Subordination: Chronicles of a Domme

by Katie Ashley

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Advertencia Antipirateria del FBI: La reproducción o distribución no autorizada de una obra protegida por derechos de autor es ilegal. La infracción criminal de los derechos de autor, incluyendo la infracción sin lucro monetario, es investigada por el FBI y es castigable con pena de hasta cinco años en prisión federal y una multa de $250,000.

  Katie Ashley

  Copyright 2015 by Katie Ashley

  All Rights Reserved

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including internet usage, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Model: Matt Zumwalt

  Photography: Eric Battershell

  Cover: Lettia Hasser at RBA Designs

  Cover graphics and eBook formatting:

  Indie Pixel Studio

  To Tiffany Reisz, Cherise Sinclair, and Joey Hill for writing BDSM before it was cool and for paving the way for writers like me! Thanks for having the integrity to adequately portray BDSM relationships that are truly safe, sane, and consensual.

  And to Cris Soriega and Kim Bias: the dual wind beneath my wings. I couldn’t make it in this business without you guys. Your love, your friendship, and your support sustains me in the good times and bad. I know I can count on you both no matter what. Thanks for having the best interest of my books at heart and for keeping me somewhat sane!

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  With my arms crossed over my chest, I absentmindedly tapped my foot on the dungeon bathroom’s floor. I threw a glance at the digital clock that hung on the far wall. Pursing my painted red lips, I considered whether enough time had passed. Anticipation always heightened a scene. There was something about making a sub wait for his punishment, and in turn his pleasure, that drove them wild.

  I didn’t have to look outside the bathroom door to know exactly what was going on in the dungeon. After ordering my sub to disrobe and assume the Display position, I knew the middle-aged man, or silver fox as some would refer to his handsome appearance, would be kneeling naked on the floor with his hands behind his back and his head bent. His body would be trembling ever so slightly as he waited for his Mistress to deliver what he so desperately needed.

  When five minutes had passed, I knew it was time to make my entrance. I leaned into the light to give my appearance a final glance in the mirror. Decked in white from head to toe, I was quite the angelic vision but in leather. My corset dress hit mid-thigh, leaving just a small gap to where the stiletto-heeled white boots came. The front of the dress crisscrossed over my breasts, showing an ample amount of my C-cup cleavage. The dark chestnut-colored hair that usually flowed freely down my back was wrapped in a tight French braid with white ribbon interwoven into it.

  Within the confines of the leather, I left my former self behind and transformed into Mistress Juliette. To some¸ white seemed like an odd choice for a dominatrix. Most people envisioned Dommes in the essential black or at least red. But from the first day I’d walked through the doors of Club 1740, I knew I needed a niche—something to make me stand out from the other ten women who worked there. After all, I was there to make money, not get off.

  As an English major, I thought it only fitting to choose white—the color of innocence and purity. It made the perfect paradox for what I was there to do, which was certainly devoid of any innocence or purity. My job was to deliver pain and domination while also giving pleasure. Therefore, I was at times both an angel and a demon.

  I couldn’t help grinning at how my appearance had undergone quite the conversion in the past twenty-four hours. Last night in a flowing black robe, I’d marched into the packed convocation center of Kennesaw State University to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance. It was the furthest fucking thing from a Domme you could imagine, unless you were role-playing a professor/student scene.

  “Sophie Marie Jameson.” When my name echoed off the speakers, the moment overwhelmed me, causing me to falter in my subdued black heels. I wasn’t usually a sappy, oversentimental person, but I found myself getting swept up in emotion. But then I’d pulled myself together and made my way across the stage. I extended my hand to shake the hand of the university’s president.

  “Congratulations,” she said with a smile.

  My trembling fingers clutched the diploma, and I finally managed to squeak a, “Thank you.” I was too overcome to say much else. While it might’ve been cliché, there had been a whole lot of sacrifice along with blood, sweat, and tears that had gone into getting my education. I was the first one in my family to get a college degree, let alone a masters.

  When I got to the stage’s stairs, I dared to look out at the crowd where I knew my dad and brother were. Although his neurologist had advised him against it, my father had insisted on attending. “Nothing could stop me from seeing my daughter get not just a college degree, but a graduate degree,” he had said, immense pride reflected on his face.

  Being wheelchair bound with Muscular Dystrophy had afforded him prime seating close to the stage. Of course, he had no idea where the money to buy his new power wheelchair had come from me. Considering he thought I waited tables, he would have questioned how the hell I could afford it. So I led him to believe it had been donated. He would never know that the money had been earned by checking my inhibitions about edge play at the door of a sprawling estate just two blocks from the Governor’s Mansion.

