His eyes flashed and he ordered firmly, "Show me." She, trembling, slowly pulled her hem up, slow, not for modesty's sake. No she was well beyond that, she no longer seemed to have modesty. (Where did it go? When did it go? Why did it go? The questions staggered through her mind.) She pulled up slowly, not to be seductive, but out of fear. She, the confident Catherine, was suddenly the frail uncertain Kitten, afraid that her very sure decision of an hour earlier was going to displease him. "Did he want her nude under the dress? The beaded underwear? Another color? How was she to know, he hadn't given her any specific orders? When did she wish for these sorts of things?"
She kept bringing the hem up until it was at her waist, far further than it needed to be, surely. She turned for him to see the entire panty, worrying that he intended for her to wear a thong instead of her full back bikini. When she completed her circle, she glanced up, realizing she had nervously looked to the floor like a child, when she twirled. His eyes were all a rage. He stepped forward, grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her two steps to the bed, pulling her over his lap as he sat and quickly, firmly swatted her bottom with the palm of his hand, (his large hand, she thought), as the shock of the pain ran through her. His hands, (his large hands), ripped her panties to mid-thigh suddenly, and then a swat, then another on the other cheek sent first a pain, then a second later, a warm feeling through her. Her voice gone, a gasp, then a second, and a third, jumped from her throat with each hit.
He lifted her, effortlessly, and stood her to her feet. "I bought them for you to wear," he said calmly, "Do you understand?”
She nodded; afraid she would start to cry if she said anything.
"Then put them on." he ordered.
She waddled the five feet to the drawer, afraid to pull up her panties, or to even drop the hem she still had pinned to her waist, knowing she must look comical, but displeasing him meant everything to her right now. At the nightstand she pulled the black panties off, placing a long graceful arm to the nightstand to keep her balance, then quickly pulled the pearl and red lace underwear up and unsure exactly where they belonged on her hips or waist, returned to stand in front of Captain Jack, hem held to her waist for his inspection. She felt that every emotion of honor, pride or self-confidence had completely abandoned her. In its place, the emotions of the fear of disappointing him, and confidence that he would make his wishes hers had replaced them. Humiliation would have been an accurate description if she had pride left. She did not. In its place, stood a quiet acceptance, no, a quiet insistent need that he let her know what he wanted her to do.
He looked at her, almost surprised, she thought, at her open acceptance, her full compliance. He pulled the red lace until the beads split her down the middle, firmly between the cheeks of her lovely, red welted ass and swollen pussy lips. His hands stroked her bottom and his fingertips traced along the welts they had created a few minutes earlier. She heard herself sighing to his touch. He slid the dress down her thighs and she realized he had to remove her hands to do so.
He stood and hobbled to retrieve his cane. Had he hobbled when he drug her to the bed? She could not remember. "Shall we go?" he said with a strong hand to the door. "I'll carry your room key." She realized she had no purse to go with this dress and would not need one now.
She did not remember dinner, other than the cool silk of the dress on her still stinging bottom, and how the combination of that, and the beads stroking her clitoris with every move, were erotic charges coursing through her body. That made everything worse, more humiliating as she imagined everyone was seeing her so turned on and could smell her, hear her wetness squish between her legs. Her first efforts to squeeze her thighs together in modesty actually made things worse and she felt her safest, most modest approach was to sit motionless, her thighs slightly open, never crossing her legs.
Then it was to the Opera house to listen to a blind Italian tenor. Catherine's tastes in classical music ran to the symphonic. She stretched forward to the timeline to chamber music, but only so far as Mozart's time. And she had issues with atonal music, which she felt was a victory of brain over heart, and not music's finest hour. Masses and operas and oratorios were all well and good for radio snippets, or even those CDs advertized late night, or on marginal cable channels where for 29.95 you can get all five Greatest Operatic Moments, and if you act now, they will double the offer, and if you really acted now, they will cut the price to 19.95, and if you really and seriously act now they will allow you to listen to them absolutely free for thirty days. All you will have to do is pay the extra shipping and handling. Of course, by Greatest Operatic Moments, they mean all the music that Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd taught us as children on the Saturday morning cartoons.
So it was to her surprise how thoroughly enjoyable it was to listen to this man, with an occasional duet with some soprano of whom she knew nothing. As she sat in the dark, she was so entranced that she was pulled into his voice. She knew no Italian and so she only imagined the words to be sad as he sang, (she believed), of the heartache of the women who left him. She had heard that people who lose one sense find more in the others as they use them to compensate. And now she was convinced that he was able to take that extra sensing and pour it into his music and her heart. She also wondered if her loss of freedom to Captain Jack had somehow made her more sensitive as well. Perhaps as she swam free of obligation to decide, she became more capable of enjoying the rest of her world. If it was so, she was happy to embrace the sensation.
As his voice soared, her heart soared as freely, as high. As the tenor trembled his broken heart's melody, tears welled up in her eyes. Her hands grasped in the dark to hold on to the person who left him so heartbroken, to drag them back to him. She wanted to sooth his sadness and return the joy to his world.
