On Friday, Mistress joined her Slave at one of those set piece luncheon’s for a local social service agency. The corporate poobahs and socialites were all at their designated tables.
Mistress was decked out in her black uniform – dress, tights, boots. I enjoyed watching the attention She received from those community titans who have always drooled over her. They look at me with a certain disbelief, as in “What does that hot Molly see in that old pol?”
Of course now that I am her Slave and she has certain contractual rights, I get to speculate about which if these men of power and position might catch Mistress’s eye. And she makes sure to flirt a bit more aggressively than in the past, like the comment she made yesterday afternoon to a certain Appeals Court Judge. She told him he has long been the best looking Judge in our heartland state. His hug seemed to linger just a bit longer after that comment.
I was locked away in my cage, and enjoyed the privilege of stroking Mistress’s silky thighs under the table as the speakers bloviated on about the “honorees”.
Afterwards we both went back to work – no worship time in the schedule, sadly.
But by the time I got home, Mistress was a little peeved.
In a cell phone conversation we had late that afternoon, Mistress had heard me use a certain name that we don’t talk about in our household. (See our “election day” entry for more info.) I was convinced I had referred to someone completely different, though the final syllable of both names is the same. Maybe the bad cell connection had garbled me?
But the damage had been done. Mistress had heard what her ears and brain had heard, not necessarily what I had said.
There was only one way to get over this emotional choke point: Mistress needed to punish her Slave.
She had me strip and lay face down on our bed. She picked up the hard wooden shoe horn draped over the chair next to our bed. Her blows rained down on my naked butt. Ouch.
As she wielded her weapon, she questioned me about what name I had used. Should I “confess” to a crime that I did not believe I had committed? It’s hard to think straight when under physical duress. (a lesson about “confessions” derived from water boarding?) Ultimately, I simply agreed that it was my fault for not speaking clearly enough. I apologized for causing my Mistress the obvious mental distress that she was suffering.
Mistress lay down her weapon, stroked my bottom.
“Hopefully you have learned your lesson, Slave”.
I had.
And then I worshipped Mistress, in the manner she likes, on my knees, her tights hauled down just enough to fit my eager face. She snapped the picture above to share with our reader(s).
It’s so much nicer to pleasure Mistress than distress her.
