Fem Dom

by Tony Cane-Honeysett

Opening the boxes from Madame X, Tara started trying on her new outfit. First, the black lace panties and then the black silk stockings. One benefit of not having any children to breast-feed meant Tara’s size 34c boobs still looked as perky and firm as when she was a twenty-one year old. She clipped the black stockings to her garter belt. Opening another box, Tara took out the black leather bodice that tied at the front. She pulled hard on the lacing, squeezing her breasts together, upwards and out. They bulged over the top of her corset like two perfect orbs trying to escape. But her favorite item was still boxed. She flipped open the lid and inside were the two longest, shiniest black latex boots she’d ever seen in any fashion magazine. She’d had no choice but to buy them. Tara pulled them up over her stockings and just above her knees. They were so tight and so unbelievably shiny that it made her laugh – they looked like insanely kinky pirate boots.

  As she posed in front of her bedroom mirror, Tara saw herself metamorphosing but she wasn’t finished yet. Next, came the black latex gloves all the way up to her elbows and finally, a Catwoman mask which covered her eyes and the top of her head with two little pointy ears. Damn! She looked hot and decidedly dangerous.

  Transformation complete, Tara postured and posed. She loved how she looked. She felt powerful. She practiced a few kickboxing moves as if fighting off a Ninja attack. What man could resist her? Would Clem even recognize her if he walked in on her right now? Not in a million years. God, what if he did walk in? How would she explain that? It would be a complete giveaway and Clem would know she was on to him. Fearing that ugly scenario, she quickly peeled herself out of her latex and leather and hid the boxes back under the bed.

  At Bodyworks Fitness, Tara signed up for the evening cardio-boxing classes and assumed Clem wouldn’t miss her. So what if he did? She wasn’t concerned about it. Tara was acting like a fighter in training prepping for a title fight. She was more interested in her next lesson with Mistress Krystal that coming Friday than to worry about Clem’s feelings. Maybe it was time he started worrying about her for once, she thought. Anyway, she was still punishing him for not being honest with her the day before.

  Tara beat the crap out of the heavy punching bag that night. She didn’t know a left hook from an uppercut but that didn’t matter.

  Baaam! Baaam! Baaam!

  Sweat streamed down her reddened face. Ringlets of her hair stuck to her forehead as she vented all the bottled up rage inside her. Push-ups, sit-ups and jumping jacks for the next hour left her in a hot, sweaty, sticky mess. She felt tired but she felt strong.

  By the time Tara finally got home, it was a familiar scene. Clem had fallen asleep in front of the TV, an empty bottle of wine beside him. Perfect. She could sneak up to bed without having to talk to him.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was Friday. This was to be the day of reckoning. Tara knew how to find her way to the back entrance of Mistress Krystal’s apartment from Starbucks but chose to park a lot closer this time; on a quiet side street where she wouldn’t be towed. Clem might recognize her black Lexus SUV if she was too close to the apartment building so she gave herself a short walk. Tara wanted to be incognito walking up the iron stairwell to Mistress Krystal’s back door. Though wearing dark glasses with her jacket collar pulled up hiding much of her face probably made her look far more conspicuous than inconspicuous.

  Tara rang the doorbell and was buzzed in to Mistress Krystal’s apartment, her nerves began to jangle. She couldn’t tell if it was fear or excitement. It was early afternoon but at six o’clock, Clem would be showing up for his appointment and that was freaking her out.

  As Tara entered, she could see her tutor prepping the playroom. She was laying down plastic sheeting over much of the floor. Tara stood and watched curiously. Mistress Krystal glanced up at her.

  “Three hundred cash.”

  Tara waved a wad of twenty-dollar bills. Mistress Krystal smiled.

  “I went shopping.” Tara held up the large duffle bag she’d brought with her.

  “Guess you must be serious then. Get changed. Today’s lesson begins in fifteen minutes. This one’s very punctual.”

  “So soon?” Tara said, walking into the kitchen and immediately feeling anxious. Mistress Krystal followed.

  “You can get dressed in the bathroom back there.”

  While Tara got changed, Mistress Krystal grabbed a cookie from a jar and downed it in one bite. She glanced up at the clock as she paced the kitchen floor. Everything was set for her first client of the day. She could hear Tara banging around in the bathroom.

