legs, and dangled one gorgeous foot in front of his pathetic face. "You've been a good boy, and now you shall get your reward. Lick my shoe clean!" 
He proceeded to lick and slurp and kiss my shoe, with a garbled "Thank you, Mistress" punctuating his submission. When I decided he was finished, I rose to leave, telling him that only after I was gone was he free to relieve himself, provided he remain on his knees while doing so. I exited, closing the door behind me with a definitive click. Standing in the hallway, I listened with my ear pressed to the door and heard the sounds of his frantic masturbation and his grunts and moans when he climaxed.
To prevent relapse, we repeat this scenario each Friday afternoon. Everyone on staff enjoys complete respect and large paychecks.
As for me, since this transpired, I have built up a nice little collection of slaves—in addition to an enviable collection of designer heels, courtesy of my weekly bonuses.

The Fine Art of Absolute Domination

When perfected, the art of dominating a submissive is completely gratifying to both parties, in a way that surpasses the senses and reaches the very depths of the soul. The Domina wrests control by understanding the deep needs of the submissive even better than he does himself. She ultimately leads the submissive down a path not before taken, a path of no return . . . one from which the submissive wants no return. 
The ability to artfully lead Her charge, with a well-calculated mixture of firmness and reward, to the intoxication of sub space and beyond, is a gift and a skill to be honed to delicious perfection. It requires the invasion of the submissive in every way—body, mind, and soul. The slave finds himself desperately eager to please his Mistress, and even more eager not to displease Her . . . but when he does, he accepts, endures, and even welcomes his punishment, knowing it will redeem him, teach him to better serve, and bring him to ever-deeper levels of joy in his servitude and worship. 
When this level of submission is attained through careful cultivation by the Domina, even simple acts, such as kneeling naked at Her feet or being permitted to wear Her collar, bring indescribable feelings of bliss, contentment, and profound gratification to the submissive. The Domina is always keenly aware of the state of mind of Her submissive, and She seeks to bring him to perpetually deepening levels, for it is at these levels that the submissive can truly please, obey, and serve Her as She desires.
Such is My desideratum.

The Note

I left a note on your mirror, telling you where to meet me later that evening. Not the name, just the street address, a numbered latchkey, the signature S. You discovered it in the morning, after you woke, turning over and reaching out your hand, finding only cold sheets. As your eyes adjusted to the morning sun, you squinted at your reflection, for the first time noticing the angry red markings on your neck and chest. A defiant testimony of consequences rendered when I am not submitted to in all things. Looking yourself in the eyes, you wondered once again what you’ve gotten yourself into.
As the cab came to a stop, you realized it was the hotel I had mentioned to you the other week. You took the elevator to the 26th floor, and when you reached the suite, you could hear the music through the closed door. . . . Remember the scene in Purple Rain: the Kid was playing a cassette tape on the stereo, a mixed track with a woman moaning on it; how erotic those sounds were. It was a woman crying, but it sounded like she was being fucked? You were reminded of that . . . real slow and easy and you were hard instantly. . . . It’s a good thing you no longer have the key to the CB-3000, or you’d be tempted to disobey me, never a good idea. Your balls are so heavy, so full; it’s been three long, torturous months. Will you ever be allowed another orgasm?
Fingering the latchkey in your pocket, a bit unsure, you knocked on the door. The sensual moaning of the music was the only answer. With a deep breath, you let yourself in. There were no lights, just tiny black candles everywhere; the room seemed to glow. Scanning the space, your eyes took in the blackout shades covering the windows, the wood paneling, the plasma flat-screen television, the expansive, overstuffed sofa. You noticed a note on the cocktail table: Savor your drink—you’ll need the fortitude. When you're ready, come into the bedroom. You were more than a bit nervous. Your palms had started to sweat, and your tie was beginning to feel like a noose.
You called my name, but I didn't answer. You didn't hear any sound other than the music. You took a sip from the glass to calm your nerves. I always know how to get inside your head, don't I? You walked slowly toward the bedroom. On the bed, a box, and another note: My pet, put these on and wait for me. You opened the box: a black leather blindfold, alligator nipple clamps with a connecting chain. Your nipples tightened in remembrance of previous scenes we’ve enacted together.
You took a shower, oiled your skin, and put on the clamps I left for you. You didn't forget the blindfold. You heard the click of the lock on the door. . . . The carpet quieted my steps. . . . You were straining to hear me, something, but the music drowned everything out. You called my name, but I didn't answer. . . . You bit your bottom lip, and you heard me for the first time. I was laughing, very softly . . . I know you so well now; when you’re experiencing that heady mixture of anxiety and excitement, how to play you to the threshold: here. Now.
You caught the scent of my perfume right before my nails became entangled in your hair.

Portrait of a Lady

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 men . . .


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 size 5 ring on my ring finger, if you are astute enough to gather an idea from that. They are artist’s hands, made to hold either pen or paintbrush.


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.


The Agony of the Leaves

"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?



Live Show

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 filled . . . I remember the first time I saw him . . .

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 want . . . need . . . ache—the imperative to see him conquered and then conquer him myself. A light thud as my feet hit the floor. Scooting to the edge of my seat to watch, waiting with bated breath, hoping that some man would soon approach him. My eyes like liquid running over his form, from the soft brown curls on his head to his hard, chiseled jaw . . . down across his broad shoulders, the tight pecs . . . Oh yes, I looked him over, devouring him in my mind. He had the body of a god. The kind of perfection that makes you curl your fingers into your palm so you don't run your hands over those tight abs . . . down, down, down . . .

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 head . . . I still groan: seeing those rough hands in his curls, pulling his mouth closer, cock sliding between his lips, oh and how he sighs as his throat is filled. I watch as the hands slip to his shoulders, I watch the man riding his stretched mouth, pumping in and out, in and out, faster, deeper, harder . . . I never knew a gag could be so sexy. I drip, I’m dripping now, as that cock rams all the way in, down his throat . . . feeding him—God, he sucked and bobbed, fucking his perfect face on that cock . . . feasting as if starving . . .




The Stableboy


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?”


“No, Ma’am.”


“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.


The Red Curtain: Part I


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
midnight. Nothing too expensive for you, is there? From cufflinks to shoes, you’ve the finest in everything. All the better, my darling. The higher the throne, the further you fall. That’s what the late show’s all about.

The show starts at
. The witching hour, they call it. But you’ve long since been bewitched, haven’t you? Poor, pliable little boy. Your hand moves instinctively to the hot patch of flesh on your right buttock. The brand of my initials is beginning to heal, but you feel it burn now, as you always do, when you intuit that I’m near. You didn’t expect it to hurt that much, did you? Refreshing to hear how even a little painslut can be made to howl properly when a burning iron is applied to tender places. And now you’re mine forever. Sitting in the chair I’ve assigned you, wearing my mark, waiting like a good obedient boy for the late show to begin.

The Late Show at Jezebel’s. You’ve heard my other submissives whisper about it, but you haven’t been invited before, have you, my sweet? And you’ve silently endured the hot lick of jealousy when I’ve clipped the other boys to my leash and allowed them to accompany me to the late show. They all come home changed somehow, don’t they? More sweetly obedient, more contentedly chaste. And you’ve been yearning to tag along, too, but you haven’t complained, and I’ve noticed how good you’ve been. Your Mistress sees all, and you’re being rewarded for your patience now. It’s finally your turn.

You sip your scotch pensively, wondering what awaits you. Your surroundings are not unfamiliar, as you’ve been to this burlesque house before… Jezebel’s is the venue at which most of my performances take place, and you’ve seen a pretty few. You’ve looked up adoringly with hundreds of other men as I’ve bumped and sizzled my way through a variety of complex, fantastical routines exquisitely designed to tease and torture. A coy glance over one smooth porcelain shoulder, a falling glittery garment, a blue-eyed wink through my curtain of fiery red hair. Give a bit and take it away. That’s my specialty. And you’ve felt your pathetic little cock strain against its restraints, felt your cheeks burning as you see me cast the flirtatious glance that you’ve so often mistaken for affection at strange men and women. You’ve seen my shows, and through my performances, you’ve come to realize that you’re no better, no more important to me than the thousands of others who have stared enraptured at my sinuous body, captivated by my wicked sensuality.


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…



Servicing Helena

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.



Helena's Day at the Stable

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.



Marketing 101





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 Clark Kent glasses and a tweed jacket. No elbow patches, thank God.


“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 Europe, and little Mary Jane shoes. Maid Mindy was required to keep her body completely shaven and to wear a black Pulp Fiction wig, red lipstick, and ruffled panties. She ended up being a superb maid and knew all the proper etiquette for tea parties. 


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.




Babe in the Woods

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 Maine. She was always such a well-behaved girl during meals and activities, but despite repeated admonitions to stay in bed after lights out, she never seemed able to resist the call of the wild. The other counselors and I had caught her sneaking into the kitchen, skinny-dipping on a secluded side of the lake, and sometimes even running off into the woods to “experiment” with a friend or two.

            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 rock island jutting out of the cold, clear water. I snuck over to the shore where I had seen her hide her clothes and her towel, and I stuffed them into my black canvas messenger bag. I moved quietly over to a tall oak, and crouching behind it, I fitted myself up with my trusty red vinyl harness and favorite sparkly silver cock, checking each of the buckles for a secure fit before buttoning everything back up into my jeans. For good measure, I grabbed my slim black leather paddle as well. This girl needed to be taught a lesson, and it was clearly my responsibility to see that she learned it well. 

            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 directions . . . And I’ve got just the thing. Get on your knees, you spoiled little bitch.”

            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 Pretty Bo Peep


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 150–300 people, making it the perfect venue for My purposes, as I know how much she enjoys showing herself off! And I certainly had a show in mind.


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.


Mistress Manifesto

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 course . . . those things that bring Me particular joy. A submissive who needs regular training to become a proper lady, maid, or body servant. Men who crave the naughty thrill of going out in public while covertly wearing silky panties or a collar or a cock ring. Someone who enjoys the beauty of a woman’s foot, be it bare or shod in a leather boot. Sluts who want to learn more about their own bodies: what feels good, what excites, what begs for more. I particularly enjoy a man with good manners, who listens and does as he is told. I am warm and playful by nature, but very sharp and strict with those who don’t know how to treat a woman with respect. Ultimately, though, what I enjoy most is you. Every sub has his own likes and kinks and fantasies. I find the myriad combinations of sexual interests endlessly fascinating, and the more you tell me about yourself, the more pleased I'll be.


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,


M. Devon


The Male Gaze

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.


The Next Room

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.


Behind the Eight Ball

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.”


The Life of Riley

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, sweetie . . . what the fuck is going on?” James howled in pain and dropped his screwdriver with a clunk. “Mistress!” A look of terror crossed his carbon-smudged face. “The oven is broken; I was trying to finish before you got home!” I pushed the ball of my foot down, pinning his penis against the marble floor. “It appears you failed.”

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 tried . . ." I caressed his cheek and whispered into his ear, “I know, but you still need to be punished, my sweet.” I slipped the hard rubber bit of the black ball gag into James’s mouth and tied it snugly behind his head and then secured a black leather collar and lead tightly around his neck. James was compliant; he knew he’d failed me and was accepting of his fate. James watched as I slid on my silk stockings and stiletto heels and attached my garters. I took his lead in my hand and yanked him toward me. “Lace me up,” I commanded. James obeyed, tightly cinching my black corset. I opened the drawer and scrutinized my collection of strap-ons for a couple of minutes before choosing “The Punisher.” I dangled it by the straps in front of James. He turned white at the sight of the enormous, black, veiny rubber cock. I’d never used it on him before. Until now, he’d never given me reason to. I stepped into the straps and instructed James, “Tighten the buckles well.”

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 you . . . BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOU SPEAK!" I backhanded him; his head whipped around and collided with the wall. His head dropped forward, his chin resting on his chest. I began to fondle his large penis. "You have a beautiful penis, James, you know that?" I smiled at him. James nodded silently. I stood stroking his thick cock with one hand and caressing his cheek with the other. "Too bad you're not going to get to use it tonight. Oh, and don't even THINK about coming. You're being punished, you pathetic fuck-toy." 

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 me—” Cutting him off in mid-babble, I commented, “Evidently. A real man would have been able to control himself. But you’re not a real man, are you? You’re a little sissy, aren’t you? AREN’T YOU!" James broke down and began to nod and weep. “Yes, Mistress,” he sobbed helplessly. “I’m so weak.” 

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.



The Beginning of Belonging

From the very beginning, I had an inkling that men—any men, all men—owed me a certain respect. A certain . . . worship. This manifested in my childhood disdain, in my treatment of boys in high school, and burgeoned when I discovered power play at university. But now, after years of exploring the psychology of the weaker sex—you know I don't mean women, don't you?—I am sure. In every interaction, with every exchange between me and the male of the species, it's proved true. 


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 knees . . .


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 midair. 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 rain . . . and my neighbors can hear his cries. I disappear into another room as he hurries to obey. The fire, I call to him, and I can hear his movements as he builds it up, the crackle as it grows. I return just as the room begins to fill with heat—heat from the fire is added to the heat from my body and the heat from his fear and longing.


I part my sarong with a finger, tracing the long line of blue silk, teasingly exposing one full breast . . . the creamy perfection of my toned stomach . . . and finally, the dark blue silicone cock I have just donned. The leather straps cling snugly to my hips. His breath comes faster. His hands shake imperceptibly, but I know. Control yourself, I tell him sternly, and he closes his eyes, swallows, attempts to slow his racing heart.


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 wants . . . what he needs . . . is me.


And so


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 closeness . . . but away from you, I am somehow closer. Because I am yours.


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 me . . .


Six Things to Know about Mistress Margot

The Set-Up


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.



Dominatrix Games


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."


"Yes, Ma'am."


"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?


Punishment: A Suspended Sentence

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 toll. . . . If he thought this mere prologue was painful, the remainder of the program was bound to be shocking.


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.


My punishment proved effective; never again did he dare sin so heinously.

Survival of the Fittest

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 skier . . . ?” Oh gee, Allen, only about ten thousand times, but never while I’m precariously incline pressing a loaded bar up over my face! Such a rude and disrespectful guy. Of course, since this was my place of employment I just had to smile and be polite to this mouth breather. So I came up with an idea. I knew exactly how to get back at him and at the same time get him on my client list.


