The Scarlett Letters

by Jenny Nordbak

  If I fuck up, I did it on purpose.

  I was glad he couldn’t see me. I was wincing along with him. Where was Scarlett the sadist when I needed her?

  When only the pin on his balls remained, he was panting and pulling his legs together to protect himself.

  “Spread your legs,” I commanded.

  “Maybe we should just take that one off,” he pleaded, and I found I was amused by his fear.

  “Maybe…” I said, but I swung the crop down and smacked where the clothespin was attached to his testicle. I hit it squarely, but it didn’t come off. I whacked it two more times, and got part of it off, but now it was just hanging at an awkward angle. Wes howled in indignant pain.

  “I thought you liked CBT, slave?”

  “I thought I did too! Just take it off! Take it off!”

  I knew he meant for me to unclip it, but I couldn’t resist hitting it one more time. The clip finally flew through the air. Wes relaxed a little, but was flexing his hands and shaking slightly. I glanced at his balls and saw I had drawn blood.

  Bleeding nut sac wasn’t part of the plan. Whoops. I’m the Mistress. I can’t make a mistake, right?

  I unhooked the rope from the door and led him to the bed. I retied his wrists above his head, pulled up the pillowcase, and kissed him deeply, grinding against him to get him aroused again.

  “Ever tried hot wax, slave?” I asked playfully, wafting the flame along his side so he could feel the heat.

  “Mmm, no, Mistress.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “Maybe you’ll enjoy it more than your punishment,” I teased, brushing against his boner.

  I held the jar of the candle aloft and poured its contents over his stomach. His reaction was a little more dramatic than I had expected. He yelled like I had lit him on fire, and then kept yelling, struggling to get his hands free.

  “Get it off! Get it off!”

  I had poured it over his belly button without thinking, so it had pooled there and overflowed onto his stomach where it started to solidify. He was freaking out so much, I knew I must have either done something wrong or he was a giant pansy. I moved to untie him, but was laughing so hard I lost my balance and fell off the bed, landing in a giggling heap on the floor. Once I freed his hands, he frantically swatted at the still-hot wax, but it was caught in the hair that dusted his stomach, so now he was ripping hair out to get it free.

  “Well, that didn’t quite go as planned,” I said, looking up at him sheepishly.

  “No shit!” he replied, but I was relieved to see he was still smiling.

  “I swear I tested it on my thigh first to make sure it wouldn’t be too hot!”

  “Yeah, but then how long did you have it burning before you used it on me?”

  “About an hour,” I admitted, beginning to realize my mistake. In the jar, it had continued to get hotter, and I had poured a much larger amount on him than I had on myself, so it didn’t cool as quickly. I was embarrassed by how terrible I was at being his Mistress, but was determined to soldier on.

  “We’re not finished yet. Get in the tub,” I instructed him. I expected him to argue, but he immediately lay down in the tub and grinned up at me.

  I bolstered my confidence by telling myself that I couldn’t accidentally maim him any more with a golden shower. I stripped naked while he waited in the tub. I wondered if I could have left my clothes on so that there wasn’t this lull, but I didn’t want to risk getting pee on leather, so it seemed safest to take everything off. I didn’t really know how the mechanics of it were supposed to work. I had envisioned standing in the tub with him, but now that he was in there, I could see that there wouldn’t be room for me to do it that way. Instead, I put a foot on the edge of each side of the tub and balanced over him. I felt extraordinarily exposed. He was looking directly up at my lady bits, gazing at them with intense anticipation as he stroked himself. I looked away from him and stared at the tiles intently, willing myself to start the flow he was so eagerly waiting for. I stood for agonizing moments, trying to block out the sound of him panting and wanking. When I finally started to feel the unmistakable pressure, I looked down triumphantly, and squatted a bit so I didn’t splash over the side. As soon as I did, we made eye contact. That distracted me completely and I lost the flow without even managing to squeeze a drop out.

  I could hear the insecurity in my own forced laughter as it echoed off the tiles. I looked up, took deep breaths, pictured running water, and tried to forget that my boyfriend was underneath me masturbating. Nothing was working. I was now desperate to go, but couldn’t seem to get it out. My legs were starting to shake from balancing, and I felt stupid and totally defeated.

  He gazed up at me adoringly and asked, “What’s the matter, Mistress?”

  I fucking suck at this. I can’t make it work. I don’t know if I can make the switch and be your Mistress.

  I silenced the doubts before they came tumbling out of my mouth. The despair was turning to frustration, which gave me an idea. I had been adhering strictly to my plan and nothing was going right.

  Fuck the plan.

  “Who the hell said something was the matter? Maybe I’m just teasing you because you don’t deserve a golden shower yet. In fact, who gave you permission speak?”

  I sat down on one side of the tub and considered my next move. He was still stroking, and it pissed me off. It was a reminder that he was still waiting. I channeled it and punched him lightly in the balls. He moaned and sped up his pace. I punched him again, a little harder this time.

  He groaned out, “Squeeze them…”

  I bristled at the command, but went with it. I wrapped my hand around his sac and squeezed.

  “Harder!”

  I obliged, gripping with almost full strength.

