3 comments/ 18059 views/ 2 favorites Yes, Virginia Ch. 01 By: VMKane (Note: this is an awkward call: one unwieldy piece, or four fairly short chapters? Please do try the whole thing rather than jumping straight to chapter 3, it makes far more sense that way. I hope you enjoy it. As always, my profound thanks to Lisa Jones for advice, encouragement and inspiration.) © 2013 Client 07c/1*. As with so many other sensual pleasures in life, my love of cider goes back to Trude. There had been drinking before, of course, I was more than a little smashed the night I truly fell for her. That was just drinking for getting drunk; even more it was drinking to fit in when I was so far outside in other things. Those lethal cocktails on the back seat of the bus, mixed by Jen Wilson stealing just enough not to be noticed from every bottle in her parents' drinks cabinet. I felt my lips were blistering, in retrospect I'm pleasantly surprised I can still see. Trude and I drank wine a few times, we drank as much as we could of cheap lager to stiffen our resolve before we went to that shop and bought the whip and handcuffs. But mostly we drank cider, and I came to actually enjoy the taste of it. I can see us now, sat on the seawall with a huge plastic bottle of Gaymers between us and a long hot afternoon before us. That's how I remember her: the scent of cider and the androgynous sandalwood perfume she wore. The seduction of sin and sex and being all grown up. I have always liked the Bible, long before Annsofie turned me on to the language of the KJV I enjoyed the stories and the symbolism. Trude wasn't just tempting me, she was tempting me with something made from apples. How naughty is that? Whatever my mother might have told herself about her innocent little girl, I was at least as up for it as Trude. She never needed to get me drunk and take advantage. We just liked to get drunk: liked the buzz; liked the way it took the edge off my compulsions and made me a tad less snotty. Now it's twenty-two years later and I am the age my dad was when he died. I have a beautiful house and the love of the best woman there is; and at the end of my garden I have apple trees. ***** I picked the wrong field of endeavour for someone with an innocent view of the human race. I never thought I had one, of course, not with my own esoteric tastes around bedtime. Nonetheless, over the first few years I received a worthwhile education in foibles. Some of them were very quickly shown the door -- I had the huge advantage that I didn't actually need the money, and I wasn't catering to the sort of market that were likely to beat or rape if they didn't get their way. I did learn how to cope with sulking, swearing and snivelling. After well over a decade in the business, not much surprised me anymore. At least, not much that involved a single client. "Sorry, there's been some mistake. I don't do groups, it's a purely one-to-one gig as far as I'm concerned. I can give you a name ..." Nicely dressed couple, smart casual and obviously rolling in money if they could afford me. He was around fifty and a tad petulant looking; she was a seriously cute little pixie a good fifteen years his junior. He was the talker. "That's what we were looking for. You see, we'd like ..." "Who's the client?" "I beg your pardon?" "Well I'm sure 'we'd like' is all very sweet, but it must have been someone's idea first; and someone must be paying. Which of you would I be working for?" "Me." I asked her to take the wooden seat in the anteroom and led him through to my study, closing the door behind me. They were recently married; he was into it, she hadn't been. He -- that is, they -- wanted her trained. I didn't much like him, but that's not a requirement for a business relationship. I will freely admit I did like the look of her. It's hardly my place to judge, but I found the whole notion bizarre, like those packets of grated cheese you see in supermarkets. Who buys that stuff? Who wants a sub broken in by someone else? How is there satisfaction in that? Should I have refused on principle? Not a chance: she looked like fun; and one of the many things I am not is a safety net. "OK, pal, these are the rules. I'm not a tart, I'm a consultant: you do not tell me what to do. I don't have sex with men -- not for fun, not for money; not even by proxy. I don't have sex in front of men so they can watch. I don't have sex on film so you can toss off over me at home. This conversation turning you on, by the way?" He shifted a little uncomfortably to hide his erection. As I said, I didn't much like the man. Not that I'd have walloped him for nothing, you understand, but if he'd been paying me for that I would happily lay on a little harder than requested. He harrumphed, and I continued. "If you're the client, then the lady gets treated exactly the way I'd treat any other man: discipline and instruction without sex. As I said, it's a one-to-one thing. I run a very discrete and confidential business. You two can chat all you want at home, but I'm not having it under my roof. I'm not even prepared to talk to her in your presence. Take it or leave it." As a final flourish I took out my fountain pen and wrote a ludicrous sum on the desk jotter before passing it across to him. His eyes bugged out, then he swallowed. "Is that by the hour?" "Flat session rate. If it's fifteen minutes, or if it's three hours -- which is my choice, by the way. You want training, then you trust me to decide what's necessary." We arranged payment details and I gave him an appointment that Wednesday afternoon. Then I sent them both away. *** I buzzed the street-level door open without a word when she pressed its bell three floors below me, then went out to wait. I took the six steps along the dead-end corridor from my door to the landing as softly as I could, because I could already hear her climbing. One of the nice things about those bare concrete stairs was the way footsteps rang so loud up the well; the way you could hear them getting slower with nerves as my clients got nearer to my lair. One of the even nicer things was that it gave me fair warning on the rare occasions anyone else was in the building. I stood against the wall and rested one hand on the metal banister as I leant a little over. Unless she looked straight up at the bottom of the last flight, she wouldn't see me watching her. She did not look up -- nor around nor even down at her feet -- she was following that old advice about staring straight forward when you are called in to see the headmistress. Left hand out to the rail: balance or reassurance? Reassurance, I thought: she was gripping more than sliding over it. Slightest rise to her shoulders as she took a deep breath with two steps to go. I felt myself inhaling to match her: savour that last brief moment of watching unseen before she turned and ... She gave me a shy smile. It was an awkward situation, after all. How she would welcome a smile back. "Hello. I'm --" "Not interested ..." She was looking decidedly cute: a little Audreyish in her short hair. Not my usual type, you will admit, but I've never been one to let that constrain me. Nicely turned out: dress just above her knees; smart cardigan thing; heels. That was nice: short leather skirt screaming 'I'm a tarty sub' wouldn't have suited me. Apparently it wouldn't suit the owner either, he wanted me to make him a nice pretty little lady rather than a whore. I took one pace forward and folded my arms. I ran my eyes down the length of her: face to feet, slow enough to make it quite obvious I was imagining what was underneath. Back up to the hem of that dress. "... Are those tights or stockings?" "Stockings." "Your idea or his?" "His." "I don't like them." "I'm sor--" "Not interested in that either. What do you want?" What did she see? As I said, it was an awkward situation, and not simply for her. Had she been a man, there would have been a detailed questionnaire of kinks