  “Need a hand?” she asked through the door.

  “No, I’m good. Won’t be long.”

  Mistress Krystal checked her own appearance in a mirror then grabbed another cookie while she waited for her newbie student to reappear. The bathroom door suddenly swung open and Tara finally emerged dressed for sexcess. She posed for Mistress Krystal, knowing how fabulous she looked.

  “Well? What d’ya reckon?” Tara beamed, looking for approval. She felt a surge of adrenalin.

  “Hmmmm….you spent some dough.”

  “Not too shabby for a housewife from suburbia, huh?” Tara said, feeling both excited and rather proud of her own commitment to her master plan. Mistress Krystal looked her up and down with an approving glance.

  “Five minutes. Ready?”

  Suddenly Tara didn’t feel particularly at ease. She felt conflicted: empowered by her own striking Amazonian appearance but feeling somewhat idiotic at the same time. What the fuck was she doing seeking approval from this woman? The two of them looked completely out of place in the shabby apartment.

  “I feel kinda silly. Like I’m some sort of extra in a Batman movie or something,” Tara confessed.

  “Embrace it. Get into the part. You’re role-playing and you’re not an extra -- you’re playing the lead.”

  Tara’s stiletto heeled, thigh-high latex boots stepped noisily into the playroom and stage where she would be performing if asked.

  “Why the plastic sheet?” Tara asked with some trepidation.

  “This one’s a pisser,” Mistress Krystal replied matter-of factly.

  “Ugh! That’s….”

  “Disgusting?” Mistress Krystal finished Tara’s sentence.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, but you thought it and I hear your thoughts, remember?” Mistress Krystal taped down the last edge of the plastic sheeting.

  “I was going to say messy,” Tara lied again.

  “I call this one Mr. Winkle,” Mistress Krystal continued without smiling, as she straightened her stocking tops. “Now all you need is some weaponry and a little creative thinking,” she quipped. Tara had never thought of this being creative but then this was like acting out a scene from a movie. Except there were no cameras filming.

  Bzzzzzzz!

  Mr. Winkle had arrived right on time. The two women waited in the kitchen for him to enter.

  A large, tough looking guy who looked to be fifty-something entered wearing jeans and a leather bomber jacket. He walked silently down the hallway and stopped at a side table. He pulled out a fat roll of dollar bills and counted them into a neat pile. For what he wanted, the fee was more. His large fingers placed the notes with an unlikely deftness on top of each other. What Mr. Winkle did for a living was anyone’s guess. Though if Mistress Krystal had vetted him then he was kosher.

  “I thought all your clients were high end,” Tara whispered to her teacher.

  “Don’t judge a book by its cover, Angelina.”

  The two women watched him through the cracked open kitchen door. Mr. Winkle entered the dimly lit playroom.

  “Get undressed! And get on your knees! Wait right there until I’m ready for you!” ordered Mistress Krystal to her bulky male client. She motioned to Tara to stay in the kitchen as she lit a cigarette and took a long drag. She puffed out the smoke with a little cough.

  “God I hate these things.”

  “Then quit,” Tara whispered.
>
  “I never started. It’s in our script.”

  Mistress Krystal took another drag and examined the burning tip. Blowing off the ash, she walked back into the playroom where Mr. Winkle was now kneeling naked in the middle of the room. She took a blindfold off a wall hook and put it over Mr. Winkle’s eyes. He bowed his head as Mistress K took another long drag of the cigarette causing the tip to glow red hot. She stood close then blew the smoke into his face. He inhaled deeply.

  “Have you missed me?” she asked without any warmth in her tone.

  “Yes, Mistress.” His voice was strong and deep.

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  She dragged on the cigarette again and blew more smoke in his face. Again, he tried to capture all the smoke into his lungs.

  “Thank you, Mistress.”

  “I’ve got a present for you.”

  “Thank you, Mistress.”

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Of course, you do.”

  “Thank you, Mistress.”

  Tara watched from the kitchen as Mistress Krystal sucked in another deep breath of smoke. The tip of the cigarette glowed red hot. She blew away some of the burning ash to make it glow even hotter - then she stubbed it into Mr. Winkle’s hairy chest.

