Put Me In a Skirt and Hurt Me: The Strictly Lesbian Adventures of Mistress Sophia

by Bryce, A. L.

  PUT ME

  IN A SKIRT

  AND

  HURT ME

  The Strictly Lesbian Adventures of

  Mistress Sophia

  A.L. Bryce

  PINK SMILE BOOKS

  ALL CHARACTERS IN THIS BOOK ARE FICTITIOUS. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL INDIVIDUALS—EITHER LIVING OR DEAD—IS STRICTLY COINCIDENTAL.

  © 2012 A.L. BRYCE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: THIS IS A SEXUALLY EXPLICIT ADULT NOVEL, CONTAINING SEXUAL BONDAGE, DISCIPLINE, AND SADOMASOCHISM. IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 OR OFFENDED BY SUCH MATERIAL, PLEASE TRY ANOTHER TITLE.

  1

  SOPHIA ENTERED THE ROOM just as Willow scrambled onto her hands and knees.

  “Is that how I left you?” she breathed out casually. “Hmm…”

  Willow began an elaborate apology, but Sophia cut her off. “The birch this time, Little One. Bring me the birch.”

  Willow rose and rushed from the room, returning seconds later with a strong birch switch in her hands. She placed it gently into Sophia’s outstretched palm.

  “Bare your back and please, dear, don’t bore me with sounds this time.” Sophia began the punishment by whipping down quite hard on Willow’s back, but her heart just wasn’t in it. Her mind was on the woman she’d met the night before. A woman who had unbelievably unhinged Sophia and made her so dripping wet she’d had to go out to her car and mop herself dry. It had been a long while since Sophia had not been the one in control, and it made her squirm with delight and anger. With this on her mind, she really couldn’t punish Willow properly—and that bothered her too. How dare the thought of that strange woman interfere with the correction her current lover needed and deserved?

  She whipped Willow a little harder and her lover tried to stifle her cries.

  “Tsk ... Fine, fine,” she sighed. “We’re done. You’re done. Get dressed ... No. Oh, fuck it,” Sophia muttered and murmured and cursed. Willow didn’t know how to respond. Her mistress had never been so feeble before and it made her mad that she wasn’t receiving the proper punishment for being disobedient. She got up in a huff.

  “Well, which is it, dress or stay in my corset?” she demanded, and then when Sophia raised a tired eyebrow at her, “Mistress,” she added in a whisper.

  “Go get on your knees next to the bed,” Sophia commanded.

  As Willow obediently left the room, Sophia dropped the birch switch on the coffee table and sunk into her favorite chair, a dark-blue mohair that made her skin look bone china-white against it. Bone china-white ... who the fuck cares? she thought. Oh, this woman had unhinged her. How had it happened? She thought again about the evening and how a casual conversation had brought her nearly to her knees.

  She’d been at Happy Betty’s, one of her favorite bars. They all knew her there. They respected her. Admired her. Gave her a wide birth when she was being super domi and always had a private table ready for her use. Last night, she’d been sitting at the bar. Alone. Thinking about introducing another woman into her relationship with Willow. Working out how she’d begin the introduction. Considering the different women she might approach. Thinking about the women who had already made it clear they would be more than happy to be whipped and dominated by her—with or without Willow in the picture.

  She was absently stirring her martini with her finger as she pondered the possibilities, when suddenly a strong hand had pulled her hand out of her drink, taken her finger, and inserted it fully into a perfectly lipsticked mouth. The mouth had sucked hard, then softer—and finally, slid her finger out with a firm push of the tongue.

  “That’s kind of a weak martini ... but I really didn’t expect much from something you’d be drinking anyway,” stated the slender gray-haired woman, still holding her hand. “You’re going to buy me something nice now, maybe something tropical. Let’s make it something with pineapple in it, `k?” She spoke in a grandma voice that somehow carried the promise of doom if disobeyed while at the same time promising warm chocolate chip cookies if you were a good girl.

  That was when Sophia had felt something running down her leg and knew that the crotch of her silk panties—black, what else could they be?—was soaked through.

  “I ... ” she’d stuttered. “You ... ” she’d choked.

