The arsonist returns.

http://vanillamom.wordpress.com/2010/02/06/subbie-conclusion/

Here is the continuation / conclusion of 'Nilla's inflammatory tale based on some characters our readers might find familiar.



Thanks for the inspiration, 'Nilla.

Mistress is Always Right

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.

Fiction Friday: Mistress's Rendezvous - Part II

(continuation of last Friday’s fictional adventure. If you missed it, check out our January 29^th entry).

“That was cruel”, Mistress whispered as Robert, her new Dom, led her toward the hotel’s elevator bank. She was thinking of her humiliated husband, back in that booth, watching them as she was led away.

“Oh. And isn’t a bit of cruelty exactly what the two of you signed up for, ‘Mistress’”, he said,  sarcasm mixed with a little chuckle, the grip on her elbow tightening.

“I’m just taking you  where that pervy little Blog of yours says you both want to go. But we are on my schedule now, Pet.  You’re just having a little trouble giving up control.”

No fooling.  Molly could not help but twist the wrists tied so tightly behind her back. The loss of control had her heart racing. And she was still dripping from the fingers that had her on the edge back in the Bar as her Slave looked on with that sad, helpless feeling on his face.

“Yes… Sir. I suppose I am.”

The elevator door slid open.  His arm propelled her inside. An older couple, adorned with Rotary Convention regalia, joined them, eying Molly’s slightly too short for the heartland outfit with disapproval, curious about why her hands were hidden behind her back, under that jacket. 

Somehow Robert positioned himself behind her. She could feel his knee pressing between her legs, spreading them oh so slightly. His hand on her hip, controlling her still.  Molly blushed, eyes forward. Trying to tune them out. But she could not pull away.

Robert went into charming mode, amiably questioning the Rotarians about their small Indiana town, not so far from his campus. Apparently he was not always the smug take charge fellow of the last hour or so. Interesting.

The elevator lurched to a stop, reminding Molly how dizzy and weak in the knees she had become, but he steadied her as the older couple wished them well and stepped off.

The door closed, the elevator resuming its ascent. But then Robert reached forward, pressing the stop button.

“They were wondering about you, Slut”.  

Then it all happened so fast.

With his quick forceful shove, Molly was pressed face forward, hard against the elevator’s wall.

His left hand clutched her breast, fingers squeezing a nipple, making her cry out, face buried against the compartment’s carpeted wall, muffling her.

A foot kicked her legs apart.

His right hand found its way up above her stocking tops.

“Do you think they recognized that not so subtle fragrance, Pet?  We’ ll call it ‘Slut in heat.’”

His face was against her ear, his lips sucking in the skin at her neck. Consuming her.

“Oh, God. Don’t, please….”

Now his fingers were back at it, pushing those skimpy panties aside,  sliding into her. Squishing sounds confirmed how wet she was, her juices covering his hand. She ground against his palm and fingers. Shameless. Lost.

“’Don’t’ is not a word to use around me, Pet. It just makes me want to ‘Do’”.

A wet thumb suddenly plunged into her ass, as fingers spread her lips and plucked at her, driving her far over the edge, making her cry out, tears streaming down her face. He knees gave way.

His arms supported her now, easing her slowly to the floor.  She buried her head, sobbing, gasping to catch her breath, head spinning. 

Now he was quiet. Still. Comforting. His hand gently stroking her hair.

When the sobbing finally stopped, he helped her to her feet, holding her close so she could bury her makeup streaked face in his shoulder. She felt his hand move to the elevator’s control panel, and the car lurching back to life.

He whispered into her ear. 

“You forgot to ask permission, Molly. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

HNT - Mistress in White