  “Harder!”

  He was sweating and panting. He moaned deeply as I tightened my grip a little more. It felt like his balls were going to pop. He cried out and came hard all over my hand and arm.

  “Holy hell, that was amazing!” he said, and collapsed back with a contented sigh.

  “Wasn’t sure whether you’d be okay with all of it,” I replied. It was as much as I felt I could say. I wanted to apologize for all the things I had fucked up and look for reassurance that I had done okay for our first time, but that wasn’t part of the game. I could decompress with the girls later. With him, I needed to be sure of myself.

  “If you’d asked, I would’ve said no, but in the moment, it was one of the hottest things anyone has ever done.”

  “Well, I’m glad it worked out.”

  “Me too … I can’t wait to see what you come up with next!”

  It was then that I started to understand one of the difficulties in being a Dominant. You are expected to decide what is going to happen with your partner at all times. That part would be fine. The challenge is in balancing pleasing yourself and pleasing them since they won’t necessarily line up perfectly. I was turned on by being in charge, but the idea of peeing on him didn’t do anything for me. I was willing to do it because it excited him, though. In that way, Dominants are subservient to the pleasure of their submissives, since they will do things merely to please them. There are some hard-core Dommes out there who say the pleasure of the sub is irrelevant, but I think that’s ridiculous. No one is going to play with you if you don’t care what they’re into. If you’re in a loving relationship, then there has to be give and take.

  * * *

  I filled the girls in at our next shift at work, and they laughed and laughed at my mishaps. When things don’t quite go to plan, at least it makes for a good story. When we had stopped mimicking Wes writhing in pain as molten wax filled his belly button, I sought more advice on how I could do better.

  Storm had noticed something I overlooked, pointing out, “You should give him a safe word next time. Even if you’re playing at home and it’s no big deal, you should be in the habit of using a safe word.”

  “Make it something fun that c
an be your signature as a couple. Dom and his wife always use ‘Sasquatch’ when someone else plays with them,” added Raven.

  “I use ‘Rasputin,’” said Storm, rolling her r beautifully. “That fucker had a fourteen-inch cock.”

  “How about ‘Cuntosaurus Rex’?” Raven suggested.

  “Perfect!” I agreed, suddenly remembering something I had been wondering since talking to Wes about what his fetishes were.

  “Raven, Erin said you can fart on command for Doggie Dan. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but Wes evidently is into women farting in his face. How would one go about doing that?”

  “Totally easy! You’re gonna love it!” she exclaimed as though I had asked her for a cookie recipe. “I just fake it and they can never tell the difference.”

  “You fake farting? Like you make the sound with your mouth or just tell them you did it and they use their imagination?”

  “I just queef and they can’t tell where the air is coming from,” she said matter-of-factly.

  I sighed. “I’m just going to keep urban dictionary open when I’m around you from now on.”

  “Good lord, girl, how prim and proper was your childhood? A queef is a vagina fart. You use your stomach muscles to suck air into your vagina and then expel it, making it sound like your vagina is farting. They can’t tell where the air is coming from, and you can make fantastically juicy noises that drive them wild.”

  She demonstrated, lifting herself up from the couch slightly and then making a cartoonish farting noise. She did it two more times before we were clutching our sides in laughter.

  “Your turn!” she said.

  I wiggled and squirmed, but couldn’t find a combination of muscle movements that would achieve what she was describing. I wasn’t the only one struggling. Two other subs had deeply thoughtful looks, and Storm was turning red in the face from the effort, but none of us were emitting any noises from our nether regions.

  Storm stopped to catch her breath and squealed, “I’m scared I’m going to pee myself!”

  “Lie down flat on your back! It makes it easier to get it the first time.”

  We continued our efforts lined up in a row on the floor.

  “Now, lift your butt up a few inches, and try to push your stomach muscles up and out.”

  There was a sucking noise as I successfully drove air into the orifice. I started to laugh, which pushed the air back out and made it sound like I was ripping ass. I was inexplicably embarrassed, even though I had done exactly what I was trying to do. Perhaps I was a little more “prim and proper” than I liked to think.

  “Nice! You’ve got it!” cheered Raven. “Now practice it a few more times upright so you can do it while sitting on his face.”

  Coach Raven turned us all into queefing pros before the afternoon was over. Then she made us all swear never to reveal that we were faking it. The power of the fantasy was in allowing them to believe it was real, and she wouldn’t have us ruining it for anyone.

  16. SLAVE TRAINER TOM

  The weeks flew by and I found a strange rhythm at the Dungeon and the jobsite. I was actually finding my stride faster as a sex worker than a glorified secretary. I had more spanking sessions, another tickling client (who actually found my ticklish spots), and a bizarre variety of other fetishes. I had been a pony and a naughty housewife. Pretended to be dead. Danced around to ABBA in a purple raincoat. Purple was key. I discovered the wonderful world of food fetishes when I got to do a cake-sitting scene. Cake sitting needs little explanation. My client brought huge cakes with colorful frosting and had me collapse down onto them, squishing them with my behind. It was the kind of silly fun you aren’t usually permitted to have as an adult. I got to pretend to punish and ultimately stab pool floaties, and my client moaned in delight as the air seeped out of them. I had one regular who brought note cards with him and nervously psyched himself up in the bathroom before each session, and sometimes during the scene when he forgot what was next. After my struggles with Wes, I had a better understanding of the pressures faced by those in charge. Even clients who were paying for the pleasure got nervous without a plan. It must have been intimidating for some of them to play with a professional submissive.