  The steely-haired woman had just gazed at her, almost lovingly, and stuck her own thin finger into her mouth, suckling as if she had Sophia’s nipple there instead.

  “Something fruity for the lady!” Sophia blurted to Chance, and thanked the gods the butch pussycat of a bartender had acted as if her breathless broken voice wasn’t out of the ordinary.

  I’ll leave Chance a big tip ... she’d thought stupidly.

  “We’ll go to the ladies room now,” the hot matron had commanded, and Sophia had found herself bobbing up like a pin, wanting to comply with whatever she desired of her, hoping with all her heart that it was something really nasty and degrading.

  “Mistress?”

  The voice came crashing into her thoughts so hard she jumped out of the blue chair and nearly stumbled in her five-inch Louboutin pumps.

  “Mistress ... may I use the bathroom?” Willow’s voice lilted meekly down the hallway. She was feeling anything but meek. She was raging mad. Oh, it wasn’t unusual to be left for long periods, kneeling by the bed or in the living room or even outside in the rain, but she could tell Sophia wasn’t really there with her, hadn’t been for a long time. Sophia had lost her focus. She was vulnerable. I’m the fucking vulnerable one here, Willow seethed. I’m the one who needs a strong hand to guide her. I’m the one in need of training and strictness. She’d better freakin’ get on the ball and minister to me! Willow’s lips pursed with impatience. May I use the bathroom? Ha! That should at least get me a good caning, if not one or two snaps of the quirt ...

  Sophia entered the room and Willow gasped.

  Sophia had the quirt in her hands.

  2

  SOPHIA FONDLED THE STIFF maroon-and-black braided leather of the handle, reached down and pulled the ends of the two eleven-inch tips together, and then pushed them expertly toward the handle, creating an “O” that she popped a few times. The sound was music to Willow’s ears. Sophia didn’t use a sex toy quirt; she used a real horse quirt. If her girls couldn’t take the real thing, they didn’t deserve to be her subs.

  “Get up.” She spoke tersely. Sophia was out of patience with Willow and with herself. She was out of patience with the woman who had sucked her finger and whom she had followed into the ladies room like ... well, like Willow, for Christ’s sake! She’d acted like Willow. And that, more than anything, decided how she was about to use that quirt.

  Willow was standing now, quivering with glee.

  The quirt! How long has it been? It must be at least ...

  Willow’s thoughts were interrupted by the abrupt CRACK of the quirt on the back of her thigh.

  “Jesus, Sophia!” Willow blurted before she could catch herself.

  Crack! Crack!

  Twice again, the quirt slashed her thigh and buttock. She’s bleeding me this time. I went too far, Willow thought with a mingling of horror and satisfaction.

  Crack! Crack! Twice more, before Sophia awoke from her rage and saw what she was doing.

  Willow still stood rigidly, awaiting the next blow. Sophia knew she needed to fuck Willow or send her away before she lost control completely. “Go rinse off and bring the ointment back with you,” she commanded.

  Willow swayed.

  “For Christ’s sake! Can you walk?” S
ophia asked and winced at her own compassion. This was not how the game was played with Willow. This was not what either of them deserved. She needed to get back in control. She smacked the quirt handle against her palm.

  “I just gave you an order. Go rinse before you bleed on my Oriental and when I say go I mean NOW. Each second you hesitate will cost you in the future.” There. That was more like it. And when Willow scurried from the room, Sophia let out a sigh of relief.

  Willow’s quick rinse gave Sophia enough time to pull herself together. She quickly poured herself three fingers of vodka from the bedside stand and knocked them back, glad for the burn in her throat. Walking over to the mirror, she tugged at her leather skirt and smoothed her silk blouse.

  OK, OK, think about that fucking steely-haired cunt later. Later. Focus on the task at hand. Get your mind in the game. Finish what you’ve started and get her out so you can ...

  Willow entered the room, damp from her shower, with the ointment tube in her outstretched hand as if holding a tarantula or a Buddhist statue.

