Mistress/slave relationships often crash and burn. Slaves are usually far from slavish in their demeanour, often demanding far more than they deserve – or offer in return.
“Do I really have to care about someone’s emotional health just to get my dishes done?” asked Ruby, another Dom who is always looking for slaves to manage her domestic chaos.
Indeed so. You might as well be married, my dear. So this must also be in praise of Tracy, a good-looking bloke who makes a better-looking woman. And actually behaves like a slave, instead of an Argentinian dictator whose shoes don’t quite fit. As many of his rivals do. Tracy’s thing is forced feminization. Punished in panties. But it is doubtful whether we should use words like “punishment” for this process. It often appears to involve a greedy little slut getting what he really wants. Or it may be having a licence to be a slut for a few hours. Even better, someone else is forcing you to do it. So you get to do what you want, except that it is someone else’s fault. No more decisions, or responsibility. A holiday from who you have to be to cope with the outside world.
I first knew Tracy in the context of a five-way exchange of sexuality in a night club. She was on all on fours offering herself to those approved by Madam Petra. It was hard to ignore Tracy’s immaculate rump, two peach halves immaculately clad in flawlessly white panties. Tracy arrives at clubs looking like a sixties’ pop goddess; thigh boots, mini-skirts, hair reminiscent of Sandie Shaw. As a French Maid, dressed for service, she is even more attractive. It sometimes seems a shame that someone of refined birth and exquisite manners should be lumbered with “Tracy” (it’s a tribute to a former mistress).
But perhaps this humiliation is exquisitely painful for such a delicate flower, a further way of revelling in being downtrodden. Tracy managed to serve Petra and I tea, behaving impeccably despite Madam Petra’s lewd banter and wandering fingers. But it wasn’t long before her impossibly high standards required that punishment be administered. Perhaps she thought Tracy was flirting with her guest. The little minx did seem to be over-hospitable with Madam’s gentleman caller. And Madam does not like being ignored, even for an instant. There is only one God. And her name is Petra.
“It is obviously far too long since I have punished you,” said Petra. “You filthy little slut.”
“Yes, madam. Thank you, madam.” Tracy leaned forwards, offering herself, big eyes imploring.
Petra smiled, all too familiar with her slave’s little fads and fancies.
“I know you want to be over my knee,” she said. “But this is a punishment. Your head would be far too close to my shiny black stockings. It would be far too easy to drink in Madam’s scent.”
We were already gratefully aware that Madam was wearing Angel by Thierry Mugler. And that it was floating around the room on a cloud of sex hormones pulsing from her gorgeously fleshy body. Tracy turned away from the face she so adores and bent to touch her toes. Madam flipped Tracy’s skirt up and patted the seat of her knickers.
“I’m relieved to see you have grasped the concept of whiteness at last. My arm ached for two days last time. Not as much as your bottom hurt, though, did it?”
Someone else was with us now. A firm but fair matron who will stand no nonsense. Petra can credibly impersonate Marilyn Monroe, a stuck-up duchess, a Victorian streetwalker, wenches in general and teenage minxes in particular (with choice of regional accents and accurate period detail. Favoured epochs: Victorian, Restoration, Dark Ages). And her bossy lady with slutty little slave is absolutely flawless. But then so it should be, after all these years.
She checked Tracy’s posture, straightening one of her legs before patting the seat of her knickers approvingly. She reached for a wooden spoon, an implement chosen to emphasise domestic servitude as well as an effective tool for inflicting bruising, scorching pain. She stood and measured the spoon against her target, using it on each cheek in turn, taking time out to examine her slave’s flushed face, to pinch her nipples. The punishment became more intense. Soon there was a fierce red glow visible through the thin white panties. Although Tracy was silent her breath came thick and fast. There was an occasional sigh as the spoon thrashed the same spot repeatedly.
“You may stand,” murmured Petra eventually. She was flushed, a faint moist glow on her formidable cleavage.