It was one of the great regrets in Catherine's life that she could not sing. She had so many gifts; it might seem like greed to have hoped for this gift as well. But she did. On these occasions she wanted to be able to convey so perfectly the thrills of life and the lows that love could bring to someone, anyone. She felt less because of the lack of this gift. Perhaps it was as if she was blind vocally and she was going to compensate in other ways. So whether it was intentional, or entirely serendipitous, by evening's end, she was completely compliant to whatever Captain Jack was to desire of her.
Her mind was not hers, the always thinking, adjusting, compensating and maneuvering vehicle for which she was so proud. She was an emotionally packed sensing machine by the time they arrived at the hotel. She did not remember the ride, the conversation, or even the city. Suddenly, they were going into the door of her hotel and she was standing before the seated Captain Jack and as he waved his hand to her, she stepped closer and suddenly gasped as his warm hand was gently sliding the beads over her clit. Her mind went into hyper drive and she flashed through the evening in the dark box at the opera and realized how often her physical self had morphed into and across her emotional self. She had squeezed her legs together and had nearly come at least twice. And now, the cumulative effect of the night was obvious as Captain Jack brought his very wet fingers from between her legs. She was not embarrassed, but in fact proud of her response, her connection to the beautiful music, and to Captain Jack's delight in that response.
He stood and said, "Take it out." She knew what he meant and she sank to her knees and clumsily, anxiously fumbled with his zipper and his belt. She pulled out his member gingerly, respectfully and looked up into his dark and powerful face. “Suck it."
She was in unfamiliar territory here as she had always thought of this as an act beneath her. But now she was the submissive and knew it was no longer beneath her, but actually her duty now, and she felt an incredible regret that she hadn't thought to practice her oral art form as surely she should have suspected this moment would come some day. Perhaps that was her problem, that she hadn't let her brain enough into this bargain and had wanted to feel what this would do to her, unencumbered by facts and data. This night, this
entire escort issue was a string of emotional flings to the wind, to discover a persona in her before it would disappear from her possibilities. As her tongue tentatively reached out to lick the angry red head of Captain Jack's sex, she realized what she had denied Steven all these years, this total submersion into someone else's power, this desire to please someone, this urgency to connect with someone else's needs. As she opened her mouth, she realized how large his cock was, how she should have thought that out when she had seen his large hands and fat fingers. She was always sensitive to things in her mouth, she chewed her food thoroughly, she bought the small pills rather than the large, and now she nearly panicked as the rod slide in her mouth. Her teeth did not pull back enough and scraped his penis. He withdrew it angrily, reached around her and unfastened the black silk dress and it fell down in a pool around her waist.
Her eyes looked up at him fearfully, ashamed at her incompetence. "Jack it off on your face. I want to see my cum all over your pretty face and neck." He ordered.
She put her hands around his cock as she whimpered apologetically. But alas, this was not in her skill set either. She had always let her boyfriends, and especially Steven, take care of themselves in this regard. She had, correctly, assumed that they had more practice and knew best what made them excited and what pace and pressure would bring them to fruition. As a result she had never bothered, and it was a bother, to figure out their bodies, pace of breath and level of excitation that would best to combine to bring them over the top. In fact, she delighted to see them on their knees before her, doing a job she now recognized as the partner's job of interacting with and sharing the joy of sex with a partner. For her it was a power trip, to have the sex so twisted around, that sex with a female was to amuse her with their own desperation.
But now she pulled too hard, too slow, too fast, too soft, searching, searching in vain for the right pace and pulse. She whimpered even more since she knew she was failing. Soon, too soon, Captain Jack slapped her hands away and started to pull on his cock, inches away from her face. She did not dare look at his eyes, but found herself staring at the single eye at the end of his cock. She felt mesmerized by the cobra writhing in front of her. It was, not Captain Jack, the one she was to adore. She prayed for it to spit on her and honor her with its sweet venom. She did not want to disappoint it the third time. And suddenly, to her amazement, it suddenly spurt and string after string streaked across the gap slapping her on the lips, cheeks, neck and across her chest. And she knelt there, stunned by the sudden end of it all.
Captain Jack had put his cock back in his pants, and had removed her collar, and was at the door. He looked back at her kneeling form, dress now around her knees, red beaded panties at her hips, cum all over her face and breasts. She looked at him and felt a pride as he looked at her victoriously. "Make sure you look at yourself in the mirror. That is what a good sex slave deserves. You should have been able to do that yourself. Next time, you will. Take care of yourself tonight before you go to sleep. Take care of yourself imagining yourself sucking my cock successfully. Next time you will. You should take more pride in your service. You may keep all the clothes" And with that, he was gone.
She slowly got up and looked at herself in the mirror. She saw a sex slave looking back at her, humiliated by this man's cum, embarrassed by her failure to perform properly, but felt a thrill she had never felt before. It was not an elation of success, but a fulfillment of failure. He had set her up to fail, and fail she had. He surely knew she would fail, and he made it so her anxiety and desires were so mixed up that she would lose no matter what she did. She knew she would work hard and be humiliated in her pathetic effort to fulfill his demands. He was breaking her strong female persona, night after night, and god help her, she now knew she wanted to be broken. She somehow wanted and needed these feelings. She almost regretted washing the cum from her body and she went to bed in only the red panties.