  Sophia took the ointment and spun Willow around. She pulled on a latex glove, squeezed some ointment into her palm and applied it to the thin cuts on her submissive’s ass and thighs. Sophia felt her pussy warming up and smiled slightly. “Turn around. Open your mouth,” she said, and then she kissed her. When Sophia pulled away there was a soft thrill of eye contact. Both women flushed. What’s this? Sophia thought.

  But Willow stared down at the floor, back in her role.

  Sophia sighed and drew herself up. She removed her glove, tossing it—thwip— into a corner, and placed her hand on one hip.

  “I’m going over to the bed where you’re going to rim me, Little One. And I want a good slow rim job. Then I want to feel your tongue on my pussy, flat tongue only. Lap at me like I’ve taught you ... like a kitten lapping cream from a cup. Lap at me until you feel my lips swelling and then I want you to finger my cunt and my ass, nice and slow. When I come, I want you to quit moving your fingers—but keep them in me. Then, when my ass relaxes, I want you to get up, get your things and leave. Lock the door behind you and wait for my next summons. I know you understand me and I am not in the mood to repeat myself, so God help you if you were not paying attention to my instructions.”

  With that, Sophia unzipped her leather skirt and let it slide to the ground. She never wore panties under leather clothing; she loved the feel of raw animal skin against her bush. She stepped out of her skirt and, keeping her heels on, lay face down on the bed, spread her knees, and thrust her ass high into the air. Willow approached silently and began to lap at the puckered pink smile of her mistress. Her own pussy was dripping, but right now, she had a task to accomplish, and she planned on meeting her mistress’s commands to the letter. She must pay strict attention to when and how that ass responded. She had to listen intently for the slightest sigh of approval or disapproval from her mistress. These smallest of clues were all she got and all she needed. And now, that sweet pink ass was slowly opening to her gentle tongue.

  Willow wanted to speed up (she was close to coming herself now) but she knew from past experience that her mistress didn’t like that—no, not at all. It was the slow approach, the cautious ascent that Mistress demanded. Willow was in awe of her mistress’s style: never quick, never hurried—instead, preferring a steady Zen-like lap of the tongue, never allowing herself to bend to her emotions, reaching a fever pitch (yet still totally controlled) and coming like a freight train barreling through a small town on an empty night. Willow could do that for her. She could be that slow, steady lap, lap, lap. Never wavering, never a break in tempo. She’d practiced long and hard to do it and Sophia had rewarded her with whippings and bindings and all sorts of other luscious treats.

  Now, Willow moved her tongue to the downy softness of her mistress’s lips. This was the hardest part for Willow. She preferred a waxed, or at least a well-trimmed, beaver, but Sophia kept hers full. The hairs tickled Willow’s nose and made her want to sneeze—which, of course, was a punishable offense, and not a nice punishment, but more likely excessive kneeling or even banishment. Willow concentrated hard and kept on with her metronome-like lapping, each move of her tongue in concert with her thought, I love you. I love you. I love you. Sophia’s lips responded readily, plumping and glistening. Willow was surprised. Sophia usually took some time to heat up.

  So, the quirt excites you as much as it does me! Willow surmised with glee.

  She inserted her fingers into her lady’s pussy and ass in one well-practiced, smooth motion, and felt both grip her tightly. This, too, was a surprise. Sophia was more responsive than usual. Something’s not right, but whatever it is it works for me, works beautifully for me, Willow thought. She completed her task, as ordered. Sophia rose up, slightly crushing Willow’s fingers with her pulsing pussy, and then nonchalantly fell gracefully forward. Willow smiled.

  A divine silence followed, interrupted only by the soft shifting of Sophia’s limbs against the sheets.

  Willow gathered her things and left, locking the door behind her and dressing outside in the courtyard. When her mistress said, “gather your things and leave,” she meant it. There was no room for error.

  3

  SOPHIA HEARD THE CLICK of the lock and rolled onto her back. She gazed up at the ceiling. She lifted one then the other of her Louboutins and waved her feet around in small circles. Then she let her legs crash down to the bed and frowned. A sip of vodka and then time to examine last night’s behavior once again, this time without the distraction of Willow.