“Thank you, mistress,” said Tracy, sincerely. She curtsied as Petra has taught her, although there was the occasional unavoidable squirm as Madam’s lecture continued. Finally she held the spoon for her to kiss. Eyes downcast, Tracy planted a long kiss on the implement before Petra took her chin by its point and tilted it upwards. She stared down at her slave for a while, imprinting her dominance deep inside her. Then Petra clutched the bulging erection in Tracy’s knickers, kneading and massaging the throbbing mound while the sighing slave jiggled from foot to foot. We watched her hop for a while. It was entirely cute.
“You may rub yourself,” granted Petra.
Tracy mewled in relief as she strived to lessen the harrowing sting in her well-beaten bottom. It was some time before she recovered her composure. She then needed considerable strength and endurance to comply with the rest of Madam’s most unreasonable demands. Never able to forget that failure meant another punishing session with the wooden spoon.
When Petra was satisfied she had pushed her slave just that little bit further than last time, she gave Tracy some more domestic tasks. And we were free to talk once more. Assam tea arrived. A strong, full-bodied brew. Just right for a strapping lass like Petra. It even sounds like s/m. As we sipped at its dark strength I asked Petra if I could write a story about her.
“I thought you were burnt out,” she said, with a smile appropriate for this piece of self-pitying amateur dramatics. “Why write ‘another erotic story’?” I let her mock me for a moment. Which is fair enough, considering how much material there is to work with.
“It might be nice to bring a beautiful woman alive,” I said, hoping that it would please her. She smiled. And glowed. And we felt the space enclose us. Sometime, somewhere, we are always together. Exchanging fragments of dreams and whispered prayers. In the long, slow, sweet dance of love. Warmed by a pussycat smile.
Stage
Mari Ness
“I want to get fucked on a stage,” she said, extending a long, graceful leg towards him, curling her toes. He took the foot, bringing it up to his mouth, and examining the toes carefully before putting it back down.
“Hmm,” he answered.
“Thoroughly fucked.”
“Where?”
“Stage centre. Three feet from the edge, so they can see every tiny, juicy detail.”
“They?”
“The audience. Five hundred of them, maybe. A select group.”
“Do they know you?”
She considered that for a moment, drawing her feet up under her, fiddling a bit with her sweater. “No. I’m a complete surprise to them – they haven’t even been told what’s going on.”
“What stage?”
She bit her lower lip, played a bit more with her sweater. “Hmm. Well – I guess the Winter Garden Theatre. Where they’re showing that musical – ‘Cats’. You know, maybe I can even get all those various hunky cats watching. Maybe licking themselves or something.”
“Real realistic.”
“What’s not realistic about it?”
“That you could ever get a booking at the Winter Garden while that show is going on.”
She sighed, moved her hand towards her left breast, pinching it a little under the sweater. “Oh. OK. Well, some other New York theatre, then. Medium size. Lots of showy lights that can go off and on, depending upon how excited the light guy gets.”
“Is he going to get excited?”
“When you start ramming me, yes. And even before that. This isn’t going to be a fast thing, you know.”
“Oh, am I included in this?”
“If you want to be,” she said. “But you’ll have to be incredibly ready. Incredibly horny,
incredibly hard. I’m going to be using you, hard.”
“How?”
“Well, the show’s got to last – what, two hours? You won’t be fucking me all that time, of course — ”
“Do we get an intermission?”
“No one will want one.”
“I don’t know,” he said, putting a doubtful tone in his voice. “I’m not entirely sure you’ll be able to keep up.”
“You’re the one that has to audition for this.”
“Haven’t I already?”
“That wasn’t on a stage, though.”
“Why don’t you just give me my stage directions?”
Her lips pursed again. “OK. This is Broadway, right? So, you come on. You’re dancing. Just like it’s a regular Broadway show. You’re doing – I don’t know – ‘Forty-Second Street’ or something like that.”