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 free . . . What do you have to lose?” He gave me a crooked smile and proceeded to stare at my chest with his undivided attention. “Okay, Hadley, you’ve got yourself a deal. Besides, even though I won’t learn a thing, at least I’ll get to know you better.”


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 shorts . . . more like glorified hot pants, considering how my sculpted cheeks peeped out the bottom and how the fabric rose halfway up when I squatted.


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 male . . . his cock started to grow. I saw it pitch a tent in his shorts, and I giggled at the sight.


“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 Devil Is in the Details

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 permission . . . I might even arrange it with one of the many Mistresses in my extensive, exclusive network of contacts, in order to provide myself with the utmost satisfaction and amusement from the arrangement. But for this worthless little whore to be begging for attention all over town, and to lie to me about it? That is an indignity and disappointment that will be corrected. Immediately, and at great personal suffering on the part of the disrespectful little shit.

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 graces . . . well, that’s why I smile.

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 heels . . . but after all, they are my rules to break. I light a couple of jar candles, knowing how much F. hates wax play. Such an odd limit, but a limit nonetheless, and one that will be well pushed tonight. I check the straps on my spanking bench, as pleased as ever with the meticulous attention of my house slave, and lay out a group of glossy photographs taken of F. over the years.

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 in . . . tight.

“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 you . . . that you . . . you like to be worshiped. You like to hurt me.” He trails off. So unsure, it’s almost cute. “Oh, what you’ve learned doesn’t matter much anyway, because you’re going to learn the most important lesson tonight. Do you know what that might be, slave?” I ask, as I retrieve from my workstation the first of the printouts and drop it in front of his face.

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.

I . . . have no explanation, Mistress. I’m sorry. I’m a worthless slut, and I accept your punishment, whatever it might be.” He says it slowly and carefully, but I can hear the tremor in his voice. Good. I walk around him slowly, noting his upturned ass and his trembling muscles. “Good,” I say out loud now. “We can begin then.” I fasten a large ring gag in his mouth, just at the upper end of his tolerance, and his tongue darts through it to moisten his gaping lips nervously. I stand in front of him, letting him watch as I draw on black latex gloves and reach for a broad paddle . . . hesitating, and then veering toward the candle at the last minute, but leaving the paddle in his direct line of vision. A taste of things to come. A low, wet moan escapes him as drool begins to drip on the polished floor, and I walk slowly behind him. My heels click purposefully on the floor as he squirms in vain against the padded leather straps of the bench.

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 hurt . . . but if you’re very, very lucky, it won’t be the last time your worthless ass grazes my bench.” He moans again as I drop his head and grab a handful of his ass to spread the cheeks for the hot wax. I tilt the glass jar ever so slowly, feeling his trembling increase, and hearing his breath quicken as I draw out the moment of anticipation. The first hot drips elicit the first of many screams, and I smile, thinking, it’s going to be a long night.

But you can hear about the rest another time. If you’re lucky.


Locking Up Michael

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.


“Yes, Miss.”


“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 you . . . Don’t. I. Greedy. Bitch?” I asked, punctuating each word with a slap to his face.


“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. “I . . . will try, Miss,” he said hesitantly.


“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 soft . . . but since you boys take cold showers when you need to calm down, I figured this might work. Lie back,” I instructed, and he obeyed, dutifully keeping his hand on the ring. I saw on his face that he had totally forgotten about the ice bag until I retrieved it from the nightstand. Cool condensation dripped from it as I held it above his cock. I used my free hand to adjust how he held the ring in place so that his hand would not protect him. I pressed the ice bag down onto his cock and balls. His face screwed up in displeasure as the icy bag covered his sensitive flesh. “Now relax. You’ll want to let things get soft for me, or I’ll have to get even more creative.”


“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 out . . . who knows? Maybe I’ll just clean you and play with you but not let you come, and then put you right back in.” I chuckled as he gasped, from my threat or my fingers or both. “In the meantime, I’m all wet just thinking about it. Make yourself useful and lick my pussy before bed. I want to come all over that slutty face of yours.” As he pleasured me, I was surprised to learn that there was an unexpected bonus to locking up his cock this way:  his moans as his cock tried to grow erect while he licked me only added to my pleasure. I already knew I wasn’t going to want to let him climax any time soon . . . He was going to be much more fun this way.


Operant Conditioning

“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 panties . . . even if you know it's dangerous to fuck artists unless you're absolutely sure you have the upper hand.

Yeah . . . he's great, I mean . . .” Charlotte trailed off, picking at her coffee cup. She was curvy in the best way, with a tiny waist, round hips, and large breasts. Though we had similar coloring, we were different types. I’m slender, my curves toned and under control from dance and competing in triathlons, with a more angular face, striking cheekbones, and ice-blue eyes I’ve heard described as “challenging.” She was more sweet and soft, with large aqua eyes, a round face, and a depth of facial expression I have never encountered in any individual before or since. “He is great, most of the time. All of the time, really. Except in bed.”

“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 me . . . uh . . . whip Felix into shape, and you're very good with motivating men to please.” Charlotte's blue eyes stared intently at me as she smiled. She'd never been one to beg, and she was intelligent as hell. She was a seductress of unparalleled beauty and wit. She clearly was a force to be reckoned with under most circumstances. But Felix was no ordinary man. He was accustomed to having whatever woman he wanted, and he wasn't used to being told no. He was her intellectual match, and a clever schemer. Charlotte, though a master of subtle influence, had no interest in forcing Felix to bend to her will. He was clearly too smart for that. And that was why I had to play bad cop for her.



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. 

"Mmmm . . . I'd like that, Felix, but you know what I'd really like?” She reached down and unzipped his pants and rubbed her hand on his rapidly stiffening dick. “If you let Emma put some cuffs on you while I blow you. And then we can give you the best double blow job you've ever had. What do you think of that?”

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 you . . . as long as you're pleasing Charlotte.” I motioned for her to lie down in front of him as I buckled a collar onto his neck and tugged him backward to make room for her. I snapped a leash onto the ring and jerked it backward as she lay beneath him, her pierced nipples pink and erect, her full breasts perky and supple. I handed her the leash, and she pulled his face down into her shaved mound. 


“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 midthirties. 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?”

“No, Mistress.”

“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.

“So sensitive.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“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.”

He gasped.

“Give me a light.”

“Green, Mistress.”

“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?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

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.


The Balkan Trilogy Revisited

Caro glanced through the windows as she walked down the streets of the Old City district. There the shops were filled with exotic clothes, sexy expensive lingerie, and buttery, finely crafted leathers. Caro was wearing her dark cocoa-colored leather pants and matching jacket. Her garb looked painted on, the better to show off her small waist and rounded hips. The pants accentuated her high heart-shaped derriere and pronounced her melodic swing as she strode. The snow was still melting, so she wore her riding boots to keep steady on the narrow icy streets of Bucharest. She walked stealthily, and from a distance she looked as if she were gliding. On her wavy brown hair she wore a brown mink Cossack’s hat that sat jauntily and slightly off-center. Her thick hair was in a chignon that was held up by a large blue-topaz hat pin.


Caro walked into her hotel and entered the English Bar, where she was to meet her two colleagues. The English Bar was renowned for its spies during the two World Wars. It seemed never to change. As she moved through the room, all eyes were riveted on her. She greeted the pair awaiting her. Both men looked delighted, as well as delightful, as they had refreshed themselves for cocktails. They were concealing weapons, but Caro didn’t mind, for they had worked together before, and one happened to be her lover, whom she saw while on assignments. The other was an extremely handsome man from South America. Everyone was ready for libations, as this had been an arduous op. Caro was judicious with her drink so she could observe them talking quietly about the debrief. Suddenly, she decided that she was going to spice up the evening and asked them rather lasciviously if they would like dinner in her room upstairs. They looked astonished and mutely followed her to the elevator.


The ride in the lift was slow, and fraught with sexual tension. The three headed to her suite, and she opened the door and gestured with her hand for them to enter. “Guns in the safe, now.” Her guests complied. They kept their sharp-edge weapons as a precaution. Caro called downstairs and requested two bottles of Dom Perignon with three flutes and Saint André cheese. She then sat down on the chaise and demanded that Kevin and the distinguished Latino, Junot, remove their jackets and ties. They did so posthaste. Caro ordered her lover to her boots, so Kevin kneeled before her and quickly removed the long boot from her delicate foot. Caro kicked him and made him remove the other boot more slowly. Kevin bowed and apologized and slowly removed her remaining boot in a more sensuous manner. He then kissed her stockinged foot. Angered, his Mistress grabbed his thick salt-and-pepper hair and pulled his face close to hers. Looking into his eyes, she said, “I did not give you permission to kiss me.” He bowed in shame and was told to stand away from her in parade rest. Kevin said, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” and did as ordered. Junot was wide-eyed with incredulity, absolutely enthralled by this beautiful, dangerous, and commanding woman. His clear blue-green eyes looked at her with longing, and she returned that look, smiling.


Room service arrived, and everyone held their breath as the young lad poured champagne into the crystal flutes with flair. The interruption heightened the anticipation as well as put them all en garde. After dismissing the waiter, Caro rose and said, “Gentlemen, a toast.” The three stood together and roared, “NASTROVIA.” They smiled with the knowledge that their operations in Moldova had been successful. The flutes were emptied, in accordance with the Russian fashion of toasting. Caro ordered Kevin, like a subaltern, to pour more, and he refreshed their glasses. “Yes, ma’am!” he replied crisply and returned to his station.


Caro slowly circled Junot and admired his handsome bronze body. Junot was taller than Kevin and younger by at least ten years. His shoulders were broad and his waist slim. Caro slipped on a pair of exquisite high-heeled satin mules so that she could kiss his neck while she looked over at Kevin. Kevin appeared jealous and hurt. She laughed at his shame. Caro commanded Kevin to strip naked and sit on the chair. He dutifully did as told. Kevin’s long, turgid cock was erect for both to see. She walked over to him and ruffled his hair, coddled his testicles, and bent down to lick delicately at the shaft and glans.


“Watch us and maybe you’ll learn something,” Caro said to Kevin. She then waltzed over to Junot and began slowly unzipping her jacket so that she could unveil her soft chocolate-colored lace corset. Her firm breasts were pushed up, showing her creamy skin, and both men looked hungrily at her as she slipped the jacket off. She started kissing Junot teasingly, until he could no longer control his need for a deep kiss. She relented and began to unbutton his shirt and explore his majestic chest. She turned him around to face Kevin while she kissed his neck and licked the vertebrae down to the small of his back. She stood and unbuckled his belt while Kevin watched. She unzipped his pants and felt the head of his cock pushing out of his underwear. He groaned as she pulled his drawers down along with his trousers. She felt his cock, and its girth was so wide that she was surprised. Turning around, he began to unzip the back of her leather pants. Junot slowly shimmied the pants down as Caro stepped out of her heels to aid him. She was wet, and her pupils were so dilated with sexual excitement that only the gold flecks at the perimeter of her irises showed around the inky pools. She stood quivering with excitement as she appraised her beautiful body in the cheval glass. Her corset held up her stockings, but she wore nothing to cover her lovely triangle of sable hair.


She and Junot looked in each other’s eyes as their hands roved the curves of each other’s buttocks. Junot bent down to lick her round breasts and small pert nipples. The nipples became inflamed, fired by the hot liquid desire below, and their color turned from pink to scarlet. Kevin knew her secret: that if Junot played with her nipples any longer she would explode in orgasm. He began to stroke himself as he watched. Junot picked her up and carried her onto the bed. She faced him with her legs still wrapped around his waist. There was a wet spot above his navel, and Junot touched his finger to the slick and put it in his mouth. “Delicious,” he murmured as he slipped his fingers into the swollen lips under her delta. She began to explore his large cock, gently feeling its velvety head whilst touching his high, rounded testicles. She knew then that he was very excited. She turned around to lie on her tummy so that he could lick her behind and encircle her rosebud. He licked around the world while fingers delicately played on her clitoris. She was panting with desire. She turned around to taste his cock, which was now gleaming with precum, and began to lick him, but he pushed her back, as he was too aroused and wanted to protract the hot sexual chemistry. Caro and Junot were so entranced that they didn’t see Kevin standing over them with his cock in hand. Junot was gently sucking her clitoris and realized that she wanted him inside her. He pushed back and lifted her butt while he slowly circled his cock around her swollen sex. He teased, pushing in and out of the rim of her red hole and then thrust hard. Caro cried out in pleasure. He worked slowly, pulling out all the way and then pushing deeply into her. The two were in a state of such heightened pleasure that they wanted to delay the moment of release, so she told him to stop.


She looked up and saw Kevin watching intensely, so she guided his free hand to her swollen mound and placed his two fingers around Junot’s fat cock and observed both of them. Junot began to slide slowly into Caro, and he groaned at the added tension encircling his organ. Caro then licked her lips and wet her middle finger in order to penetrate Kevin. She probed his anus and then stroked deep into his ass. The three were entwined in plateau, a place so sweet it was agonizingly hard to stay there without thundering into orgasm. Finally Caro began to tremble and to trip down into that delicious point where she couldn’t hold back. She arched her neck and came so hard that the contractions clamped down on Kevin’s fingers, and he and Junot followed suit. Caro could feel Kevin’s contractions on her finger, and the rhythm matched her own. Kevin had spurted all over Junot’s chest, but Junot was still coming inside her. Sweating and laughing, the trio lay back on the bed. The three finished the champagne and fell asleep nestled together like spoons.


A Saturday Off: Afternoon

I lounge on my couch, legs outstretched and a champagne glass in my hand, lazily watching the television across the room. It’s Saturday, one of my rare Saturdays off. Usually on Saturdays, I’m pacing the deck of a pool or wrangling teenagers into cheap hotel rooms. But this is an off weekend for high-school water polo in the New Orleans area, and I have the entire day to myself. I tilt the champagne glass to my lips and drain the last of my mimosa, inclining the flute away from me when I finish. From across the room, a houseboy gets to his feet from where he was sitting on the carpet. I think his name is Matt—he’s on loan from a friend for the training aspects of today’s activities. He takes the glass from my hand and hurries away toward the kitchen. 

