Mistress Could Make Someone a Lovely Little Slave

I am convinced that Mistress could make the right Dom a perfect little Slave someday.

What makes me think that: accumulated evidence starting from our early days together and extending through our current activities with me wearing the “Slave” hat (err, cage).

Years ago, I would tie Molly to the frame of the futon we kept in our little, illicit “love nest” (we were both “encumbered” - putting it politely - with other relationships at the time, but our attraction to one another compelled finding suitable accommodations for our frequent rendezvous).

Molly would squirm and moan oh so remarkably when I tasted her tightly restrained body, then took my liberties. She liked it. Oh yeah.

She never complained when I took a hairbrush to her bottom on occasion. Heck, she provided the hairbrush.

I can even recall taking her for a walk on the decorous streets of our nation’s capitol one evening, her hands cuffed behind her back, under a tasteful Burberry trench coat. I clutched her at the elbow as we strolled, nodding politely to the passersby. She was dripping wet and ready for me after that adventure.

But we never formalized that relationship in D/s terms: it was just play. An occasional thrilling detour from what was more typically robust if vanilla sex. Once the ropes were untied, or the cuffs unlocked we quickly reverted to our roles as peers, partners, parents.

But now that I have taken on the role of Mistress’s devoted Slave, it’s become obvious to me that my Mistress has her own Slavish compulsions, which I could never exploit to their full extent.

Sure, we do our Sunday switch ritual, when the Slave gets to take charge for an hour or so. But that only seems to whet her appetite.

Take yesterday as an example. Mistress willingly submitted as I locked leather cuffs around her wrists, then tied them to the little eye-screw affixed to the head of our bed. It was a cold night here in River City, so Mistress was still wearing her black tights from our “date”, a movie and dancing, the night before. She also was adorned with a little silky top left over from those “love nest” days of yore.

Once suitably restrained, arms extended over her head, Mistress got all fidgety as I sidled up to her in bed. And of course I stiffened as I slid against the black, soft fabric stretched across her legs. We kissed passionately as Mistress pulled against the restraints holding her in place. Her body betrayed the pleasure she took in her helplessness.

Now Mistress was ready for her “punishment”. Rolled onto her stomach, her lovely bottom was forced to absorb repeated blows from my hand through those clinging tights.

Mistress let the pillow absorb her pitiful little moans. But the squirming of her hips against the bed, even when I paused in my spanking, told me how turned on she was by our little ritual.

I was sort of “relentless”, to the extent a Slave can be with his Mistress. I tried to mimic a cruel Master endeavoring to “break” his Slave.

But actually, I am way too easy in these moments. Too much the Slave, worried that I might impose any real pain on my Goddess. So I paused for a moment, letting my hand gently caress Mistress’s tenderized bottom.

“You like to be spanked, don’t you Mistress”.

“Yes, Slave”.



“How would it be to submit to a Master who pushed your limits Mistress. Who reduced you to tears, had you begging, breaking for him with a cruel spanking.”

“I’d like that, Slave”, she conceded with a little moan of delight at the very thought of it.

I reached for the Hitachi Magic Wand I had plugged in and ready next to the bed. She heard it come to life, and gave off a little sigh of anticipation. Her bottom was still facing up, and I slid the tool between her legs, teasing her. She responded like a little slut would, bucking, squirming, seeking more intense contact with the churning head of the vibrator right where it counted.

As I used the wand on her, my other hand administered a few more “cruel” blows on her bottom, resulting in more gyrations and moans from my increasingly desperate “slave”.

But I did not make her beg. It’s not in me, I guess. Instead, I was merciful, pressing the wand under her just a little more, giving it access to the “good parts”.

Soon this intimate contact tilted Mistress over the top, and she slid down into the depths of a moaning explosion that kept her breathing hard, head buried in her pillow, quivering with aftershocks for some time. It took her a while to request her release, long after I had my lustful way with her.

Some Dom, some day, will have his hands full with this one.

MIstress Presses Several of Her Slave's Buttons.

Mistress put me on notice early on Saturday morning:

“Are you ready for my strap on this afternoon, Slave?”

Gulp. Yes. I was ready. But somehow the advance notice always sends a shiver down my spine that settles at the base of my balls.

After a trip to the gym, some auto maintenance and other light Saturday duties, Mistress suggested we adjourn to the bedroom, announcing to the surly teens that their parents would be taking a “nap”.

