by Rose de Fer
‘I don’t…’
‘No, you don’t,’ she intercedes again. ‘Your sort never does. So let me spell it out for you. Your carelessness nearly caused me serious injury and now you owe me. If you prefer, you can let a judge decide how much. Or you can decide to let me deal out my own form of punishment.’
With that she brings up her open hand, almost like she intends to slap me. Instead she spits messily upon the palm, then turns it towards me so that I can watch the thick saliva make its slow, wet descent onto her wrist.
‘Either way,’ she says with a hint of a smile, ‘your ass is mine.’
Another shiver goes right through me. Sure, this situation now seems as surreal as any movie could be, this Hobson’s choice to either commit myself to financial ruin or give up my body as payment to a gorgeous fantasy woman. The thing is, as bizarre and far-fetched as it seems, it is actually happening, right now, to me. My pulse seems ready to race me to an early demise.
‘I don’t…’
‘Think before you speak, little bitch,’ she says. She looks like she might indeed bite me. Her mouth is wet from where she spat but it could just as well be her salivating at the thought of sinking her teeth into me. ‘You are clearly a whore and if you sell your body you should have no qualms about paying with it from time to time.’
Just one extra-short skirt has turned me into a prostitute in the eyes of everyone, and it wasn’t even my choice to wear it. And it was Mason who made me add more makeup than I’d already applied, so that I totally looked the part.
‘I’m not a whore,’ I whisper.
‘That’s what you say, but we shall see. I paid my dues the moment you decided to run me down and now I want what’s coming to me. Either you can talk to my lawyer or…’
‘Or?’
I shouldn’t speak out of turn, really, but I have to know. She moves closer still. I’d think she was about to kiss me if not for that glower.
‘Or you can give yourself up to be my spank-bitch for the rest of the day. And that is going to be as much an ordeal for you as it sounds. My two greatest loves in this life are money and spanking thick-assed bitches until they come from the sting. You are going to give me one or other of my pleasures today. Which, is up to you, and one chance is all I will give you, so think carefully before you decide. But I do want to hear you say it.’
This situation, this deal, has come out of nowhere but it is stark in its simplicity. Just like that she has me bent over a barrel. I wonder in what circumstances I would choose the lawyer option. Maybe if she were ugly, rather than essentially my ideal of the dominatrix to finally force me to bow to another woman’s every sexual desire. Perhaps if she were a man, since, although I find it hard not to cave in to any authority, I have sworn privately to never take any other man’s cock, whatever my lusts, while Mason deigns to be my Master. Maybe then if Mason were here, since I look to him to be my guide in all things, surrendering my very being to whatever he decides. But he’s not here, and with that goes my only chance of a reprieve.
‘I’ll do as you say,’ I mumble, so softly and incoherently that my own ears can’t even pick it up.
‘You’ll what?’ demands the woman, even raising my chin with her finger to ensure I have to look into her eyes.
‘I’ll be your…thingy, like you said.’
‘My “thingy”? My what? What will you be? I want to hear you say it!’
‘Your spank-bitch!’ I say, way louder than I’d intended, although fortunately my reckless driving hasn’t gathered a wider audience than the two of us. I colour at the words. However, I can’t deny they also caused a twinge of longing down below. The smile of triumph spreads slowly across her face, almost like she knows.
‘You realise you are agreeing to let me treat you like the kind of fuck-bitch that I take you for?’
‘I don’t have much choice,’ I say, back to mumbling and staring at my shoes.
‘And you know I like to treat my girls with even more disdain than my men?’
‘I can’t stop you,’ I say.
This doesn’t seem to provoke even an ounce of remorse in her. Blackmail clearly comes easy. She has me abandon Mason’s car and teeter on these way-too-high heels to where her own sleek cabrio is parked. I picture her forcing me to drop my underwear to my ankles to add to my difficulties. She certainly moves well for someone who has just been run over. Her hand is on my hair, propelling me forward and ready to hold me up should I trip. Her urgency to drive me forward could tell of her desire to get me alone, but then it might just be a sensible precaution, allowing fewer witnesses to this apparent kidnapping.
