by Ashley Hind
I guess if my horrible henchman did have to pick a way to die it wouldn’t necessarily be this, although he could hardly deny there was one more fitting. I let the red cloud rule, whacking him on the back of the head with the shovel as he was climbing down from the digger. He sprawled a bit and then went down. I bound his wrists behind him and his ankles too, using the thin rope he had pegged out to mark his line of digging. I doubt he fully regained consciousness, judging by the weak efforts to writhe and get free. The lack of air would have sapped him of strength and clarity of thought. Hopefully he had some grasp of what was going on as his lifeblood ran out. It wasn’t the tightest seal so I had to ensure I stayed there long enough for all oxygen to have been used up. Well, he said he wanted my fat arse and so I gave it to him, all bare and soft and smothering, right on his face. A full fifteen minutes I sat there, giving him that final treat, wriggling upon him as the dirty thoughts swirled within the cloud.
Without much fuss I could roll and kick him into the grave he had just dug for himself. I could fill it a lot quicker than I could with the shovel alone, having paid close attention to how he had operated the digger. My full-on Japanese water garden was going to have to be forgotten but the trench in-filled rather neatly and there was a long, narrow pond I’d seen in a magazine, all brushed chrome surrounds and with coloured solar lighting built in, very smart and only about a foot deep but still enough for small coy. I had already thought it might be a nicer alternative. I’d need to find someone to help me with this but everything is solvable if you put your mind to it. I can’t say I was going to miss my handyman, and the horrible ways he had me losing my mind and playing with myself.
I am all showered and clean when I hear the buzz of my phone from atop the bed. I know what kind of text will be awaiting me. My belly is already feeling those familiar butterflies.
I am going to make you mine, it says.
It takes me aback, the lack of vulgarity. Just fleetingly it leaves me a little empty. Then I feel the power of the message coming through, the statement of intent.
It sounds domineering, the designating someone as your property. But it also sounds romantic, warming. Even if I hadn’t just buried Bertrand to confirm it, I know such a message could never have come from him. Then I am doing what I had never thought to do before. Always I had thrown the phone down after getting these messages as if they were contagious or liable to burn me. I had tentatively only allowed myself to study them nervously some time after, as if hoping their potency had by then somewhat diminished. This time I have replied to it.
I know who you are.
I press send and the shivers are all through me. I have broken the boundary. I have entered into conversation which means I am acknowledging the sender, inviting a rejoinder. I thought I had picked my words carefully so that it looked like I held all the aces and had the power. It felt like I had taken control, gained the initiative. It felt like I could send my mysterious message-sender scurrying, now that I knew their truth. However, I know there will be no silence. An answer will come because people who wish to dominate always have an answer for everything. I know my control over this has already been lost because I will wait with baited breath for that answer, checking my phone constantly even when it hasn’t signalled a message received. He knows this too, which is why he makes me wait and wait, getting me ever more agitated, frustrated, ever more likely to send another message to try and force his reply. It is two in the morning when the beep pulls me from my semi-slumber and sends loose the butterflies within. The phone screen is starkly bright in the dimness of my bedroom. The text reads simply:
Then soon it will be time.
A Shocking Conclusion
Just recently I would have been inside her house, waiting on her. Now I have to resort to sitting outside it in the Evoque, the less noticeable of my cars. I don’t really know why I am here. Unfinished business, I guess, but my brain won’t be clearer on this. I always came here muddled and left even more mixed up. I came here for answers and resolution and clarity, to be shown and taught. She showed me all right, but not in the way I had envisaged. I wanted her to give me focus but she just left me blurred. This fire in me, she could have shown me how to control it, direct it, turn it up when necessary and dowse it again afterwards. She could have made me incredible if only she had felt even the slightest regard for me, recognised me as a protégé to proudly mould into one that could stand above all. She just saw me as a threat; nothing beautiful in me to nurture at all. I fell for her a little bit, I cannot deny. Now, as so often happens, the lovesickness has turned all bitter.