  A black circle of ash burned into his flesh causing it to smoke. Mr. Winkle took a deep breath but uttered no sound of pain. The soft sigh he made seemed to indicate he felt a deep-rooted pleasure. Tara pulled an expression of pain on his behalf though Mr. Winkle had no clue he had a secret audience of one watching this strange ritual.

  “Thank you, Mistress,” said Mr. Winkle. “Again, Mistress.”

  His Mistress obliged and fulfilled his request nine more times, leaving Mr. Winkle a singed, scorched mess of burnt chest hair and skin. The smell of his fleshy burns made Tara feel sick. But things were just warming up.

  Mistress Krystal removed Mr. Winkle’s blindfold and replaced it with a multi-strapped and zippered black leather gimp hood. She pulled it over his head and face. Then she buckled the buckles and zipped up the zippers leaving Mr. Winkle unable to see or hear and barely even able to breathe. He was now in a state of almost total sensory deprivation. And that’s how she left him.

  Tara wondered what was going to happen next to the hapless man kneeling in the other room. Mistress Krystal walked back into the kitchen and closed the door behind her.

  “I’ll let him enjoy that for a while.”

  “Can he breathe in that thing?” Tara worried.

  “Barely. I need a cookie.”

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Eat it. This is hungry work. I need something to take the taste of that nicotine out of my mouth.” Mistress Krystal took a bite and looked at Tara.

  “Ready?”

  “For what?” Tara asked. She had no idea what that meant but it was too late to ask as Mistress Krystal returned to her client in the playroom. Tara gulped as her tutor motioned for her to join them. She quickly checked her appearance in the mirror like someone about to go for a job interview, then duly obeyed.

  Her stiletto heels banged slowly across the wooden floorboards like two small hammers. Feeling horribly nervous, she approached the unseeing, unknowing, unsuspecting Mr. Winkle. Mistress Krystal handed her a wooden paddle.

  “Here. Take this.”

  Tara gripped the handle tightly. She had never had any desire to play Ping-Pong let alone smack anyone with a wooden bat but that was a bit late now.

  “Hit him!” ordered Mistress Krystal, sounding like a cruel Nazi commandant giving an order. Tara looked at the hooded Mr. Winkle kneeling naked before her. She could smell his burnt flesh.

  “Where?” Tara mouthed silently while holding the paddle in the air.

  “He can’t hear you. He’s in his own world now. Just hit him anywhere. This is what he pays me for.”

  Tara swung the paddle and hit Mr. Winkle’s shoulder.

  Smaaackkk!

  It was a fair whack but not sufficient to make him budge or utter a sound. Mistress Krystal was unimpressed.

  “I said hit him, not tap him. He won’t get anything out of that. Do it again. Harder this time,” she demanded of Tara.

  Pulling her arm back further, Tara swung the paddle down on Mr. Winkle’s fleshy thigh, making a loud slapping sound.

  Thwaaackk!

  Again, no reaction from Winkle.

  “Harder!” yelled Mistress Krystal. Tara took a wild swing and crashed the wooden paddle down hard.

  Whaaammm!

  Mr. Winkle moaned softly.

  “That’s better. You’re getting the hang of it.”

  Tara felt bad about the whack but also somewhat pleased that her teacher and Mr. Winkle seemed to approve. Mistress Krystal paced slowly around her client. Was this what Clem liked? Tara’s mind raced as her thoughts abruptly jumped to her husband’s impending arrival at six o’clock. What were his requests when he came here?

  Her hand stopped swinging the paddle but Mistress Krystal was quick to reprimand her.

  “Don’t stop! Another six strokes should warm him up,” she snapped, as she turned away to study her collection of whips and floggers on the rack behind them. “Go at it, Angelina.”

  It seemed both Tara and Mr. Winkle were under the control of Mistress Krystal as they were now doing whatever she demanded of them. Tara did as she was instructed with each stroke of the paddle coming down harder and harder. Mr. Winkle’s thighs and back were turning redder and redder with each strike but he seemed a very willing subject. Mistress Krystal took the paddle from Tara and handed her a small whip.

  “Here. It’s all in the wrist.”