  I’d never participated in anything as extreme as fire play before, but when a club member offered me two thousand dollars for a night, I couldn’t say no. I’d spent hours out in the backwoods on my dad’s property learning how to wield both a flaming flogger and whip without catching myself on fire. In the end, I’d left the sub with second-degree burns over his body and a hugely satisfied smile on his face. I’d been rewarded with an extra thousand because he’d said I had a true gift when it came to using a whip. He had no idea that growing up on a horse farm, I’d used a whip practically before I had a pencil.

  When I caught my father’s eye, that same expression of overwhelming pride was there again, but this time there were tears as well. Although I’d never been an open crier, I didn’t try fighting the moisture that pooled in my eyes. Instead, I let it overflow and stream onto my cheeks. My vision had been blurry as I made my way down the stairs and back to my seat.

  Now in the dungeon bathroom, I found myself once again fighting tears. Rolling my eyes with frustration, I muttered, “Get a fucking grip, Soph.”

  Throwing open the door, I fo
und my sub just as I expected. The only sound in the room was the rise and fall of the sub’s breathing, and the distant bass from the dance floor upstairs. At the echo of my boot heels clicking across the tile, the sub’s posture became slightly straighter. I walked around to stand in front of him. He kept his gaze respectfully on the floor. Reaching out, I ran one of my blood red fingernails under his chin and tipped his head for him to look at me. “Good boy, Owen. Now go get in the chair.”

  “Yes, Mistress Juliette.”

  Most people upon hearing my Domme name thought I’d chosen it from my love of Shakespeare. Instead, I figured if I was working in a club named after the birth year of Marquis de Sade, I should go with the name of one of his literary heroine’s—or I guess I should say antiheroines considering Juliette’s depravity.

  Owen eased down onto the leather-padded seat of the CBT chair, which was short for Cock and Balls Torture. To the average onlooker, the chair resembled a weight lifting bench. Upon closer inspection, you would notice there was a hole for the cock and balls. Since it was a torture chair, the cock and balls weren’t just left swinging in the breeze. They were locked into place by a sliding, wooden guillotine. The chair took a hell of a lot of discipline considering any movement meant having your family jewels and prized possession painfully squeezed. Of course, that was also the allure.

  Once Owen placed his chin onto the chair’s rung, I leaned over and locked the guillotine. Then I went to gather the remaining tools I needed for the session. Opening the cabinet drawer, I pulled out the coiled bundle of black and purple hemp rope. Every Domme had their favorite means of bondage. Some liked electrical ties, some liked tape, and some liked chains. For me, it was rope. As the daughter of a champion roper, it was the one area of my personal life that bled into my job.

  I lay the rope down on the counter and picked up the roll of electrical tape. Since Owen enjoyed intense and rapid flogging, I wrapped the tape around my palm to protect it from blisters. After my hand was taped, I then took out my purple and black leather rope flogger. Within its extensions were tiny knots that inflicted more pain than one would imagine.

  Since Owen didn’t derive any pleasure from the act of being tied up, I kept things simple by using the Quick Cuffs tie, which was basically a version of rope handcuffs. After tying his hands behind his back, I dropped down onto my knees to tie his ankles. Once I felt the knot was yielding, yet secure, I rose on my feet.

  Going back to the table, I turned the music on. Metallica’s Enter Sandman came blaring out of the overhead speakers. It was one of Owen’s personal favorites to be flogged to. He was a big fan of ‘90s grunge metal.

  I picked up the flogger and went back over to Owen. When I cracked the flogger’s ends against my boots, Owen shuddered. But it wasn’t fear that had his body trembling—it was anticipation and desire. He was a textbook masochist who only got off from pain.

  His skin glistened with a sheen of both sweat and Icy Hot. The ointment wasn’t for any previous aches he might have. Instead, it heightened the sting and the burn on the flesh whenever the flogger made contact. He had even coated his cock and balls with it.

  As I raised the flogger over my head, I slipped further into Domme space. I cleared my mind of thought and focused only on the flogger’s contact against his skin. Had I been a lifestyle Domme, delivering the blows would have gotten me aroused, but as a professional Domme, it was just a job to me.

  After leaving Owen’s back reddened with welts, I moved over his shoulders onto his chest. When I smacked his thick erection, Owen flinched before groaning with pleasure. “Thank you, Mistress.”

  While most men would have cringed at having their dick squeezed, least of all flogged, it was what caused Owen’s eyes to roll back in his head like he was receiving the best blow job of his life. “Harder, Mistress, please.”

  I stilled my movements. “Hmm, I’m not sure you deserve it.”

  “But I do. Please,” he begged.

  Grabbing him by the hair, I jerked his head back to where he had to look me in the eye. “Have you been a bad boy this week?”

  His pupils dilated further with desire. “Yes, Mistress. Very bad.”

  “Then I suppose I need to punish you.”

  An appreciative smile curved on Owen’s lips. “Yes, Mistress.”