and by this time I'd know whether it was catsuit or schoolmarm or any of the other delights in my wardrobes. Had she been my woman, I'd have been relaxing in one of my silk robes and strappy sandals. This sweet little hermaphroditic conundrum had me flummoxed, so I was doing my very smart out for the evening look. Navy jacket and skirt, ivory top, navy suede kitten-heels. Except I wasn't out for the evening, I was working. My chestnut hair was pulled back in a plait tight enough to make my eyes water and I was wearing my black kids with buttons at the wrist. I started that little impatient tap of right finger on left elbow that signals Victoria is going to make your life pleasurably painful in the near future. Five-three of command presence: Little Miss Scary. I was, if I am honest about this, at the peak of my powers and so very good at my job. Her voice caught in her throat. She swallowed. "I'd like ... My husband would like you to --" "Stop there. You and your husband, I take it you play already, yes? Does he have a title? What do you call him when you ..." ... when you do whatever it is you do. Which, to be quite honest with you, I didn't want to know. Not that I wouldn't be making her tell, of course. "Sir." Oh well, it would have to do. When you get right down to it, there's so few good choices and so many people playing, how can you possibly be individual? "Try again." "Sir would like --" Simple small cruelties. Ask questions; demand answers but don't allow them to answer. Kicks the legs out from under people, takes their balance away and makes them vulnerable. "Kneel down please ..." Balance taken right away, not to mention that she was in heels. She didn't know whether to look at me or the floor. One hand hovering towards the wall for security, dress getting trapped under one knee. "... Not acceptable. Stand up. Kneeling is an art, and like any other art it needs to be done with grace or not at all. Hands at the sides, eyes on me. As you go down, hands just oh so slightly lift the dress clear. You're kneeling, which shows you are subordinate; at the same time you're showing willing to lift your skirt whenever commanded. That's your place: inferior and sexually available. You need to plant the image in the depths of my mind of you on your back with your knees up, but without spoiling that scared little innocent look. Try it again, please ..." I can't begin to explain how much I owe to learning control from a soldier. Not that we ever talked theory, that wasn't her scene at all; but she had been marched about by some of the world's best practitioners of disciplinary theatrics and when she suggested what might or might not work, you can be sure I listened. Calm voice, level voice; just exactly as loud as it needs to be and never any louder. Don't lose your temper. The calmer you are, the scarier you are. 'Tits out for Miss' isn't particularly sexy; 'would you please expose your breasts for Miss' is, especially in the tone that makes it clear how little you meant that 'please'. "... And up. Take off your shoes and try it again." Third time lucky. Her chin was shuddering a tad: angry or sobby? It would need just a little further push to see which. I walked round her and picked up her shoes. I am not a connoisseur, give me kinky sandals for playtime and my M&S courts for the rest and I'm happy. Whatever these were, you could feel the money sitting in your hand when you touched them. I didn't say a word, content to let her remember we had unfinished business at her own speed. "Sir would like you to instruct me in proper behaviour." "I'm not a finishing school, love. Let's try that again with less coy, shall we?" "Sir would like you to instruct me in being sexually subordinate." "And what about you?" "I'm sorry?" "Don't be, time enough for meaning that in a little while. Seriously, are you up for this? Because I'm only going to ask you the once. If you go through that door, do not expect me to ever ask if it's alright to do this or that. Understood?" "Yes ... What should I call you?" "Come to that in a minute. Simple answer now: yes or no?" "Yes." Playtime then. Except it wasn't, was it? I had, somehow, talked myself into the most bizarre situation. For the first time in my life, it appeared I was going to give a woman a good bullying and not find myself on her mouth at the end of the session. And she was, as I have said, really quite cute with it. The knowledge of imminent frustration was making me cruel, or perhaps it was just those stockings. "I'd like you to put your palms down on the floor please. I'm going to open my front door and go inside. When I'm ready, I will give a nice loud click with my fingers and you can crawl after me." ***** My beloved is working from home today, which is a treat and a treasure, and sometimes the slightest trace of an irritation. She's been in her office, Skyping a three-cornered conference call between Shanghai, Jo'burg and our farmhouse; and in half an hour there's another one to a some guy in New York who presumably doesn't ever sleep. "Writing?" It's Wednesday morning, so I'm working at the kitchen table the way I always do. It's a very specific routine, and it doesn't allow for her busying around. "Yeah." "Like some tea?" "Err ... Yeah, love some. Thanks." "Is it a good one?" Well no, sweetheart. I thought today, just for a change, I'd deliberately sit here and write something bad. See what I mean? I like my routines, always have. ***** Crawling is a very special activity: if you get it, it can blow your mind; if you don't, it's truly hurtful and demeaning. I suppose you can say the same about almost any domme technique, but crawling is ... Simply put, it's crawling. So many of the others are extreme variations on normal play: almost everyone, at some point, will have had a silly giggly spank, or a tickle, or just the tiniest trace of hold-me-down. Canes and chains are hardcore versions, but they aren't paradigm shifts in your relationship. Same for naughty words and biting, it's normal vanilla sex taken to the highest possible level of escalation. Making someone crawl isn't part of that toolbox at all; it's weird stuff, it's not what nice people do. It's the same palette as watersports and whoring out and enforced piercing. It's dehumanising. It's a calculated insult to their identity. Nameless Little Pixie got it. I could tell at once from the way her breath was coming fast and the flush on her cheek when I told her to stand up again. And, of course, I liked her getting it; because that put pictures in my mind of flushed face and short breath between my needy thighs at the end of the afternoon ... Why on earth had I not thought this through before dictating terms? I was still holding her shoes. I tossed them casually into the corner. Her eyes cut possessively after them as if they were a puppy playing too close to the road, but she didn't say a word. She had covered about forty feet all told, enough to make the point. It hadn't done much for her stockings, but it hadn't actually torn them. I told her to put her hands behind her back, then looked her full in the eyes as I took out my penknife and very carefully cut them open. I stepped back and studied how slutty she suddenly looked with the knees out. I was becoming uncomfortably aware of just how much my desire for sex with her was verging towards need rather than want. "You don't call me 'Mistress', understood? In fact you don't call me by any title at all. You're not mine, you belong to Sir and no one else. If I ask a question, you answer simply and accurately: yes, no, required information. If you want to talk to me, you call me 'Virginia' ..." Taking my heartthrob's name in vain, you notice. My initial is well enough known, and somehow I couldn't see myself as a Veronica, much less Vera. Sorry, Ginnie, nothing personal. "... It's not my name, by the way. I won't tell you that. I will tell you that I won't tell you; do you find that