I have been there nigh on half an hour and I am never a patient woman. In the end the growing angry frustration inside me almost wills her out of her house. She is as oblivious of my presence as she is about the demise of her two pale-skinned favourites. I’m not sure why this wasn’t enough for me but it just hasn’t proved to be. The fury just won’t abate. Every time I think of them, of her, I get that same gnawing reminder of the humiliations she dealt me, the utter rejection. I wasn’t good enough to touch her, not good enough even to be fucked by her scrawny worm of a husband. I went to her ready to adore and be adored and came away feeling like I had the day my father left me. Well, I cannot do anything about what happened in my childhood but I can do something about her.
By the yellow glow of the streetlamp, I can just about make out that she is in some kind of tight, black costume. Then she is in her car and driving away. She will be visiting a client, because she is nothing but a whore, however she dresses it up. She might give her body away only seldom, and under her own strict rules, but she essentially sells sex every time. She thought I wanted to do the same! She, who thinks she has this innate ability to get into the minds of all who come to her, couldn’t even see that this was never my desire. She couldn’t see my vision, or help me form it properly. She just assumed I was there to take business away from her.
In that sense it is all her fault. If she could have seen me for what I am then certain people would still be alive today. She wouldn’t have lost the ones so precious to her. All it takes is a little regard, a little consideration for others, an understanding that your life shines the brightest when you put aside its importance and choose instead to think only of cherished ones. If we all did this, if we forgot about ourselves and concentrated only on the happiness of certain others, and could rely implicitly on them giving us all the love and trust and closeness that our soul needed to always be buoyed, then this world of ours would work.
Her husband is shocked to see me on her doorstep. It’s not too often a beauty in a catwoman mask comes a-calling.
‘She’s not in!’ he says in a kind of panicked squeal.
Poor Drummond, it’s not easy for him. He’s not even supposed to look at me but it is very difficult to keep your eyes fixed on the floor whilst also trying to stop me barging past into the hallway when sporting the kind of cleavage I’ve got for him tonight.
‘It’s not her I came to see,’ I tell him, closing the door behind me. I swoosh off down the hall into the lounge with him trailing behind, telling me I cannot stay. The TV is on showing some banal pre-watershed shit. It was just a normal evening for him; sat here alone whilst wifey goes out to whip and maybe fuck the arse off some random sissy-boy.
‘Last time I was here,’ I say to him, noting his gawp upon my bosom, ‘I wanted your cock inside me. Why did you not give it to me?’
He looks like he might faint. He drags his eyes up to mine, his face aghast.
‘I couldn’t! You know I could never. She won’t...’
‘So you wanted to, you just weren’t allowed to.’
‘No, no - I never said that! I would never disobey her!’
I smile because he is flustered and stammering and unable to show any kind of assertion in his own house to defend against me. I can already sense my victory. I slip off the full-length leather o
vercoat that until very recently belonged to a certain effeminate pop star with an 80’s haircut. Beneath I am wearing a teddy in the softest black rubber, cut in a wide, deep V to display as much ample cleavage as one could wish for without luscious tits spilling out. Beneath this I have crotchless netted tights, which I always think look good on me. The boots are mid-thigh, similar to those I wore on the night Castor and Pollux popped round to get sucked off and die. These have less of a platform sole and a higher heel. Drummond ought to be flattered that I took such an effort in picking out this costume for him. The rapidly growing bulge in the crotch of his trousers suggests my time was well spent.
I sit myself down on his sofa, just to show him I have no intention of leaving, however much he implores it. I open my legs wide, my gloved fingers immediately down at my crotch as if my pussy has an urgent need for attention. In truth, this bit needs no play-acting.
‘I know you want to be inside me, Drummond,’ I taunt as I stroke myself.
‘No, my Mistress is...’
‘Your Mistress is a bitch who fucks others but won’t let you do the same. I want your big cock inside me and I will not be refused.’
‘You have to leave!’
