by JA Huss
She’s wearing a mask. Bedecked with rhinestones, it fans out in an arcing swoop beyond the sides of her eyes, and the way it sits across her defined cheekbones causes it to almost seem like her face is not her face, but a floating complement of cheeks and lips levitating in the air below her disguise. The hint of Myrtle is there, but this is another person entirely.
And on top of her head, she wears a tiara. Diamonds, and rubies, and sapphires. And they all appear real.
In her gloved hand she holds a shiny silver riding crop.
Simply, she looks like what I imagine Marie Antoinette might have looked like beneath her courtly palace attire. Stripped clean of the artifice of propriety, underneath, a body perfectly built for punishment. She is a portrait in contradiction. Pleasure and pain. Hardness and softness. Abuse and mercy.
I gasp in a breath because I’ve completely forgotten to breathe since I laid eyes on her.
Out of instinct, I move toward her and in a flash, she has stepped to me first and raps my stomach with her riding crop.
“Ow! Fuck!”
“You may not enter until you have been given permission to enter,” she says.
OK. Here we go. “Yeah, all right, fine. May I enter, please?”
“You may not.”
“What? What’re you talking about? Why not?”
She walks over to the chest and picks up a what looks like a studded dog collar with a chain attached. No, check that. It doesn’t look like one. It is one. Yep. That’s what it is all right.
“Here,” she says, handing it to me as she steps back over.
“And I’m supposed to…?”
“Put it on.”
“What?”
“Now that the dungeon is in its properly appointed state, a slave may only enter once they have made themselves bare and given themselves to me. Entering bare is a sign of your willingness to submit. The collar is the mark of my ownership. Now put it on.”
“So… get butt-ass naked and put on a dog collar. This is what this is? I mean—”
She lowers her head. I can’t expression from behind the mask, but when she lifts her head again, there is a resolve in her eyes.
“Pierce,” she whispers, “if you make me count to three again I will blow out all the candles and you will be dismissed. Decide now. Because after this moment I will not tolerate insubordination. It will be an insult to my authority and a sign that you think me a joke.”
I look around the space. I think of the time it took her to put all this together. I look at her. This is not an incidental thing. This isn’t something she just threw together. This is who she is. This is a part of her. This is the kind of thing that we used to joke about and kid around over, but here, in this moment, I realize that this is a genuine part of what makes Myrtle Myrtle. A part of her that I always thought was kind of something to take the piss about, but that is, in fact, a mighty measure of her as a woman.
We’ve been kind of dipping our toes in this ocean the last few days. Feeling each other out. Playing cat and mouse, in a way. But she’s right. Either we’re doing this thing or we aren’t. Either I’m giving over to Myrtle or I’m not.
This started out as one thing. For me this started as a way to give Myrtle what she wants. Then it became another thing. A game that we were kind of playing. Then another. A sensation—an experience I’d never had—and it kind of turned me on.
Now it’s suddenly something else.
It’s real.
It’s real life. It’s something that matters and that, if I’m going to enter into, I shouldn’t do so lightly.
And so…
I stand, naked, and face her. It’s still hard to read her, but I can see her eyes drift down to look at me. All of me. Her boss. Here. Exposed. In front of her.
I take the dog collar and clasp it around my neck. And then, because in for a penny, in for a pound, I kneel down and land on all fours on the floor just behind the rope.
I look up at her and say, “Yeah. We’re doing this.”
She stares at me, silently, and after a few long moments, I ask for the permission I must.
“So… may I enter, please? Mistress?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - MYRTLE
Submission is all about psychology. It’s a state of mind. And even though he’s naked, wearing my collar, and down on all fours, this state of mind hasn’t hit Pierce yet.
We’re doing this. It seems like submission, but it isn’t. It’s a direct affront to my authority in this dungeon.
Being my slave isn’t about his willingness to give in. It’s about trust and respect.
And he’s going to learn that lesson first.
“Did I tell you to get down on all fours?” I ask.
He looks up at me. “No, but I figured this was a good way to show you I’m serious.”
I turn on my heel and take three steps. Then turn again and take three more. I stand in front of him, my legs slightly parted. He looks up at me with a smile.
I smack his ass with my crop.
“Ow, shit!”
“Did I tell you to think, slave?”
“No, but this is what you’re after, right?”
I smack him again, and even in the candlelight I can see the red mark appear on his buttocks.
“Jesus, Myrtle!”
“You will call me Mistress,” I say.
He sighs, hangs his head, and then looks up at me.
I smack him one more time.
“Fuck! What did I do?”
“Did I give you permission to look at me, slave?”
He clenches his jaw, bows his head, and growls, “No, Mistress.”
I smile. But only because he’s not looking at me. “Well done. Now stand up so I can look at you and decide if you’re worthy.”
He grumbles as he stands, head bowed, eyes down. And then he takes a deep, deep breath—and waits.
Well, well, well. Pierce is quite the specimen.
I know he works out. I was in charge of his calendar for seven years. He goes to the gym five, sometimes six times a week.
And it shows.