insulting. Answer please?" "Yes." "Good, it's meant to be. There's a school of thought that one should never explain what one's doing, but I don't always agree. What we are doing is breaking down to build up: Sir wants proper subby lady, not cheap bitch. Cheap bitch, as it happens, is a necessary stop along the road. Did you drive here? Nod or shake, please; I don't want any words just now ..." Nod. Slow, slightly defiant nod. Not going to be sobs just yet then. "... then you can keep those on until you're home. Kneel down please." It would take a lot of practice to make perfect, but she was better every time she did it. I talked her very slowly and calmly through what came next: hands and knees; right palm flat on the lino and centred to take her weight; head down like a good little sub; left hand behind and lift the dress all the way up for me. I don't like stockings, I can't tell you why. I'd have been happier without that frame of suspender, but even so it was the prettiest of pictures. Heavens she had a cute little bum on her, clad in undies just a tad too small and too translucent to be entirely decent. Glorious little flash of dimpling tease perched atop the elastic, and then that oh so visible shadow of cleavage swooping down. I continued my lecture as I went over to the sideboard to pick up my crop. Pain comes in two flavours: what you earn and what Sir wants to dole out for his own amusement. You need to learn how to use them both to please. You need to learn if he appreciates 'oh please no' for discipline and 'oh please yes' for sadism. You need to understand that your reactions are part of the game, and behave appropriately when you take a beating ... Crop slapping down on that gorgeous and as yet unmarked skin. Enjoy the full cocktail of sensation: sound of impact; sound of reaction in her throat; tingle in my own arm; tremor in that pretty arse ... Two on the left; walk very slowly round for two on the right. Ask her, in my best and coldest Mistress voice, is she really so weak she can't hack the traditional six. Wait for her to ask me for the other two. I tapped her on the shoulder with the end of the crop and told her to straighten up. I cupped her face in my glove. She looked so pretty with her cute little eyes blazing back at me and a stray tear rolling down that was nothing more than pain. "Any time you're beaten for fun, you keep your mouth closed and take it -- that's what you're for; that is your entire purpose and meaning. Anytime you're beaten for discipline, you say thank you for it afterwards ..." Which is a sure way to piss me off, as it happens, but I was working on contract here and not for myself. "... I've already explained, you are not my property. I do not beat you for my own amusement." She sniffed back her tears and looked me straight in the eye. "Thank --" I slapped her face. "Wasn't a question. Try again." "Virginia, thank you for correcting me." Oooh: 'correcting', that was nice. Not sure I could even say why. Not simple rote recitation of 'discipline', that much was obvious. Oh, Pixie, what pretty things you say with that pretty mouth. What else can it do? "Kiss me." She leant forward, tearful eyes fluttering. I slapped her face. "What do you think you're doing?" "I was kissing you." "You have to ask for that one." "But you told me --" I slapped her face. "Don't ever answer me back. As for the other thing, do you honestly think I want some man's slut kissing me on my mouth?" I stood up as I said it, and gave her shoulder another light tap with the crop. She bent her head down at last, no longer able to meet my eyes. "Virginia, may I please kiss you?" "You may." Yes, Virginia Ch. 01 She bent it further. All the way down; all the way to the gentle press of her lips on the toe of my shoe. All without explicit instruction. And so it began ... ***** "You're finally going to write the big fantasy up?" "Yeah, thought I'd give it a whirl." "She sounds just like me." Oh for pity's sakes! "Three things: first up, you think everyone sounds like you. Honestly you'd think you were the only woman I'd ever dommed. Secondly it's not real, which means she's a bit of you, and a bit of me, and a bit of everyone I've ever known -- that's how fiction works. Lastly, will you not bloody do that to me! I haven't finished yet. Go and ruin some poor bugger's pension scheme or whatever it is you do." That's just plain snotty of me, and I feel ashamed before the words are even out of my mouth. She plonks a fresh cup of tea beside my elbow and huffs back towards the office. Oh bollocks. "Sorry sweetheart, didn't mean it." I don't say the truth, because she's proud as I am and I don't know a way to say it at moments like this without sounding condescending. I had such a ball for twenty good years, but right now I wish I could look you in the eye and say you were my one and only. ***** I sent her on her way and locked the door behind her before heading for the bedroom. By the time she reached her car outside I was well on the way to a truly unsatisfactory orgasm. I went home, had cheese and biscuits because I couldn't be bothered to cook a thing, and spent the evening not concentrating on television. By midnight I was tucked up in my solitary bed, reflecting ruefully that she was almost certainly relating her adventures to Sir at that very moment, although I suspected that his penis was far enough down her throat that she wasn't finding speech easy. Not the ideal mental image to carry me to my second, and even less satisfactory conclusion. That was the pattern. Appointment -- intense arousal -- beating and talking oh so very bad at her -- and ... Nothing. She away to get the arse shagged off her; me away to music and my vibrator. I sent her home with fresh angry caning welts on her bum that got him hard. I had her grovelling and feeling herself to order, complete debasement at my feet while I did my Ice Maiden act and managed not to join in. She never kissed more than my shoes and my crop; other than slaps I never laid one finger on her. My mouth issued endless orders, but I never licked, spat, bit or sucked; to be honest I didn't even speak any dirtier than absolutely necessary. However much I was charging that man, I earned every penny. I like to think I did a pretty good job for him. By the time I was finished with her, you couldn't have asked for a more classy but abject sub. I beat a real appreciation of pain into her; which isn't strictly true, but I did coax into flower something internal that she'd never understood before. I had her moving with a grace that was simultaneously easy and awkward; every time she knelt down made my heart skip. I thoroughly broke her and turned her into the most obliging plaything you could desire. Job well done. Too well, in fact. Someone -- I believe it was him rather than her -- had decided that she needed to tell me every time how hard he'd done her the night before. Compliment or not, I honestly didn't want to know. Over the course of our conversations, I learnt two things about Sir that hardened my distaste into contempt. Firstly he liked to fuck her while she was relating her training experiences. Of course I'd have been astonished if he hadn't, but that didn't stop my resentment at providing him with mental porn. Worse was that he was fond of my least favourite word. Bad enough to have that tantalisingly lovely cunt flashed about in front of me, I didn't need to think about her going home to a slimy deviant who talked about her pussy when he was inside her. It had been five weeks. I had somehow managed to keep my hands off her in any personal way. We did our usual session, which ended up with her making me a pot of tea and playing with herself as I drank it and told her how cheap and nasty she was: show me your hands, you filthy tart, and then suck them clean. That was purely for cruelty, there was no way I needed to study her hands closely to notice how much she got from me treating