From the next room, I can hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner and the chatter of male voices. I suppose it’s good that the boys are getting to know each other. Many of them are meeting for the first time today, a small offering for the Ladies on their way. Matt returns from the kitchen, a fresh mimosa balanced on his tray. He’s a pretty thing, which is why I’ve chosen to keep him in here while the rest of the boys are tasked with cleaning. All tanned skin and tight muscles, naked but for the collar around his neck and the cage on his cock. As he bends at his waist to offer me the drink, I visibly lick my lips. My friend has good taste. I take the drink and wave the boy back to his corner. I’ll have time to play with him later.

Sighing, I surf through the channels, nothing in particular catching my attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the houseboy shiver.

“Houseboy,” I call, looking at him fully. He straightens. “Remind me of your name again.”

“Mark, Mistress,” he replies softly.

“Mark,” I purr. “You’ll refer to me as ‘Headmistress’ from now on.”

“Yes, Headmistress.” Mark drops his gaze, a blush crawling up his neck.

“How long have you served Goddess Lia?” I follow up.

“Three months now, Headmistress.”

I nod, taking a sip of the mimosa as my phone lights up in my lap. It’s a message from the driver; he’s picked up the last of my friends. I grin and pocket my cellular, deciding it’s time to inspect the houseboys’ work. I straighten and get up from the couch, careful not to spill my drink. Mark watches me expectantly. I tell him to stay put as I pass.

The door to my dungeon is a heavy, menacing-looking thing—thick black wood with an ancient metal knocker in the shape of a snarling panther that I found at an estate sale. I haul the door open and step inside. Spread about the room are the other six houseboys. Some pause their work as I enter. Most of my kink furniture has been packed up and moved to the far wall in favor of the four armchairs that sit in the middle of the room. My head houseboy, Paul, hurries over to me, and I grace him with a rare smile.

“It looks good,” I praise. “The Ladies will be here soon, so make sure everybody is ready.”

“Yes, Headmistress,” Paul answers, nodding as he turns to the address the other boys. He’s an older man, over fifty, the oldest of the boys today. Ever reliable, Paul has been one of my domestic slaves since I moved to New Orleans five years ago. When I became Headmistress of a circle of dominant women in the city, Paul was an easy choice for head houseboy.

After a quick walk through the rest of the house to ensure all of my given chores were fulfilled, I head to my bedroom. Today is all about relaxation and pampering, and my outfit reflects that fact. My short blond hair is brushed straight back off my forehead, and my makeup is light and natural. I’ve foregone contacts in favor of light-pink Michael Kors frames. I wear a tight black halter top, barely covering my supple breasts, and my favorite pair of black yoga pants. The clingy fabric brings the curves of my body into sharp relief, an hourglass with long legs made longer by the four-inch heel of the ankle-high boots I wear. I turn away from the mirror and go over to the French doors leading to the balcony.

The Louisiana heat is intense today, and as I walk out onto my balcony, I am already beginning to sweat. I close the doors behind me and walk to the end of the balcony, leaning against a pillar as I drink more of my mimosa. The street beyond my small front garden is busy, alive. One of my favorite things about New Orleans is its vibrancy. There’s something in the air that makes every day feel like a holiday, like a cause for celebration. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear a street band playing lively jazz. Through the trees, I spot a bustling open-air café, one of the best spots in the city. I finish my drink.

After a few more minutes, I finally catch a glimpse of the stretch SUV turning down the street. I met my driver, Lewis, about a year ago. He owns the luxury vehicle, and I had hired him for an event hosted by our circle. Turned out that Lewis was interested in an invite to said event, and we had come to an agreement. The limo stops before my front gate, and Lewis bounds around the side to open the door.

Mistress Fae climbs out first, taking Lewis’s hand and unfolding. As usual, her Gothic look is in stark contrast to the sunny day around her. She’s a small woman, lithe and short, but she can be crueler than anyone I know. She brushes her asymmetric hair out of her eyes and makes a face at Lewis before spotting me up above and waving wildly. I smile back as Lewis helps Lady Claire out next. I’ve only just recently met Claire, a friend and lover of Fae. She’s a quiet woman with a kind face, but I witnessed her wielding fire wands like some sort of mythical creature only three nights ago and realized why Fae was so smitten with her. Last out of the limo is Valkyrie, her red hair shining in the sun. Valkyrie is tall, taller than me even—over six feet on a flat surface. Of course, she supplements that height even further with six-inch heels. Valkyrie is a cutthroat investment broker by day, dominatrix by night. She adjusts her mirrored sunglasses and throws a lazy salute my way before following the other Ladies to my front door.

I settle into one of the patio chairs. From downstairs, I can hear Paul answering the door. I toy with my empty glass, wishing that I had brought Mark out here with me but not wanting to get up and find him. It doesn’t take long for the Ladies to get up to the balcony. I give Paul my empty glass and tell him to gather the other houseboys.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Valkyrie announces, dropping into one of the patio chairs gracefully. She toes off one of her shoes to reveal her bare foot, the paint on her toes chipped and peeling. “As you can see, I’m in desperate need of a pedicure.”

“Oh, please,” Fae counters, sitting down as well. “You just like to have your toes licked.”

Claire laughs, taking the last remaining seat. Paul returns with my drink and the other houseboys. I smile wickedly and wave them out onto the balcony, not caring who sees them in their various states of undress. There are two boys for each Lady. I take Paul and Mark and leave the rest to be divvied up. Fae is the first to act, pointing at two of the boys—Greg and Lewis. Greg she sends to make her a cocktail and Lewis she directs to rub her feet. Claire and Valkyrie are quick to follow.

We spend about thirty minutes on the balcony, the sun filtering through the green canopy above warming our skin. Valkyrie prattles on about the stock market before Fae cuts her off to talk instead about her band. But thirty minutes is all that we can take of the humidity, and we soon decide to move inside.

The boys prepare the pedicure tubs in the bathroom, filling them with hot, soapy water as the Ladies and I take our seats in the armchairs set up in the dungeon. A few minutes later, my feet are soaking in an Epsom-infused bath. Paul gives an excellent, precise pedicure, and it’s not long before I’m sinking into the worn leather of my chair. For a while, I say nothing. I simply enjoy a moment to relax, listening to the voices of my friends as they discuss lovers and spouses. I roll my eyes and send Mark to fetch me an espresso.

“So, Ladies,” I finally sigh, sitting upright to address the group. “What do you think of my humble offerings today?” I wave a lazy hand toward the men kneeling at my friends’ feet.

Mistress Fae lifts a sudsy foot from the bath and presses it against the face of the man before her. His name is Stew or Steven, a middle-aged man sneaking away from his family on a Saturday to strip naked and rub Fae’s feet. Stew or Steven goes absolutely rigid, not even daring to breathe. Fae digs her toes into his cheek.

“I think they’ll do just fine,” Fae purrs, the impish gleam that is her namesake dancing in her dark eyes. She pats Stew or Steven twice on the cheek with her foot before dropping it back into the tub with a soapy splash.

Mark returns, a small cup balanced on his tray. My eyes slide over his body, my lip working between my teeth. My gaze lingers on the pathetic cock dangling trapped between his legs. As I wonder if I’m going to let him out today, my fingers slip between my thighs. I’m quickly growing bored of pedicures. I want to play.

When Mark bends to offer me the espresso, I eye the way he grips the tray. My lips pursed, I take the demitasse from the tray. But I reach out with my other hand also and trap Mark’s wrist in my grip.

“Is that a thumb on my tray?” I ask in a crisp tone, eyes on the offending digit.

I can hear the sharp intake of air of Mark’s gasp. I watch him struggle to correct his grip, but I don’t let him, squeezing his wrist hard instead. From my left, I can hear my friends take interest.

“I asked you a question, houseboy,” I snap, looking up at Mark’s wide eyes. “Is that a thumb on my tray?”

“No, Headmistress!” Mark gasps, again trying to right his mistake.

“Are you calling the Headmistress a liar?!?” Valkyrie, the closest, cries. “We both see the thumb right there!”

Mark looks back and forth between us, sputtering.

I knock the tray from his hands. It hits the ground with a loud clatter, and I follow it by overturning the cup in my hand. The dark liquid splashes against the tiles around Mark’s feet.

“Clean that up,” I bark.

“Yes, Headmistress,” Mark mutters, going to his knees. He hesitates for a moment before fully prostrating himself. Cautiously, he begins to lap up the spilled espresso on the floor.

I direct Paul to dry off my feet. I’m much too eager for doling out punishments to let Paul finish the pedicure. I cross the room to my armoire, throwing it open to reveal my collection of toys.

“Well, Ladies,” I call over my shoulder to my friends. “What do we think an appropriate punishment is for a thumb on my tray?”

“You should make him hold that tray for an hour,” Valkyrie suggests, laughing wickedly. “With weights.”

I twirl one of my short blond locks around my finger, thinking. It’s a good idea, but I can do her one better. I dig through a drawer for what I want.

“I like that suggestion,” I reply, turning to show what I’ve selected. “But I think he should do it while wearing a humbler.”

Mark glances up at me, fear and anticipation in his eyes, and it makes the panther inside of me growl hungrily. I feel myself growing wet. I move quickly, putting one hand at the back of Mark’s neck and pushing his face down as I crouch behind him.

“Don’t move, sweetheart,” I warn, reaching between Mark’s legs. I set the device in place, tightening the thing until Mark winces in pain, and then tightening it a little bit more. “This is a humbler,” I explain, withdrawing my hands and straightening. “Do you know what it does?” Mark shakes his head, no. “Try to stand up.” He does just that, quickly finding his balls caught in a vise and trapped behind his thighs. Crying out, he falls back onto his knees. “Now you know what it does,” I say with a chuckle.

I settle into my chair. Mark, on his hands and knees, watches me carefully.

“Grab your tray,” I direct. The other houseboys watch us, some with excitement, others with pity.

Mark does as I ask, reaching for the discarded tray nearby. I beckon him closer with a finger, and he crawls cautiously toward me, struggling to adjust to the humbler.

“On your knees,” I command, “hold the tray out in front of you with both hands . . . straight in front of you . . . good.” I inspect Mark’s form with a critical eye. “Don’t sit on your haunches. Show me that your Mistress has trained you well.” He adjusts himself, and I nod.

“How long do you think you could stay like that?” Mistress Fae asks.

“Um,” Mark says nervously, eyes flitting toward Fae. “Maybe five minutes, Mistress.”

“Just five minutes?!?” Fae cries.

Mark balks.

Maybe . . . maybe ten minutes,” he corrects.

“Ten minutes?” Fae repeats. Mark nods. “Ten minutes it is. Who has the timer?”

“I do,” Claire chimes, holding up her phone. “Ten minutes, starting now.”

I get to my feet and head back to the armoire. From within, I produce a bag of small weights. Pulling three one-pound weights from the bag, I drop them onto Mark’s tray. He looks up at me with surprise.

“Did you think we’d make this easy for you?” I ask.

“N-no, Headmistress,” he stutters, and I laugh.

I drop back into my chair and the minutes begin to pass. Every thirty seconds or so, I add another weight to the tray. It’s not long before the tops of Mark’s arms are beginning to shake. I check the timer, four and a half minutes.

“Bridget, what are you going to do when he drops the tray?” Valkyrie asks, the cadence of her voice light and full of laughter.

I turn to look at her and find that she’s cradling a crop in her lap. All of my friends look like hungry wolves, licking their lips, ready for the kill. Mark is beautiful in distress, and my black lace panties are entirely soaked from the small, breathy sounds he makes. His arms are seriously shaking now; he’s going to drop the tray. The corner of my mouth curls into a crooked Cheshire grin. I palm a two-pound weight for a moment before leaning over and dropping it noisily onto the tray. Immediately, Mark’s elbows buckle, and the tray and the weights go tumbling to the ground, smashing into the tile with a loud clatter. My friends laugh. Claire announces that it’s been just over seven minutes. I leap from my chair, and without a moment of hesitation, I lift the foot tub from the ground and upend it over Mark’s head. He gasps as he’s soaked with the cooling water, and the other Ladies howl with laughter behind me.

I admire the scene I’ve made. This beautiful boy on his knees before me, panting hard and entirely soaked, he stares up at me with wide, apprehensive eyes. I can’t wait to watch his flesh turn pink and purple. I can’t wait to leave him a gasping, pleading mess on the floor. I can’t wait to witness the horrible things my friends are going to do with him. I run a hand through my hair and smile down at my victim.

“Ladies,” I purr, turning to look at my friends, each of them sitting upright and watching me with hungry gazes, “let’s begin.”


A Saturday Off: Evening

The boy kneeling before me whimpers under his breath, soapy water cooling quickly on his skin. I take no mercy on him, the sadistic beast inside of me hungry for those desperate little sounds. I reach down and grip my hand around his throat, digging the expensive tips of my manicured nails into his skin and toppling him over. Mark cries out in pain when he lands on his already crushed balls. He tries and fails to adjust his weight on the slippery floor, and watching him struggle gives good sport to the cackling cacophony of my friends.

“Get nice and wet,” Valkyrie says with a curled lip, climbing to her feet. “It’s the only lube you’re going to get.” Already she is peeling off her form-fitting, high-waist slacks to reveal a leather thong. She crosses the dungeon, going for her bag, and I have a good idea what she is about to pluck from its depths.

“Paul,” I call.

“Yes, Headmistress,” Paul replies with a smile, ever dutifully going to his knees as I address him.

“Retrieve the bench.”

Paul nods and scurries off, and I turn back to Mark. He’s finally managed to get his knees underneath him, and he watches me with a wary look. I arch an eyebrow.

“How long did you hold that tray?” I ask.

“S-seven minutes and twelve seconds,” he replies. My hand moves, and he notices it. “Headmistress,” he adds hastily.

“And how long did we agree you would hold the tray for?” I continue.

“Ten minutes, Headmistress,” Mark answers, dropping his gaze to the floor, “ten minutes.”

“So—correct me if I’m wrong—we agreed to a punishment for holding the tray incorrectly. Ten minutes of corrective training. Am I wrong?”

Mark keeps his eyes down, so I grab a handful of his hair and jerk his head back.

Am I wrong?” I repeat harshly. 

“No, Headmistress!”

