by Gabi Moore
I took the box from him and he slowly stood, head low and hands clasped in front of him. A chivalrous gentleman whose twisted mind and heart simply belonged in another era.
“Little pig, you’ve brought me a gift, have you?” I purred. Without bothering to open it, I walked over to a side cabinet where I made a show of cramming the box onto a shelf already bursting with similar jewelry boxes, making sure he got a good look at all the other gifts my suitors and admirers had given me. I slammed the door unceremoniously then paced back over to him.
“It’s a pity, tough,” I said, examining my fingernails. “I changed my mind anyway. You didn’t have to bring a gift. I’ll still keep it though.”
He stood motionless, like a Zen monk quietly stirring himself into a trance. The last I read, the man before me was worth more than 12 billion dollars. But in my chambers, he was just another piece of meat, another weak, blubbering fool just begging for a smack. Or at least, that’s what he paid me to tell him. Mr. Cane was my third ever client, and the one who had stayed with me the longest. Still, the game he liked to play never, ever changed. It was a game that we both knew well, and one that required me to dress in an over-the-top 50s frock, opera length gloves, peep toes heels and pearls.
I sighed, cracked my knuckles and walked off.
“Follow me, pig” I said, and he scuttled obediently behind me. “The front room is for nice people, not you. Come to the other room so I can get a better look at you. And don’t you dare track mud onto my carpets,” I hissed, and glared at his feet. He followed me into a room I reserved for all my clients who are more titillated by plush upholstery than by steel, and he stood attentively on the rich white carpet.
I looked him up and down.
“Have you been a good boy, little pig?” I said quietly. I was proud of how much restrained violence I could squeeze into those thin words. I should be able to by now, having said them so many times. For a moment, I could almost believe it myself. I could see how this 6’5” billionaire tycoon was, in fact, a ‘boy’ who had tried very hard to be good.
He nodded.
I stepped up close to him, grabbed his chin in my hands and yanked him so he was forced to stare straight into my eyes.
“Why don’t I be the judge of that, hm?” I took a step back to peer at him from his feet to his head. Then I froze.
“Your shirt.”
“Mistress…?”
“Oh, don’t be so pathetic. Your fucking shirt is untucked,” I said, my voice getting quieter but more vicious. I watched as his face turned red. I exhaled loudly and paced up and down the room.
“You’re a slovenly little pig, that’s what you are. But nevermind, if you want to learn the hard way, then you’ll learn the hard way. Go and get your cane, pig,” I said, as though just the thought of having to punish this worthless scrap was irksome enough.
Gingerly, he walked over to a wood paneled cabinet to the side, slowly undid the latch and took out a long, thin cane before closing the cabinet door again. In days gone by, I once brought down a world of suffering on him when he failed to treat my cabinet with the respect it deserved, and he well knew that I would beat him again if he so much as left a smeared fingerprint on anything I owned. He came over and handed the cane to me, palms held open, head hung low.
I snatched it from him, and gestured for him to turn around and assume the correct position. He did. Hands clasped in front of him, head hanging and eyes closed, he waited for me to deliver his punishment.
This was how it always went. I could almost do it all in my sleep. I cracked my knuckles again, spread my weight evenly over my feet and stood tall, readying myself.
“Your pants, boy,” I said quietly, and he immediately unzipped and dropped them to his knees.
I took a deep breath, raised the cane in a high arc over my shoulder, then swiftly brought it slicing down again, the crack against his bare skin the only sound in the room. The rule was that he always got ‘five of the best’, but sometimes I’d make it six if he had been particularly bad.
This time, however, he broke the script and began to moan at the third strike. I froze, the cane held high above my head, my whole body twisted to make sure I was delivering as much force into those strikes as I could. I threw the cane aside so hard it clattered against the wall and fell clean behind one of the sofas. A good dominatrix, you see, must be flexible. She must notice these little things – a downturned corner of the mouth, a change in breath, a sheen of nervous sweat on her client’s skin –and adjust the game where necessary. I could tell it was already time to kick things up a notch and move to the next part of the performance.
I grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round to face me, keeping my fingernails dug in his flesh just slightly longer than was decent. I looked down at his raging erection, poking through the slit of his expensive shirt, and laughed softly.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing? Disgusting. This kind of thing only happens to dirty boys, you know. And you know full well that I don’t permit this kind of filth in my house. Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
He was silent, and kept staring hard at the floor, his cock standing straight up, looking even guiltier than he did. A good dominatrix knows how to bring the best out of her clients, too.
I walked away and settled myself onto the sofa, taking my time to cross and re-cross my legs, giving him a quick hint of what I was wearing underneath. I knew that he only needed to see a half-inch of black lace under my dress and his desperate little imagination would make up all the rest.
“You’ve been thinking about me again, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“I knew it. And tell me, pig, have they been naughty thoughts? Even though you know what the rule is?”
He stood silent again, his stiff cock the obvious answer to that question. I threw my weight back into the sofa and sighed loudly.