“You have to be kidding.”
“It’s not for very long. The audience is like – what is this? Because of course you don’t dance well – ”
“Understatement – ”
“But then you suddenly stop, and as the music is playing, you slowly take off your shirt. To the beat of ‘Forty-Second Street’.”
“And the audience falls over laughing.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do. Start over.”
“Anyway, as you’re dancing, I come out on the stage. From the left. I see you, and I giggle, and I announce that you’re going to have to pay for that.”
“God.”
“OK, I don’t really. I see you, and I start to breathe hard. I let the audience see my chest moving, and I move a hand up to my throat and start to unbutton my blouse.”
“You’re wearing a blouse?”
“Yeah. Black. Silk. And a long skirt – black. It flares out. And fishnet stockings, of course.”
“No originality, huh?”
“What’dya mean?”
“Never mind.” He shifted his chair so that it was touching hers, so that he could reach out and touch her body simply by extending his wrist. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Anyway, I tell you that since you can’t dance on the stage, you’re going to have to dance all over me with your tongue. Artistically, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The audience judges. It they think your tongue’s performing well, they’ll clap, and then you can go on to the next section. But only if you do it artistically.”
“How can you tell?”
She shook her head. “I won’t be able to. That’s exactly why it’ll be up to the audience. I explain this, letting the spotlight shine on me as I tell them that they’ll have to watch your tongue dancing all over me and tell me how good you are. A few of them giggle nervously – they’re not really up to this kind of thing – but a few of the others get real hard or real attentive. They take a long look at me, and they start to clap when I take off my blouse.”
“How?” he asked, flicking a hand close to her chest, almost, but not quite, touching her. He brought his hand back and placed it on his thigh.
She breathed hard, swallowed, then touched her tongue to the top of her lip. “What do you mean?”
“Are you just ripping off the blouse, or taking it off slowly?” His fingers began stroking his own thigh, lightly, gently. She saw him; he watched her eyes widen slightly, stare at his legs.
She breathed deeply. “Slowly, I think. After all, this is Broadway, and they’ve been promised quite a show. So I undo the buttons one by one, staying with the music.” Her hands danced down to her own thighs, touching them briefly before returning to her chest, to touch her sweater where buttons might have been.
“What am I doing?” he asked, continuing to run his fingers up and down his legs.
“Watching. You’ve stopped dancing, of course – although you’re still tapping your feet. But, like everyone else, you can’t take your eyes off me. You start to pull off your shirt, and come up behind me. When your shirt’s off you put your arms around me. I lean into you, and you begin stroking me with your hands, getting me ready. My nipples jump to attention.”
“Like this?” he asked, moving his hands to his own chest, making swift circles around the nipples, and suddenly pinching a nipple, hard.
“Yes – but slower. Much slower. I want this to last, after all – I want the audience to get ready with me. I want them to be getting excited and – ”
“And this gets you ready too damn fast.” He suddenly moved one hand away from his chest and snapped his fingers together, grinning. She shook her head; she almost laughed, but she recovered herself, keeping her hands on her breasts.
“Exactly. So I step forwards, pushing away from you a bit, and suddenly turn to the side, so the audience can see you clearly. The spotlight suddenly shines on your pants. You’re bulging. You look at me, and I nod. I can’t have you too uncomfortable, after all, and I let you take off your pants and your boxer shorts. The spotlight illuminates every single detail. You’re huge – huger than you’ve ever been before, you’re so turned on.”
“Am I?”
She nodded. “Three of the women in the front row pass out.”
He laughed. “Stop it.”
“No, really. They’re, like, nuns or something. Anyway, I let the audience take a long, slow look before I pull you to me. You’ve got work to do, after all. I point to my breast.” A slender finger on her left hand pointed at a breast as a thumb moved towards the nipple, stroking it. “You’re so turned on that you forget about the whole thing – that your tongue’s supposed to be dancing over me. Instead, you grab the breast with your whole mouth, taking in the entire nipple, and begin sucking on it. I let you do this for a bit – it feels pretty good, after all – before I remember the audience. I push you off.”
