The Executioner's Girl

by Willow Sears

  I ended up spanking the girl’s bottoms and then jerking off a couple of big pricks, showing off with my perfect timing which made them both bubble with thick white sperm at the same time. I even let the pricks spit their nasty seed onto my top, something I would normally never do. When the men had finished I made them swap places and then get down and lick the other’s spunky mess off my chest. Ariadne would have been proud of me, if only she had been there. I saw riders beating ponies and doggy-fucking hounds. I got to watch over a dozen men raining spunk upon a writhing gaggle of wanking and slurping girls.

  Before I left I found myself alone in some small bedroom with Blueberry. I think I had been attempting to find a place to sleep off the booze but he found me first. I was annoyed at his constant shadowing and let my anger boil over. I remember shouting at him, “What do you want from me?”

  I said it two or three times, but he just bowed his head and stayed silent. So I bent him over and used my crop on his blue rubber behind. He yelped like a girl at each hard stroke but I didn’t care. It sounded like he was crying but my frustration with him, my anger that his silly prick was finding a way into my unconscious thoughts just overrode any sympathy I felt. He took it all in the position I had put him in and asked for no clemency. In the end I grew too tired and gave up. I grabbed the costume at the back of his neck and pulled him half up, so his legs were still straight and his body was at 45°. I saw that my spanking had made him unhitch the flap at his crotch to leave his erection protruding. He wore no underwear this time. Perhaps I had ruined his one and only pair when I took the scissors to them. He had already grasped his prick, partially to hide it from my crop, partially because it needed to be held.

  I just couldn’t help but stare. His small prick just grabbed my focus and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. He held his hands over it to hide it but his own touch had him sucking his breath in. As I watched he gradually unveiled it and took a hold, tentatively stroking it up and down although I had given him no instruction to do so and could have brought my whip down as a punishment for his rudeness. His breathing increased with his pace: the gasps and pants of a desperate pervert. His fat fist practically held the whole length, so his back and forth action saw his hand squashed hard to his groin or slipping off the end of his prick.

  I could tell that he was either looking down, trying to see past his own belly at what he was doing, or looking up to gaze at my face. I just kept staring at his crotch. It was captivating; grotesque and yet fascinating. In the end I couldn’t stop myself and reached out very slowly. As my hand approached he stopped his jerking and let go, his breath getting harder and faster as my hand crept towards his little member. I wanted to pull away but I didn’t. To give this fat blob and his pitiful prick the honour of my touch was probably unthinkable and there is no way I could have continued if I had not been wearing my silk riding gloves, but continue I did, gently touching the underside as he came close to hyperventilating, and then curling and closing my fingers around his stick. It felt kind of cosy in my hand, if that is any sort of description. The size was so manageable and comforting. Its warmth radiated through the material of my glove and my closed hand masked the gnarly veins that made it look so old and battered. With the long foreskin pulled forward over the reddy-purple glans it looked less offensive, more helpless.

  I spend most of my time trying to rob men in my company of any sexual release but for some reason I needed to give this prick its pleasure. I have no idea why, perhaps because I felt sorry for it? It seems a ridiculous notion but nonetheless my hand started slowly to travel back and forth along his shaft, gripping it hard to feel its pulse and heat. His whimpering yelps should have put me off but I was mesmerized by my own actions, of watching the little wet tip poke out and then disappear, of feeling the skin stretch right over his glans and then slide back to show the coarse large hole at his end. I speeded up and I think he started crying–it certainly sounded like heavy sobs, presumably of immeasurable joy. He reached a kind of high pitched squeal by the time my fist was pummelling him furiously and just at the last minute I came out of my fixed concentration and realised he was about to spurt. I attempted to point his cock away from me but I only succeeded in forcing it down, causing him to yelp in pain. It didn’t stop his climax though, and I kindly continued to toss him with speed as his thick spunk jetted out in fat globs, all over my boots.

  He collapsed in a crumpled heap, holding his groin as if the spunk had been wrenched from him like the guts of a bee delivering its sting. I started to sober up quickly, staring at my open palm as if it had betrayed me and wondering with revulsion how on earth I had allowed myself to do him this favour. It was the second time he had soiled my shins too, and that annoyed me. I thought about taking my crop to him again but since the first time gave him such enjoyment it seemed counter-productive. I spat on him instead; I just needed an outburst of some kind to show my displeasure.

  “Eat your come off my boots, Blueberry, you disgusting toad.”

  He went straight down to oblige, slurping away fretfully, eager to do my bidding but unable to hide his displeasure at the taste of his own seed. As he licked me clean he looked up at me glaring down on him. The shock fizzed cold in my belly. His eyes were visible through the mask holes, bright and shining, possibly with tears. They looked longingly up at me, or at least one did. The right eye stared straight at me but the left one pointed off to the side. It hit me like a punch in the face and I couldn’t believe it hadn’t dawned on me before. My only mitigation was that I had paid him so little attention that it never began to occur to me that I might actually know the man behind the blueberry suit, that I regularly went into his room and allowed him to hypnotize me.

  “Go now,” I said quietly, and kicked him away.