Paul returns, dragging my spanking bench along with him. He hastily begins to set up the piece in the middle of the room. I look behind me at my friends. Valkyrie is once again wearing her heels, towering over everyone in the room like the mythical being she’s named herself after. I’m so busy admiring her long, smooth legs that I nearly miss the massive black cock that hangs heavily between her legs. She strokes it lavishly, not bothering to give a fleeting look to the many houseboys around her stealing glances in her direction. Mistress Fae is still in her chair, though sitting in her lap is her favorite dragon-tail whip. Claire is also on her feet, tightening the straps of a harness at her hip. Her cock is rainbow colored and matches her brightly patterned tights. 

I shake the distraction of my beautiful friends from my mind, remembering the task at hand. And that hand is still tightly tangled in Mark’s hair. I twist it even harder, causing the boy to wince and cry out. I relish the sound of his pain and lean in closer.

“So if you can’t follow directions and you can’t even make it through a correction, what good are you as a house slave?” I ask, my voice low and my eyes dancing over the long, exposed column of his neck, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he gulps and sputters out a nonanswer. I interrupt him before he can even fully form a word. “No use as a slave.”

I wrap my hand around that beautiful neck and haul him backward toward the bench.

“Get up there,” I direct, and Mark does as I say, taking his time on account of his crushed testicles. Too slow for Fae’s taste, and she makes that known with the crack of her dragon tail. On her feet preternaturally fast, and one flick of Fae’s slender wrist is all it takes. One perfectly aimed crack of soft leather leaves a sizeable welt on the delicate skin of Mark’s inner thigh. The boy moves a bit quicker after that.

I step forward, shoving Mark’s face into the deep-red leather of the spanking bench. He struggles for a moment, and when he goes still, I yank his face back up again. I crouch down. Mark’s eyes move slowly, unfocused. He’s struggling to keep track of the events unfolding, the sensory overload dragging him toward sub space. I lick my lips.

“So if you’re of no use as a slave, what good are you to us?” I ask, smacking him lightly on the cheek to clear the haziness from his eyes.

I-I-I . . . ,” he stutters, face red.

I-I-I!” I mock, rolling my eyes. I look up at my Sisters to see if they have any answer. “Ladies? What use do we have for it?”   

Valkyrie is quick to answer, prowling toward the bench predatorily, heavy black cock in hand.

“As a cock-hungry, willing, slutty set of holes,” she answers, arousal tingeing her already low voice.

“Sounds good to me,” Claire agrees, giggling madly.

I look down at Mark. His gaze is again unfocused, aimed somewhere at the wall. Valkyrie steps forward, slapping the heavy silicone of her cock against Mark’s cheek.

Say it,” she directs harshly.

Mark glances up at me. The mixture of shame and arousal on his flushed face makes my pussy throb. I merely grin down at him devilishly, offering him no quarter.

“A c-cock-hungry,” he begins, face turning even redder. He closes his eyes, unable to look at me as he continues, "Willing . . .” I don’t let him look away though, grabbing his hair again and wrenching until he opens his eyes once more. I’m barely able to breathe as he meets my hungry gaze and resumes, “S-slutty . . . set of holes.”

The primal part of myself rears hungrily. I need to fuck this boy.

Valkyrie is beating me to it. She presses her black cock against his cheek roughly and looks up at me with puppy-dog eyes.

“Oh, please can I throat fuck him?” she asks, out of respect for my position as Headmistress. The barely hidden look of ravenous appetite on her face makes me question if she would restrain herself if I told her no. But it’s her insatiably sadistic nature that I love about Valkyrie, and I know that she wants only to see this boy turned inside out the way I do. I can only acquiesce. I’m surprised when she doesn’t begin immediately, instead looking down at Mark and cocking her head. “Say it again.”

“I’m a cock-hungry—” Mark begins, but Valkyrie interrupts him.

Louder, so all the Ladies can hear you,” she corrects harshly.

“I’m a cock-hungry, willing, slutty set of h—” Again, Valkyrie doesn’t let him finish, though this time she stops him by thrusting her cock down his throat as he opens his mouth to make the o sound of holes. Mark gags on it immediately, but Valkyrie is relentless, the Devil’s grin painted on her vivacious face.

Mark struggles to stay balanced on the bench as Valkyrie begins to fuck his throat. Fae has descended upon the boy as well, a new toy in hand. The wooden switch hisses as it cuts through the air, and Mark screams around the cock in his mouth as the thin wood makes contact with his ass and legs.

“Don’t go easy on him,” I comment, my voice low and my panties soaked.

Valkyrie laughs gleefully and looks down at Mark.

He . . . needs . . . to . . . learn his lesson,” she agrees, punctuating each of her words with a sharp thrust of her hips.

The next time the switch meets Mark’s skin, he seizes so violently that he nearly topples off the bench. Only Valkyrie’s quick hand prevents him from hitting the ground. He struggles to readjust, pulling away from the cock down his throat and attempting to catch his breath. Drool and sweat run down his face. He’s panting, shaking a little, and when Valkyrie grabs his hair and resumes her throat fucking, he makes a low, muffled sound of protest. Fae whips him once more, and I can see him beginning to break. The prospect makes my skin burn with arousal.

I make my way to a black chest against the wall and return a moment later with several lengths of jute rope, dyed black and smooth from years of use. They smell faintly of the lavender fiber oil my slaves apply, and I can’t help but press a hank to my face and breathe it in, the lavender mixing with the jute’s naturally musky scent. The result is something pleasant and heavily tied in my mind to many diabolical memories. Shaking myself from my thoughts, I look back to the bench to find both Fae and Claire whipping Mark enthusiastically. The sounds he bellows out around the cock in his mouth are broken and pained.

As I approach again, I see that there are tears on Mark’s cheeks. His eyes are screwed shut. Spittle runs down his chin and smears across the red leather beneath him. I hold up a hand and step toward Valkyrie. My friends stop their onslaught and look at me expectantly. I crouch down so that I am eye level with Mark, but I don’t make a sound. Instead, I wait for him to open his eyes. It takes moment; he’s already slipped so far away that coming back is a struggle. When he finally opens his eyes, they’re glassy, pupils blown.

“Mark,” I coo sweetly. He struggles to move his gaze to mine. “Are you ever going to put a thumb on my tray again?”

A full-body spasm racks Mark, and his eyes fall shut again. He shakes his head, whimpering.

“No, Headmistress, no, no, never. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Headmistress. I’ll never do it again, I promise. Please, please, I’m so sorry . . . ,” he babbles on and on, a string of promises and pleas for forgiveness. I shush him to make him stop.

“I know, darling,” I say earnestly, nodding and gently caressing his face. He sighs, grateful for my kind touch, and leans into my palm. “I need you to listen to me,” I add, my tone turning stern. He opens his eyes again and stares up at me. “What is going to happen next is not a punishment. What we’re going to do to you, we don’t do in retribution. What we’re going to do to you next, we do because we want to, and because we can. We do it because we love to see you suffer.” The softness leaves my voice, and my eyes turn cold. “We do it because all you are is a cock-hungry, willing, slutty set of holes.”

I stare hard into Mark’s eyes. The betrayal there, the helplessness, the battle between outrage and acceptance that twists his features, is beautiful. His eyes brim with tears. I see his own demise from behind those eyes. A defeated, miserable sound escapes his lips, and his eyes squeeze shut once more, the tears falling freely. The victory of the moment makes my lust turn to a blazing fire, burning and ready to consume every weak thing in its path. I relish it, my breath catching as I witness this poor boy’s mind breaking.

“Yes, Headmistress,” he whispers, not daring to open his eyes again.

I straighten immediately, smiling wolfishly at my friends. The manic gleam in their eyes is probably reflected in my own. The other houseboys in the room stare on. Some look terrified that they might be next; others are enraptured, hoping that they will be. I unravel a length of jute.

I begin at Mark’s ankle, looping around it several times with the bight and tying it off loosely before wrenching his leg upward toward his ass. The sudden movement yanks his crushed balls backward, causing Mark to cry out. I pay his complaints no mind as he struggles to regain his balance. He grips the red leather tightly, and I continue my futomomo tie, pulling the rope as tight as I can. The jute sinks into the boy’s flesh, his muscular thighs and calves bulging as he strains against the tight bonds. I secure his leg to the bench, folding it painfully underneath him in a way that forces him to present. The next leg follows in similar suit, and when I’m finished with his bottom half, he almost appears to be in child’s pose on the bench, legs bound tightly and folded up underneath him, battered balls still gripped tightly by the humbler, affording me perfect access to his firm ass.

I move to his arms next, drawing them behind his back as far as they can go and tying them in a tight box knot. Wrapping the jute around his center, I again secure him to the bench. I unravel my final length of rope and begin to wrap it roughly around Mark’s eyes. He sputters and writhes, but already he is far too tightly bound to the bench to move a muscle. Once I think he is sufficiently blinded by the jute digging into his eye sockets, I move the working ends behind his head and tug hard. Mark’s head is extended back, neck at a sharp angle. Satisfied with the position, I secure the ends of my rope to the box tie and step back to admire my work.

Mark is panting hard, struggling to breathe against the constriction around his chest, which is exacerbated by the way his arms and head are positioned. Occasionally, he squirms against the binds, seeking a more comfortable position, one he will never find. Not with his legs bound and folded under him, not with his arms pulled back and his body tightly secured against the bench, not with his neck bent back. I look him over, his smooth, muscular body contorted into agonizing angles. I run a hand down his back, watching the goose bumps trailing in the wake of my fingers. My touch dances down his lower back, over his ass cheeks. I dig my nails into the fresh welts left by the switches, savoring the way he spasms uselessly against my rope. His flesh is angry, inflamed along his ass and thighs. Already, bruises are blossoming bright purple beneath his skin.

My examination continues. I take my time, running my sharp nails over Mark’s sensitized skin. I make patterns on his flesh, and my nail runs toward the cleft of his ass. Mark shivers when my finger ghosts over his tight hole, and a gasping, guttural sound escapes his lips. A mad grin breaks across my face.

I don’t want to wait anymore. I can’t wait anymore. I hurry to my armoire, pulling out my harness and purple cock. I shimmy into the well-worn, black leather of the harness, pulling the straps tight at my hips. This particular harness was custom made for me by an ex-lover. After my fifth store-bought harness had broken—tearing after a particularly brutal face fucking—this one had been crafted with double-reinforced stitching and metal studs to prevent my . . . enthusiasm from destroying yet another harness. I slot my purple dildo into the ring, pressing the thing back hard against my throbbing clitoris, seeking any amount of relief. I bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud at the pressure.

When I turn back around, I am something different. That primal hunger no longer simply gnaws at my insides; instead it has consumed me and transformed me. The room feels electric as I prowl forward. I’m driven by something beyond thought; perhaps instinct. I meet my friends’ gazes one by one, licking my teeth as I round the bench and finally glance back down at the boy. He’s a whimpering, writhing mess. At first I think it’s fear that causes him to squirm, but when I see that he’s actually rolling his hips forward in an attempt to grind the forgotten cock trapped beneath his body against the bench, I realize that it’s arousal. I can’t help myself; I strike my palm hard against the boy’s bruised ass. He cries out in pain but goes still.

I feel almost feverish. My every molecule seems to be humming, pulsing with primal need. With both hands, I grip Mark’s ass cheeks and spread them apart. I drop a warm splash of saliva against his exposed hole, and Mark shivers violently. It’s all the lube he’s going to get, I think. As I straighten, I reach between the boy’s legs and grab the humbler for balance before pressing the head of my cock against the boy’s quivering hole. Mark has gone entirely still, entirely silent. My body moves of its own volition, and I begin to press my hips forward, breaching the boy. I realize that I’m holding my breath, and when I exhale, it feels like the world exhales with me. With a smooth, fluid movement, I drive my cock deeper into the boy’s deliciously tight hole. I grind my clit hard against the resistance it provides, and this time I can’t help but moan with pleasure. My hips cant back, and I slowly draw out before driving back in, watching my purple cock disappear inch by wicked inch. Mark is making stunted, breathy sounds punctuated by stuttered groans when the head of my cock drags against his prostate.

My pace begins to quicken. I grab Mark by his hips and begin to drive into him in earnest. The bench begins to screech forward across the floor with the force. A cool hand reaches over my shoulder and runs down my heated chest, dipping below my bra line and cupping my right breast. I sigh as soft fingers begin to tweak my nipple carefully, and I lean back against Valkyrie’s frame.

“Let me face fuck him again,” she breathes into my ear, arousal making her voice rough.

I can’t even fully process the request, my mind too far gone. As the hand withdraws from my shirt, I huff at the loss of contact. I’m promptly distracted by the wrecked whimpering of the trapped boy beneath me. I realize he’s saying something, whispering the same words over and over again.

Thank you, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress . . .

I hoist my leg up and brace it against the bench so I can get better leverage and pick a punishing pace. With the new angle, I can grind myself against the base of the dildo in earnest, and the relief nearly makes me scream. When Valkyrie rounds on the boy and shoves her cock into his unprepared, sobbing mouth, I think that I won’t be able to last much longer. Reality is getting hazy at the edges; it pulsates all around me, keeping time with my racing heart. Coherent thought barely seems possible. I readjust my angle, moving my foot even higher, and when I do, the sounds that the boy begins to make around Valkyrie’s cock almost undo me.

The boy bounces between our cocks, no semblance of control left. I lean forward to grab his shoulders, and I use my entire body to drive as deep into his body as I can. The muffled keening the boy makes continues to push me closer and closer to the edge. My nails dig so hard into his flesh that I’m certain I must be drawing blood. I chase my orgasm desperately.

Time slips, speeding up and slowing down of its own accord. I’m so close, so incredibly close. My body tightens for an impossibly long moment, and then I’m coming, cascading over the edge. I might be shouting, but if I am, I can’t tell. The only sound I can hear is a high-pitched whining as my body quivers and gushes around my underwear and my harness. For a moment, the world stops turning and I am suspended here, a deep, primal satisfaction rushing through my being. With a final shudder, I collapse forward as reality slams back around me.

Body loose and exhausted, I shift upright and pull out. A high-pitched whine still screeches in my ears. I feel light, weightless. I reach down for the plug I had taken from my armoire and immediately slide it into Mark’s gaping hole in case I decide to use him later. I stumble on heavy feet toward Valkyrie, kissing her on her blood-red lips and caressing her sides. She kisses me back and grins. With my hand, I steady her hips, and we both look down at Mark.

