“I know it feels good,” The Mistress said to Dante from her chair near the bed, “but don’t forget, no coming. Just the girls, not you.”
“I promise I won’t. As long as she comes, that’s all that matters.”
“Oh, she’s coming,” Cassie said as she bucked her hips harder against him, using him like nothing more than a dildo that just so happened to be attached to a human body. Dante cupped Cassie’s breasts as she moved on him, teasing her nipples until they were bright red and swollen. “She is definitely coming.”
“Take your time,” Dante said from underneath her. “I can stay here all day....”
He moved one hand between their bodies and found her clitoris. He pressed up against the tight bud and Cassie gasped. She’d promised she was coming and she hadn’t been lying. With a cry they probably heard in the dungeon at the end of the hall, Cassie climaxed on top of him.
She rolled onto her back and lay there panting. Pointing from Simone to Dante, Cassie rasped, “Go get him.”
Simone required no more encouragement.
“Did you come?” Simone asked as she straddled Dante’s chest and sat on his stomach.
“No.”
“He doesn’t have permission to come,” The Mistress chimed in from her chair. She should have brought her book with her to work on while the kids played. She’d remember that for the next gang bang. “He hasn’t earned it yet.”
“You heard the lady,” Dante said, smiling up at Simone.
“Good. I want to fuck you, too. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Even from her corner of the room, The Mistress could hear the happiness in his voice. Not pleasure. Not desire. Happiness. Being used by women made him happy. And the ladies weren’t complaining, either.
Simone stripped him of the rest of his clothes.
“Can we tie him down, Mistress?” Simone asked as she pulled a new condom out of the box.
“Not this time. He’s a newbie. Gotta save something for the sequel,” she said. She and Dante hadn’t discussed his feelings about bondage
“Oh, fine.” Simone sounded playfully disappointed. “Cassie can hold him down then. That okay, Devon?”
“You won’t hear me objecting.”
“Good boy.” Simone gave him a patronizing couple of slaps on the cheek like a proud Italian grandmother. Looked like Simone might have a bit of a Switch side to her.
She pushed him into her and started riding him while Cassie held him by his wrists, pressing him into the bed. As strong as he was, he could have easily escaped the clutches of the girls, but The Mistress had a feeling that getting away hadn’t even crossed his mind. After a minute, Simone pulled off him, turned around and started to ride him reverse cowgirl-style.
“Do you actually enjoy that?” The Mistress asked. “That is my least favorite position. I feel like the cock’s poking my damn rib cage.”
“It’s kind of weird,” Simone admitted. “But he’s a good size for this position. Not too big, not too small. You have to tilt just right or it does hit the wrong spots.”
“Are you enjoying it?” The Mistress asked Dante. A trick question.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “As long as she is.”
“Spoken like a true sub.” The Mistress beamed with pride.
While Simone continued riding him, Cassie swung around and straddled his head. Now he had his cock buried in Simone and his tongue buried in Cassie. If he died underneath those two women, he would, at the very least, die a happy man.
Whatever that magic tongue of his was doing to Cassie certainly seemed to make her a happy woman. And Simone wasn’t complaining, either, as her hips pumped against him.
“Ladies?” The Mistress interjected. “Not to interrupt but he’s not going to be able to warn you he’s about to come if his tongue is three inches inside Cassie.”
Cassie sighed heavily as she moved off Dante’s face.
“I guess you’re right, Mistress. I’ll wait my turn.”
“Oh, sit on his face all you want,” The Mistress said. “He just needs a ducky. Bottom drawer.”
“Ducky?” Dante said, panting as Simone kept moving on him.
Cassie dug in the second nightstand drawer and pulled out a squeaky toy duck.
“Ducky,” Cassie said, putting it into Dante’s hand. “Squeeze it if you’re getting too close. That way I know to get off. I mean, get off you.”
“I’m holding a squeaky toy duck in a dungeon while two women fuck me and a Dominatrix supervises....” Dante said as he stared at the ducky in his hand. “This is not how I imagined my day ending.”
“Really?” The Mistress asked. “It’s exactly how I imagined my day ending. Carry on.”
Cassie sat astride Dante’s face again. He went back to work on her with gusto, and with gusto she came a few minutes later. Right after her orgasm, he squeaked the duck in a warning. Simone sighed and dismounted from him.
Dante lay on the bed as he breathed through his nose, no doubt trying to settle his arousal.
“Simone’s not going to get herself off,” The Mistress reminded him. “Someone’s got to do it for her.”
“I volunteer.” He raised his hand in the air and the girls giggled. “Suggestions?”
“She likes fingers. Oh, even better.” The Mistress disappeared into her dungeon and returned with a vibrator. “Sanitized and fully charged. Go get her.”
Simone threw her legs wide open and Dante teased her with the vibrator while Cassie watched and assisted. When done, Cassie expressed an interest in some double penetration. Dante lubed her up and penetrated her anally while Simone pushed a condom-covered vibrator gently into her vagina.
An hour passed as Dante took turns bringing each woman to orgasm...with his hands, his mouth, his cock, and then back through the gamut again. By the time each of them had come three times, they were all exhausted, sweating and barely mobile.
