by Gabi Moore
“You dirty boy. Take this off. And for your sake I hope I like what I see.”
It’s hard to describe that particular facial expression. That gentle kink in the eyebrows, that sweet suggestion of pain, but with the lips still soft and adoring, the mouth a little open, the eyes glazed over the way one stares at fire, or a hallucination. What do you give the man who already has everything? You give him the one thing he never thought to pay for: agony. Surrender. Oblivion. The loving and brutal constraints of a relentless Domme can turn a man into a mystic, ready to ruin himself entirely for a moment of fleeting sweetness at the altar of her leather boot.
Twisting his bound arms to the side he managed to slide off his boxers and release a thick, purple-tipped cock that was as crude and angry looking as its owner was clean-cut. I curled my lips as I stared at it, then burst out laughing. Yes, even laughter can be an instrument of torture, if the part you want to torment lies in the softer, inner meat of your slave’s psychology.
His face flushed a deep, excited shade of red. I marched over to him, pushed him so he collapsed backwards down onto his seat again and looked down with amusement at his cock, pointing straight up.
“That’s it? You have the nerve to come here to my private chambers and bring this measly thing as tribute?”
I dragged the rough end of the leather strip slowly along his engorged shaft and smiled inwardly at how this seemed to stop his breathing.
I never touch them.
Ever.
Like I told you, it’s not about sex. There is at all times a barrier of leather, PVC or even silk and brocade between me and my dirty boys. How could it be otherwise? I have sensitive, delicate skin, and I don’t need their filthy bodies to irritate me any more than they’re going to irritate me already.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. These scenes don’t exactly look like the skillful, beautiful transfer of pleasure, the movements don’t seem like they belong to humans who are sane or healthy, and the words don’t exactly make you think of romance. But that’s exactly what it is. I used to scoff at all of this when I first started out, too. But I understand now. And understanding men is one of the sexiest things you can do for them.
The leather strip now at his tip, I flicked my wrist a little to bob his dick from side to side, like a vague threat. I tossed my hair out of my eyes and made sure he saw how unimpressed with him I was. What I most like about men is seeing them this naked. This vulnerable. Almost like weird crustaceans completely de-shelled, raw, exposed.
“Filthy little animal. You’re turned on, aren’t you? Disgusting,” I say with a dark smile. “Your cock is an immense disappointment, and now you’ve gone and put me in a bad mood, you little cretin. Stand, and apologize at once.”
He jumped to his feet, purple cock bouncing.
“I’m so sorry, Mistress, please forgive me, I’m sorry my cock doesn’t please you.”
With my riding crop placed on his shoulder, I press him down, down until he was kneeling before me, hands still firmly bound behind his back.
“That’s enough! You can’t even apologize properly, clearly. No matter. I might have considered fucking you if you weren’t such a worthless little shit, but now I’ll have to find another use for you.”
I laughed as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle his whimper.
“I don’t particularly want to torture you, boy, but you’ve brought it on yourself by having such a pathetic little excuse for a cock. On your knees,” I said curtly.
He obeyed.
Towering over his crumpled form, I stepped closer and carefully placed the pointed toe of my boot against the base of his cock. It only took the slightest stroke and he was harder still, so hard it looked like he was already about to explode. The gesture itself wasn’t important though. What counted was the threat coiled up inside it, all the potential violence, the cruel possibilities that came with pairing his most vulnerable part to my harshest. I watched as a shiver pulsed through him, and I watched as his eyes flickered back a little in his skull. He was close.
“Are you kidding me?” I scoffed. “Little pig, you misunderstand again. You don’t get to come in here.”
I caressed my boot over the tender end of this cock. You can see how easy it is to get carried away in the role when your slave is so willing to come at the thrill of merely being grazed by your boot.
“If you make a mess in my chambers, boy, I shall have to punish you. This isn’t about you and your hopeless little prick. It’s about me. Understood?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
I continued stroking.
“I permit you to worship me now,” I said.
I could tell it was difficult for him to think clearly, being so painfully on the brink of coming, but forbidden from that relief.
He thought for a moment.
“Mistress is very kind,” he began. “I am not worthy of Mistress. I am not worthy to praise her, to say how beautiful she is…”
“Good” I said, placing my foot between his knees and making him spread them wider.
“I only want to serve Mistress,” he whispered quietly, with that expression, you know the one I mean.
“That’s enough, don’t grovel,” I said. “I know you’re completely untrained and honestly, I don’t believe you have what it takes to be one of my fuck toys. But I am kind, and I’ll forgive you for having such a miserable little cock. Tell me, boy, do you know how to come when you’re told?”
I watched the swollen flesh twitch and harden.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said quietly.
I’ll stop there, I guess. You don’t need to know what I whipped him with exactly, or what I did to his poor, undeserving balls. You don’t need to know that I had him hanging onto my every word so he knew exactly the moment he was allowed to finally squirt his little load, and then thank me for the privilege. Mr. Lewis’s first lesson in ruination was quite exhausting for him, and I decided, reluctantly, to let him serve me at another date as a prospective trainee.