He sounds like he is on helium. I almost have to laugh. Instead I simply un-pop the press studs at my crotch and the rubber pings free, leaving my puss in all its glory for him to see. His shocked face says it all. There is no way he can avert his gaze. He tries to keep his eyes down but up they keep coming until his willpower has gone. So I hold myself open for him as a reward. It doesn’t bother me that I am behaving like this for him. None of it matters, only the goal. It fills me with hot, bubbling excitement that I can be this dirty and not have to care of any consequences, of what he thinks of me. I slip one finger inside and sigh with the joy of it.
‘Your Mistress claims you would never betray her but you will, happily, because I am more beautiful than her and the best fuck you could ever imagine.’
‘I can’t,’ he says, but it is a barely audible croak and he is mesmerised by the sight of my fingers going slowly and oh-so lewdly in and out of me. I haven’t even brought out the big guns yet and he is already folding, all those years of rigid loyalty and steel-heartedness, all about to be blown away because no man can resist the right temptation. It just isn’t in them to do so. In his heart he has probably already cheated on her a thousand times. Anyway, about those big guns...
‘Your Mistress likes to fuck your arse, doesn’t she Drummond? Well, I am going to do that for you too. But does she ever have you return the favour? Does she value you enough for that?’
I slip off my seat and turn so that I am now bent over it. I pull up my garment to ensure he has the best view of my round, stuck-out rump. He looks like he has three-quarters of a rolling pin housed in his pants.
‘I am going to have you kiss my arse, Drummond. I am going to have you kiss it and use your tongue. You are going to lick my arse and finger my arse, and then I am going to have you put your cock in it, every last inch of it. Does your selfish Mistress ever do such things for you?’
‘No,’ he kind-of gulps.
‘Take your clothes off, Drummond. Do it now.’
And he is doing it. The fizz of triumph is all through me. The slippers are kicked off and in resignation he drops his trousers and underwear, unleashing the monster. Off comes his shirt revealing the greying vest beneath, his calling card. Who the fuck wears a vest in this day and age? He even keeps it on, as if he knows this is all part of the wretchedness of him that has to be retained to make the scenario work. I call him to me, my backside still out. I tell him to kneel behind me. I tell him to run his huge erect cock all over my behind and then press it to the crack to make a hot dog of it. I can feel him shaking. I can feel my own tremble too. I tell him to hold his cock and touch the tip to my tight, sweetly puckered hole. I keep him like that for a few moments, both of us breathing hard, quivering, eyes closed.
Such a good slave; Samson, Lionel, Castor, Bertrand - all would have been in me by now, grasping me, ravishing me. Such a good slave is he that he will wait. I reach back to take hold of his cock. How I wish I didn’t need these gloves on. The feel is like an iron bar. I turn, hearing his anguish and knowing it will also be a secret pleasure to him to have the treat of my bum suddenly taken from him. I press his cock to my bare thigh to feel the warmth and pulse of it. I lean down and touch it to my cheek. I spit on the tip to give him the lubrication he needs as I stroke it up and down. I won’t suck on it though. That is not something I want. I know that the scrawny nastiness of him, the horrible vest, it all gives that skin-crawling feel that actually enlivens your body. The self-loathing at manhandling him buzzes your insides. It withers and shames you to have to touch him and to have such lust for that cock at the same time. Sucking him is a disgrace I don’t want to experience but I know I do want that cock inside me, however much it burns.
On top is the best way to take it, giving me control. I love the stretch of it, the fullness I feel, but it brings detachment too. I cannot take all of it, so there is no meeting of our bodies. I shouldn’t want this with him, not with my hands gripping that nasty vest of his as a reminder of who is giving me this pleasure, but I do. I am thinking of others, of Stark, not this man. I wanted the fire and passion of two bodies together but I feel more like I have fallen from the sky and landed on a ship’s mast. There isn’t even a sense of using him, since I cannot take him all. It still makes me come though, and with a huge shudder, because my pussy is such a selfish, needy hussy and she doesn’t have to care for passion or closeness.