“If you were a good boy, you wouldn’t do any of that dirty stuff, but since you insist on being so vile, you give me no choice. That nasty little thing between your legs keeps appearing, and there’s only one way to get rid of it, isn’t there? You may stand in the corner now and relieve yourself. Once you’ve jerked off, maybe you’ll finally have some hope of behaving for once.”
Like he always did at this part of the game, he shuffled over to the corner, trousers still bunched at his knees. There he stood, slightly hunched, and secretly began to jerk off.
I stood up and moved over to him silently, watching how only the muscles in his neck and shoulders gave away the furious movements happening away from my sight. I positioned myself behind him so I was mere inches away from his body, then breathed down his neck as I said, “there’s a good boy, get all of that nasty stuff out…”
Act three of our game moved swiftly on from this moment: I switched over to the sweet and accepting mother-figure, praising my ‘boy’ for obeying me, for standing in the corner and disciplining himself and his shameful body. It’s all in the tease though; I make sure he can still feel my breath on his neck as I tell him that he may only come when I give him permission. Then he comes, I humiliate him a little by making him clean up in front of me so I can be sure he hasn’t missed a spot, then I make him promise he’ll never have dirty thoughts about me again.
But just as I was sure we were on track, he switched things up again, changing the script. I nearly jumped back in surprise when he turned around to face me, full on. A million thoughts burst into my mind.
I was alone at home with a half-naked man and the only thing keeping me safe was the mutual agreement to play one kind of game and not the other. In a split second, I regained my composure, and took two careful steps back. A good dominatrix is flexible. Always in control and confident, never breaking her character for even a moment.
“Don’t hide from me, pig. Let me see exactly what filthy things you’re doing to yourself,” I said, trying to think on my feet. But the moment the words left my mouth I was already
sure they were the wrong ones. What good is it to command something that your subject has already done themselves?
Facing me, I watched as his thick fist worked quickly up and down his cock, but when I looked to his face his gaze caught mine. And I couldn’t look away. He usually cowered. He never looked me in the eye.
My mouth felt dry and I couldn’t think of anything to say. Twice he had broken the script and now I was floundering. All at once, he seemed like a different man entirely. I couldn’t explain why, but he was no longer playing the timid schoolboy. His gaze was fierce and …challenging.
He was daring me.
I stammered on my words as I realized that I didn’t know what he wanted from me. I had been Mistress Morgan for more than three years and for the very first time, I faltered.
“You’re a dirty boy,” I whispered again, the words immediately turning stale on my lips. But the script was failing me now, too. “You’re …I’m going to…”
“Watch me!” he hissed, then smiled at my embarrassment. My face burnt hot. I had no idea what the fuck was happening, but it wasn’t supposed to be happening. I was supposed to jump down his throat now, and threaten to whip him for speaking out of turn, for defying me… but all of that felt like flimsy words, like nothing at all compared to how hard and steely his gaze on me was.
He stroked harder and faster. I felt glued to the spot.
“Come closer,” he breathed, still riveting me with his eyes.
Against all better judgment I did just that, and came to stand in front of him, the hem of my dress just grazing his shins.
“Now, I’m going to cum all over your pretty little dress and you’re going to watch me,” he said, so quietly I almost wondered if he’d spoken at all. My ears whined with the disbelief that this was really happening.
I watched, astonished, as the fat red knot of his cock pulsed in his fist and spat a few thick strings of white onto my dress. Jaw clenched, breathing deeply, he squeezed the remaining drops from the tip and reached forward to wipe his hand clean on me.
We locked eyes again. And in that moment, I could tell that he could tell that my façade had crumbled. It wasn’t a game anymore. And it felt dangerous. Truly dirty, not just pretend dirty.
I swallowed hard and tried to think of what to do next. I wasn’t angry that he had shot cum onto me. I wasn’t angry that he broke the script and put me on the spot. No, I was angry because as he stared at me, he seemed to see it all. See too deeply. He wasn’t meant to see that I was …no, turned on is not the right word. I don’t get aroused in sessions, ever. But whatever it was that I was feeling, I knew that he had seen me feeling it.
I gathered myself, tore my gaze from his, then drew back my hand to slap him hard, across the face.
“If you ever pull a stunt like that you are going to regret it for the rest of your life,” I growled. He hung his head again. Good. Back to the game. The game was twisted and embarrassing and unwholesome …but it was safe. I reached out, grabbed him by the ear and pulled him from the corner, forcing him to come staggering into the center of the room.
I reached behind the sofa to retrieve the cane and returned to him, unsure if I felt angry or scared. Or aroused. No. I couldn’t possibly feel aroused.
“Bend over,” I barked, and he complied instantly. I think I must have caned him forty or fifty times at least. I lost count after the first few, getting lost in the release of swinging my arm down onto his red flesh over and over again, watching the welts raise, turn red and split.
I usually discussed session plans with my clients at length before we tried anything new, but if he wanted to go impromptu, well, then, two could play at that game.
I caned him until the muscles in my shoulder started to ache. I was in a trance, one where only me, him and the cane existed, and I couldn’t help but get carried away, my breath coming in jagged gasps. At last I couldn’t lift the cane another time. I tossed it aside. He stood crouched before me, motionless. I had broken the skin, and for a moment the only thing that moved was a single, syrupy dribble of red from a line on his skin that I had whipped raw.