  Mistress Krystal demonstrated how to twirl the leather flogger. Tara seemed to handle it like a pro, flicking the knotted tips back and forth against Mr. Winkle’s wide and visibly sore back. Grabbing her client by his hood straps, Mistress Krystal pulled him up to a standing position. Mr. Winkle’s large frame stood willingly in the middle of the floor, naked except for the tightly bound gimp hood that prevented him seeing, speaking or hearing. Every breath sounded like a gasp reminiscent of Darth Vader. But this wasn’t science fiction – it was as real as it gets and it was obvious that Mr. Winkle was struggling for air.

  “Flog his chest,” Mistress Krystal ordered. Tara duly obliged, spinning the flogger rapidly. As the tassels whipped his flesh, Mistress Krystal abruptly kicked Mr. Winkle hard between his powerful thighs, slamming him in the crotch. He let out a muffled yell.

  “Ooophhh!”

  His knees buckled. Tara stepped back immediately worried that Mr. Winkle might be seriously hurt. He composed himself and stood upright again, still moaning in obvious pain. Mistress Krystal kicked him hard in his nutsack again.

  Thhwaackkk!

  Mr. Winkle doubled over, reeling in pain once more. Tara stared nervously at the two of them, not sure how this was all meant to play out. “Okay, stand back. Here it comes,” warned Mistress Krystal.

  “What?” Tara’s eyes widened as Mistress Krystal swung back her stiletto and let fly.

  Baaaaaam!

  The third kick opened the floodgates and Mr. Winkle’s winkle sprayed the room with a spout of urine. Mistress Krystal stepped out of the way of the stream while Tara ducked for cover.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Whether Mister Winkle had orgasmed or not was a matter of conjecture. Though that was the last thing Tara cared about. She was far more concerned that her expensive hand-stitched leather bodice hadn’t been pissed on than giving any regard to Mr. Winkle’s level of sexual satisfaction. Mistress Krystal pushed her client’s head down, forcing him to sit in his own excreted body fluid. She unbuckled the straps that covered his ears.

  “You’re a dirty boy!” Mistress Krystal scolded. “A dirty, dirty boy! Lick it up! Lick it all up!”

  Tara had seen enough. She walked out of the playroom and back into the sanctuary of the kitchen. She pulled off her Catwom
an mask and paced the room. Mistress Krystal followed a few moments later.

  “Did you have to make him do that?” Tara asked her teacher, repulsed by what she’d just been part of.

  “It’s in the script,” Mistress Krystal said, wearily. “That’s why he comes here. It’s the same every time -- cigarette, wood paddle, golden shower. I need a towel.” She opened a cupboard door and grabbed several towels and rags from a stockpile. She dried herself off as Tara peered back into the playroom to see Mr. Winkle still down on his knees slurping up his own piss. Mistress Krystal tossed the damp towels into the playroom and closed the kitchen door.

  “Now what?” Tara asked.

  “Nothing. Show’s over. Tea?”

  “Er…yeah, I guess.”

  Mistress Krystal filled her teakettle with water and turned up a burner on the electric stove. Tara sat at the kitchen table and shook out her hair.

  “Personally, I don’t like the golden shower stuff but I sure prefer it to scat. I draw the line at that kinda crap, pardon the pun.”

  “Huh?” Tara responded innocently.

  “Pissing is called ‘golden showers’. ‘Scat’ is when they shit. Had a client once who wanted me to take a dump on him. Another liked to smear his own poop all over himself. I’ve got my limits.”

  “Why do they want to do it in the first place?” Tara sneered in utter repulsion. “That’s not sexy!”

  “It’s not always about sex, hun. A thousand bucks for an hour’s work? It’s good money for some. This is a business, remember?”

  Back in the den of iniquity, Mr. Winkle toweled himself off, got dressed and departed, no doubt still smelling of his own urine.

  Tara was still trying to process everything. “How did you ever get into this line of work? I mean, it’s crazy.”

  Mistress Krystal handed Tara her tea and raided the cookie jar again. “Long story short -- I was going to be a nurse. Maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago. Dropped out of college in my final year to run off to Florida with a guy I thought I was in love with.”

  “Were you?”

  “I dunno. Anyway, that was a dumb move. He was a dreamer -- code for loser. We had great sex and nothing else and that don’t pay the rent plus Tampa’s a miserable fucking place. How anyone lives in that heat and humidity down there is beyond me.”