She lets me sit up front alongside her. I imagined I would be all trussed up across the back seat. I even fleetingly imagined a henchman to hold me down, but then again, I am going with her voluntarily. Her threats are her handcuffs.
‘You are going to have to agree to be blindfolded,’ she says. ‘I can’t have you seeing where I live.’
She flips down the glovebox flap and there lies the silken sleep mask for me to put on. There is some light at the edges but otherwise I am blind. You have to wonder at the type of woman who takes her cars out to malls rather than a park or off up into the hills when she goes jogging, and who carries a blindfold with her in case she bumps into anyone along the way that she wants to abduct. One might think she goes looking for trouble. But why wouldn’t she want me seeing her house when I could already identify her by sight?
‘Are you famous then?’ I say. Imagine if she was. I’m surprised at my own boldness in speaking up, although blindfolds always do unlock a less nervous part of me I seldom see otherwise. Maybe I’m just surprised I can speak at all. In my mind’s eye my mouth was already stuffed with my knickers, her fingers deep inside me right there in public to demonstrate how completely at her mercy I am.
‘I was thinking more in terms of you wanting to stalk me after today,’ she says. ‘But yes, I have a modicum of fame. I have been in several movies, including a few blockbusters, although I’d have to forgive you for not being able to name one of them, since you never get to see my face. I am a stuntwoman, you see.’
It’s not quite up there with Mason. He’s a director. No blockbusters just yet but they will come. It’s the perfect job for someone who loves to control any scene he’s in, to plan it with the finest detail, to boss it and shape it for his perfect outcome. I’ve seen his work and even with all those egos he is always in total control. It’s enough to turn me molten. I guess being a stuntwoman has its own kudos. It certainly gives her the body of a Domme goddess. She’ll be stronger than most and without fear. And she probably knows just how to leap onto the hood of a moving car to great effect and then roll off it unhurt again afterwards. Imagine if she was able to use that to trick people into being in her debt.
The drive isn’t long, no more than it would take me to get to Mason’s flash pad. There is birdsong and warm sunshine as we park, and the familiarly thinner, more breathable air of the hills. If anyone saw me blindfolded, no one thought to raise the alarm. Maybe they just saw me as a fuck-bitch on her way to be used. I couldn’t be sure but it seemed to me that we climbed, and high round here equals affluence. I wouldn’t expect this woman to be anything other than rich. Whether born into wealth, like Mason, or having fought tooth and nail for it, she carries that air of untouchable superiority that money brings. People like me will always be in awe of it, always be kept. It brings me some comfort; being used is mortifying but at least it won’t be any old skank getting their hands on me.
For some point of reference, I picture Mason’s leafy avenue, the houses spread wide and with teams of hired help endlessly manicuring the gardens out front. Who knows if there are any witnesses to see my plight? She comes round to my side to open the door and pull me out. I teeter around a bit and I can hear her tutting impatiently. All this will cost me, for sure.
‘What kind of cheap whore wears a skirt this short?’ she says. I have no time to even think of a suitable answ
er. I can feel the garment in question being tugged up by the hem, turning inside out as it peels upwards, clinging to my bare outer thighs in some courageous attempt not to expose my skimpy underwear to all. It fails. The gardeners will have stopped what they are doing, hunching behind bushes to spy in earnest. I can picture exactly how rude I must look because I know how tight these knickers are – scant lacy covering for my cheeks and almost shrink-wrapped to my mound to fully define her contours and her split. What possessed me to wear them under this skirt I will never know.
I feel the light graze of her fingernail there, tracing those contours. I draw in my own breath as I feel hers at my ear.
‘My God – you are actually wet!’ she sneers. ‘You actually fucking like all this! Or were you turning tricks before you ran me down? Is that what you were doing in that parking lot? Am I going to find this dirty whore cunt of yours full of hood-rat come? Well?’