Mistress must have decided to press several of her Slave’s buttons. First she slid into those silky nude toned pantyhose with the special access passage carved into the crotch. She knows their texture can drive this Slave to distraction.

Next she donned her strap-on (the photo is from a few weeks back, but you get the picture). Menacing with promise.

She likes her Slave naked, and I obliged. Soon we were both under the sheets, me sidling against her sensuously sheathed legs, she grasping my cock with obvious purpose. Within a few minutes I was begging to fuck her ….but, of course, she laughed me off.

“Slave, you know who will be doing the fucking ….”

I was fully prepared to submit.

But just as were preparing  for the main event, the text on Mistress’s cell chimed. Mine too. It was surly teen number 2, demanding an immediate ride to a friend’s house. Argh. (Why does a teen text her parents from down the hall, rather than walk a few short steps and knock on the door? Maybe under those circumstances one can’t complain.)

Being a pushover, I obliged. Though it was literally painful to pry Mistress’s warm fingers from my swollen appendage. I slid into a pair of jeans, and was soon off into the cold Midwestern air for driving duty.

15 minutes later I returned.  Fortunately, Mistress had not found an alternative “victim”, and was still there, under the warm covers, tending to internet duties on her laptop. I was glad not to have been replaced.

It did not take long for Mistress’s skilled attentions, and my own roving mouth and fingers, to put us back in the same crazed state we had created for one another before that damn text chime.

Mistress directed me to assume the proper position.

With my Ass plumped up for her, she found her target and plunged in, filling me with her hard plastic tool. My firm, desperate cock throbbed against the pillow beneath me as Mistress exercised her powers, reducing her Slave to a panting, whimpering receptacle.

Maybe I was distracted in my own little sub space, but it seemed that Mistress’s quivering explosion crept up on her quickly, as she suddenly bucked against me, losing the rhythm of her penetrating strokes, her nails digging into my shoulders as she moaned in her pleasure.

“That’s enough for now Slave.”

She rose, leaving her apparatus on the bathroom floor for Slave to attend to later. I remained spread out on the bed, breathing hard, in the strange state of semi-shock I find after these sessions.

She commanded me to insert my little probe, so I struggled up from the sheets sticking to my body, and complied. My ass was open and ready.

Returning to the bed, my cock full and ready for her, Mistress lay back, and helped me find the little opening in her panty hose so that I could fuck her properly.

She was still in need, but now it was my time to do the work. And I was happy to clock in. In these tough economic times, it’s crazy to pass up a little overtime on a Saturday afternoon.

Mistress Gives Thumbs Up to Her Fictional Exploits

Mick and Molly broke from our routine yesterday by posting a little “make believe” story derived from Mistress’s fantasies of exploring the sub side with a part-time Dom.

I was not sure how Mistress would react to my story. But the results were quite pleasing. Of course, Mick enjoys the smutty comment and emails he received suggesting that the erotic heat my story generated was felt several states away. Barack spoke about alternative energy sources in his SOTU. I am glad to have played my small part.

But this blog’s primary target is Mistress Molly. And my fictional cruise missle seemed to hit its target. I liked the flush on her face and the not so subtle squirm that seemed to spread through her body as she read on to the end, first my original work, then the revised version, with a somewhat expanded ending, posted later on Friday.

After her second read, when I was under the covers, toying with her through those clingingly damp black tights(see the helpful illustration), Mistress told me that she wants to find out what happens next. And I promised to expand on the story of Mistress’s rendezvous with Robert sometime soon.

Question: should the continuation be a first hand narrative, or the story of what happened as recounted by Molly to Mick as he kneels between her legs later that night? Or both?

As you might imagine, the little stories and speculations we sometimes share tend to quicken our desires for one another all the more. As if that’s possible.

An example: on Thursday Molly received an email on her “FetLife” posting (under MollyCollins if anyone wants to check it out) from a dominant fellow who lives on the other side of the River with his fetching Slave / wife. “I am intrigued by the cuckold lifestyle”, he told her, “It wouldn’t work for me because I am sexually dominant. But the idea of tormenting some poor husband while his wife is made to serve is interesting.”

Yes. Very interesting. Not long after we discussed his message, and Molly’s desire to respond and meet this couple for drinks sometime soon, Slave was buried between Mistress’s legs, and she was working through a series of mini-explosions as she pressed her self against me as I sucked her oh so responsive parts tightly between my teeth and lips.