her rough. What an awful bloody waste it all was. Off she pottered at the end of it. The next day I got an email. Sir was happy with his new toy now, so long and thanks for all the spanks. I fell into one of those brown studies where I do ridiculous uncharacteristic things like poke my nose inside bondage clubs before beating a hasty retreat. I came home late at night and realised one of the pros on the corner was looking less ugly than usual, which scared the wits out of me. Ann, my old friend of fifteen years before, managed to find a second husband, and I stupidly went to the wedding. Everyone but me seemed to be with a partner. Ann's sister, who I had a brief fling with at uni', stared straight through me while her significant other looked ready to tear my hair out. I left early, before the dancing but after I found myself entertaining wicked thoughts at one of the bridesmaids. On the way home, I must have looked so very obvious that I ended up being propositioned by a drop-dead gorgeous Indian lass outside a pole-dancing club. Would I like to come inside and watch her take her clothes off? Now that she mentioned it, I ... Really wasn't in the mood at all. *** I was craving just a tad. It wasn't super-serious, but my intake was up to around five a day and I was becoming slightly worried. That may not sound too many to a proper smoker; when you're used to a pack lasting the week and it suddenly becomes four days, believe me you notice. I was wandering around the studio in a big fluffy robe with my hair wrapped in a towel, having just taken a shower. I had roughly twenty-five minutes before I needed to talc up and squeeze into my catsuit for the only gig of the afternoon. Time for one before the hairdryer then. The street-level doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting any deliveries and I couldn't believe the afternoon guy wanted such a hammering that he was willing to piss me off by being forty minutes early. I looked at the screen and saw a cute Audreyish face that looked on the edge of tears. I buzzed the door open, then went out to lean over the banister and wait until she appeared on the landing below. "What do you want?" "Can I speak to you?" "Not really, it isn't convenient." "Please." "I haven't got long, I'm working." I had an awful feeling I could guess what it was, and God alone knew I'd done nothing on purpose to encourage it. What is it with some women? As soon as they realise you haven't got a penis they assume you're best pals for life. Something had come up, and she thought she could talk to me about it. The point is, outside sex I'm absurdly shy and polite: I don't like to tell them to bugger off. But I'm not cut out for this. I've really only got the one line in agony aunt advice: why don't you tell him to take a hike and let me spank you instead? As it happened ... "What's the problem?" "I've ... It's just that ..." "Sorry, sweetie, but seriously I haven't got all day." "I've missed you." Ah-hah! Step into my parlour then. "Well?" "I'd like ... I can pay." "You?" She nodded. I stood facing her in my bathrobe, looking far too damned cuddly for my own peace of mind. Time was passing. I told her to strip and kneel while I changed into something a little less comfortable. I came back a couple of minutes later in silk robe and leather gloves, with my hair damp and loose all over my shoulders. She looked very white and vulnerable waiting for me. "He know about this?" "No." "Do you want him to?" "Never." OK, to professional ethics. This one, of course, had never come up before. Did I screw around on clients? I hadn't taken his money and fucked her behind his back, that was obviously unacceptable. He wasn't a client any more, was he? The arrangement had been terminated by his choice, almost two months ago. I really didn't have any obligation to a man I had always, when we are quite honest about it, found creepy. I needed a few moments to think, and I was running very late. I muttered the briefest explanation, took her in the back and tied her to my bed. Just in case, I put a personal alarm in her hand and told her to use it only if she completely freaked out there, because I didn't want to be disturbed. Then I left her alone and hurriedly squeezed into my leathers in the study. I barely made it before the buzzer rang again. I took him into my dungeon and got him secured away. He was looking expectantly at the drawer in which I kept my gags, but I went straight past to take a cat from its place on the wall. "Not today, sunshine. Miss wants to hear you be nice and loud this time." Yes, Virginia Ch. 02 Chapter 2 : Pixie. I suppose a little scene-setting is overdue. When you came through my door, you found yourself in a bare windowless anteroom: one wooden chair, one set of drawers; plain lino floor; no pictures or mirrors; no shades on the light bulbs. To the left a door led into the headmistress' study, which did have windows but the curtains were always drawn when I was working. Those two rooms we've already met. Behind the anteroom was a short corridor with one door leading off each side and one at the end. On your left was a sparkly-clean space with lighting bright enough to make you blink: a large shower in one corner and a medical exam room set-up opposite. There were also a couple of doors which were absolutely private to me, leading to the toilet and the tiny converted cleaner's cupboard where I kept fridge, kettle and microwave. Across the corridor from the white room lay the black, my dungeon. That probably doesn't require description, it was exactly what you would expect. Anteroom, study, white and black rooms: these were where I worked. If you came to see me in a professional capacity, we would use whichever of those suited the scene in play. In her previous visits she had been, at least briefly, in all of them. Just like every other paying client, she had been no further. This afternoon I was in no mood for a gentle bringing down, not that my punter seemed to mind in the least. I untied him, and told him to get dressed and get out. He pottered off, sore but satisfied, not quite able to conceal his curiosity at the feminine clothing scattered over the anteroom floor. I had given him a very hard time, although no harder than he wanted, which he had been satisfyingly vocal about. I'd been thinking while I was beating, and although he didn't get me going any more than any other man, by the time he was through I was feeling very hot and randy. I went back to the end door. You did not ever pay your way through that door. Or perhaps I should say you couldn't pay with money, because there was always a price to entry. It was the only soft room in the studio: rugs and warm wallpaper; a comfortable tub chair; gentle lights. The bed was a double – big enough to play but snug enough to always touch. It had a nice firm mattress and thick soft covers, and of course it had a wide assortment of attachment points for my convenience. Those thick soft covers were in an untidy bundle in the corner. She lay on her back on the stark white sheet, exactly how I had left her. Leather cuffs on wrist and ankles held her chained in a tight X from the four corners. The bit gag in her mouth had kept her quiet as she lay bound and open-legged listening to me beat someone else. There was one pillow under her head and another under her bum. I took the alarm from her hand and put it out of reach, then slid the pillow carefully away and lay her head back on the mattress. "Nod your head if you'd like me to untie you ..." Slight but noticeable shake. The last thing I had used next door was the suede flogger that was still hanging at my wrist. I trailed its tongues slowly up the inside of her leg and let their weight rest on her spread lips. "... You can't have what we did before, that's not how I work. I treated you exactly the way I would treat a man, because that was who I was working for. I can't cane or crop you the way I