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.”


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