  She poured the drink and took a slug. She swished it around in her mouth like Listerine before swallowing it down. She coughed a little. Drinking straight vodka was more a “do this in front of Willow” thing not a “thank God she’s gone and I can put on a pair of sweats” thing. She kicked off the heels and curled her feet into little fists. She loved wearing her stilettos almost as much as she loved taking them off at the end of a session. She pulled a locked suitcase out of her closet, entered the combination, and opened it up. Inside was a pair of blue sweatpants, a BISBEE, ARIZONA T-shirt (worn-out and holey), and a USC sweatshirt two sizes too big for her and covered in popcorn oil stains. She removed her Versace silk blouse and her La Perla bra and pulled on the sweatpants and T. She let out a sigh and padded into the kitchen, checking the door on the way to make sure it was locked. She turned off her phone and thought about making a bowl of popcorn, but decided any thinking about last night should really be done on an empty stomach. She walked into the living room, grabbing a pillow from the couch. She flopped into her blue chair and wrapped her arms around the pillow.

  “We’ll go to the ladies room now,” the elegant woman had commanded. And didn’t I just bob up like a pin? Sophia thought in wonder. Just like a little pin ... like Willow when I asked her to get the birch branch ... Sophia shuddered, but couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or horror—or maybe a bit of both.

  Sophia had followed her—this indescribable being—down the hallway to the ladies room. She’d observed the tailored blue skirt and blazer, Armani, and her shoes ... where had she gotten those shoes? They were some kind of animal skin, but what? They weren’t stilettos, but somehow the low heel, the vintage look of them, was almost Victorian—like something Marie Antoinette might wear. How in the hell did she make them look so hot? Sophia had been mesmerized.

  Coming out of her revelry, Sophia grabbed the phone and turned it on. She hit the “4” key, speed-dialing her friend Edna. Edna, the shoe fanatic. “Don’t ask any questions just give me the right answer,” Sophia replied to Edna’s cheerful, “Hi, this is Edna Brandon-Smith—and it’s 11 o’clock at night so this better be important!”

  Sophia related everything she could remember about the shoes.

  “Sidewalks,” Edna stated flatly.

  “Sidewalk?” Sophia asked as flatly.

  “No, Hon, not sidewalk like you walk on, C-Y-D-W-O-Q, as in Burbank. Man’s a genius.”

  “
Than”—Sophia had already cut the call—“nks” and grabbed her Ipad. She googled CYDWOQ and found the website. She clicked on women’s shoes and had to look through half of the “vintage line” before finding the shoes: They were called “Rho.” Staring at them, her pussy felt hot. Her nipples hardened.

  Oh, fuck, what IS this? High school? Really? Really? A picture of a pair of shoes is turning me on? Me? Who the fuck was that woman?

  The woman in the Armani and Cydwoqs had walked down the hall in front of her. Sophia had watched those hips, watched the calm way the woman walked rigidly down the hall—and how could that be? Who can pull off calmly rigid? She had to have been an ex-nun.

  Sophia squeezed the pillow.

  “Come on, now,” the woman in the Armani had said, holding open the bathroom door like a doorman at a fancy hotel.

  Sophia had walked past her into the bathroom, hesitating before turning, almost waiting to be told she was allowed to turn around. She’d tried to regain her equilibrium.

  “What do you want from me?” she’d challenged, even jutting out her chin.

  Pathetic, she thought now, clutching her little pillow.

  “What makes you think you could possibly have anything I would want, dear?”

  Sophia clutched the pillow tighter. Yes, she’d said that ... but she’d had a twinkle in her eye. She’d been joking, surely. And the woman had invited ... no, she’d commanded her to the ladies room.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sophia La ... ”

  “Only your first name. I have no interest in your last name, Sophia.” The woman had paused and looked her up and down. “Sophia is an awfully pretty name for such a plain girl.”

  Sophia had flooded at that. Completely and totally wet her pants. All the adoration Willow and Susan and Bonnie and all the others had bestowed on her barely caused a stir, and yet this woman calling her plain created a river between her legs. She’d wanted to reach her hand down and stroke herself desperately and had to grab her own hand to stop from doing it.