did, not unless you want to explain the marks when you go home. Is that it? Have you had some silly row and want to go home and flaunt your stripes to make him jealous?" More emphatic shake. Very well then, if that's how she wanted it. Entirely fresh contract required in that case. As I said, I like my routines, which is a self-serving way to say I am neurotic and obsessional. This is how it works: I explain, once; I ask nicely if you're really sure about this idea – once. "Women don't pay me with money, they pay with their tongue. There's going to be pain and humiliation and degradation, that's not an imposition from me because that's what you come here for. Giving me head is an imposition, I won't make it romantic and I will expect it every time. If you can't do that for me, get out now and don't ever come back. I don't like to share, I don't like to make allowances, I don't like not to be in control of the situation. You are going to piss me off, if I take you on I'm going to want to hurt you more than I do most people. If I have to be careful about beating you then I'll need to find other ways to hurt, and you might find them disturbing. I am not going to promise to be gentle or to love you, because I won't do either of those things. Nod your head if you'd like me to untie you." No nod, no shake either. She lay on her back for me, passive and unmoving. I reversed the flogger in my hand and rested the end of the handle against her, no physical pressure but unmistakeable implication. She closed her eyes and the closest possible thing to a content smile flickered on the lips held around that gag. "You continue calling me Virginia, just like always. Forget the 'Sir' business, we can think of him as hubby, but I don't want to hear about him. You answer to 'Pixie'." I unbuckled the gag. She tried to work the cramp out of her jaw, but as soon as it was clear I pushed my gloved fingers into her mouth. She choked, her back arched on the bed. Oh Lord yes. It had been far too long since the last failed fling, and I was so bloody frustrated. I pulled my hand out and grabbed her in that sweetest and most powerful of grips: squeezing on both cheeks to open her mouth in a pretty submissive O. Ownership established, I relaxed enough to let her speak. "What's your name?" And please don't misunderstand that. Not now, not when I'm so desperate and horny. Please show me you get the fundamentals. "Pixie. My name is Pixie." I pulled the zip of the catsuit down to my navel. It was, in several senses, a very hot day and my skin underneath was shiny-slick. The sweaty leather scent was as dirty and basic as it ever is. I leant across her face. "Listen carefully to me, Pixie, because you already know me well enough to understand I expect things right first time. I am not your mother or your lover – do not, ever, touch or kiss or lick or suck my nipples unless I tell you to first. You are my slut. You're not special to me. You do not mean anything to me. I will make use of you when I want to get off. I'm not hot and sweaty because I'm breathlessly needy for a lover, it's just a warm day and I've been working hard. Lick me, Pixie: for my pleasure, and because I want that taste in your mouth when I fuck you." Her tongue lapped the length of my sternum, right up into the hollow at the base of my throat. It spoilt all my plans. I was going to make her suffer for five weeks of nail-biting frustration and another seven of sad wistful thoughts every now and again. I was going to give her a long talk and a light suede-tongued flogging on thighs and belly before laying my naked length on top of her and riding the biggest strap-on in my cupboards over the sound of her protests. Until I felt her tongue on my skin for the too-long delayed first time, and I simply lost it. Without any conscious thought I found myself grinding on her bound thigh through my leather; my gloved hand thrusting into her cunt and my teeth fixing on her ear. My cruelty was intact, but the rest of the Ice Maiden seemed to have melted into something less controlled. "No. Please; please don't!" "Don't what? Don't fuck you, bitch? I thought that's why –" "Don't bite so ... Don't mark me, please." I can't have sex without using my mouth, if I'm not biting I'm talking. So I panted some pretty harsh things in her ear, and to my utter delight I discovered she shared both of my sexual fetishes. Power is obvious, that was my job after all, and she wouldn't be here if she didn't want to be controlled. After the slightest nudge from me to put it into play, her voice let go. Why had she come back? What did she want from me? She wanted to be used. She wanted to be fucked. She wanted me to treat her like the fucking dirty whore I made her feel whenever I talked to her. I'd degraded her completely and sent her home to tell hubby but every single thing he did to her afterwards she imagined taking from me instead. She wanted me everywhere he'd been. She wanted me to take possession of everything she'd ever given up and make it mine; she wanted that dildo I'd just mentioned in her pussy and ... I bit her ear and tweaked her nipple before delivering a panting abbreviated version of my standard lecture about never using that word to me again. ... in her cunt then, and her mouth and up her arse. That, and my hands, and anything else I wanted to use on her. She wanted to crawl and grovel and follow every demeaning order I chose to give her. She wanted to stick her tongue in my cunt and lick my clit until I came against her face. She wanted to serve me in any way she could. If I wouldn't let her suck on my lovely tits could she please do it to my toes instead, would that please me? If I wanted to piss on her ... "No, Pixie, that's not my thing. Don't say that." "I'm sorry, Virginia. You just make me feel so dirty and horny. Punish me, please punish me for being so fucking dirty and nasty. Please just fucking hurt me Virginia. Please!" You must have had one of those moments yourself. Everything's wild and intoxicatingly helter-skelter, with the words getting nastier and the bodies getting sweatier. Suddenly you hit some sort of wall, and you just stop in a perfect moment of pure shining physical lust. All was still for a few seconds, with our breath coming short on each other's faces; and that cold distant control was back in my voice again. "You have such a filthy mouth, Pixie." "Then why don't you just use it that way?" Short frantic struggle to peel the leathers off my legs and then I was sitting on her face and calling her every vile name I knew as I wallowed in the feel of her tongue inside me for a gorgeous wild minute of just simply riding her. It was amazing, trippy, sensually explosive; and not the immediate need of the moment. I rocked my hips back; she met that immediate need with her submissive tongue working on me from inside her filthy mouth. I lost the power of speech; I just collapsed into my arms gripping the headboard and moaned my way to the most intense orgasm I'd had for longer than I wanted to think about. I untied her and wrapped the covers round us. Not that I had any complaints about her spontaneous performance, but I spent a long slow time exploring her body and explaining all those particular little touches and services and words that would make Virginia a happy domme. I ran my gloves over her and experimented with things that would hurt a bit without leaving embarrassing traces. I was cruel to her in small teasing ways until she begged me to let her give me head again. The second was slower and less frantic, she spent a good long time licking her way around and getting to know my idiosyncrasies. Then she pulled on her clothes and left. I sat over a More in the study, wrapped in my silk robe, and wondered what the bloody hell I had just done. Yes, Virginia, you've become the other woman. Yes, Virginia Ch. 02 Yes, Virginia Ch. 03 Chapter 3 : Pix. As I said earlier, I've never wanted to belong. I