I’m actually full of protests and indignation but the image of a horde of bandana-wearing gangbangers, chucking dollar bills disdainfully onto the hood of the car as they bend me over it, gets me so tongue-tied that all I can manage in answer is a mumbled ‘No’.
‘What? I can’t hear you. Speak up. Say it out loud.’
I feel that fizz in my veins again, the lurch within, the heat in my cheeks. Things like this get me every time. I picture those hidden gardeners straining their ears to hear what I have to say. I have to draw in a big breath before I let the words come out, loud and clear, just like she asked.
‘No, Mistress, you won’t find my dirty whore cunt full of hood-rat come.’ It’s using the c-word that withers me most.
‘My, aren’t you all prim with that accent of yours, calling me “Mistress” and all? A real lady of the English gentry. Except, of course, for this whore skirt and this wet cunt of yours.’
With that she presses her finger flat and hard to my slit and I feel the material of my underwear relenting its cling to be forced inside me. The buzz it gives me there causes a gasp and a weakening of the knees. The pressure yields before her finger can defeat the resistance of the fabric and slide deep, but then I sensed she would know just how to tease most effectively. The knickers are then yanked clear of me, down my thighs and calves, pulled clean off as I hop from foot to foot to allow this.
‘Here, hold these,’ she says tersely.
I obediently hold my hand out flat, awaiting my wet underwear. I hope I haven’t made them too sodden or how is that going to look?
‘Not you,’ she says, the derision plain in her voice.
My hand closes quickly with the shame. Not just at standing there looking stupid, but at standing there like this at all, with a third party clearly present. My mind’s eye conjures a servant girl in classic maid’s dress, my knickers now borne upon a silver tray. It could just as easily be some grubby handyman, twirling them around the end of his finger or stuffing them into his trousers to bring out later, once he is alone. Either way, that third person will have seen me in all my lewd glory. You could warm plates with the heat in my cheeks.
There is going to be no quick escape, however. She is manhandling me, moving me back so that I am sitting upon the sun-heated hood of her car, my thighs forced apart so that I can feel the rays on my weeping puss.
‘You are a dirty bitch,’ she says. ‘One that likes to make a show of herself. So do it now – make a show. Put your fingers inside. I want to see two of them in there, stirring around.’
I almost whimper at this cruelty. My humiliation is obviously her pleasure. But nothing and no one is coming to save me so what can I do other than whatever she commands? I try not to make too much of a meal of it, whatever she wants to see. I rub just a little, as much to ease the throb there as anything, then I part myself shyly before slipping my fingers inside, pushing them deep, as she will want. Of course it is going to make me gasp and shiver. She knows this. She wants my quivers to be seen by those bastard spies hiding behind bushes either side of us. She wants them forced to pull their stiff cocks from their pants.
Too much of a show and they might be driven here from their hiding places, cocks at the ready. But what other option do I have? I have to stir my fingers around as she instructed and that makes my hips grind and hump against them. There is nothing I can do. I can’t prevent the vulgar noises it makes – so audible in the still, quiet air – any more than I can stop the warm flow from within me.
‘Take your fingers out and wipe them across your lips.’
Oh, I will look a hussy. They won’t know I’m here under duress, acting this way because I have to. They can’t see my heart racing with the mortification. I smear but it’s not lewd enough for her. She wants my lips, my nose, my cheeks all coated. She wants me to get my fingers wet three more times so that those treacherous juices can be wiped right across my face. My nostrils are filled with my own scent. My skin will be glistening in the sunlight, apparently incontrovertible evidence that I am loving this humiliation.
‘Enough!’ she snaps, as if this rude display was all my idea.
I am guided up a few stairs and through a doorway. At least those prying gardeners are behind me now. The house sounds big, if that makes sense. A big open atrium hall like Mason’s. It is cool on my bare limbs. My heels clack as if on marble or some other smooth stone floor as I am led further inside. I’ll get no scent clues; all I can smell is my own arousal smeared across my top lip and that will be all I detect for the remainder of this. Even her sweet perfume is now blocked out. Sound might be my only reference point from now on.