“I’m disgusted with you,” I spat.
I was disgusted with myself.
And then, effortlessly, miraculously, he came to stand tall again. He carefully did up his trousers and buckled his belt; his expensive Italian tailored shirt slightly crumpled, but once tucked in, giving no indication of what had just happened. He flicked some lint of his cuffs and took his time looking at me again.
“Thank you, Mistress” he said with a smug smile.
I squeezed my hands into fists so he wouldn’t see them shaking. The protocol was that we’d always do session ‘after care’. We’d come out of the scene, put back on the masks of our regular lives, discuss anything that needed to be discussed and part ways on a good, calm note. But I didn’t feel like following fucking protocol right now. I just wanted him out.
“You displease me, boy. But you’ve been punished enough for today. It’s time for you to leave. Go before I change my mind.”
His smile was small and delicate. Not the expression of a man who had just been brutally abused. I avoided eye contact. The session was done and I was not going to allow him to stare at me like that, ever again.
I walked towards the entrance hall and gestured for him to follow me. At the doorway he paused, straightened out his collar one more time and just stood there, waiting for me to release him. I took a deep breath.
“Open ended scenes like that one require a renegotiation of our agreement,” I said calmly. He looked amused.
“Forgive me, Mistress, you seemed more than amenable at the time,” he said with a smirk.
I glared at him.
“The scene is over, Mr. Cane. I’m drawing a boundary here. I’ll be in touch to discuss our understanding. Naturally, the fees will need to be adjusted to reflect any changes.” Here he actually laughed out loud. I had never seen this side of him before. Where was the tortured pervert who wanted to play schoolboy, the one I had known for three years?
I didn’t like this. Not one bit.
“I’d really rather not discuss something so crass as money right now,” he said sweetly.
“And yet, I’m a businesswoman, Mr. Cane, surely a man like you can appreciate that.”
He chuckled again. I was beginning to seriously wish he’d vanish in a puff of smoke.
“You? A businesswoman? You’re more like the product, though, aren’t you?” he said, smiling and waiting to see if he’d get a rise out of me.
I was appalled. He had never spoken to me like this before. I reached out to open the door and frowned at him to leave. But he stood his ground, and tilted his head to look at me like he, too, was seeing me for the first time.
“What happened back there was very unexpected,” he said slowly. “And very humiliating for me. Forgive me, but it seemed as though you were a little humiliated, too? And liked it?”
“Don’t make me laugh,” I blurted, and he smiled in surprise at the outburst, then shrugged and made for the door.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about, at the very least.”
“Leave” I said coldly.
“I don’t understand, I was only--”
“Nothing happens here unless I say so, do you understand? And now I say that you have to go, so you fucking go.”
He stared at his shoes, hand on the door handle.
“You know, Nora, you’re are not as in control of this as you think you are,” he said simply, turned on his heel and left.
I stood staring at the closed door, mouth hanging open for the longest time.
When one hot, prickling tear found its way down my cheek, I quickly smeared it away and turned to walk back into the house, back to my little den. There I slammed myself in and tried to think.
Was I going crazy? Why was I feeling so upset? What had happened back there, really? Why had he turned around, and stared at me like that? I’m not as in control as I think – what’s t
hat even supposed to mean?
I was in a state, but the more I tried to pin down exactly what I was feeling, the madder I felt. I had hit him. Hard. But I felt like the one who had been slapped. He had broken the script, sure, but that in itself wasn’t unusual. I had done dozens of scenes that were far more extreme than that one.
He was an asshole.
And he was wrong.
I was in control.
Chapter 4
Myth: Pro Dommes are just gold diggers in disguise
Reality: Who said anything about there being a disguise?
“Angelica has been a really, really good girl this morning, hasn’t she?” I said and smiled warmly at Angelica, who I know has worn her favorite pink dress especially for the occasion, and then at Angelica’s case worker, a homely social worker who’s been caring for my sister for over a decade now.
My sister never got to meet our mom, but if Mrs. Maeve Williams, MSW PhD. and I had any say in the matter, we were going to make sure she never felt the lack.
I invited them both inside and watched as Angelica raced off to the kitchen to see if I’d bought her any treats. I always buy treats for our weekly visit, but I know she gets a kick out of finding out exactly which ones I’ve bought each time.
“How is she, Maeve?” I said as we walked slowly into the kitchen after her.
“Oh, she’s great. Really great. Look, I’ve put her medication in here, and there’s something she made in art class she’ll want to show you later…” she said and pulled out a crumpled paper from a Spongebob Squarepants backpack and handed it to me. It was a picture of three people. Though Angelica was 32 years old, she still drew like a three-year-old, and drew herself as a three-year-old. She was bigger in the drawing than the other two figures, one of which was clearly Maeve.
“Who’s this?” I asked, pointing to a brown scribble of a person with what looked like brown clouds ballooning from their head.
Maeve laughed.
“Can’t you tell? It’s you!”