He is a tall, lean man. I don’t think I realized that before this moment. His broad shoulders are perfectly muscled, his biceps well proportioned. There’s a curve—a dip, if you will—as the muscle thins out and then rises again just before ending at his elbow.
I circle him slowly. Catch him watching me from the corner of his eye until I disappear and stand behind him.
If he does that tomorrow I’ll punish him, but tonight I’ll let it slide.
My hand falls to the red mark on his ass and I begin to rub it. “I’m sorry I had to punish you.”
His back inflates as he takes a deep, deep breath.
I continue to rub the mark. “But I had to, slave. You understand that, right?”
He stands up straighter when he realizes he has to answer me. “Um. Yes… Mistress.”
I press my body up to his back, leaning in to smell his cologne because I can’t help myself, and then press my lips up to his neck and whisper, “Very good.”
I stay like that for a moment, letting him decide what to do next.
He stays silent.
So once again I whisper, “Very good.”
I rub the short riding crop up and down the outside of his thigh. Tracing the outline of his muscle. My other hand reaches around his waist, flat against his stomach. I let it slide down. Just a little. Just enough to bump into the base of his cock.
I can tell he’s already getting hard and I wish, for just a moment, that I didn’t have the gloves on.
If I were really training a slave I’d punish him for that too. I’d let him know just who owns that cock of his by putting it in a cage.
But I’m not training him. This is nothing more than an entry-level session that ends on Friday and then he’ll never be back. And I have plans for him tonight so that level of commitment isn’t required.
“Are you ready to give yourself to me?” I ask, pulling away fr
om him and continuing my circle. I stop right in front of him, legs wide apart, and slap my palm with my crop.
“I’m ready,” he breathes. Looking down, I notice his cock is fully hard.
Hmmm. I honestly didn’t expect Pierce to get turned on so fast. I must be slipping. In the old days I’d have my new slave far too frightened to even be thinking about fucking.
I slap the side of his thigh with my crop.
“Fuck! Mistress,” he says, correcting himself.
I smile and turn, slowly walking across the room towards the bed. “You’re a very quick learner.” I turn to face him again. “Look at me.”
He lifts his head up and meets my gaze.
“What do you see?”
The way he scrunches up his face in confusion makes me want to smile. He wrestles with his answer for a few seconds, then says, “A very beautiful woman?”
There’s no snark in that reply. In fact, it comes out quite sincere. So sincere I have doubts. Not about his reply, but about what I’m doing.
He’s showing me a vulnerability that will change my opinion of him forever.
But I’m showing him mine too.
I don’t think I’ve ever considered that before. Not with the other men I used to take down to my dungeon, at least.
He’s seeing a part of me I didn’t want seen. I’m not embarrassed of it. Not at all. But I left the lifestyle behind. I thought I was done with it for good.
And now here I am.
With my boss.
I realize he’s looking at me funny. I realize the silence has gone on too long. I realize… I have to make the next move.
It’s suddenly hard. Being in control.
And to be sure, I’m almost never out of control, even in the old working relationship Pierce and used to have. He was always the boss, but I was boss junior. I could order him around if I needed to. I could say, “Cancel this lunch, you have an unexpected appointment.” Or I could say, “Stop being a dick to your subjects, they respect benevolence.”
And he’d listen. He’d skip lunch and take the appointment. Or he’d calm down and forge a new way forward with whoever was giving him problems.
But I’ve never been in control of him like this. He didn’t have to take my advice, he just did it. And I wasn’t barking orders at him, I was simply giving suggestions.
We were partners. We were a team of two.
And we don’t feel like partners anymore.
I turn away and stare at the wall.
“Myrtle?” he asks. “You… OK?”
I don’t think I can do this.
I don’t think I should do this.
“Mistress?” he says.
It’s not that I feel rusty or somehow incapable. I’m quite capable of making him submit. It’s just… I don’t think it’s going to make me feel better. I don’t think, that when this is all over, I’m going to feel better about things.
I think I’m going to feel worse.
I spin on my heel and open my mouth to tell him to get dressed and leave, but he’s looking at me. Nodding his head. Just a little nod. Very slight. But it’s definitely a nod.
Is he reassuring me?
I spy the bottle of wine I was drinking earlier. I thought it would be enough, but it wasn’t. It’s forbidden to get drunk in a dungeon. It’s just… not done. But I had a long afternoon. I spent hours getting everything ready. I needed a little extra courage and now I know why.
I shouldn’t be doing this… but I am.
I walk over to the bottle, pour myself half glass, and drink it down. The warmth fills my stomach and radiates outward. I pour another half a glass and do it again.
What could he possibly be thinking right now?
And then I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking, She’s gonna give up. She’s gonna give in. She’s gonna let me out of this stupid game and—
“Lie down on the bed,” I say, turning to face him again.
He steps forward, hesitantly, at first. But then I grab the chain attached to the collar he has on and tug at it. He walks over to the bed. I circle around him, still holding his leash, and allow him to slide onto the bed and lie back.
I stare at him. At his cock, lying across his stomach. Fully hard.
He’s turned on. He’s waiting for me to do something. He wants this.
“Now turn over and spreadeagle.”
He hesitates. I yank on his leash. And then he turns over, lifts his arms up, hands stretching outward toward the bedposts, and then spreads his legs.