  He scuttled off and left me alone in the room. I felt shaky and cold, my stomach empty. It made perfect sense, of course. Harvey could learn anything about me once I was under. He could ascertain which my favourite clubs were and when I went to them, what I liked to drink when I was there, where I sat and who I allowed at my table. I realised that his presence at the Pink Paradise club had been no coincidence and was in fact engineered. He stole the information from me. Perhaps his lack of relevant costume on that night (or any night) was due to only being able to extract the information at short notice. Perhaps he had to stick to the one suit because it afforded him the most anonymity. Except that I had seen right through it. Did this mean that the fact that I had allowed him to accompany me here was not actually my doing but his planted suggestion? I worship your elixir. What kind of a phrase is that and why the fuck would anyone ever use it? Had I jerked him not out of any sympathy for his pathetic prick but because he had programmed me to do it? Had that fat cunt just made me wank him off?

  I had thought before that he could have got things out of me but now the proof was staring me in the face it sent shivers through me. If he knew when I would be at a particular club did he also know about Ariadne? Did he know all my secrets–how much I wanked and what happened when I came, the naughty stuff I did in the toilet? Did he want to show me his cock because he knew about my little pussy? But if he knew all this and could make such things happen, how come he hadn’t just made me fuck him? Perhaps he just hadn’t got around to it yet. Maybe he was planting the suggestion in my head and earning my trust as he slowly built to his final goal. Maybe his sole purpose right from the start was to get his useless cock inside me.

  I didn’t dream about his prick that night although I slept pretty hard and maybe I just didn’t remember it. I still felt violated but couldn’t find it in me to hate him for some reason. Maybe he had planted that indifference too, in case I discovered his secret. Christ, even Scooby-Doo would have worked it out quicker than me. How many fawning pot-bellied fucks do I know? It threw up all sorts of questions: what was his motive; what was the extent of his influence; which of my actions are or have been at my own volition; has he actually any capability of curing me of my demons? I had alread
y decided I had to go back to see him, regardless of last night’s intimacy. The state of play with Ariadne was such that I couldn’t risk not going through with it.

  At one point during my scrambled thoughts it took me half an hour of concentrated deliberation to remember exactly why I thought that forcing out the Executioner’s Girl would lead to some kind of watershed with Ariadne. I even thought he had planted this in me as an excuse to see him, but then I remembered that I went to him first with the problem, not the other way around, and that my belief was that without these demons I would be more level-headed and approachable, and that I could settle into a proper relationship and be a loving partner. I had to keep telling myself that!

  ***

  I seem to have reached something of a hiatus in my life. There I was bobbing along quite nicely; relatively happy in myself and in my work, confident my plans would come to fruition. Now I’m not sure how much control I have over anything. I need to talk it through and reassess things. I need a good chat (that’s right–a good confabulation!) with a good friend. Then I realise I have none around. My girlfriend is a million miles away and more than ever I cannot bring myself to leave things here and jet off to see her. My best friend, Alice, who I grew up with and who literally knows me inside and out, is away in Australia, trying to determine how many sexy men she can go down-under upon before she settles down.

  I have always been a confident person, unashamed of who I am and what turns me on, so I don’t lead what can be termed a double life (although my parents by no means know what I get up to at night). However, being a Domme is a lifestyle choice in itself, it sets you apart and defines you and how people react to you. People you meet on the scene are always living the fantasy, as if life is just one massive role-playing exercise. You can’t be spanking a girl’s rude bits by night and then calmly chatting to them about the weather or the steep rise in the price of cod come morning. Most people involved in the scene are there to escape and they don’t want the bubble to burst. They always want you to play the Mistress. They cannot relate to you or be comfortable in the situation unless you do, and so reality tends to go missing. It’s all a bit empty really, a bit of a farce, and it pays not to think too deeply about it.

  I do have other “normal” friends, most of which know the general picture of my lifestyle. These are all doing “normal” things though, like moving in with boyfriends, getting married and having kids. I know they are happy in their own way but sometimes their existence can appear vacuous to me, like they are missing out on life’s Great Opportunities. Most times I can find no substance or point to conversations about wedding arrangements or just how far your child’s projectile vomit can travel, other times it is all I want to know. But not today. It’s an odd feeling thinking that you are at the top of the tree, that so many people in life respect and defer to you, that you can influence just about everyone you meet and have them eating out of your hand. It’s funny thinking this and then having it dawn upon you that at that time you simply have no-one to turn to. I thought about going to see Ariadne, but that might just make things worse. I need to let her get past her anger and hope that she still wants me afterwards, and maybe try to find some middle ground.

  I have been trying to have some sane conversation today. I have a model in called Stephanie to help me tweak some designs. Whenever I create new pieces I always get a professional model in to do a dummy catwalk, so I can check how the design looks and works on them. I am a couture designer, not a maker of novelty costumes, and since my dresses often retail at price points over a thousand pounds, I have to make sure they are right. This can be an expensive business, particularly now I am using a lot of rubber in my designs and high quality latex is not cheap. If I make mistakes it will cost me, as will garments tearing because I haven’t thought out the fit correctly. I am determined to keep using rubber for now as it looks so good on so many people, plus it has inherent support qualities that preclude the need for underwear (a definite plus for that Red Carpet look), and it screams sexiness without having to be daring or obvious. It is definitely a material that will continue to make its mark in haute couture, and that is what I aim to produce.