“Ooh,” he said, with a pathetic pout.
She put her hands on her legs, rubbing gently. “I remind you that your tongue’s supposed to be doing the dancing, not your teeth. The audience laughs . . .”
“Are we miked?”
“Yes. So they can hear everything we say or breathe. Anyway, they laugh, and then I let you start working on my breast again. Only this time, you just use your tongue, nothing else. I let us swirl around a bit so that the audience can see every angle.”
“Right. You’d be moaning helplessly and you know it.”
“I would not.”
“Right.” He flicked a careless finger towards her right nipple. She gasped, almost on cue. “I know you, remember? Since when have you ever been able to focus on anything once I’ve even noticed your breasts?”
“If that were true, I’d get nothing done. You’re fixated on them.”
He gave her a long look, touching his tongue to the top of his lips as she took a deep breath and allowed her hands to wander back to her sweater. He hid a grin. Not that everyone would notice, but she had moved one or two fingers under the sweater – and they were wandering towards the edge of her panties. “True. Not that anyone can blame me . . . So, you’re on the stage, moaning, I’ve got my tongue dancing over you — ”
“In rhythm – ”
“Rhythm?” he said, unable to move his eyes from her dancing fingers. He lifted an eyebrow. She smiled back.
“ ‘Forty-Second Street’ is still playing. The sound guy’s so turned on that he’s forgotten to change the music.” The fingers moved a bit lower.
“I glare at him.” He had, he realized, his own problems now. But he couldn’t stop watching those fingers. And – she couldn’t be. But she was – three fingers slipped in, even as she kept on talking.
“No, you don’t. You’re dancing your tongue over me, over my breasts, my nipples, my stomach – over every single inch. You’re trying to make me beg for you. But I’m managing to hold it in — mostly. I let out a few moans, and the audience starts to clap. You suddenly grin, and remind me: if the audience claps, you get to go on to the next stage.”
He watched her fingers moving up and down ju
st inside her jeans, even as her other hand continued to play with her breasts. He covered up his groan with rapid speech. “Which means that I turn to the audience and shout, ‘Right?’ and they all scream back at me. Right?”
“Pretty much. You yell out to the audience, and they start clapping and cheering. You grin back at me, and ask me if that was artistic enough. I can’t really come up with any witty repartee – I just moan, and the audience cheers. I spread my legs out wide – sorta like an Olympic gymnast – and let everybody have a good long look.” In the chair, her legs opened, gaping; her fingers snuck out from under her jeans and moved back to the tops of them, still rubbing lightly. “I hold that for maybe 15, 20 seconds, even while you’re panting behind me begging me to let you fuck me. The audience is loving this – a few of them are even cheering you on, or cheering me on, telling me they want a longer look, even while most of them are remembering that they are on Broadway, after all. So they just clap politely.”
“They’re clapping politely?” He allowed his fingers to trail over his own erection, never taking his eyes off her.
“You can’t stand it. You’re hearing the audience and seeing my legs spread and hearing your own voice begging me to let you fuck me and all of a sudden you go nuts. You grab me and move me forwards and suddenly ram into me from behind. You pull my butt up, getting me into doggie position. I can’t resist; you’re filling me up so hard and so well that all I can do is hang on to the floor. I groan, and the audience is cheering.”
“Oh, yeah.” He kept his movements as slow, as discreet as possible, but she saw him, and gave him the tiniest of grins.
“It totally, totally gets you off. You keep pounding into me, going deeper, deeper, shouting out to the audience how hot I am, how tight I am, how no other woman could ever do this to you. I don’t let you stop. I make you keep going and going — every position, every angle, left, right, front. You on top, me on top. Doggie style, sideways – you name it. For hours.”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2 Page 41