Molly then gave me permission to fuck her, and asked me to describe my speculations on how a meeting with this couple would go.I will spare you the long version, but it involved Mistress bound, on her knees, being required to served both this assertive Master and his lovely Slave. That thought had Mistress demanding to be on top, so we reversed positions and she worked her self hard and long against me to the type of moaning crashing explosion that leaves her shaking and teary eyed. That’s my favorite kind.

Yesterday Mistress visited me again in my office, after a morning and lunch hour of some dreary meetings with one of her clients. She seemed eager for worship and I was happy to oblige. It was cold here, and both Slave and Mistress needed some warming up. As I prepared her throne, the talk turned again to my story about her and the fictional “Robert”. Those thoughts seemed to accelerate both of us, and as I knelt between her legs and tasted her through those black tights, I had the now familiar sensation of a hardening cock checked by the cold steel of the cage she had locked for me that morning.

Once Mistress’s tights were pulled down to provide my mouth with more direct access, Mistress wound her hands into what is left of my hair (there is some in back) and pulled me fiercely to her. The diabolically contented, look on her face from my perspective on my knees after she explodes for me in my office may be my only reward….but well worth the wet face and that time on my old, achy knees. Another day at the office.

Fiction Friday: Mistress's Rendezvous

(A break from our usual programming. A story. It's made up stuff. The names and places are figments of imagination....aren't they?)

The cell trilled on my desk. I was across the room, pensive. Looking out across the City, from my 25^th floor perch.

Of course, I knew Mistress’s ring. But why? She had just left only 15 minutes earlier. I could still taste her on my lips and tongue.

And she was a sight. Smokey black stockings. A black suit just shorter than appropriate for a workday in River City. If she leaned over those stocking tops would catch a few wandering eyes. When I raised an eye at her outfit, she confessed she had been instructed to dress “slutty”. So she had.

 I lurched for the phone, knowing she was just across the street. Didn’t he show?  The thought of an aborted “mission” with her new “Sir” sent an agonizing mixture of relief and disappointment through me.

“Yes Mistress?”, I answered, unsuccessfully trying to draw on my Mr. Cool, professional voice.

“He wants to meet you.”

“Why?”

Avoiding an answer, she murmured, “You know where we are.  Come over. Now. Please.” I couldn’t read her voice. Not scared. Embarassed? Maybe. He must have been sitting right next to her.

“Yes, Mistress”, I mumbled, but the connection was already closed. I had my orders.

I slipped on my jacket. Pocketed the phone, hustled to the elevator bank. I nodded off greetings from the regulars behind the security desk, no time to chat, then spun through the doors and jaywalked across the street to the little boutique hotel where I knew I would find her.

I spotted them in a booth in the Bar area, relatively empty at mid day, near the back. Discrete.

He was as she had described. A bit younger than me.  Fit looking.  Heavy wool blue blazer and tie.  Costumed as you would expect a tenured faculty member at one of those small Colleges spread through the heartland. His was not far from our town.

They had stumbled upon one another over the internet. She had decided to exploit her rights under our contract – the right to take other lovers – and he was offering to scratch that itch she had to walk on the submissive side for a change.

I had asked only for the right to know what was going on. “Don’t leave me wondering”, I had asked. And in truth she knew that sharing some of the details of her budding flirtation seemed to throw fuel on our already incendiary sex life.

Mistress had shown me some of their steamy texts. Their sordid emails. Told me about some of the calls. How he persuaded her to touch herself. Then denied her “permission”,  until she had to beg.  I could tell she was hooked. And he was reeling her in slowly, diabolically.

They had met once before. An interview, she called it. He was a gentleman. She must have passed muster. But this was the day.  He expected her to submit. “Completely”, he had required. She agreed. Could not do anything else by then. She was lost.

But both of  us were anxious. What did he mean by “complete” submission. She had some ideas about what to expect. He was plain about his own needs. She would be in her knees. Bound. Require to Beg. There were some understandings between them. But still…

They sat opposite one another. I could tell she was uneasy.  Squirmy in her seat. As I approached, they rose. “Mick, this is Robert”, she said, avoiding eye contact. We shook hands briefly. Hard to touch him, knowing he would soon be touching her. And that she wanted that touch.