She found herself coming, doing as he said, imagining the cock deep in her mouth, not a reflex gag at all, but an open smooth mouth sliding in and out until it spurted and ran down her throat; just the slightest bit slipping out around the corner of her mouth and dripping down her chin to her breasts, where he would rub it in roughly. She imagined the pride she would feel with this act, not so much demeaning as re-meaning. She imagined the pleasure of being a pleasure slave.
And then, as she drifted off to sleep, she realized the pleasure she would give to Steven, to make him feel this way. Now she would no longer be his Mistress in practice, but in reality as well. She now understood what he would feel, what the fear in his eyes would mean, what a disappointment he would feel as he would fail some minor task, some impossible task she would set for him. She now knew that a slave has to fail every so often, just to feel the entire range of emotions they were entitled to. As a submissive to Captain Jack, she realized how to be a better Dominant to Steven. She slept and dreamt of blind tenors breaking her heart, making her cry, and of kneeling men, begging at her feet to please, please let them try again. And she dreamed of the cruel smile on her face when she realized either answer would please them, even as it delighted her.
Chapter 16: Mike-7
I love being surprised and take great joy in sameness. Perhaps this seems in contrast to you, but let me explain. I love the way fat women will hold themselves very still at a counter, arms tight in and legs together. I know they feel they are making themselves smaller, but it makes them appear even more round. It is such a human thing to want something and to do something that conflicts with what they are attempting. If skinny women do this, it completely goes past me. But the attempt to stay small always draws attention to the effort, like a person who tries to appear that they didn't trip. Why do we not give into our flaws? But it is so human to try to blame that hidden crack in the sidewalk for sneaking up on us. I love being human. I am not fat, but I am sure if I was, I'd pull my arms in and be very still, as I wait for my malt and fries. Just like I always look back when I trip.
And if I was a skinny woman, I am sure I'd stand with my hip out, arms all akimbo and swing my arms out and away, making myself into a human spider. I don't think skinny women are trying to be less skinny, or act less round. But yet, they do the same thing as the fat chicks, they work to the opposite for what they wish. Perhaps being skinny doesn't have the negative connotation as being fat, but at the end of the day, all women, all of them think they could be better somehow.
In this regard, I am willing to be surprised. But I expect I will be disappointed. If I found a woman who thought she was perfect, I am sure she would be vain or delusional. Either way, it is not in the way of women to accept, gracefully, who they are. I love this about them. They are always striving for better, and they hope that they will obtain some of this, if just for a bit of time, or an increment of improvement. I love the effort and I love the hope, and I love how they take a compliment for the effort.
Men are so different. Many accept who they are and go on. Some will try to get a better head of hair, washboard abs. It doesn't take much time in front of a television set to realize vast numbers of them are shelling out massive amounts of money for male enhancement placeboes and restoration pills for the flagging reproductive apparatus. But once a male realizes he is going bald, he is as quick to go to the short haircut as he is to spend wildly on hair implants and rugs. No woman gives up as often and as easily. As a result, men are calmer in their resolve to accept their fates, when they choose to do so. They go after fewer battles, but expect to win most of which they choose to fight.
So that is the sameness that I love. And if it wasn't for the sameness, there would be no such thing as surprise. Surprise is when the expected doesn't happen. If nothing is expected, nothing can surprise you. And the more I learn to expect, the greater the surprise.
But on this occasion I have to admit, it went beyond my wildest aspirations.
Catherine had come back from a 'date' with Captain Jack and had explained how he had her on knees and
had expressed displeasure with her performance. "It was the oddest feeling." She explained, her head shaking in disbelief. "I have always hated the idea of sucking a cock. It is so demeaning. So I know that's why he made me do it. But the shocker was, I was disappointed that I let him down."
"I should have rejoiced," she continued after a pause. "I should have been delighted that he wouldn't want me to get my mouth anywhere near that horse. But I don't feel that way. I want to shock him with my next performance. I want to rock his sexual world. But for now, I feel inadequate."
She stopped and I looked at her. Then it got suspicious. She got quiet and her eyes focused on me. I have seen this. So it was some of the sameness that I adore. This is when she gets an idea going in her head and nothing in the world will derail her. Her eyes go wide and her attention is focused on me. She is going to tell me something and her unwavering focus is to make me understand that I need to pay attention or get run over. And that is when it happened.
"I want to suck your cock."
There is a term in psychology called 'cognitive dissonance.' It means there is a gap between what you now know and what you used to believe. The cognitive dissonance events are typically accompanied by a feeling of "This can't really be happening." You feel like you are having an out of body experience and everything else seems to disappear. For me, I was wondering if I had misheard, or imagined it all. So I sat there stunned, perhaps my jaw had dropped as well, because she smiled and repeated herself.
"I want to suck your cock."
I had not planned for this. It couldn't be right. So I asked a question of clarification. What I said was: "What?"
I know that sort of question is more in line with stalling until I got my wits together, but I was well aware that having all of my wits in one place wasn't in the cards. But it started the flow of wit and I quickly followed up with: "Why?"
Three Sides of the Coin (Catherine I) Page 17