  I had shadowed a few more Domme sessions, but had mostly been too busy with my own clients to spend much time in other people’s sessions. I had clients who had tried to pay me absurd amounts of money to do a variety of things that broke the rules, always swearing that no one would ever know. Thankfully, I wasn’t desperate enough for money to need to consider any of their offers. I would know, and there’s the rub. I told Erin about one of the offers I had declined and she told me something that resonated with me the rest of the time I worked there: “You could spend that cash on the way home and it wouldn’t mean anything. But what you do in that room will stick with you forever.”

  I played with Harvey twice a week like clockwork, and through a combination of my ass literally toughening up and learning to manage him better, his sessions really weren’t that bad. We found an odd balance of him pushing me and me learning to maintain control—topping from the bottom is what it’s often called. Once I mastered this skill, I got to be a bit of a sassy submissive. I didn’t want to be doing it and felt like I had learned about as much as I could learn being on the receiving end of things. I craved power and control like I had never craved anything. My clients didn’t have much more to teach me as a sub. But I still had more to learn than I could have imagined.

  I was in the dressing room practicing knots (the finer points of rope bondage—or Shibari—had thus far eluded me and it was going to take a lot of practice before I would be comfortable doing more than a simple wrist bind on a client) when the intercom buzzed that there was a client here to interview subs and Switches. There were six of us available at the time, so we lined up outside the interview room and one at a time walked in and introduced ourselves. I found this to be one of the stranger rituals at the Dungeon. There was no way to know what a client was looking for, so my plan was usually to just walk in with confidence and poise and hope for the best. For the more desperate girls, this could be a frustrating process that led to misplaced jealousy being directed at the girl who was eventually chosen, even though she usually had no more control than they did.

  It turned out that this client was a regular named Tom. I found it funny that no matter how creative our clients’ sessions were, their fake names were always as generic as they came, especially compared to the exotic names that the girls assumed. We had so many Bobs, Eds, Harrys, and Toms that we always had to add a qualifier so we could distinguish between them: Tickle Ed or, in this case, Slave Trainer Tom. Just once, I wanted a client to walk in and tell me that his name was Thor.

  For the last few months, Tom had been playing strictly with a Switch named Lydia. I hadn’t interacted with her much, but that was partially because she struck me as catty and I tried my best to avoid drama. Lydia didn’t realize that Tom was going to meet the rest of the girls instead of doing their regular session and she was visibly fuming as we made our way down the line of introductions. I found myself not wanting to be chosen simply so I wouldn’t end up in the middle of it—which I would come to learn almost always meant you would be picked.

  Tom narrowed the field down to Lydia, a sweet black sub named Minx, and me. It was all part of the game for him. I think he liked the idea of us squabbling over him, so he deliberately tried to pit us against one another. He lined us up in the interview room and paced back and forth, as if inspecting different cuts of meat.

  “I came here tonight planning to play with Lydia, but I just have to play with Scarlett instead.”

  The look Lydia gave me on her way out made it clear that she placed the blame for this turn of events squarely on my shoulders.

  The motivation behind a client picking a particular girl from the lineup tended to be as varied as their fetishes. It was simply one of the great mysteries of working at a dungeon. I later asked Tom why he had
chosen me that night. He said it was because I was wearing a corset that was lacy and reminded him of something they might have worn in The Tudors. I had some guys tell me it was just because I was pretty. Others said it was because my eye contact was sharp and challenging. One client told me he had picked me because I was wearing a ponytail and he had never been caned by a girl with a ponytail. Sometimes it was something they saw in the pictures we had online, or the color our toenails were painted that day. I think women have a hard time understanding the nuances of male attraction.

  So Tom had picked me for my Tudors-like corset, and now he informed me that he was going to “train me.” His fantasy was that he was the head slave trainer for the sultan in a faraway fantasy land. He wore a full costume of flowing robes and a massive turban when we played. It was always fun when a client owned their role-play enough to dress up and be theatrically over the top.

  Tom was a bombastic man who claimed he was a big-shot writer for television shows. I was always torn about whether to believe him or not. He was so imaginative and detailed in his fantasies that it seemed plausible that his job involved creativity. He clearly had money to throw around, so it would make sense that he was successful at said job. The fact that he was so creative, though, made me think that he was inventing that profession as part of his fantasies as well and that he was really a repressed accountant or something. We saw a lot of repressed accountants.

  That night, we played in the den. He started by dimming the lights and having me strip down to a thong. He then had me stand in the middle of the room perfectly still with my hands above my head while he inspected his new purchase. He walked slowly around me in circles, occasionally brushing his fingertips over the different parts he was inspecting.

  “You are a truly remarkable specimen, and I don’t say that very often,” he commented. I doubted the part about his flattery being infrequent.