simply do not do 'community'. Give me one or two people with whom I can have the odd chat, and one at any given time to indulge my nastier side, and I'm happy with my books and music. But even I don't live in a complete vacuum, and I had a passing familiarity with others in my line of work. Sally Barclay was something approaching a friend: we were close enough in style to understand each other but different enough not to be direct competitors. It was nice, now and then, to be able to talk sex in the abstract with someone I wasn't doing sex to. She was at the top end of the mainstream dominatrix trade, rather less subtle than me; and she carried it over into her personal life. She genuinely enjoyed all the leather bustier, Nazi peaked cap and 'call me Mistress' stuff that I can't abide. It was her kink, and no business of mine, but I have to admit I thought it a bit of a shame. I idly browsed the gallery on her website one day; whilst the shiny gear left me lukewarm at best, there was one picture of her in a non-camp Victorian governess look that was stunning. If I'd had a subordinate bone in my body, I'd have been round there on my hands and knees at once. Of course I didn't, and we'd never been interested each other in the physical sense. I won't say we weren't interested sexually, because for both of us sex was as much in the head as the groin, and we did play chess every other Wednesday. 'Sally' obviously didn't suit her persona in the least, and she had the taste not to go for Midnight or Viper or any of that nonsense. To almost everyone, she was Mistress Marcella. An obvious but very suitable choice, because her statuesque austerity and severe black hair owed more than a little to Detroit in that video. You know what I am like with names, I was immensely flattered that she expected me to call her Sal. "Mind elsewhere?" There was a distinct trace of the Mistress to her tone. I suppose I deserved it: she invariably won, but it was courteous of me to provide something of a challenge and obviously tonight was too easy. I took a long breath and told her the whole story. When I was done, she fetched wine and gave me a little space to reflect while she reset the board. "So, you're having an affair." "Errr ... Yeah, guess I am." "Sex? Or love?" "Come on, Sal, I don't do love. You know that." "Sorry, poor choice of words. Are we talking about the thing you do that isn't love but you take very personally and seriously; or are we talking about the thing mere mortals do for fun?" Ouch. Or rather not, because there wasn't any real mock to her voice. There was a little light distance because we were onto the type of subject which demands either laughter or tears, but she wasn't laughing at me. "It's not ... It's not what I'm used to. I know she doesn't belong to me, not even for the moment. I've got to be honest, it's bloody hot when we do. Not in the usual way though. Jesus, Sal, I'm a creature of habit and this is weird and different. It's doing my head in." "I really don't know what to say, V. I'm torn between telling you honestly as a friend that I think you'll regret what's coming, and being extremely selfish and bad." "How so?" "I've always respected your boundaries, haven't I? I understand who and what you are, but sometimes I think you might enjoy a little ..." Significant pause as she toyed with the stem of her glass and studied the chess board. Then she fluttered at me with one of the looks that made her a pretty fair living. "... Is she sexy?" "Oh yeah. Very." "Want to share?" Of course I don't want to share with you, Marcella, because that's not remotely my scene. I don't mess about with this stuff: I absolutely and exclusively own them body and soul. I do not ... Send them home to get fucked silly by their husband, do I? I don't screw around, do I? I don't do that stuff – not because it's wrong, which I of all people am not fit to judge – it's simply not what floats my boat. Yet here I am, with my boat bobbing along on all sorts of unknown currents. I never have, even in the drunk and loose whirl at uni' it was always one at a time. Surely you can't imagine I've never wondered ... "Sal, could we open another bottle please?" Yes, Virginia Ch. 03 It's all such good fun: fucking and spanking and taking direct physical pleasure from their body, but this is the bit that truly gets me off. The moment when she does something she really would rather not, for no other reason than that it will make you happy. So she swallowed, and she hesitated just enough to make it perfect before: "Please Mistress Marcella, may I lick your cunt now?" Marcella, naturally, completely ignored her and spoke to me instead. "Very kind offer, V, I don't mind if I do. Small token of my appreciation." She tossed me a ring with three keys on. Each bore a small spot of colour: very organised, no unseemly fiddling and false starts. I had slave stand up and turn round for me to undo the padlocks as Pixie set to work. By the time slave's dress was flapping round her thighs like an apron and the chain dropping free from her, Marcella's reactions were becoming obvious. "I'm surprised at you, V. I wouldn't have thought you would tolerate sloppiness like this." I gave her a very hard look indeed. That was over the line, I knew damn well what she was trying to do, but not with my girl. I don't do that myself, and I won't tolerate it from others, besides which it's an insult to my work. "Horses for courses, Marcy, she's trained to serve my needs and I can promise you she's very good at it." "Sure you don't want to sample mine as a comparison." Or words to that effect, because for all her attempts to insult Pixie's technique her voice was getting breathless and indistinct. Her head went back and her eyes closed, there was a pulse jumping in her throat. Fuck you, Sal: a woman who can please me is more than good enough for someone who calls herself bloody 'Mistress', and don't you ever forget it. "No thanks, I think I'd rather she watched." I pulled slave onto my knee and put my hand between her legs as Marcella started grunted and swearing at Pixie. "Want to give me head, slave?" "Please Mistress." "Not going to happen. The only thing I want from your mouth is you begging me not to hurt you anymore." I knew very well Marcella was a sadist, it only stood to reason that the sub she chose to parade around with her bum on show liked a good beating. Not to mention that I honestly didn't like the way she looked at Pixie, and she had been calling me Mistress all evening. She throbbed round my fingers when I talked about hurting her, so of course I talked about it some more. Marcella erupted at the other end of the table. I pumped my hand into slave hard enough to make her whimper as I made her watch her Mistress coming under my sub's tongue. And I'd just had enough, all of a sudden I simply needed it right there. I barely gave Marcella time to stop bellowing before I pushed slave off my lap. "Come here, Pix. Come to me now ..." She crawled over, face still soaking from Marcella as I guided it between my own legs. I spoke to her in that calm soothing tone that showed I was grateful for what she'd done without needing words that would spoil the moment. "... just make me come now, Pix, there's a good girl." Which, of course, she did. As well as she always did, lapping and sucking and kissing her slow and perfect way to my ecstasy. Except this time I had slave beside me and reacting deliciously to my cruel nature as I was as rough on her breast as I wanted to be. God, I was so fucking turned on by the whole evening that I was on the brink before her tongue even touched me; within a minute the blood was thumping in my ears and my legs were trembling. Marcella got up and walked a little unsteadily over to me. As I've said so often, there's nothing in the world that does more for me than a strong woman. Marcella wasn't physically tough, but she had a muscular enough mind – the woman