The Mistress gave the three of them a round of applause and promptly kicked Cassie and Simone out of the room. With much grumbling and complaining, they put on their clothes and kissed Dante goodbye. Of the three, he alone had not come during the sex. He remained rock-hard and smiling.
Once alone again, The Mistress sat back down on her throne and beckoned Dante to kneel at her feel. Naked and aroused, he did as told.
“You had fun being a fuck toy today, didn’t you?”
“That’s the best sex I’ve had since high school.”
The Mistress tapped her chin. “Now that’s a sentence you don’t hear very often.”
“I’ve had a lot of bad sex since high school.”
“Was it bad or was it just not what you wanted?”
“Not what I wanted. But tonight, with them? Oh, my God...that was perfect.”
“We can do it again sometime. Maybe work some bondage in. Make you into a real sex slave. Get a real Domme in here to do you. How does that sound?”
“I think I’d like that, Mistress.”
“Would you like to come for me?”
“Yes...so much. Please.”
“Come for me then. Wait...no. Say ‘please’ again.”
Dante looked at her with humble beseeching eyes.
“Please...please, Mistress.”
“Okay, go for it.”
He stroked himself while she watched with a raised eyebrow, daring him to impress her. Closing his eyes, he moved his hand faster on himself as his breathing grew more ragged. A minute passed...another...
“Having trouble there, Cock Star?” The Mistress asked him.
“I’ve never done this in front of somebody before.”
He kept stroking but without coming.
The Mistress rolled her eyes.
“‘Head Like a Hole,’�
� she said. Dante’s eyes popped wide open.
“What?”
“My favorite Nine Inch Nails song,” she confessed and gave him a wink.
Dante came in seconds. She handed him a moist towelette, noticed the amount of semen that had landed on her rug and handed him two more.
“You do know Trent Reznor,” he said as he cleaned himself up, a broad smile on his face.
“I’m a child of the early nineties.” She extended her leg so that her foot hung in the air two inches from his lips. He kissed her boot reverently. “Eddie Vedder and my right hand gave me my first orgasm.”
“Mistress...I think I’m in love with you.” He kissed his way from her toes to her knee.
“Well,” she sighed, “you’re only human.”
END OF SESSION
So I was right about Cock Star. First of all, there was no video shoot. Total ruse. Dante had been dying for years to explore kink but didn’t feel safe or comfortable enough to come to us as a client or seeker. He needed the cover. Thankfully he’s feeling better about his desires now. I see him once a month and Cassie and Simone see him every chance they get. They might be submissives but even they can get on board with a male sub that wants nothing more than to give them as many orgasms as humanly possible.
He’s turning into a fantastic male submissive. I have two Dommes banging down my door to collar him. But I think I’ll keep him to myself a little while longer. Needs more training. Plus he’s rich as fuck and leaves amazing tips, including concert tickets.
Speaking of concerts, I went to his most recent show at Madison Square Garden. Pretty good music... The Black Sheets are no Pearl Jam, just for the record. He debuted a new song at the show. It’s called “Bootkisser” and contains the lyric “I’d rather kiss your boot than let them kiss my ass.”
Wonder where he got the inspiration....
The Mistress Files #4
The Case of the Secret Switch
By Nora Sutherlin
-CONFIDENTIAL-
For Kingsley’s Personal Files Only
Only you, King. Only you. Well, if you insist. Here we go.
Stats: White Male, age 44.
Level of experience: Whatever is one level higher than “has done every kind of kink ever invented.”
Occupation: I’m not even going to justify this question with an answer.
So...let me tell you a little about him. No, not yet. I can’t start with him yet. Let me tell you about me.
As a Dominatrix, you never know whose ass you’re going to kick today. It might be an eighty-year-old foot fetishist who wants to get in one last good rub before kicking off to that big shoe rack in the sky. It might be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company who needs to be punished for all the naughty things he did to his employee’s pension fund that week. It might be some sweet kid, barely eighteen years old, who pretends to be all nice and normal and vanilla with his friends when they ogle the girls at strip clubs, but at night boots up the fetish porn and jerks off to pictures of women in eight-inch stilettos walking on the backs of bound and gagged men with leashes around their scrotums. He doesn’t know what he is, but he knows I can show him.
The fetishist, the freak, the fearful...I love them all. I’m one of them so I know how they feel, I know what they need and I want nothing more than to give it to them. For a price, of course. In this world, money imparts value. The only way to cheapen the sacred acts I perform would be to give them away for free. I see all kinds and I do all things and I get paid well for it. Yet even with this endless revolving door of precious perverts, I get a surprise every now and then.