He indicated I should sit down,  next to my Mistress. My hand draped under  the table over her lap, reaching for and clutching her hand. Hard.  She seemed as wired as I was.

“So you’re Molly’s Slave?

“That’s me”. It’s not something I had publicly admitted to anyone in person before. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. The humiliation had begin.

“She’s told me about you. And of course, there’s your blog. Interesting stuff.”

“Yes. She requires it. It’s my daily homework.”

“You understand that Molly is here to submit to my control, don’t you?” The small talk was over.

“Yes, I understand that’s why she’s here.” I squeezed her hand tighter. Looking at her. She, glanced at me, blushing, then looked away.

“She’s agreed to be mine, at least when we can arrange to be together. just like you are her Slave, she is now mine. Isn’t that right, Molly.”

Molly nodded. He looked at her, a flash in his eyes.

“Yes, Sir. I will be – am - your Slave.”

“That’s better.  And Mick, you have no problem with that do you?”

“That’s her right, under our contract.”

“Of course it is”. He smiled. Smug asshole. I didn’t like him. Not that it mattered.

“Are you wearing your cage today, Mick?”

Another blush of humiliation crossed my face.

“Yes, it’s on.”

“Where’s the key, Molly?”

“At home.”

“Good. …. Well it’s good to know we all understand one another. Molly, nowcome sit next to me here.”, he said, patting the space next to him in the leather upholstered booth.

It took a moment for his order to sink in. I slowly loosened my grip on her hand. As Molly rose, I caught a glimpse of those magnificent legs and the tops of her stockings. Argh. Why had I agreed to this, to the contract?

She slid in beside him and he quickly closed the space between them. I could see his hand moving to her lap, but could not see exactly where he had placed it. There was the rustle of her stockings pressing against one another.

“Molly is a dream Mick. Quite a girl. I am lucky to have her, don’t you think?”

“Of course. I love her. She’s everything to me.”

‘Well I promise to take good care of her….and train her well. She might learn a few things to make her a better Mistress. Though probably more demanding. Stricter. She is pretty easy on you, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. “

“Well that may change. Slave’s need a firm hand. Don’t you agree, pet?”

By now I could sense his hands moving on Mistress’s lap, and her breathing seemed a bit more labored.

“Yes…Sir.” She gasped. Startled by something, no doubt that hand hidden from me.

“Spread your legs a bit, Molly”, he instructed.

She looked at him, embarrassed. Eyes pleading.

“No. Not hear, Not in front of him.” She seemed sad, desperate.

“Didn’t you agree to submit…. completely?”

His hand had not pulled away, but held its position.

“Yes”, she conceded. Surrendering.

I could tell Mistress was aroused, almost broken. She shifted in her seat. I knew her legs were opening. I imagined how his fingers were caressing her. Taking her down. Then I heard her stifled gasp, the sound she makes when she is oh so very close.  Her eyes were closed, head pressed against the back of the booth.

But she was holding back. For me? No, for him.

“You can’t come without my permission, Pet. You understand that don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir”. Her head was down. She wouldn’t look at either one of us. But I could tell she was desperate.

“Do you want to come now, Molly”.

“Yes….Please. Please”,  she moaned squirmed, trying to conceal her desperation from the post lunch stragglers mingling at the Bar. I swear I could smell her arousal in the air.

I was in agony for her. Wanted to help. But she was in his hands now. And it was then I noticed that my own cock was hardening, pressing against the steel cage. Crazy.

Suddenly, he pulled his hand away. She moaned, startled to have been abandoned.

“Maybe we should let Mick get back to work now.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, extracting a thin piece of cord.

“Slide off your jacket, dear”. She was startled. Shook her head.

“Don’t make me ask again…you are already due a punishment.”

Mistress gave in again. She shrugged out of her jacket, and he turned her, gathering her wrists behind her, crossing them, binding them.

“It’s what you want right?” Mistress just nodded, head down, face buried in her flowing dark hair. He slid the jacket over her shoulders.

“Keep your arms up high and no one will notice. Not that I really care if they do,” he chuckled.

They rose. He steadied her.  Took her by the elbow.

“Later, Mick”, he said over his shoulder as they stepped away from the table. She just looked at me, then turned toward him. Leaning into him.

I sat there. Watched them walk across the lobby toward the elevator bank, aching inside that cage, wondering when I would get her back; who I would get back.