Mouth stuffed with cock, he strains futilely against his bonds, succeeding only in digging the rope deeper into his bruised flesh.

“Have you learned your lesson today, boy?” I ask.

Mark tries to nod, stilted by the cock down his throat and the rope against his eyes.

“Remind us what you are,” Valkyrie demands.

He hesitates a moment, but eventually Mark attempts to speak around the black cock in his mouth. 

“Cuuk huggy, wi-ing, su-ee se a hoes,” Mark recites.

Satisfied, Valkyrie pulls her cock free.

“Good boy,” she praises. Then, looking around at the other houseboys, she grins wickedly. “Who’s next?”

Valkyrie, never satisfied, moves to chase down her next victim. I get to work untying Mark. As I free him, I rub his joints to encourage blood flow to his purple extremities. He’s pliant and loose limbed, nearly collapsing off the bench once he’s freed.  I catch him and guide him to the floor. When he looks at me, his face warped with rope marks, I can tell just how far gone he really is. His mouth hangs open, and his eyelids droop downward. I crouch down in front of him, brushing sweat-soaked locks from his face.

“You were a very good boy for me today, Mark,” I praise, voice low. “I can’t wait to tell your Mistress how much fun we had with you.”

“Thank you, Headmistress,” he slurs, eyes unfocused as he glances at me.

“But you did make a mistake, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“What was your mistake, Mark?” I press.

He seems to struggle with the question, memory recall no doubt difficult in sub space. Eventually, though, he nods a bit to himself and speaks.

“Thumb,” he says, “thumb on the tray, Headmistress.”

“Are you ever going to put a thumb on a tray again?” I ask, a little more harshly.

“No, Headmistress,” Mark pants in reply. “I promise.”

I take a deep breath and regard the boy. His skin is flushed, body bruised, hole plugged, limbs crisscrossed with deep rope marks. Ridden hard and put away wet.

“Well,” I say, “let’s make sure that lesson sticks, shall we?” I stand up again. “A little time alone to think about your mistakes should do the trick.” I incline my head at the low cage in the corner.

Without a second thought, Mark tips forward onto his hands and knees and begins to crawl toward the cage, humbler still preventing him from fully standing up. I stop him just before the mouth of the cage and crouch down again.

“I’d hate to damage another Mistress’s property,” I muse as I begin to loosen the humbler.

Of course, my intentions aren’t as stated at all. Instead, I enjoy watching the agony on the poor boy’s face as the blood begins to return to his abused testicles. He hisses in pain, folding in on himself as he tries to deal with the torment. I take the opportunity to jab my finger against the base of the plug buried in his ass. Mark spasms and cries out again, oversensitized and overstimulated.

“Stay loose for me,” I direct. “I might want to have fun with you later. Your Mistress doesn’t pick you up until nine tonight.”

“Yes, Headmistress,” he pants.

“Get inside,” I direct, my patience for his bruised balls running out.

Gingerly, Mark rights himself and crawls inside the cage. He collapses onto his side immediately and curls up in the fetal position. I smile as I close the door of the cage.

“Thank you, Headmistress,” Mark says faintly, closing his eyes.

The padlock locks with a click, and I turn away from the boy without another thought. 



A Small Reminder of the Rules   (written by Bridget's BFF, Valkyrie)

It’s a heady aphrodisiac, being in this dark little dungeon. These cagey outings are my secret weapon in the boardroom. When I stare at all of those bloated men in their expensive suits, droning on and on about benign facts and figures, imagining them here, kneeling in the dark, whimpering like the fat little pigs that they are, is the only thing that keeps the pleasant smile on my face. The boys around me hardly get my attention, though they beg for it, too short, too pleading, too hairy, too old. Too picky, Bridget might call me. I call it discerning.


Face fucking is a wonderful workout, one I think everyone ought to try at least once. I never understood why men got so tired when they had sex with me until I strapped on a cock and face fucked that exhausted son of a bitch right off the damn mattress. Nothing makes you feel better about that piece of cake or bottle of wine quite like the butt and lower-abs workout of driving an eight-inch cock down some guy’s throat. I’m tired, far too tired to give my attention to these slobs. Luckily, Fae is putting on quite the show of finger flogging a boy on the Saint Andrew’s cross for smudging her nail polish. I eye the nearest houseboy, and the dumb fucker blushes when I look at him.


“Remind me of your name,” I say.


“Greg, ma’am,” the houseboy mutters, smiling dumbly.


What a stupid name.


“Don’t call me ma’am,” I retort, sneering.


“What should I call you?” he asks.


I think for a moment.


“My Queen,” I declare with a smirk.


Yes . . . my Queen,” Greg answers uncertainly. “What can I do for you?”


“I came here for a pedicure.” I tap my heel insistently. “I expect a pedicure.”


Greg looks confused for a moment. He’s old, soft, with a long gray ponytail, and I absolutely despise him right away. I’ve seen him at events before. Bridget likes the fucker for some reason. He’s a holdover from the last Headmistress. A hand-me-down of sorts, from Mistress Ares, who once ran this little circle, to Bridget. A poor parting gift, if you ask me. I give him a critical glare.


“Now,” I insist.


“Yes, my Queen,” he mutters, following me on his hands and knees to the nearest chair. I sit as he fumbles about with the pedicure kit for a bit before scurrying away to refill the tub with hot water.


I watch Fae work over the faulty houseboy, with an impish grin, blood-red lips pulled back to show her teeth. She’s an honest-to-God sadist, deriving an amount of glee from inflicting pain that one hardly sees outside of Christmas mornings. She’s small, and she’s quick, and she’s one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen. Brian, I think the boy on the cross is called, whimpers like a child, and I roll my eyes. He’s a pathetic thing who would never even get close to a woman like Fae out in the “real world.” His only hope of even breathing the same air as her is letting her inflict her little torments on him. He doesn’t deserve it, I think, none of them truly do.


Speaking of, Greg comes crawling back on his quivering little legs, dragging the tub with him, sloshing water everywhere. I debate correcting him, but I have to weigh my desire for a goddam pedicure against the effort it would take for me to bother with this pathetic man.


Across the room, Bridget is laughing her damn head off as she uses a crop to flick the clothespins off a slave’s inner thigh while he squirms on the floor and cries out in pain. The slave is young, thin, and hairless, exactly Bridget’s type. She always goes for the pretty ones, the ones she can dress in her lingerie and loan to her friends. Impressionable, so Bridget can more easily mold them to her will. I have no idea where she finds these boys, but they come here en masse to kneel at her feet and beg to be transformed.


Greg makes a halted, coughing noise, and I again have to give my attention to him. I pray that the water isn’t too hot, because I’ll definitely have to punish him then. He kneels in front of me, reaching for my feet. I let him begin to loosen my left shoe.


“Oh, wow,” he chuckles nervously. “You sure have big feet.”


I furrow my brow.


“What?” I ask.


“What size do you wear?” he continues idiotically.


“Excuse you,” I retort, voice tight.


“I think I’ll call you Queen Big Foot.”


I yank my foot from his grasp.


“What did you say?” I snap, fists clenching.


Realization draws on Greg’s dumb face.


“Oh, no, it’s not an insult,” he says quickly. “I like big feet. I was just saying that I’d call you Big Foot because it’s—"


I’m on my big feet before he can finish.


“Get in the fucking corner, you fat fucking pig,” I hiss.


“No, ma’am, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you, I-I—”


Shut the fuck up and get in the corner.


His big fucking mouth snaps shut, and he falls onto his hands. I’m angry at being forced to spend my time on this pathetic slob. I’ve known men like this one my whole life. Quiet things, ineffective, trying to slip through life unnoticed. They make themselves as harmless as possible in hopes that a woman will take pity on them and take them in like some sort of fleshy, old lost puppy. In their attempts to become harmless, they also become immensely aloof. I’m angry that I have to teach this man-child thirty years my senior a damn lesson about one of the rules currently written in bold letters on the wall.


House slaves will always use proper titles when addressing the Ladies.


All I wanted was a damn pedicure. Instead, I’m having to teach this idiot how to read.


Greg waddles over there, blubbering like a nervous moron until I shove his face into the brick wall and tell him again to shut up.


“You stupid fuck, are you dumb, or do you just have a shit memory?” I ask.


“W-what?” he whimpers.


“There are rules here. One in particular . . . about using proper titles . . .” That finally jogs the fucker’s memory. He starts sputtering again, but I’m tired of hearing it, so I grab his stupid ponytail and yank his head back hard.


“You know what you are?” I don’t wait to hear whatever reply he might cook up. “You’re a worthless pig.”


“Yes, Q-Queen.”


“Say it,” I direct.


“I’m a worthless pig,” he whispers.


“I know that, you idiot. You need to tell all of them!” I wave behind me vaguely, and Greg’s eyes shift nervously about. “Louder!”


“I’m a worthless pig,” he says in a loud voice.


“Again! Louder!”


I’m a worthless pig!


I tug hard on that dumb ponytail.


“Louder!” I demand.




People are starting to take notice. I sneer down at the little man.


“Now snort, piggy!”


Greg starts making stuttered, snorting sounds, getting louder and louder as I yank his hair back harder.


Squeal, worthless pig!”


He does as I direct, face burning red, whimpering like the man-child he is. When he opens his mouth to squeal, I spit into it. He chokes, sputters, and continues to squeal as he coughs, and I laugh. Then I pull on his ponytail so hard that I’m sure I’m about to pull it straight off.  


“You fucking disgust me, and if you ever break another rule, you will never see any of us again,” I snarl. He nods his head pathetically, eyes screwed shut, squealing weakly between whimpering the words my Queen again and again. “Do you understand?”


“Yes, my Queen, yes!” he cries.


I release him and straighten.


“Good, now go put that disgusting ponytail to use and mop up that mess you made on the way over here.”


“Yes, my Queen, Valkyrie.”


He scurries away, toward the puddle of cold water he left behind.  He glances back at me, watching him with my hands on my hips, and then he bends forward and, grabbing his gray pony tail, begins to sop up the mess. I roll my eyes and look at the group of houseboys sitting in the opposite corner staring at me.


“Can any of you give me a goddam pedicure or not?”


The next time I see Greg, a few weeks later, scrubbing Bridget’s kitchen floor, not allowed to speak for a month if he can’t speak right, he’s cut off his ponytail. I smirk at him, and Greg avoids eye contact, instead staring hard at the tiles with a blush running up his neck. Guess the fucker can learn something after all.



Bad Girls Do It Well: Part 1

It’s eight o’clock on a Friday night, and I’m leaned in close to a smudged mirror in a cramped dorm room, trying to apply my eyeliner perfectly while competing for the small space with my friend Morrigan. We elbow each other accidentally, crammed into the two-foot-wide space over the dresser where the small mirror is mounted, each attempting to apply makeup in a haze of alcohol and youthful anticipation of the night to come. I’m 19 years old, about to turn 20, and it’s mid-September of my sophomore year of college. The semester has just begun, and I’m finally rooming with my best friend. I spent the year prior suffering through the eccentricities of my ex-roommate, Janice, who used the term “Oh, Mylanta” frequently and had decided to become nocturnal sometime in the middle of our nine months together. I eye Morrigan in the mirror, cocking an eyebrow. We became inseparable last year, so it only makes sense that we now share the 10 x 15 space of an Ohio State dormitory. Morrigan grins back at me and finally steps away from the mirror, giving me dominion.


The late summer heat hasn’t yet broken, and it’s a rather muggy evening in central Ohio. Morrigan and I use that as an excuse to wear next to nothing. Tight miniskirts, crop-top shirts, flat shoes because with the amount we plan to imbibe tonight, we aren’t bothering with heels. It’s our usual armor, lightweight because we plan to dance, a lot. We’ve been sipping margaritas since three when an older boy I’ve been stringing along picked us up to take us to the drive-through liquor store just outside of town. We’re both a bit tipsy, and a bit handsy.


I can’t help myself; Morrigan is a gorgeous girl. She’s an Irish beauty—fawn-colored hair falling freely to her midback, a spattering of freckles across her small nose bringing out the brilliant green of her eyes. She’s muscular from her years as a swimmer, a thin frame bearing massive breasts, supported by long, shapely legs. The moment I had seen her on Facebook a few months before I started college, I had known we would be friends. I put my hand at the bare skin of her lower back and offer to adjust her lipstick. She puts her palms against my chest and acquiesces. We’re not particularly high-maintenance girls, and we’re ready to go at half past eight. Too early for anything fun, so we turn on music and play banal drinking games. Pre-gaming is an important step in the life of an underage party girl, and we swig our margaritas happily and discuss the gossip of our friend group.


“Did you hear that Rick hooked up with Eliza last weekend?” Morrigan asks me, sipping her drink from a knock-off Solo cup purchased from the commissary.


“Who hasn’t Rick hooked up with?” I scoff.


“But Eliza is still dating Kyle!”


“Which started after a one-night stand,” I point out. “Do you know what Eliza said to me the other day?”




“She asked me why I never date, and I told her that I didn’t want to, that I don’t want to be monogamous,” I start. “And she gave me a funny look and said, ‘You’re too pretty for that.’ ” Morrigan laughs. Eliza’s a sweet girl who means well, and she’s absolutely beautiful, but she’s often unbearably bland. Morrigan and I can take her only in small doses, though she’s in our Learning Community and lives just down the hall from us. She’s invited us to a party tonight, some friend of a friend having a house party around ten, but she’s even harder to deal with when she’s drunk. Far too slow for our taste, constantly wandering off and wanting to stick around bars and parties long after everyone else has grown bored.


We go over our options for the evening. As usual, there’s plenty to do on a Friday night in Columbus, and we’ve been invited bar hopping, to a frat party, a basketball party, the house party, and a small get-together at our friend’s apartment. There’s also a rave that we’re dying to attend. At nine, we finish our drinks, check our makeup, pocket our keys, our fake ID’s, our phones, and twenty bucks each, and head out into the night.