But you don’t need to know about all the other horrible things Mr. Lewis gets off on. Perhaps what you really want to know is, why do I do this? What could the appeal possibly be, and do I enjoy any of it? Maybe you have questions. Maybe you have judgements. To most of them, I have a simple response: am I turned on by any of this? No, not really. But I like the power. Pleasure is not the same as power, I know, but it’s infinitely easier to understand.
Maybe you’re wondering, if I don’t get off on this kind of thing, then what do I get off on? And to that I have another simple answer. You see, my ‘orgasm’ is well and truly delayed, in all cases. My thrill comes in the days and weeks afterwards, where I get to blow the money I make in these sessions on paying for a lifestyle more luxurious than you can imagine. My pleasures are more refined: I own property, and expensive cars, and dresses worth a month’s earnings by the common sort of girl who would rather have a husband than an offshore investment portfolio.
I’ve tried to play at love before; at the rigged game they call ‘relationships’. You could say that I was taken advantage of by men in the past, and now I get even by taking advantage of them, milking their lust and stupidity for my own gain. You could say I’m a wounded little bird hiding behind a mask of leather and steel, and I play at dominating men because I’m too scared to do anything else. You could say I’m twisted and sad and all the rest…
But I’m just not.
Take a good look because this is what it looks like, to live the dream. I do as I please, I make my own rules, and more importantly, I make more money than I know what to do with. The fact that I’ve never had an orgasm of my own has long stopped being a worry for me. In fact, it’s a blessing. I’ll leave all that weakness to my clients.
I finished up Mr. Lewis’ session, saw him off and closed up the dungeon for the evening. Tomorrow was my off day, and I was glad to peel off the smothering corset dress and put on my ragged cotton pajamas and some old socks.
I went upstairs, remov
ed my makeup, took a few deep breaths and helped myself to leftovers in the fridge. My clients like a bit of escapism, a bit of high-gloss fantasy. But their fantasy is my hard work, and my real treat is just to be ‘ordinary’. I flopped onto the couch with my laptop and settled in for a night of mindless Internet surfing and YouTube makeup tutorials.
I am Mistress Morgan, professional Domme and proprietress of pain and all things dark and delightful. But I am also Nora Smith, a businesswoman, an introvert, a girl just like any other, on the couch, in her unremarkable pajamas.
I’m not a prostitute.
I offer a valuable service to some of the country’s wealthiest, most powerful, and most complicated men. But in all things I have complete control and power. After all, who is more powerful, the wealthiest man in the country or the woman who can make him cream his pants with a flick of her riding crop?
What goes on in the dungeon is scripted and predictable. But the story I’m about to tell you is about what happens outside the dungeon.
I’m going to ask you again to forget what you think you know about how this story will unfold. Don’t try guess where it will go, because you know nothing about me.
Nobody does.
And I like it that way.
Chapter 2
Myth: “Sex work” is immoral
Reality: Everyone has their price
I despise today’s fashion trends – the baggy, loose fit gypsy dresses, the super casual fits of cheap fabrics in garish colors. I’d rather drop dead than wear anything described as ‘slouchy’. I prefer old school. Tailored. On my off days I go shopping, and if it’s form-fitting, classy and well made, I buy it.
Lord knows I’ve felt frail and puny in this life, but at least a small, defenseless body has its charms: it’s hot, or so I’m told. My hips are slim, my belly tight. My feet always fit into the most expensive, narrowest Italian heels, and I have a neck that looks slender even after you knot a little silk scarf around it. I will never completely appeal to the kind of man that wants a flouncy, full, fluffy girl, but luckily, I’ve yet to meet a man that hasn’t been willing to alter his tastes once he sees me in a thong and suspenders.
I was making my way down Rodeo Drive, a few designer shopping bags in my hands, when I realized I had skipped breakfast and was hungry. I lifted my sunglasses to peer around and settled on a cute looking bistro that I had always passed but never tried. A few people cast sidelong glances at me as I walked inside and found a seat, carefully placing myself and all my purchases down carefully. It was a beautiful, clear, easy California day and just the thing to make you forget about all the debauchery that happens just below the surface.
I scanned the menu.
Of course, in the past, I used to mind when people stared at me a little more than what I felt sure was normal. As though they could almost smell something deviant on me. Like I had forgotten to scrub off some dirty clue that told them I wasn’t one of them, or my cover was blown because I stared a little too deeply into someone’s eyes, or held my head just a little higher than any decent woman should.
I used to care, but now I take it as a compliment. What can I say, when you spend hours of every day acting like you’re a literal sex goddess sent to earth to be worshipped and served by lowly men, it’s hard not to get a little swagger in your hips when you’re out of character and just at the gas station …or sitting at a café ordering lunch.
“Ma’am, what I can get you?”
I placed the menu off to the side and caught the waiter’s eye.
“I’ll have the steak tartare, please, and some ice tea. Lemon.”
He smiled shyly.
He knew I saw him.
And I did see him.