  Despite my love of the BDSM world in general, my designs started out as conventional dresses as opposed to fetish wear, and have since gravitated to more the daring, overtly sexual designs now that I have become more established. You might think the process would happen in reverse. The upshot of this is that I can still procure top models to help me out and do my shows rather than simple glamour girls. Often they will do private fittings for free, just as Stephanie is doing today, because they know it means they will star in the final show. She is beautiful, it has to be said. She is tall and slender with bobbed black hair. She is not too bony or angular. Her face is naturally pretty without being quirky. In full make-up like she is now, with her pale foundation and the liquid red on her lips, with the cut of rouge on her cheek and those ever-so long black lashes, she looks utterly stunning. It is just a shame that she has all the personality of a sack of potatoes.

  She likes clothes, that’s for sure. She can trot out a list of her favourite fashion houses and her favourite creations, but she just can’t quite manage to describe them, so each one sounds less like the wonderful item that caught her eye and more like a dog’s dinner finished in a microwave. Oh, and speaking of dogs, she has a new Chihuahua which, so she tells me, is just the cutest little itsy-bitsy and she adores it more than anything. She almost didn’t come today because she was scared of leaving it alone for the morning. Fortunately someone called Andre rushed to the rescue and brought over his home grooming kit because he couldn’t bear to think of the poor little thing being neglected. Stephanie seemed quite taken aback when I had to admit that I neither had a dog nor any particular liking for them. I think that’s when she decided that she could have no particular liking for me. I did tell her that Master Vincent owned a pink Labradoodle called Gustav, in honour of the composer Holst, since The Planet Suite was the Master’s favourite. I told her that I didn’t think the name appropriate for the dog and that I had argued in favour of it to be re-named Jupiter. None of this seemed to cut any ice with Stephanie.

  So we sat in silence during a break in proceedings, with her by the open window, thumbing through a magazine and having a coffee and a cigarette for lunch. I let her smoke because she is beautiful, even though I now have a rabid hatred for cigarettes and the stench they produce, while I sat on the leather couch, staring dreamily at her. The smoke is backlit by the hazy sunlight and is quite mesmerizing. It charges out of her mouth in a tube and then slows and billows as it meets the air from the open window, drifting upwards in front of her face, some even getting drawn back into her nose and mouth with her next breath. She is in a world of her own, relaxed and peaceful, gazing at pictures of the latest designs and wondering if they will clash with her tiny dog. She has no compunction about sitting in just her white lacy underwear. It makes her seem so sweet.

  It reminds me of the times I had with Alice, years ago. We used to strip to our underwear and rush under the covers during the day. We would giggle and stroke each other and then kiss. I would get on top of her (or she would get on top of me) and we would kiss–that’s all–perhaps some light touching above our lacy bras and panties but mainly just kissing. We continued this practice for many years, and often had an unspoken instinct for when it was required. We would strip down and show off our underwear before a warm embrace and then we would leap under fresh white sheets to kiss and enjoy the feel of the tights or stockings or silk knickers against our skin. I would often buy her new hosiery or underwear to put on and we would have a grand unveiling ceremony. Once we pressed together we never spoke, never tried to take it any further even though we were used to fucking one another.

  I could spend ages just stroking her leg within sheer tights or fishnets. I loved the feel of my bare thighs on her nylon, of her knee gently pressing the silk to my wet quim. It made me feel safe and pure. She liked it
but I loved it. I recognize it was a kindness on her part. She indulged me even as we got older because she knew I needed it sometimes, needed a refuge from the spanking and spitting, the loudness and raucous excitement of the sex I knew. She knew I sometimes needed tenderness and close passion without the threat of my pussy being stretched and violated.

  I could have watched Stephanie for hours. Even when she hiccupped and then let loose a little burp without any apology it didn’t faze me. She had a kind of perfection but her banal conversation had rendered her somehow unsexy. She might have been a tigress between the sheets but I doubted it. Normally I would have preyed upon such a beauty, hunted her down and cornered her and had my way. But so often such girls are in the clubs I frequent and have therefore signed up for such eventualities. In the cold light of day I had no idea how I would even attempt to seduce Stephanie. I had no power here, there wasn’t any level I could relate to her on–no humour, no response to the feel of the rubber and the tightness on the body, no frisson when we stood close, no acknowledgement that we were two beauties alone together. She wouldn’t respond to the sight of my whips or gags. If I wanted her pussy I would have to rape her and even then she would probably just sit through it oblivious, turning the pages of her magazine, smoking and burping. No, real passion is about emotion, about shared desire. You can sometimes tell without words what lies in a person’s soul, and that’s why I knew Ariadne would be worth the wait and all the frustration. I didn’t need to know her to know she was right for me. Passion is not about empty fucking, it is about a fusing of souls, about being inside one another. Stephanie did have nice nipples, though. I would like to have sucked them for her.