The atmosphere on the Ohio State campus on a Friday night is electric. There are people everywhere, walking along the sidewalks lugging cases of beer and backpacks full of liquor bottles. Every other house is lit up, overflowing with people and pounding loud music. Morrigan and I walk arm in arm, and from the overcrowded porches we’re shouted at, invited inside, offered alcohol. We ride our buzz, deciding to head to the small get-together rather than the frat party.


“Too rapey,” Morrigan observes, and I agree.


Many from our friend group are here, cramped into this small apartment. It’s not a party by any means: the lights are on; the music is low; there are even picked-over food platters on the kitchen island. In the living room, a rowdy bunch is playing euchre. There’s homemade wine in massive jugs in the dining nook, and a guy we know drunkenly offers us each a glass. The concoction is bitter, not quite achieving the desired wine-like taste, but I can tell it’s strong, so I drink it down. Morrigan and I meander about, saying hello to people, sharing plans for the evening, getting further invites to events.


“Where are you guys going after this?” Rick, intoxicated and red in the face, demands loudly from nearby. I hadn’t even noticed him standing there. I blink a few times, feeling the effects of the drinks I’ve imbibed, and summon up an answer.


“We’re thinking of checking out that rave uptown tonight,” I say.


Rick jeers, telling us that raves are stupid, and Morrigan and I share a glance. Not long after, we decide to move on. We meet another couple of friends at a bar for some shots, flashing our fake ID’s and our cleavage to get inside. It’s a crowded bar, usual for a Friday night of course, and we have to shout over the music to be heard, but it’s exactly what I’m needing right now with the buzz I’m nursing.


We keep going, bouncing around bars and parties, meeting up with people and then saying goodbye. We don’t want to go to the rave until after midnight, so we stumble about in the warm night air, laughing and talking and leaning against each other. Our phones buzz with calls from friends, asking where we are, hoping to meet up, but eventually we decide to just turn them off.


The night passes by in a pleasant blur of music and conversations. At house parties and on bar dance floors, Morrigan and I hold our drinks and dance against each other, happy to get lost in the good feelings of the night. We toy with the thirsty onlookers who watch us with interest. Any man who comes near is quickly dispatched though. We’re full of youthful vigor and drunken bravery, and we’ve been known to get into a bar fight or two when pressed. After one particular guy doesn’t get the message and is shoved into a table by Morrigan, I remind her of the time that I punched a guy in the face for breaking in through her window and drunkenly demanding jello shots. He was on the wrestling team, six and a half feet of muscle, but when I broke his nose, he was so stunned that all he could do was shout irascibly as Morrigan dragged him out the door.


At just past midnight, we make our way to the rundown, two-story bar that’s a particular favorite of ours. The dimly lit stairwell is packed with people waiting in line, and we take our spots patiently, tipsy and happy, making friends with those around us. We’ve been to a rave here once before, an experience so enjoyable that we hope to recreate it tonight. The line doesn’t take long, and soon we’re filtering into the upstairs of the bar.


The second story is dark and loud. A haze of artificial smoke hangs heavily around everything, making it hard to tell the size of the actual space. Through the smoke, I can catch glimpses of a writhing crowd, interspersed with bright neon glow lights. To my right is a massive pile of bags and heels, discarded lazily, and beyond that I can make out the shape of a small, crowded bar. Black light renders everything even more distorted, and the loud, pulsing music seems intentionally disorienting. I smile because I’m looking to be disoriented tonight.


Our purposefully selected neon-accented outfits fluoresce under the black lights, and we take off into the fray, diving into the sweating, gyrating mass of bodies. Everyone seems to be out of their mind, every face we pass a crazy mask, but it might just be a trick of the light. We wade through the ocean of partygoers, letting the ebb and flow carry us across the packed dance floor. The next number is a distorted remix of a song we know and love, and we squeal at each other before letting the haze of pheromones and fog take us.


We dance against one another, hands on each other’s waists, swaying and grinding to the music. Morrigan drops low to the beat and moves up my body, and I twist my hips against her. Every so often, we lean in close and our lips touch. We’re lost in a haze of alcohol and youth and sensation, and we’re alive, so fucking alive. Every moment passes without thought, without analysis; it simply passes, and the next moment begins like a breath of fresh air. It’s so easy to get lost in the music, in the fantastical atmosphere of it all. We’re offered glow sticks, alcohol, invitations to other events. We ignore it all, concentrated solely on each other and the exploration of our own sexualities. If a man steps between us or grinds his cock against our asses, he meets with our ire, and soon enough we’re being mostly left alone.


Eventually, we find our way onto the small, raised stage, beside the DJ. Of course he doesn’t mind two half-dressed teenage girls grinding on each other for display. Exhibitionism is a word I’ll use later in my life to describe the wicked way I tease the onlooking crowd, but right now I just call it fun.


Hours slip by, and soon I can no longer ignore my thirst or the sour taste in my mouth left by the various alcohols I’ve imbibed tonight. Morrigan agrees to a break, and we make our way back through the crowd. Our exuberant dancing has left us drenched in sweat and almost sober. There are large jugs of water near the bar. Morrigan and I down a few cups, take a couple more to the line for the bathroom, and catch our breath as we wait.


The mirrors of the bathroom show us the result of our exertions tonight. Our hair is damp, faces flushed, eyes bright. I smirk at my reflection, the glaring light making me realize maybe I’m not quite as sober as I thought, and tuck a damp blond strand behind my ear.


We’re not yet tired though, far from it; we probably won’t be until the sun comes up. So after another cup of water, Morrigan and I head back out onto the dance floor. As before, we wade through the bodies around us, ignoring almost everything around us until I hear someone shout my name.




I straighten and turn around, scanning the hazy faces around me, trying to figure out who is calling my name. It doesn’t take too long though, because soon I spot Rick, ruddy-faced and stumbling, making a sloppy beeline for us across the dance floor. He shouts my name again, loudly over the music, even though I’m already looking at him. Part of me wants to ignore him, to turn around and pretend I didn’t see him, maybe slip away with Morrigan to another event. But Rick is fast for a drunk guy, and soon enough his body is smashed against mine by the crowd around us.


Rick begins trying to scream something at me about the party he was at before this, but I can’t hear him over the new song that comes on. I can tell he’s incredibly drunk by the way he sways and the smell of his breath, and I roll my eyes, shooting Morrigan an annoyed glance. She returns my sentiment, but we’re currently trapped by the dense throng around us. Rick isn’t letting us get a word in edgewise though, and has a hand on each of our backs, pulling us in close to yell into our ears.


“You girls look hot as fuck tonight!” he shouts, leaning back to nod at us as if he thinks that’s a genuine compliment. I just smirk scornfully and pull away from him.


Rick’s reputation as a womanizer doesn’t escape us. In fact, it’s on full display right now. He’s far too drunk to regulate himself, to be coy or in any way charming. Of course, this is Rick’s usual MO: drunk off his ass, expecting that every woman he talks to is equally affected and will just be drawn in by his good looks. He is handsome; I have to admit that. Chiseled features, broad shoulders, dark eyes. I had even had a bit of a crush on him my first few days of college, when I had met him at a party. But after sobering up, I found him incessantly boring. It’s late, and he hasn’t found a girl to take home yet, so of course he’s here. I think he expects us to be flattered.


Morrigan looks ready to walk away, and I nearly am as well, but an idea is taking root in my head. A wicked, beautiful idea. Not more than a day ago, Morrigan and I had been driving back from an impromptu hiking trip a bit outside of the city when we passed one of those chain sex shops on the highway. I pulled over without a thought, imagining only that it would be a bit of a gag for us to wander through an “adult” store. Or maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe that small voice in the back of my head had different intentions. The part of myself that had been awakened at 16 when I saw Lucy Lawless in full latex in some dumb comedy movie and realized that that’s who I wanted to be when I grew up. Because instead of goofing about dildos or browsing outrageous porn titles, I went straight for the line of leather-crafted toys in the “BDSM” section of the store.


I had played it off as a joke. “For a costume,” I said as I picked out a crop and a paddle and some cuffs. Maybe Morrigan believed me—we have a shocking number of costume opportunities in college—or maybe she was equally intrigued. She nodded along and picked out a few items of her own for our “costume.”


“Maybe you can use it on Henry,” I suggested jokingly.


Morrigan nearly choked at that. Her straight-laced out-of-state boyfriend was certainly not the type.


The bags had been discarded in our dorm room and forgotten about, but my mind is lingering on those bags now. My imagination is vast, and I can envision a myriad of tortures to inflict.


“You guys wanna come back to my place?” Rick asks, swaying on the spot and pulling me from my thoughts. “I got some beers.” I nearly snort at that, at this drunken idiot trying to entice us into sex with a few lukewarm Natis.


Morrigan makes a face and begins to say something, but I stop her with a hand on her arm and lean in close, speaking into her ear.


“Maybe . . . ,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear. “Maybe we ought to teach Rick a little lesson.”


Morrigan shoots me a questioning look. She isn’t sure what I’m suggesting, so I turn to Rick and put a hand on his chest. I step in close, crowding him, and his mouth snaps shut.


“That sounds fun, Rick,” I purr, putting my lips against his ear. I run my hand down Rick’s arm, bringing it back up to brush my nails across his jawline. Rick goes absolutely rigid, in more way than one, I notice when I glance down at something nudging my thigh. “Morrigan and I are gonna go get our bags. Meet us by the door.”


Rick’s eyes widen, and he nods frantically, sputtering something incomprehensible. He tries to adjust himself discreetly, but fails in his drunken state, and I hear Morrigan make a disgusted sound. Morrigan starts to protest, but I grab her arm again and start driving her through the crowd. I lead us back to the bathroom, where it’s a bit quieter.


“You’re not planning on going home with him,” Morrigan asks indignantly the moment we’re in a stall together.


“No, I’m gonna take him back to our room,” I say, shrugging. Morrigan furrows her brow. I continue, “And test out some of our new toys on him”


Realization crosses Morrigan’s face.


Bridget,” she replies darkly, narrowing her eyes and giving me a look I can’t interpret. I’m not sure whether she’s intrigued or aghast.


“Rick is a cocky fuck who thinks that all he needs to do is call us hot and ply us with gross domestic beer to get his dick sucked,” I explain hastily. “Who expects that just because he’s acknowledging us, he’ll get to have some bullshit coed threesome with us. He thinks he’s hot shit, Mor, and I can’t fucking stand him.”


“I’m on board,” Morrigan answers immediately, a bit out of breath as she nods frantically. “I want to do it. Let’s do it.”


For a moment I feel as if I’m plummeting. All it took was Morrigan’s confirmation of my insane plan for it to become more concrete, more real, and therefore far more intimidating. My chest is tight and my throat feels thick, but I nod at Morrigan, trying to psych myself up.


“Fuck yes,” I whisper, still nodding. “Let’s do this.”


I reach for the lock of the stall, but Morrigan cries, “Wait!” I look back at her. “What’s the plan?”


I cock my head. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. My sluggish brain begins to assemble a plan, a plan even the mere contemplation of which starts to make me feel warm in my core.


“We get him to come back to our dorm,” I answer, wary of the shuffling pair of feet I can see from under the next stall over. “Make him think he’s scored and then . . .” I think about it for a moment. “I’ll tell him that we got some new toys at a sex shop that we want to try out.”


“Fuck,” Morrigan whispers but steadies herself in the next moment. “Okay, then what?”


That’s as far as I’ve gotten. Past that, I have almost no reference for what might come next. Sure, I’ve seen pornos, but I know perfectly well that those bleached, well-lit, highly edited scenes are far from reality. Lucy Lawless didn’t prepare me for this.


Or maybe she did. Because dumb comedy movies aren’t the only time I’ve seen Lucy Lawless clad in leather and destroying the men in her path. I think back to my childhood, to my mother’s favorite campy TV show, to the tight leather outfits and the implements of torture and the many, many scenes of men bowing to a superior specimen’s undeniable might.


“Just follow my lead,” I reply.


We share a glance, a moment of reassurance. I feel a bit funny, but I think Morrigan does too. Everything around me feels unreal, like a dream. It might be the late hour, or the booze still in my system, or the anticipation of the fantasies in my head, but when I walk, I feel almost like I’m floating. A single-minded resolve falls over me, and the effect is quieting, peaceful, but also a bit frightening. I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of: failure or success.


Morrigan follows me, and we feel almost in sync as we leave the bathroom and head toward the door. Rick is there, leaning against the wall, chatting to some other girl. When he spots us, he looks like he might have forgotten about us entirely. I think that maybe we should just let him go, let this other girl have him. But then he is making up some excuse about the girl being in his econ class and discarding her outright.


“You gir-ladies ready to go?” Rick slurs, again putting a hand on my back. It makes my skin crawl, but I step in closer to him.


“As great as those beers sound,” I say to him, dipping my chin and looking up at him with wide eyes, “we actually want you to come back to our room.”


Morrigan follows suit and slips into Rick’s personal space, putting her hands on him.


“We don’t want to keep your roommates up all night,” she says coyly, tossing her long, sweet-smelling hair over her shoulder.


Rick’s eyes widen, and he just nods like an idiot. I don’t wait for him to overthink it; I’m moving out the door and down the stairs before he can say anything. Morrigan puts her arm in mine, and we begin to lead the way. Rick follows us, telling us that we walk too fast and then attempting to make crude small talk.


“Everyone says you girls know how to party,” he laughs at some point. “But I didn’t think they meant like this.”


“Well, we’re best friends,” I giggle, playing along. “Best friends share everything, don’t they?”


It’s too easy to get him back to our dorm. We sit him down on the futon crammed under the raised twin mattress and turn on a movie on the television. I order food to be delivered and make some black tea. I tell Rick that I want him sobered up; I want him to remember this night forever. He grins like a wolf in the sheep’s den, not realizing that this is the lair of something far deadlier, and takes the food and the drink and consumes it all. We watch the movie, eat our food, and snuggle into the couch. And when Rick starts to grope us under the blankets, we fawn, and we purr, and we sigh breathily.


After an hour, his words are no longer as slurred, and his vision seems to have straightened. He’s no longer paying attention to the movie—I don’t suppose he ever was—and instead has his mouth on my neck, sucking like a leech. I pull him off me and ask him if he’s sobered up yet.


“Come on, baby, when are you gonna let me fuck you?” he says inconsequentially, instead of replying to my very real question. I’m on my feet in an instant.