The wine is hitting me. I feel loose now. Ready to begin.
So I drop the leash, walk over to the bed, and begin restraining him. I tie the long silver satin ribbons around his ankles like I’m securing a ballet shoe. Making sure they lie flat, that there are no wrinkles, and that they’re tight enough to let him know he can’t move, but not tight enough to cut off his circulation.
I do the same to his wrists. I don’t look at him, even when I’m on the side of the bed he’s facing. I just concentrate on my job.
When I’m sure he’s tied down properly, I walk over to one of the candelabras, pluck out a candle out, and walk back over to the bed.
“I’m going to show you how pain is pleasure.”
He sucks in a long breath of air, eyes on my candle.
Then I climb onto the bed, position myself between his legs, and watch his face carefully as I tilt the candle until the hot wax drips down the inside of his thigh.
He hisses. But my hand is there, peeling the already hardening wax off his skin. Gently caressing away the pain.
He closes his eyes. Relaxes.
But this time I drip it onto the underside of his hard, round balls and his eyes fly open as his chest comes up off the bed. “Jesus Christ!”
“Shhh,” I say, peeling the wax off. Letting my palm ease around his balls so I can take away his pain.
He closes his eyes again, clenching his jaw, waiting for the next drip.
I tilt the candle over his lower back this time. Hold it like that, letting drop, after drop, after drop spill down and make a line across the dip where his back meets his ass.
I don’t peel it off this time. I let the wax harden, trapping the heat.
This feels good. I know it does. I’ve had this done to me before. It was a reward. And I know he likes it, so he’s very relaxed when I drip it onto his balls again.
“Fuck,” he hisses. His chest rises and falls. Just a little faster than normal.
I don’t reward him for that. I drip onto his inner thigh, letting the wax run down his leg, then the edge of his buttocks, so that it comes perilously close to dripping into his ass, but doesn’t. It lands on his balls again.
“Goddamn it!”
I take his mind off the pain by peeling the hard wax off his back.
Or not. Because it pulls on his skin, leaving a bright red mark, and he wriggles frantically, looking over his shoulder at me with a glare.
I smile and shrug. Then I drip wax across that same line, only this time I peel it off before it’s fully hardened, and softly caress him. Making him forgive me.
OK. I can do this, I decide. I’m feeling better now. Maybe it’s the wine or maybe I just needed to get over that point of no return. I’m not sure. I just know… I’m having fun. And I think he might be too.
So I lean across his body, letting the satin covering my breasts slide along his back as I place my candle into the waiting candlestick. Then I get back in position, take off my long gloves, and reach forward, palms sliding all the way up his back. I drag my fingernails down his taut muscles, not hard, but not softly either, and caress his ass cheeks.
“That was very good, slave,” I purr. “You did very well.”
He smiles a little. Pretty proud of himself. He probably thinks we’re going to fuck now. He probably thinks I’m as turned on as he is and hey, this isn’t so bad. Submission is pretty damn cool.
But then I say, “Now it’s time for the paddle. Because you
’ve been a bad, bad boy.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - PIERCE
The collar hurts. The ties around my wrists are tight and tugging at the skin there. The wax on my back, ass, and balls fucking stings. My cock throbbing and pulsing into the sheets as it fills with blood is uncomfortable and I can feel it in my lower abs.
I love it.
Which brings me to an actual problem. Do I let her know that I love it? Do I show her how much joy this new experience in my life is bringing me? Do I stop thinking about it right now and give over to the moment?
Or. Does that undermine the very point of this exercise? The intention of this entire agreement was that by letting Myrtle have a certain amount of ascendancy over me, she would feel vindicated and we could start figuring out how our relationship might look anew.
Jesus, that’s fucking weak.
What a load of shit. There’s no version of any of this where that story holds water. Our dynamic was fractured by me and nothing can put Humpty Dumpty back together again. But all I guess I really wanted was for a new relationship between us to not be shitty. Because, God knows, this is definitely a new relationship already, and there’ll be no repairing what comes of it.
The only thing I can hope for is that it goes ahead and just breaks us into a million tiny shards, and then perhaps we’ll be able to pick up the ones that won’t cause us to hurt too much and build from there.
Speaking of hurt.
“Oh, fuck!” is the muffled sound that escapes my lips as I bite into a pillow and shake my head back and forth. My fists tighten and my forearms pull against the satin ropes. The smack of the paddle hitting my ass rings in my ears as I half-cry, half-laugh silent puffs of air out of my lungs.
Hazarding a glance over my shoulder once again, I see the paddle in all its glory. It’s formidable-looking. A foot long, black, with the word BITCH in red lettering etched into the part that I presume just made contact with my suddenly tingling ass.
She puts her finger to her lips and whispers, “Shhhh.”
A couple of small moans escape my throat as I nod to show her that I’ll behave. This seems to satisfy her because a tiny grin lands on her lips and she moves toward me. She places her hand on my ass and begins to rub the sting away. Her thumb slips down into the inside of my thigh and rubs against my semi-wax-covered balls. I moan longer now, burying my face in the satiny pillowcase.