I don’t look at him now. I don’t want to see even a hint of triumph at the pleasure I took from him. I have no doubt he will have his best slavish, meek air about him because he has played his character for so long it is totally instinctive. Still, I don’t look at him. I order him to follow me down to the dungeon and stand in wait for me. The spanking frame is fortuitously there for him to climb onto when I am ready, but we have some time to kill before that. I remember from the initial tour I was given where his wife keeps much of her equipment. I find some lube and apply it thickly to his still erect cock, taking it in hand as if I hadn’t just been at its mercy. I work the grease in liberally, much like I assume any man would do if he wanted to have a really good, protracted wank. The grease covers his balls too, and beyond, working into that horrible crack of his. I pull off the vest to grease the whole of him like a pig ready to roast.
‘Before you have my arse, Drummond, I think it is fitting that I have yours, since that is what you like best. It isn’t just your wife who can give you this treat. I want you to go now and find whichever dildo you want me to fuck you with. I don’t care whether it is as thin as twine or the Queen of Pleasure herself. You choose, and bring it ready in a harness for me to wear.’
Of course, he comes back with the Queen of Pleasure. What else? I have him wank it and fellate it and I call him a dirty cock-lover. It mortifies him but to serve is his greatest desire. In his head I rule now. I have broken him. All those oaths and bonds lie in tatters now. Strength of heart and will is no match for a burst of hormones. I let him watch me step into the harness and tighten it around my waist, and then I have him climb onto the spanking frame with his bare arse prone for me. I want to whip him or cane him but I know I will lose myself to the red cloud. My hatred of him, his wife, this place, is already taking me over. I spank him a little, to vent some of that pent-up fury. He whimpers and begs but he likes it. I put my thumb in him, then two fingers. I press the head of the Queen to his entrance but do not press further. I want him to know how good I am. I want his brain to be imprinted with the thought that his betrayal was well worth it, because it was me who forced it.
I let him wait. I leave him to go put the power boxes and electro probes on the trolley and wheel it around. I place the electrodes at various points on his greased body so that I can deliver shocks as
I see fit. He has them on his arse cheeks, his cock, scrotum, back, nipples, tongue, everywhere. I fit a ball gag although he won’t make a sound unless I say he can - he is way too good a slave for that. I could use the wrist shackles at the side of the frame but instead I use the long leather tongue from a whip, binding it around both wrists and the centre of the frame, like one might do for themselves, with the final bit of tightening done by teeth. I tie it loosely but one quick burst of electricity on his balls has him jerking and pulling the knot tight.
‘I am going to fill you up now, Drummond,’ I say. ‘I want you to think of my body and my beauty all the while I am doing it. I want you to realise this is not a dream but a reality. I will let you suck these gorgeous tits and lick my beautiful cunt. I am going to let you kiss and fuck my delicious arse. I am not like any Mistress you have known. I want you in my mind for the rest of your life.’
I present the toy to his begging backside once more. I select the random settings on the power boxes so that shocks will be given intermittently and automatically, so I won’t have to concentrate on anything other than the job in hand. I can feel the anticipation and wanting emanating from him. I know he is holding his breath. This is clearly the moment of his adult life, beyond all other scintillation. And so, with him like a sacrificial lamb, ready for the most unforgettable episode of his life, one that will burn him and rip his conscience apart and yet see him exalted forever, I simply leave him there, trembling and weeping, to be discovered by his returning wife, who stupidly thinks he would never, ever betray her.
Not really! It would be good if I could, because that would be what a really brilliant Mistress of Discipline would do. It would leave him shattered, destroying him in the eyes of his beloved, but still he would yearn for me. This opportunity snatched away would eat at him for all his waking hours, even in his dreams. But I don’t do it because I can’t. I am not so in control. I am every bit as much a slave to this moment, this nastiness and raging lust. It is a shocking conclusion to arrive at, since I was so sure I would be the best there could be, that I’m not actually getting much better at being a dominatrix. When the desire sweeps over me I lose myself. Even with a perfect slave like Drummond to work on I cannot temper it. My willpower to draw it out, to make every second an agony of wanting for us both, is so easily defeated. I hurry and end it badly for all. I get nothing close to the body-wracking rapture that this man’s wife gives me when she has me under her control.