  Releasing his hair, I shoved his head back in place. Over and over I drilled his cock and balls with the flogger. Owen’s toes curled from the pleasure and from trying to hold back his orgasm. He knew he was only allowed to come when I told him. Sweat broke out along his forehead while the muscles grew tense and taut in his arms and thighs.

  Dropping the flogger to the ground, I tightened the guillotine. “Come. Now,” I commanded before sliding it back to release his cock.

  The unmistakable groan of pent-up release came from Owen as he threw his head back while his hips pumped furiously against the end of the CBT chair. Spent, he lay his cheek against the chair rung and sighed. “Thank you, Mistress.”

  I walked around to the front of the chair and began to untie his wrists. Although my usual aftercare included massaging the skin to help ease the sting of the blood flow returning, Owen always refused. He jokingly called it his cigarette to bring him down after coming.

  Once his hands were untied, I walked behind him to get his ankles. As soon as he was freed, Owen slid off the seat and immediately went to his knees. Placing his palms flat on the floor, he bent over to bestow tender kisses on the tops of my boots. He kissed his way up my legs to where the boots stopped at the top of my thighs. He would have gone farther to my pussy had I given him permission, but I never received pleasure from subs.

  He lifted his head to give me an adoring smile. “You always give me just what I need, Mistress.”

  “You’re such a flatterer, Owen,” I mused. I playfully smacked his cheek, signaling the end to the scene.

  He then winked. “How do you think I became president of Atlanta’s top law firm?”

  “By licking boots?” I teased.

  With a chuckle, he replied, “Well, I sure as hell didn’t get it just by my good looks.”

  Turning around, I tossed him a wet towel. “Just don’t think your previous flattery is going to get you out of cleaning up after yourself.”

  “No, Mistress, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Your usual?” I asked.

  He nodded as he bent over to clean-up the cum-splattered floor. My boot heels clicked across the dungeon floor as I made my way over to the mini fridge in the corner. I grabbed a bottle of cranberry juice for him and a water for me. Hydration was key after a scene and H2O was usually the preferred means, but just like with kink, each sub brought his or her own likes and dislikes into the dungeon.

  Ever the obedient sub, Owen had gotten the antibacterial cleaner to ensure that the chair was disinfected for the next client. When he was finished, I handed him his juice.

  After unscrewing the bottle cap, Owen froze before bringing the drink to his lips. At his forlorn expression, I held up my water-free hand. “Oh no, not you, too?”

  Over the course of the last week, each one of my clients had become emotional on me. The worst was my six-foot-five professional wrestler who wept inconsolably as he almost smothered me in a bear hug. At the end of the day, the sentiment was pretty touching.

  Owen shook his head as he took a long swig of his juice. “I can’t help it. I think it finally hit me that this is our last session.”

  “You’re going to be fine. You have test sessions lined up with Mistress Venus and Mistress Rain, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure you’re going to find someone to take care of you.”

  “They won’t be you.”

  I smiled. “No. But I’m sure they’ll torture you just as well I do.”

  “We’ll see,” Owen replied skeptically.

  Swatting him on the ass, I commanded. “Go get your shower.”

  He bowed his head obediently. “Yes, Mistress,” he
said, before disappearing into the bathroom. He needed to put his appearance back together before he went home to his third trophy wife.

  Owen was a good representation of the majority of my clients. They were professional men who had wives or girlfriends who weren’t into BDSM. They either gave permission for their men to take care of their needs, or they pretended not to know. Some men chose to keep their significant others truly in the dark. Most of my clients needed to be able to play during the week because they had to be free on weekends to be with their families. It worked out best for me as well because I needed my weekends free to go home to be with my dad.

  With Owen occupying the bathroom, I used the dungeon mirror to touch up my makeup. It was truly ironic that without school, I would have never become a Domme, and without being a Domme, I would have never been able to afford to finish college, least of all go to graduate school.

  Everything changed for me five years ago in my second year English class. My professor, who must’ve been a closeted member of the BDSM scene, had us read an excerpt from Marquis De Sade. The discussion got quite animated when debating whether Marquis was a literary genius or basically a sick fuck.

  “I’m not sure why anyone who was truly into BDSM would embrace his work,” I said.

  My professor’s bushy brows raised questioningly. “And why is that?”

  “Because it supports the stereotype that there has to be something emotionally wrong with you to want pleasure from pain. Not to mention that his characters get off from depravity like rape and extreme torture.”

  “Well, I think you do have to be sick to wanna get off by getting tied up and beaten,” a prissy girl in the front row stated.

  “Everyone has different likes and desires. What you are alluding to is consensual where as in Sade’s stories it wasn’t. We won’t even talk about how it wasn’t safe or sane.”

  A guy two rows ahead of me turned around and waggled his brows. “You can spank me any day, baby,”

  “Dream on, douche bag,” I had replied, which caused laughter to echo through the room.