“Actually,” I say, looking at Morrigan seated on Rick’s other side, exchanging a devious glance with her, “Morrigan and I stopped at a sex store yesterday, and we bought a couple of fun new toys that we’d love to try out with you, Rick.”


Rick perks up, and by the look on his face, I can tell that he thinks he’s hit the jackpot. I smile at him and move across the room to retrieve the shopping bags.


“What did you girls get?” Rick asks playfully, thinking this is going to be some sort of game. Maybe he imagines a vibrator, or some lingerie, something cute and harmless, something involving Morrigan and me desperately trying to please him.


I crouch down, putting the bags on the floor and kneeling beside them. I shift through them, looking for what I want, as Morrigan watches me with wide, expectant eyes.


“Do you want to fuck us, Rick?” I ask girlishly, blinking up at him.


Rick grunts like an animal.


“Yes,” he groans, hand slipping below his belt line. “Fuck yes.”


I fall onto my hands and knees and crawl slowly, sinuously, toward Rick. I lick my teeth and stare up at him with hungry eyes, glancing down at his crotch and the bulge once again growing there. Rick groans some more, incomprehensibly, and I settle myself between his legs. He begins frantically unbuttoning his jeans, and I almost want to laugh at how far his expectations are from reality . . .



Bad Girls Do It Well: Part 2

“If you want to fuck us,” I say, grabbing his wrist lightly, “you have to follow some rules.”


Rick’s hooded eyes light up. “Mmm, kinky, I like it,” he grunts.


“First rule,” I continue, grabbing his other wrist. I stand, moving before Rick can process it, and pin his wrists above him. I lean down toward him and smile. “No hands.”


Rick makes a stuttered, moaning sound and agrees to my first rule. I release his wrists, and he keeps them above his head. I throw a leg over his knees and straddle him, keeping an eye on his hands, and dip my own fingers down the front of his jeans. He groans, his hands curling into fists, but he restrains himself. I smile and lean close to his ear.


“If you break a rule, then you get punished,” I whisper.


“Mmm,” Rick moans. “I like the sound of that.”


“We thought you might,” Morrigan says, running her hand along his chest from where she is seated beside him.


I writhe in Rick’s lap, feeling him growing stiff beneath me, as Morrigan reaches for the edge of his shirt and pulls it off him in a fluid motion. Rick seems to be struggling to keep his hands above his head. When I lean in close to him but deny him my lips, he makes a frustrated sound.


“What’re the other rules?” he demands. He seems to be growing bored of our teasing, and that’s exactly what I want.


“Rule number two is that you have to ask us permission to come,” I answer.


Again, Rick shows interest in this. I don’t let him think about it too long, climbing off his lap and pulling his shoes and jeans off entirely. His cock presses hard against his boxer briefs, already damp with precum. Morrigan plasters herself to Rick’s side, running her fingers over his jaw and neck playfully and drawing his attention as I slowly begin to pull down his boxers.


I have to admit that Rick is a beautiful specimen. All defined muscles and dark body hair and tanned flesh. Watching his cock spring free from his boxers makes quite the sight. His member is massive, thick, and uncut. I look him over, wishing desperately that he didn’t have such an abhorrent personality. If only I could wipe him clean, give him better manners and turn him into an actual man. Not the boyish, rude extended adolescent that he currently is. Watching him here, twisting under Morrigan’s ministrations, I find him deliciously beautiful, the sort of thing I want to stare at for hours. But the entire effect is ruined when Rick catches me staring and just nods, self-satisfied.


Yeah,” he says smugly, glancing at his own cock. I grind my teeth. I almost want to snap at him, put him in his place, but I stick with my plan.


His boxers gone, I spread Rick’s legs wide and lean in toward his massive organ. Rick takes the bait. Lost in sensation, he’s forgetting the rules, forgetting that Morrigan and I speak words at all. His hands immediately drop down and reach for my head. The moment I feel him trying to grasp the back of my scalp, I recoil and get to my feet.


“Did you already forget a rule?” I snap.


Rick looks up at me, surprised. He laughs a bit, confused as Morrigan also climbs to her feet. “Sorr-ee,” he sneers.


I go into the bags immediately, pulling out a pair of leather cuffs. I again straddle Rick as Morrigan grabs his wrists. He struggles at first, laughs awkwardly, and then goes along with our operations.


“I told you, if you break a rule, you get punished,” I remind him.


“You girls are weird,” Rick laughs. But there’s something he’s hiding, something he’s trying to mask with humor; I can hear it in his voice. It might be fear, or it might be arousal.


Morrigan and I work together to secure his wrists to the frame of the futon. When we step back, he’s naked and trapped, locked into place with a small padlock that came with the cuffs. His eyes dart back and forth between us nervously, and I can see his mask slipping, his usual pretentious, cocky visage crumbling to reveal something else underneath, something raw and reluctant. He’s still trying to laugh, still making jokes, and Morrigan and I exchange a glance.


“Rule number three, no talking,” Morrigan directs, and I grin at the venom in her voice.


“These games are cute, but I just want my dick sucked,” Rick retorts.


Morrigan moves quickly, grabbing a ball gag from the bags and shoving it deep into Rick’s mouth. He struggles against her, but the cuffs hold, and Morrigan is quick and dexterous. A moment later, Rick is sputtering and gagging against the red plastic ball forced so tightly into his mouth that he’s already starting to drool. I expect Rick to struggle, to rage against us, but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply goes still and turns to look up at us. His eyes are beautiful, so dark that they almost look black; they’re wide and frightened as he looks back and forth between Morrigan and me. He takes long, slow breaths through his nose and waits for our next move.


“Do you remember the second rule, Rick?” I ask. I can see myself reflected in Rick’s eyes as a beautiful crimson flush runs up his neck and across his chest. He nods self-consciously, glancing down at his dick.


“Do you want to come?” Morrigan adds. Rick attempts to swallow as drool runs down his chin. He nods faster.


I drop down onto the futon beside Rick, and Morrigan sits on his other side. His head bobs back and forth as he tries to watch us both. His massive cock is rock hard between his legs, lying against his navel, and I reach for it. When I take it in my hand, Rick makes a low guttural sound around the gag. Slowly, I begin to stroke him, pulling back his foreskin to run my palm over the sensitive head. He jerks on the futon and moans. Morrigan grasps the base of his cock, and we begin to collaborate, working him over thoroughly. It’s not long before I notice Rick’s balls begin to tighten. The head of his cock is red and engorged, and I wait for him to ask permission, but he says nothing.


“Are you about to come?” I purr playfully.


Rick grunts and nods.


Morrigan and I both release him immediately. Rick makes a broken, screeching sound around the plastic ball down his throat and rages against his restraints like an animal.


“You weren’t going to ask permission, were you?” I surmise.


Rick freezes, looking over at me, at my stern expression, and balks. “Eh furgurt,” he attempts around the gag.


“Bullshit,” Morrigan scoffs. She gets up and goes to the shopping bags. I have no idea what she intends to get, but I’m pleasantly surprised when she returns with a smooth wooden switch. When Rick sees it, he begins to whimper. When I see it, I feel myself get wet.


I climb to my feet, rounding on Rick like a hungry animal. I put a hand on his shoulder and shove him against the futon with my entire body weight before digging my knee into the soft spot above his groin where his leg meets his hip and pressing hard. He spasms and fights and doesn’t see it coming when Morrigan brings her switch down against his still-erect cock.


Rick screams around the ball gag and yanks so hard on the restraints that the cheap novelty lock breaks. I’m quick though, and five years of water polo have left me no stranger to grappling, so I’m on him immediately. I grab his arms and wrench them behind him, using leverage to take him to the ground face first. Morrigan gets his legs, and we manhandle him until he’s in the center of the room.


“If you ever want to come, you’ll quit struggling,” I say into Rick’s ear. He goes still instantly.


“He already broke another rule,” Morrigan says to me, straddling his legs. “No using your fucking hands!Morrigan doesn’t pause. She brandishes her switch and brings it down again on Rick’s cock. He howls like a banshee around the gag, but doesn’t struggle. Instead, he slumps back against me in defeat.


“Get out the climbing gear,” I tell Morrigan, a devilish idea occurring to me. Morrigan catches my drift and is on her feet immediately, dashing across the room to the small closet in the corner.


I reach around Rick and begin to stroke his softening cock again. He hisses in pain as my palm rubs roughly against the welts raised by Morrigan’s switch, but soon he’s whimpering and turning his face into my shoulder. Putty in my fucking hands as I stroke him back to full girth. He’s beautiful like this—submissive and breathy and pliant. I want to keep him here forever.


Morrigan is back soon, the heavy climbing bags dropping onto the floor beside Rick. He eyes them nervously, but I shush him and continue to stroke his rigid member.


“Are you flexible, Rick?” I ask in his ear.


His body goes rigid against me, but I’m already releasing him and reaching into the nearest climbing bag. I find a carabiner and use it to clip the cuffs together behind Rick’s back. I shimmy out from under him, flip him onto his front before he can take a breath, and pull out the ropes from the next bag. I tie his ankles together and connect them to his wrists so that he’s hogtied. I then flip him painfully onto his back once more, leaving him splayed open. His back is arched harshly, his arms trapped under him, his chest and abdomen exposed, causing his heart rate to accelerate. He squirms, trying to find a more comfortable position, but Morrigan and I don’t allow him that. I straddle his chest, and Morrigan straddles his waist, pressing him down hard against the floor and causing him to cry out.


I crawl up Rick’s body and kick out my leg. My skirt is short, and I wear a lacey red thong underneath it. I hold myself over Rick’s face, leaving him staring up at my pussy and my soaked red panties.


“This is what you want, isn’t it Rick?” I roll my hips for emphasis. Rick stares up at me and makes assenting sounds around his gag. I snap my legs shut, and instead bring my face down close to Rick’s. “What have you done to earn my pussy, Rick? What have you done to earn the pleasure of Morrigan’s pussy? Hmm? Fucking jack shit, that’s what.” Saliva runs down Rick’s face as he makes small, pleading sounds. “You think groping a woman in the club earns you her pussy? You’re a fucking disgrace, a child. You don’t even deserve to be in the same room as us right now. You know that’s true, don’t you.”


Rick’s lips move ineffectually around the gag, trying to say something, but I slap him hard across the cheek.


“You can’t even remember three goddam rules!” I snap. “No fucking talking. I don’t give a shit about a goddam thing that you have to say.”


“I think we need to show him how the women he takes home end up feeling,” Morrigan suggest.


I turn and look at her. She reaches for Rick’s cock and begins to stroke it, and I see the glimmer in her eye that gives away her plan. I smile wickedly, turning myself around but still pinning Rick down.


“How many of our friends has Rick picked up?” I ask Morrigan.


“Well there’s Eliza,” she replies. “Sarah. Cassie. Alison. Courtney and Francine. Oh, and Jackie.”


“Seven,” I muse. Beneath us, Rick is already squirming and moaning. “Seven sub-par nights. Seven of our friends’ orgasms ruined.”


Morrigan grins at me. I wonder if Rick understands what we mean. I don’t look at him, but he’s still making small, needy sounds from underneath me.


“I think Rick owes us some penance,” Morrigan suggests. “Isn’t that right, Rick?” she calls a little more loudly. I climb off Rick and look down at him as he pants and struggles endlessly to find a small measure of the comfort that we’ve denied him. He stares up at us with wide eyes. There’s sweat on his brow, ruining his perfectly coifed hair. I can smell the cheap cologne he uses on his heated skin. When he looks at Morrigan again, she smiles down at him sweetly. “Seven ruined orgasms.”


Rick finally understands. He makes a small squeak that sounds like no and begins to shake his head slowly. Morrigan just grins and nods, reaching for Rick’s cock. He looks up at me, pleading, all control lost, and I relish it, breathe in the victory of it. Helpless, pleading, at our mercy.


Morrigan is lavishing Rick’s cock with attention, and he tries desperately to speak around the gag, shaking his head frantically as he stares down at her. I want to hear him beg, so I crouch down and remove the gag roughly. Rick coughs, sputters, and then takes up a mantra of “No, no, please, please don’t.


His begging doesn’t last for long though, because in a few strokes, he’s at the edge again. Face red and teeth bared, he looks at Morrigan with wide, desperate eyes and begs her to let him come. She feigns thinking about it for a moment and then releases him entirely. Cognizant of the thin walls, I press a hand over Rick’s mouth as he begins to scream in frustration at his first of seven ruined orgasms.


Number One,” Morrigan announces in a singsong voice.


“You bitches, you fucking bitches,” Rick curses weakly when I release him, eyes rolling in his head. “You can’t fucking do this to me.”


“Oh, but we can,” Morrigan sighs. “And, we are. And . . .” She snatches up her switch and smacks it hard onto Rick’s still-rigid cock. Rick howls out, and I’m not quick enough to stop it. “No talking,” Morrigan reminds him sweetly. “Bridget, why don’t you take the next one?”


Morrigan climbs off Rick’s lap, and I move down his body. Rick squirms, hissing halfheartedly at me under his breath, raging to maintain his last shred of dignity. “You’re a fucking bitch. You’d better fucking let me go.”


I laugh, low and slow.


“Oh Rick, you’re never going to be allowed to come if you use language like that.” Rick produces another sputtering sound, red in the face, and I laugh again. “You have six more ruined orgasm to go, darling. You run around, thinking you can do as you please, but now you’re at my mercy. And that’s where you’ll remain until I decide I’m done with you. And I won’t be done with you until you’ve learned some manners.”


Rick’s mouth snaps shut.


“Let’s get started on the second one, shall we?”


Rick’s strategy this time seems to be to try to ignore me altogether. He stares at the ceiling soundlessly as I cover his cock in lubricant and begin to stroke him. For a while, it seems to be working. I pull back his foreskin, press hard on the engorged head, even play with his balls. He grows gradually redder in the face as he holds his breath and tries to resist me. But eventually, he can’t hold out any longer; he lets out a shaky breath and stares hard at me.


“Please, Bridget,” he says in an unsteady voice. “Please just let me c-come, please.”


“That’s only Number Two,” I remind him as I pull my hands away.


Rick groans, dropping his head back onto the tiled floor dejectedly. Morrigan doesn’t give him a break though, grabbing him and wringing from him his third ruined orgasm, his oversensitized cock on the edge again in less than forty-five seconds.