Because sometimes, when I least expect it, he walks in. He is special, this client. With all my other clients, it’s work, it’s a job. Sometimes a fun job. Sometimes I think I’d rather be sitting in a cubicle with office drones than doing what I’m doing. But with him, it’s not a job. It’s not professional. With him, it’s personal. And because it’s personal, it’s draining, exhausting...it uses me up so I have nothing left to give for a day or two. I charge him more because of that, and he pays willingly. But for this special client, I make sure he gets his money’s worth. Why? Because we’re the same, me and him, not that either of us would ever admit that to anyone else. We’re both Switches. If you don’t know what a Switch is, allow me to enlighten you. Switches are submissives. We’re also Dominants. Often we’re also both sadists and masochists, Masters and slaves. We’re distrusted in the kink community. No Dominant wants a Switch for a submissive. After all, she might decide halfway through a scene it’s her turn to start doing the flogging. Think about bisexuals. If you were a straight woman, would you want to date a bisexual man? If you did, wouldn’t you have a nagging, gnawing question in the back of your mind—is he really gay and just hiding behind me? Switches get shit from both sides. The Doms think we’re weak. The subs think we’re indecisive sluts who want to get it from everybody—they’re only half right.
That’s okay. We understand each other. That’s why he, my special client, comes to me and no one else.
* * *
The Mistress wouldn’t say he was her favorite client, not to his face anyway. When he showed up she knew he would be the last person she saw that day. He took more out of her than any of the other men who came to her dungeon at the club. He took the most time, the most effort, and he never made an appointment.
Two weeks ago he came to her dungeon. It had been about three months since their previous session together. It might have taken three weeks for him to heal completely from it. She’d worked him over thoroughly that night, just the way he liked it. The other nine weeks between that night and this one, he’d been too busy to see her, or simply not in the mood to be destroyed. The mood struck him at the oddest times and for seemingly no reason. She never asked him the reasons why he decided to show up at her feet. He wasn’t there to talk. He wanted pain, and The Mistress wanted to give it to him.
On a Wednesday afternoon at 4:00 p.m. he strolled into her suite without knocking. The Mistress lay stretched out on the bed reading a book—Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham. A disappointing book. Well-written but she was two hundred pages in, and no one had even been tied up yet. She looked up from her book as he swept in the door, shutting and locking it behind him. He did this often, came into her dungeon. He had every right to. But locking the door meant only one thing.
Play time.
She didn’t speak. She shut the book and tossed it onto the nightstand. From the small table she pulled an elegant black mask that covered only the top half of the face. Like the good and well-trained submissive he was playing that day, he kept his eyes on the floor as she approached him. In all the world, she’d only ever met one man she found more attractive than the one standing before her. Night and day, he and the other man were. The submissive masochist in front of her had olive skin, dark eyes, dark as a sin-stained soul, and black hair with a slight roguish wave that fell to right above his shoulders. And at the moment, he had on far too much clothing.
“Lose the shoes. Shirt off, too,” she ordered as she stood in front of him and slipped the masquerade mask over his eyes. It had eyeholes since she didn’t want to blindfold him, only put him in a mental place where he could become another person...someone other than the one who’d walked in her door and the one who would crawl out of it. Plus, no denying, the man looked fucking hot in the mask. With this particular client, she allowed herself to enjoy her attraction to him.
He shucked off his jacket and she took it from him, throwing it on the floor. The embroidered vest came off next. It, too, landed on the floor. Then the shirt. Raising her hands to his chest, she caressed his strong broad shoulders, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. She loved to tease him with pleasure before torturing him with pain. With another client who shared his sort of desires and fetishes, she would have put a collar on him. But no, nev
er with him. He had one hard limit, only one. No collars. He might surrender to a world of pain but he would never submit to such an obvious sign of ownership.
“Stay,” she said as she went back to the bedside table. She pulled a thin black rope lead from the drawer and returned to him. God, how he hated the lead. Loathed it. He wasn’t a dog, after all, and the man had pride. But not on her time, he didn’t.
She put the lead around his neck and slipped the end of the rope through the hole at the other. A choke rope, it would tighten around his neck if he resisted her. Holding the end of the lead she took four steps back to stand three feet from him. She tugged once on the lead and he didn’t move. Good. She loved it when he gave her an excuse to punish him more. Raising her hand, she wrapped the rope one time...two times...three times around her palm. With every turn of her hand, she pulled him closer to her.
“I know you hate this.”
“You know me well, Maîtresse.”
She yanked him to her so they met eye-to-eye. She wore eight-inch platform stiletto boots that day otherwise she would have been staring down the center of his chest. Not a bad place to stare. He had a beautiful body, no denying that. Lean and muscular although riddled with old scars. She wouldn’t add any scars to his vast collection today. Only cuts, welts and bruises—all injuries that would heal quickly. If he wanted scars, he’d have to pay extra and make an appointment.
“I do know you...but not well enough. I think I want to get to know you better today. Let’s go into my office. Come along.”
She gave the rope another yank and led him into the second room of her suite. The front room was the bedroom, which she rarely used with clients. Sexual favors were granted for female clients and lovers only—not male clients. But the second room, the dungeon, housed all her toys including her most favorite toy of all.
“Do you know anything about the story of St. Andrew?” she asked as she dragged him by the lead to the ten-foot-tall, X-shaped St. Andrew’s Cross at the back of the room.
The Mistress Files: The Case of the Acting ActressThe Case of the Diffident DomThe Case of the Reluctant Rock StarThe Case of the Secret SwitchThe Case of the Brokenhearted Bartender Page 8