invariably beat me at chess, for heaven's sakes. She stroked one hand very gently in my hair, and I felt the other resting lightly on the back of my own where I was pulling Pixie's head against myself. There were waves sloshing through me, building towards that explosive seventh that I knew was ... Marcella bent down and kissed me. I came with her tongue in my mouth and my hips bucking on Pixie's face; and I truly could not say which of the two actually pushed me off the cliff. As I lay back in the chair panting, Marcella squatted down and whispered into Pixie's ear too quietly for me to hear. I've a fairly good idea what she said though. Then she straightened up and spoke loud enough for all to hear. "Very good, Pixie. But I think someone is feeling left out." Pixie raised her face and looked at me. As I said, I like strength. She wasn't crying, she wasn't broken. Part of me felt a tremendous warmth for her; another part responded to the challenge. "Is that what you want, Virginia?" "I'm a guest here, I play by the house rules. And you, Pixie, are what I bought Mistress Marcella instead of a bottle of wine. Understood?" She nodded her head and turned to slave, who was still kneeling beside me. "May I please lick your cunt?" Once again slave kept her mouth closed and Marcella answered for her. "No, Pixie, you may not. I don't allow her that." slave stood up; she turned her back to us and bent forward over the table. I'd seen it coming a mile off, of course, but it took Pixie a second or two to tumble. "Please, Virginia, don't ..." "Yes, Pix. We'd both like to watch. Do as you're told, sweetie, or I'll let slave go down on me while I watch Mistress Marcella beating you. And that's not an alternative, we'll just torture you until you beg for it. Right now, Pixie, is your only chance to do without begging first." Pixie crawled over and parted slave's buttocks with hesitant hands. Her head bent forward. It's not really my thing, I've imposed it a couple of times as a disciplinary tool, but it's on the verge of my comfort zone. I was happy to tell her I wanted to watch, less happy to actually do so. I turned away and studied slave's knuckles going white as she gripped the edge of the table and let out a slow sigh of total indulgence. Marcella was watching closely. Her eyes were quite cold and her face set, she looked frankly terrifying. It was the scariest look I think I've ever seen, pure selfish cruelty. I knew it well, I'd felt it so often on my own face. I knew that thick deep voice equally well. "Sure about this?" "She's mine, alright? Take her to the edge, but no further. Don't cripple, don't maim, do not break her." I didn't say the last bit, we knew each other well enough for it not to be necessary. Fuck as hard as you want, Sal, with my blessing; but if you rape her, I will do my best to kill you. She walked off. I told Pixie to stop and come back to me. She kissed my feet, entirely of her own accord. I knelt down beside her and put one arm round her shoulders. Once more that calming voice quiet against her face. I caressed my hand lightly between her legs. She was gaping, I slid inside so easily and she moaned quietly in response. "Listen to me, Pix, Mistress Marcella is strapping up for you right now. She's going to fuck you, sweetie, and she's –" "No. Please." "Yes, Pix, and she's going to do it to hurt. Because she wants to, and I've asked her to. She's going to fuck you and I'm going to watch. I'm going to enjoy watching, Pixie, I'm going to come while she's doing it. I haven't decided yet if it's going to be my hand or slave's tongue, but something's going to make me come while I watch Marcella fuck you. We are not silly little boys like hubby, we are grown cruel women and we enjoy doing this to people. We enjoy doing it to you, Pixie, because it gets us off and because we truly understand how much it gets you off too. You are so fucking wet, sweetheart. Marcella's going to come, and I'm going to come; and sweet subby darling Pixie, you are going to come so hard from what she does to you." I had raised her gently to her feet as I talked to her. Then Marcella was behind her; took her by the shoulders and pushed her down across the table. Pixie let out a long desperate 'nohhhh' as Marcella entered her. What do you expect me to say? That it was too much? That I suddenly wanted to pull Marcella off and carry my sweet Pixie to bed and congratulate her on being so brave and obedient? Sorry, not me. Certainly not back then. More than anything I wished Marcella was a little less into the fetish gear, that she might have wanted to ditch that bustier and do this bit naked the way I would have. She looked so ferocious and regal, I'd have loved to sit and watch the free movement of her breasts with every thrust. I'd have liked to return the oral complement she given me earlier and pay them some attention as she was coming. As it happened, that wasn't part of her plan. She pushed Pixie's face right down against the table and turned her gaze on me as she panted between her own grunts. "Changed my mind. Want some time. Alone with this." OK: I really had meant what I said about her rules. And perhaps I had seen enough after all. I went through into the other room and found slave waiting face down on the bed. "Mistress V." "Just stop calling me that, will you." "I'm sorry, Mistress V, but my Mistress instructed me not to speak to you without saying it. She'll hurt me if I don't." My eye travelled along the top of the chest of drawers beside the bed. Someone – doubtless slave rather than Marcella herself – had thoughtfully laid out paddle, strap, crop and a wide selection of more internal threats for my delectation. "And I think I'll hurt you if you do. Enough now." "I'm very sorry, Mistress V. I don't answer to you." Fair enough point. I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked along her available thigh. "Why does Mistress Marcella want me to hurt you, slave. Or is she just being a good hostess?" "I was insubordinate, Mistress V. When she told me I was going to be used tonight, I begged her a favour. That displeased her, it's not my place to make conditions, Mistress V." I had a fairly good idea, Marcella had obviously been steering me in one direction from the moment the door opened. I suppose I should have been offended at being manipulated, but I wasn't. I did admire her craft. Part of which was doubtless slave's shameful little confession, so I continued playing the game. "Tell me everything, slave." "Mistress Marcella knows how ashamed anal sex makes me feel, Mistress V. I begged her not to let strangers do that to me." I gave her bum a sharp little spank, then slid my finger between her cheeks to press on the sphincter with just sufficient force not to enter her yet. "You're really very lucky, slave, to have a Mistress who understands both you and I so very well." Yes, Virginia Ch. 04 Chapter 4 : Gemma. "Tell me how it feels, Pix." She was on her side, back to me and knee drawn up. She was caressing herself to order. My hand was in her bum and my voice was in her ear, reminding her of the details of our night out as she obeyed every instruction. "It feels wonderful. It's exactly what I can stand, painful but just bearable and it makes me want to come. That's what I told Mistress Marcella. She asked me how it felt when you did that, so I told her the truth. I couldn't lie about it." "Why did she ask you?" "She was fucking me, and I didn't want to enjoy it but I couldn't help myself. You know what I'm like when you do me from behind, and it was so big and she was so deep and fast. And she was telling me what a cheap dirty slut I was, coming for a stranger the moment my own Mistress had turned her back. She said her slave must be getting it in the arse by now; how she'd dangled that in front of you since we arrived and she knew you'd just want to hurt her slave there. She told me how it would give you such a thrill that it was my spit lubricating your way in. She made me tell her how it felt to have you bugger me. I was telling her how good that is when she made me come." "Are you coming now, Pix?" "I'm so close ..." "Alright, my little Pixie, just you listen to me for a moment. Shall we play again? Would you like to invite them here? No answers, Pix, just listen to the questions. Our house and our rules, sweetie; I'd let you string slave up by the wrists and beat her as much as you want. Would you like that? Or would you like me to let Marcella fuck you again? Here in my bed this time?" She convulsed and throbbed round my fingers as she buried her face into the pillows and just screamed out all the frustration and fury. Dear Lord that felt good. Degrading her until she made me come was splendid, of course it was; but degrading her until she came herself ... Pure dominant satisfaction. I gave her a moment to settle before whispering in her ear. "Such a disloyal time to come, my Pixie. You're such a cheap slut." Silence for a moment, and then a hesitant small voice. "Could you hear me?" "The other night? Yes, Pix. 