For the fourth ruined orgasm, Morrigan uses her mouth, and Rick begins to separate from reality entirely. His eyes roll back in his head, and his body shivers. When Morrigan pulls her lips away with a loud pop, chasing away his fourth orgasm, his simply exhales loudly and seems to deflate.


We don’t let up though. By now, his cock is painfully rigid, head fully exposed, bright red and heavy against his abdomen. A line of precum is smeared against the excess of lubricant that runs down his body and pools with the sweat on his hips. Ruining his fifth orgasm is as easy as using a few fingers on his sensitive head.


What are you doing to me?” Rick moans, eyes rolling. “W-What are you doing to me?


One by one, we take vengeance for our friends, until Rick is nothing but a gasping, slurring mess on the floor. Skin ruddy, drenched in sweat and lube, he stares up at the ceiling and whispers under his breath as we count his sixth ruined orgasm.


“Please, Bridget,” he mutters, unfocused eyes settling unevenly on me. “P-please can I come?”


I nearly acquiesce. He’s hard to resist like this, all softly spoken words and pliant flesh. I watch him, full of an emotion I’m unfamiliar with. I feel real; I feel raw; I feel in the moment; I feel in control. It’s both dizzying and grounding. I breathe it in. It’s a sensation I will come to know well in the following years. But for now, it’s new and fresh and so fucking good. I want to own this boy; I want to lock him away and make him mine. I want to take his beautiful body and brand it with my name, and then I want to take his mind and brand it with my will. It’s that sensation that makes me cock my head and whisper, “No.”


I relish the way his face breaks, the way tears begin to fall freely from his eyes as his body goes limp. Finally, he surrenders. As an orgasm escapes his grasp for a seventh time, every pretense and façade scatters into dust, and what is left is a boy, laid raw at my feet, empty and gone away. He shows no reaction when I stand up. His muscles are lax, body open, cock still bulging at his naval. Rick closes his eyes and lets out a breath.


Rick’s truly gone away, and for a moment it scares me. He doesn’t respond when I speak to him, barely moves when I nudge him. I try to rouse him, but he just mumbles at me, cracking open dangerously unfocused eyes that fail to find my face looming over him. He closes them again and lets his head fall against the floor.


“M’m jus’ sleepy,” Rick mutters. “Can I tekka nap? So tired.”


I roll him over, loose-limbed and pliant, and undo his bonds. With a soft voice, I coax him onto his hands and knees and guide him to the futon. I lay a blanket on the cold floor at the foot of the metal frame.


“Lie down, Rick,” I say carefully, glancing up at Morrigan, who watches with a worried expression. Rick does as I ask, lying on the blanket and asking once more if he can go to sleep. “Yeah, go to sleep,” I whisper, using a bit of rope to secure Rick’s wrist cuff to the metal frame.


When I stand, Morrigan is staring at me with wide eyes. We exchange a glance, one I struggle to comprehend. Neither of us speaks. I don’t think we breathe, either. We simply step in close to each other, fingers dancing over each other’s skin, an indescribable energy between us. I lean in toward her, my eyes on her soft pink lips and the freckles that run over the bridge of her nose. I want to kiss her.


A sharp knock on the door has us both stumbling backward. I blink at Morrigan uncertainly, and she shrugs, just as clueless as I. There’s another knock. I look back at Rick, naked and asleep on my floor, cock still hard between his legs. Morrigan acts fast, grabbing the comforter off her bed and dropping it over his sleeping form. I scoop up the toys scattered on the floor and click off the lights in the room, leaving only the television on. Throwing a robe around my shoulders, I open the door.


Outside is my RA, Amy. She has a strained expression on her face because she despises confrontation. Her beady eyes glance over my shoulder, into the darkness of my small dorm room.


“Everything okay in here?” she asks, still looking around behind me. “Someone said they heard screaming.”


“Screaming?” I ask, feigning shock. I turn around and look into my room. Morrigan sits on the futon, Rick at her feet. “Rick!” I call. He doesn’t move. “Rick!” I shout a bit louder. Morrigan nudges him with her toe. Bleary-eyed, Rick sits upright. He looks around, confused, before noticing Amy and me in the doorway. “Were you screaming, Rick?” I ask.


Rick blushes, ducking his gaze.


“Yes,” he whispers, unconsciously grabbing at the comforter that’s around him and tugging it tighter.


“Tell my RA why you were screaming,” I demand in a crisp tone. I can tell that I’m making Amy uncomfortable, which was my goal. She’s shifting her weight nervously and making little gasping noises. Rick just stares at me with wide, helpless eyes. “Come on now, Rick, answer her.”


“B-because I wanted to come?” he says uncertainly, keeping his gaze on the floor.


“Ah, there you go, Amy.” I shrug, turning back around to smile brightly at the frizzy-haired girl. “He was screaming because he wanted to come. I’ll make sure to keep the gag in next time.”


“Okay,” Amy squeaks, face burning red as she turns on her heel and scurries away down the hall. I wave after her and shut the door.


Rick has dropped back down to the floor, pulling the covers over his head in shame. It’s not long before I assume he’s asleep again. Morrigan and I get up, change out of our clothes, and head down the hall to shower. When we return, we find Rick snoring under the comforter. Morrigan and I share grins and glances, but exhaustion is quickly creeping into our bones.


Outside, the sun breaks over the horizon.


Wrapped around each other on the futon, Morrigan and I feel ourselves slipping into sleep. Just as I am about to fall away entirely, I hear a small, breathy moan from the floor. I crack open my eyes to find Rick sitting upright, looking at me with squinted eyes. His face is twisted in what looks like pain, and when he notices that I’m looking at him, he moans again, louder this time, and glance down at his waist. I follow his eyes and find his cock, red and hard and leaking. Rick emits a soft sound that resembles a sob, and I sit upright.


“What’s wrong?” I ask quietly.


Rick sniffs and glances up at me, his fists curled against the floor.


“It hurts,” he answers in a small voice that absolutely breaks my heart. I gasp quietly and get onto the floor immediately.


“My poor boy,” I breathe, reaching for Rick. He goes to me immediately, laying his head against my chest and making a stuttered, wet sob. “Let me help you.”


When I reach for Rick’s cock, his eyes widen. No! Please!” he gasps, curling in on himself. “Please don’t tease me anymore,” he begs.


“Pull your hands away, Rick,” I say in a stern voice. Rick whimpers, but he does as I ask, giving me access to his throbbing member. I wrap my fingers around it, finding it almost unbelievably rigid. As soon as my fingers brush the sensitive flesh, Rick cries out and spasms against me, his cock bobbing and leaking a long line of precum.


I shush Rick gently and begin to stroke him, taking my time, listening to the desperate, breathy noises he makes. He leans against me, damp hair smelling like cedar and sweat, rolling his hips up into my hand and falling apart utterly in my lap. I use my other arm to hold him against me, elbow braced on his chest and my long fingers wrapped around his straining neck. It doesn’t take long, no more than five languishing thrusts before Rick is panting and whimpering against my jaw.


P-please, Bridget, please let me come. Oh, God, please! Bridget, I have to come. You have to let me come, please. I tried to follow your rules. I’ll try harder if you p-please just let me come. H-haven’t I been good?”


“You’ve been a good boy,” I whisper, my lips against his forehead. “And I think that if you’re going to keep being my good boy, then you’ve earned an orgasm.”


“I-I promise,” Rick gasps, body writhing. “I promise to be good!


“Then you can come.”


With a choked scream, Rick finally begins to orgasm. His whole body stretches like a violin string, tight and ready to be plucked. I continue to stroke him, pace quickening. His body shakes, and Rick begins to spurt, coating his chest in long pearly strings. It’s more cum than I’ve ever seen, and Rick’s body seems to be turning itself inside out for it. Rick’s jaw stretches open, pulled into a silent scream. The only sound he utters is a high-pitched groan, his eyes bulging as his heavy balls finally drain, as he finally finds relief, and he is finally granted the orgasm he’s chased for hours.


With a final gasp, Rick slumps back against me, body shivering, chest coated in his own release, and whispers in a shuddering voice, Thank you, Bridget. Fuck, th-thank you so much.”


“Did that feel good, baby?” I ask, letting the boy curl in my lap sleepily.


“S-so good,” he whispers. “What did you do to me? H-how?”


Rick is shivering violently, so I grab the comforter and graciously drape it around him. “I know you better than you know yourself, darling,” I answer, pushing a few damp strands out of Rick’s eyes. “And your orgasms are only good when they belong to me.”


Rick stares up at me, and I can see myself in his eyes. There’s something else there as well, something full of awe. He nods slowly but says nothing, his flushed lips parted. I lean over him, kissing him carefully on the forehead. There’s confusion, maybe even fear, in his expression, but he finally takes a breath and speaks. “M-may I go to sleep?”


“Of course, darling,” I smile, extracting myself from beneath him. He lies carefully on the floor, still staring up at me. “Sweet dreams.”


Outside, the morning sun peeks between the tall buildings of the city. I get to exhausted feet, climbing carefully into my lofted bed. On the futon, Morrigan is asleep, curled around a pillow, a small smile on her face. Below her, Rick still watches me with awe-filled eyes. I sigh, falling back into my bed. Never have I been more fatigued or satisfied.


And never have my dreams been sweeter.

This Little Domme Went to Amsterdam

When I was younger and my mind roamed to matters of a sexual nature, I always felt something was missing. Television and movie love scenes couldn’t be all there was, could it? My parents had been divorced, and in raising me, my mother was tasked with a lot. I was a willful child, precocious and stubborn in every way. She tried her best to ensure her daughter would remain virginal till marriage and to bend me to her will in assorted other ways. While she was strict, she still had her piles of ancient Penthouse Forum magazines in the basement, which I read when I dared. The stories detailed a decadent exploration of eroticism right before my young eyes, and I realized there was much more out in the world than merely mainstream pursuits. As I got older and entered high school, there were pleasant enough encounters I had with boyfriends, but nothing ever approached the fevered pitch I’d envisioned in my fantasies.

My plan was to get light-years away. Once high school was finished and college still months down the line, I was ripe for an adventure. My friend Chloe was, of course, on board. Instead of spending the summer innocently traveling Europe by train, as we’d told our elders, we were actually going to spend the entire summer living in Amsterdam. We joked that if we ran out of money, we could always find day-labor work planting tulip bulbs. As Fate had it, we didn’t have to get our hands very dirty at all!

Weaving through the narrow streets of the Red Light District dazzled me. Behind glass, women of every nationality and novelty displayed themselves in the District’s rows of doorways. Outside a house of domination, Chloe and I paused to gawp at the pony-training spectacle in the front window. Private kerkers were available, but this domme thrived on playing to an audience. As her sub was led through his paces, an unsavory gent behind me in the crowd decided to stroke my hair. I had the presence of mind to slap him, a crack that echoed. A domme who was lingering at the door got security involved and steered me away while he was dealt with.


My savior’s name was Mila, but her clients called her Majesteit: “Majesty.” And she was! A regal, Titian-haired skyscraper of a woman with an attitude like no one I’d ever met. Wicked-tongued and spectacularly dressed, sensual and depraved, Mila to me WAS Amsterdam.


“You come get a drink for your nerves,” Mila insisted, herding Chloe and me to the bar on the second floor. It was a bar we began to frequent often, soaking up the tales spooled out by the various dommes between clients. Mila, in particular, fascinated me. It turned out that Chloe didn't take to the BDSM scene the way I did and opted for working in a coffeehouse; however, I spent the ensuing days in Mila’s company as she pontificated on female superiority and familiarized me with toys and leather goods. When she laced me into my first corset, I felt invincible.


Mila saw something in me. Perhaps she found my curiosity charming enough to keep me around, for my willingness and wonder made me quite the apprentice. I served as an extra pair of hands during her sessions, and the men went wild. In no time, the house manager was calling me Beetje Koper: “Little Copper.”


That was the name I used when I got a job in the peep show next door to Mila’s kerker. My big adventure got grander.


The booths were large enough for a single futon mattress and a small night table, no more. The floors were elevated, so as we girls reclined on our futons, the patrons’ cocks were at pussy level on the other side of the glass. A phone and a tip slot were mounted on the wall. Tokens deposited by anticipatory fingers made the curtain rise for a precious sixty seconds of sin. Mirrors adorned the ceiling so we could watch ourselves get off again and again.

Many customers knew English, but some did not. I worried about the language barrier, but Mila said, “Beauty is a universal language. Make them speak your name!”

My trademark besides my long russet hair was that I always wore stockings and fingerless gloves. Lingerie was fresh and new to me, as dealings with high-school boyfriends hardly warranted elaborate outfits. Here I wore body stockings, bustiers, and boots borrowed from Mila. The fishnets that encased my long legs and the buckles on my bustier were my idea of a uniform!

Patrons may have been there for a show, but they were the ones entertaining me. Men sucked off other men while I watched. They stripped naked and came on the glass right near my pussy, then licked it off. They wore women’s teddies beneath their clothes. I placed my stockinged feet on the glass, and they worshiped them sans the ability to touch.

The true pivot in my thinking took place when Mila lent me her bullwhip for a shift. Since our booths weren’t the roomiest, she demonstrated an adapted way of flicking the cracker to the glass in the spot where the patrons’ balls would be. I marveled over the braiding and craftsmanship of the whip, by its very nature a viperous tool. It’s where leather took on a whole new meaning for me, and I think Mila recognized that, too. She left me to my devices with a wink.

My night was full of fire. With inborn confidence enhanced by Mila’s coaching, I strategically hit the glass, “spanking” clients’ balls as they spanked them for real on the other side. I mimicked twisting nipples, and they turned theirs around like taffy. Within the four walls of my booth, I indulged in every whim, every notion I could think of. Did I want to make some eager patron finger his ass tonight? Or perhaps whimper a nursery rhyme as he stroked his cock to the tune? The pleas of a sub as he reached his limit titillated me. And still do!


Make no mistake—I may have come to Amsterdam a wildling, but by the end of vacation, there had been a paradigm shift in my sexuality. No longer did I tolerate anything but the very best of efforts being brought to the table. Returning to the States with my secret summer in the front of my mind, I smiled at Chloe as the plane landed and thought, it doesn’t stop here.

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