He had the face of a man begging to be told what to do, and how. I briefly pitied him all the girlfriends he’d have to go through before he finally realized that he could come and see someone like me instead, and get what he really wanted. But that wasn’t any of my business – I wasn’t working today.
“Oh, and a big glass of water please, no ice,” I added, handed him the menu and flashed him a megawatt smile. He looked as though I’ve just given him an expensive birthday gift.
In fact, he was so bashful he completely ignored the woman at the next table who tried to catch his eye and wave him down. But he rushed off and I was left staring at her instead. Her hand was still frozen in the air mid-wave as her eye caught mine.
I saw her, too.
She was with her husband and toddler, and her poor posture and her tired crochet sweater and her mom hair. In that milliseconds-long glance, we understood one another.
The look on her face went a little sour, she realized she’d been ignored, and she also realized that I’d witnessed the whole thing. I could tell she’d already done a complete inventory of my face full of high quality, expertly applied makeup, my firm figure, and my white jeans that look as though they were painted directly onto my ass. Her child and husband were oblivious to this miniature drama unfolding at the table, and in a heartbeat she tore her eyes away from mine and went back to her life.
It’s OK. I judged her right back.
She thinks there is something immoral about me, something brazen. She doesn’t think people like me really exist. Not really. The women who are disgusted by the idea that I am selling my sexuality are only embarrassed because they didn’t realize they could have asked a higher price for theirs. Trust me, I’ve done some dirty things behind closed doors, but I’ve never sunk so low as to wear a crochet sweater like that out in public.
I smiled and leaned back in my seat, feeling smug at how much juicier it was than even she could guess. What would she say if she knew that at that very moment there was a man caged in my basement waiting for me to release him? Old Ralph was a faithful and decent client, and not the first client I’d kept under literal lock and key. I briefly wondered if I should pick him up something while I was out, but then forgot about him and idly decided to shoot off a text message.
Nora: You in town? Feel like a coffee or something? I’m at that little bistro we always talk about but never go to, the one with the bicycles in the front.
The response from my old friend Melissa came back almost instantly.
Melissa: Good timing, I’m like a five-minute walk away. Sit tight I’m on my way.
I smiled.
Melissa was the only non-client who knew about my secret identity, and the only person I retained from my old professional network after I gave up my previous job and decided that torture by the hour was the better gig. Melissa was by far the most open-minded person I knew, which by now was more or less a requirement for knowing me. She was a respected psychotherapist, and we trained together back in the day. Even though her offices were just a few streets away from my, ahem, studio, we seldom found time to meet like this.
“Nora! It’s been too damn long!”
I turned to see her come through the door and make a beeline for me. The crochet sweater mom was trying hard to hide the fact that she was looking at us. I got up, give Melissa a big hug and she sat and placed her order. She smiled broadly at me and looked down with amusement at my shopping bags.
Do you want to know what Melissa looked like? That’s an easy one. Whatever first thought jumped into your mind when you thought ‘psychotherapist’, well, that’s exactly what Melissa looked like. Kind, crinkled eyes, and a warm and comforting demeanor that made you feel like you were talking to your cool aunt, or a kind Classics professor who bought vegan shoes and made quilts. I loved Melissa.
“Engaging in a bit of the old retail therapy, huh?” she said.
“Has it really been so long, Melissa? See how I have to soothe myself when you’re not around,” I pouted and smiled.
We chatted easily and comfortably, like the old friends we were. Therapists have to stick together. What’s that? You’re surprised I used to be a therapist? Well, I wouldn’t say that’s the most surprising thing about me, but yes, I used to be like Melissa once. We chatted
about her husband, her endless woes with her building renovations, about TV series and how quickly time went. Then, as I knew we would, we circled around and landed up talking about me.
“You know what I’m going to ask you next, right?” she said and took a sip of her coffee.
“Oh God, let me brace myself, I’m about to get therapized, aren’t I?” I said playfully and grabbed the edge of the table. She smiled.
“Well, I am curious. Go on, are you…?”
“Yes. I am still.”
“And is it…?”
“I’m good, Melissa. It’s all good.”
She gave me that look.
“I’m serious,” I said.
She sighed and fidgeted with the sugar packets.
“That’s it? I don’t get any details?”
I laughed.
“I’ve tried to tell you details before and you’re always freaked out.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is. What do you want me to say? I still beat business executives for fun and profit, yes. Still not a prostitute, no.”
Her ears pricked at my use of the P-word. We had had a near argument once before, Melissa and I, when I tried to explain why I was finally trading in my therapist’s license for leather thigh high boots and a whip. She hated that word. I didn’t. Still, prostitution wasn’t what I was doing. I didn’t expect people to understand my motivations …not even Melissa.
She flopped back in her seat, sighed loudly and began stroking out a lock of her hair in that way she always did when she was deep in thought.
“OK, there’s no need to use that word. Anyway, you know you had me thinking a lot after our last conversation. But I have to admit I still don’t get it. You said you’re calling all the shots, that you have control…”
“That’s right. I do have control.”
“And you say you get to take charge…”
“That’s right, I do as I please.”