'Oh yes, Mistress, fuck me deeper. Ohhhh yes ...' Heard it all." "I'm sorry." "OK sweetie, time to be serious. Marcy and I get this, I imagine slave does too, but it's a bit new to you so perhaps you haven't worked it out yet. This is all role-play, like I said. You haven't let me down or betrayed me, you haven't had sex with other women. I took you there because I wanted to; I used Marcy and her slave to fuck you with. Just tools to use on you, nothing more." "I wish you would let me call you something." "Nobody calls me Mistress, Pix. I don't like the word. On your back now." She rolled on her back and I straddled her chest. I'm sure she expected me to want her tongue, but I was in the mood for something a little different. I settled myself down over her breast, feeling the astonishing intimate tease of her hard nipple pressing at my cunt; her areola wrinkling and aroused against my labia. I took her hand in mine and pulled her finger to my clitoris. It was still damp with her juices as I started to work it against my own. "If you ever call me 'Mistress', Pix, I will hurt you." I honestly do hate it, for too many reasons to list. I would never let a woman of mine use the word, I would never let my complete power over them be cheapened by that. Pixie wasn't quite mine. We both knew that in the end I was not her mistress. And she really had been so good, she deserved a little treat now and then. "I'd like to serve you both at once. I'd like Mistress Marcella to fuck me again while Mistress Virginia ..." I slapped her face. She gasped and sighed. She rubbed faster on me without any prompting. "... sits on my face. Slap me again my Mistress. Hit me as I make you come." Yes, Virginia Ch. 04 "Good, I think you understand your situation now. Want to lick something else?" "Yes, V." "Always wanted to, haven't you? Always had an urge to find out how I taste when I'm being cruel. Isn't that right, Marcy?" "Please V ..." "Not yet. I don't accept that one; I take it, and you are nowhere near ready yet to be taken. Kiss the front of my skirt. Put your lips on the cloth over my body and think naughty subby thoughts of what you'll do if I'm ever generous enough to make you ..." Lord. That felt bloody good, if she was thinking lurid anticipatory thoughts, she wasn't alone. I put my hand under her chin to give her the hint. "... Up, please. Door at the end of the corridor, you lead." She opened the door and stopped dead. I gave her a firm slap with the crop to push her through so I could follow. My sweet little sex Pixie was tied to the bed in that tight X that suited her so well. She was wearing a black satin blindfold, and her steel collar secured with the antique padlock. I pushed Marcella to the bed and bent her across Pixie's body: knees pressed to the edge of the mattress and hands flat on the far side of her. Marcella's breasts swung down very close to Pixie's belly, and she must be aware of the presence around her, but they did not quite touch. I pushed Marcella's legs apart with my knee and gave her six of the hardest I could lay on her. She was no more used to taking it than I was, six had her gasping and sobbing. I pulled her up by the shoulders and whispered my instructions very quietly in her ear. I didn't want Pixie listening to that: I wanted her to know I was in charge, but not for her to hear the words first time from me. That would spoil it entirely. She had an idea where this was all leading, but I hadn't shared the details in advance. I raised my voice at the end, for the bit I did want to share. "Get on the bed with her. Rub yourself up on that soft thigh and tell her who you are. Do it now, before I hurt you again." Marcella followed my orders perfectly, forking herself over Pixie's leg and cupping her face in a lover's caress as she spoke to her. "Hello, Gemma, it's Mistress Marcella. My cunt's so desperate from Virginia beating me, would you please let me push it against you. Please, Gemma, please let me suck your beautiful breasts." Pixie gasped out a shocked affirmative, and Marcella's mouth and hands went to work on her pleasure. I gave Marcella another cut across her bum, and Pixie felt Marcella yelp with a mouth full of her breast. I bent down, and for the first time between us I gave my Pixie what could fairly be called a romantic kiss on her lips. Marcella begged – she truly abjectly begged – for the obvious next step, and I gave her a few more slaps on the back of her legs while Pixie teased over an answer before granting permission. I sat on the edge of the bed, took off the blindfold and cradled my girl's head so she could look down the length of herself and see that severe domme haircut nestled submissively at the apex of her legs. "You just ride that, Pix, I promise you there's no better feeling in the world. You deserve it from someone who'll do it better the first time than I ever could. Lie back and ride, Pix. My treat: you be just as beautiful or ugly as you want to be." I'll leave it to you to judge whether it's beautiful or ugly, but I have to say I was proud that she took after me. She was, at least this time, firmly in the 'lick my hot cunt, you fucking slut' camp. Until her voice failed her, and she panted and groaned; and as she came I kissed her full on her mouth. I told Marcella to get off the bed and kneel for me again. I pulled her chin up and invaded her mouth as roughly as I knew how with my tongue, thrusting selfishly inside her to plunder every trace of Pixie's taste. I pushed her face down into the rug and made sure Pixie saw me rest my court shoe between her shoulders. I sat back down on the bed and kissed Pixie the way I hadn't kissed a woman since I was in love seven years before. Then I stood up and gave Marcella a good hard slap across her bum before putting my shoe on the back of her neck. "Know your place now, Marcy?" Mumble into the rug. I pulled her upright and tapped the crop under her chin. "Couldn't hear, try again." "Yes, V." "What are you for?" "To please you, V. To do whatever you want." "Gemma would like a bit of uncomplicated rough from a woman who knows what she's doing. She needs it very harsh and dirty when she's in the mood, and deserves to be treated with respect the rest of the time. And what I want is for Gemma to be happy. Mouth open, Marcella, tongue out for your Mistress." Her jaw had already fallen open with shock, but she managed to stick out her tongue like a proper sub. Very gently, I laid the key to that padlock on her dark pink flesh and held her eyes in mine as she fought the urge to swallow. "Treat her right, Marcy, and don't you ever call her 'Pixie'. Leave it on the latch when you're through." I turned round, bent down, and for the last time in my life I kissed her. "Goodnight, Pix. I truly hope it works out for you." As I walked down the stairs, I realised I was crying.