‘That will be all,’ she says. There is no answer nor do I hear any departing footsteps but I take it the servant has been dismissed. It calms me just a little, although I doubt I’ll see my knickers again. A door swings open and I am led inside another room. I am gladdened by the silence here. I picture a library, dead quiet and totally private, a place where the Mistress of the house can guarantee not to be disturbed. Uninvited eyes provide my greatest shame. The thought of them upon me can leave me almost beside myself. Mason once sent a video he’d taken on my cellphone, of me naked except for black pegs on my aching nipples, lewdly pushing a pair of fishnet stockings up inside myself. He took it upon himself to send it unannounced to one of my girlfriends, as if from me. It took me days to get over that.
Libraries have desks and I expect one to be where I end up, forced unceremoniously across it. My mind’s eye pictures a wooden, glass-fronted case of canes and paddles too, like a headmaster’s study. I hope not. Paddles and whips I can take at a pinch but the cut of anything thinner is too much. I need the sting spread over a greater surface area. Mason, the one who brought this darker side of my sexual self into the light, has always known this. I’m not sure I trust this woman, and trust is all.
I still don’t try to stop her as she peels off my top and unclips me to let me bounce free. I know my nipples are hard. There’s little I can do about it. They always get that way when I’m pushed into these situations, made to look every inch the slut. She circles me, and I know I am being examined. These are the times I cannot temper my pulse, can’t stop the internal flutter from almost overwhelming me. Who knows what twisted minds have in store for me?
‘We will begin,’ she says, from further away than I’d pictured her. I could have sworn she was close by. Then her grip is on me and I am being put into position. It is not a desk, that’s for sure. Some kind of frame – my imagination can’t entirely form a picture but it’s like being astride a low motorcycle, hunched forward across a solid surface to clutch at a straight bar, my thighs forced apart and my backside jutting. I can feel straps or something by my hands; loops of soft plastic or leather. I tentatively run my fingers over them to ascertain more information. They are wrists restraints, no doubt. I think maybe I am meant to put them to use.
‘Should I?’ I ask, not quite having the guts to go on with the question.
‘Are you likely to try and stop what I do to you?’
‘I might,’ I whisper.
‘Then you had better secure yourself.’
I slip my hands through the loops. I knew she wouldn’t show me any quarter. Now I am at her mercy. My ears strain for signs of her collecting an object to use on me. I’m sure I can hear little things here and there but I cannot pick up anything distinct. In my head she is parading around, viewing me at her leisure. I squirm against the leather padding beneath my crotch and belly.
‘I am going to spank you,’ she informs me in her measured tones. ‘You may cry out but you are forbidden to either ask or beg me to stop. I will do it for as long and as hard as I wish. If you can get through it without pleading at all then I will reward you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress,’ I say. She makes it sound so easy, but my trembling body shows her it will be anything but.
‘I want your ass wet before I start,’ she says. I nod a little, more to myself than to her. I’m aware wet skin changes the feel and adds to the noise. It would be the choice of an adept spanker.
‘Do it for me,’ she now says. I don’t know what she means. How am I supposed to?
‘Ready?’ she asks. How can I be ready when I don’t know what I’m to do? Will asking her cost me dearer than failing to do anything?
‘Action!’ she says loud, cutting through my whirring thoughts.
The word has hardly died when the flow hits my backside. The internal flutter spreads its heat as thoughts and images cascade through my mind once more. I’m pretty sure I know what’s happening. The flow is warm, for a start, and a direct stream, targeting my cheeks first and then between them, hitting me with precision and force to splash me all over my inner thighs, pooling beneath me on what I take for a saddle. I gasp at the utter rudeness and humiliation of being used this way but I cannot sink into my shame because two more things demand pondering. Firstly, I am not alone with her as I thought. There is at least one other present, maybe female, maybe male – and indeed who knows how many more witnessing my debasement? Secondly, that word she used, ‘action’. That’s the word a director uses to get the cameras rolling.