His pupils dilated further with desire. “Yes, Mistress. Very bad.”
“Then I suppose I need to punish you.”
An appreciative smile curved on Owen’s lips. “Yes, Mistress.”
Releasing his hair, I shoved his head back in place. Over and over I drilled his cock and balls with the flogger. Owen’s toes curled from the pleasure and from trying to hold back his orgasm. He knew he was only allowed to come when I told him. Sweat broke out along his forehead while the muscles grew tense and taut in his arms and thighs.
Dropping the flogger to the ground, I tightened the guillotine. “Come. Now,” I commanded before sliding it back to release his cock.
The unmistakable groan of pent-up release came from Owen as he threw his head back while his hips pumped furiously against the end of the CBT chair. Spent, he lay his cheek against the chair rung and sighed. “Thank you, Mistress.”
I walked around to the front of the chair and began to untie his wrists. Although my usual aftercare included massaging the skin to help ease the sting of the blood flow returning, Owen always refused. He jokingly called it his cigarette to bring him down after coming.
Once his hands were untied, I walked behind him to get his ankles. As soon as he was freed, Owen slid off the seat and immediately went to his knees. Placing his palms flat on the floor, he bent over to bestow tender kisses on the tops of my boots. He kissed his way up my legs to where the boots stopped at the top of my thighs. He would have gone farther to my pussy had I given him permission, but I never received pleasure from subs.
He lifted his head to give me an adoring smile. “You always give me just what I need, Mistress.”
“You’re such a flatterer, Owen,” I mused. I playfully smacked his cheek, signaling the end to the scene.
He then winked. “How do you think I became president of Atlanta’s top law firm?”
“By licking boots?” I teased.
With a chuckle, he replied, “Well, I sure as hell didn’t get it just by my good looks.”
Turning around, I tossed him a wet towel. “Just don’t think your previous flattery is going to get you out of cleaning up after yourself.”
“No, Mistress, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Your usual?” I asked.
He nodded as he bent over to clean-up the cum-splattered floor. My boot heels clicked across the dungeon floor as I made my way over to the mini fridge in the corner. I grabbed a bottle of cranberry juice for him and a water for me. Hydration was key after a scene and H2O was usually the preferred means, but just like with kink, each sub brought his or her own likes and dislikes into the dungeon.
Ever the obedient sub, Owen had gotten the antibacterial cleaner to ensure that the chair was disinfected for the next client. When he was finished, I handed him his juice.
After unscrewing the bottle cap, Owen froze before bringing the drink to his lips. At his forlorn expression, I held up my water-free hand. “Oh no, not you, too?”
Over the course of the last week, each one of my clients had become emotional on me. The worst was my six-foot-five professional wrestler who wept inconsolably as he almost smothered me in a bear hug. At the end of the day, the sentiment was pretty touching.
Owen shook his head as he took a long swig of his juice. “I can’t help it. I think it finally hit me that this is our last session.”
“You’re going to be fine. You have test sessions lined up with Mistress Venus and Mistress Rain, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you’re going to find someone to take care of you.”
“They won’t be you.”
I smiled. “No. But I’m sure they’ll torture you just as well I do.”
“We’ll see,” Owen replied skeptically.
Swatting him on the ass, I commanded. “Go get your shower.”
He bowed his head obediently. “Yes, Mistress,” he said, before disappearing into the bathroom. He needed to put his appearance back together before he went home to his third trophy wife.
Owen was a good representation of the majority of my clients. They were professional men who had wives or girlfriends who weren’t into BDSM. They either gave permission for their men to take care of their needs, or they pretended not to know. Some men chose to keep their significant others truly in the dark. Most of my clients needed to be able to play during the week because they had to be free on weekends to be with their families. It worked out best for me as well because I needed my weekends free to go home to be with my dad.
With Owen occupying the bathroom, I used the dungeon mirror to touch up my makeup. It was truly ironic that without school, I would have never become a Domme, and without being a Domme, I would have never been able to afford to finish college, least of all go to graduate school.
Everything changed for me five years ago in my second year English class. My professor, who must’ve been a closeted member of the BDSM scene, had us read an excerpt from Marquis De Sade. The discussion got quite animated when debating whether Marquis was a literary genius or basically a sick fuck.
“I’m not sure why anyone who was truly into BDSM would embrace his work,” I said.
My professor’s bushy brows raised questioningly. “And why is that?”
“Because it supports the stereotype that there has to be something emotionally wrong with you to want pleasure from pain. Not to mention that his characters get off from depravity like rape and extreme torture.”
“Well, I think you do have to be sick to wanna get off by getting tied up and beaten,” a prissy girl in the front row stated.
“Everyone has different likes and desires. What you are alluding to is consensual where as in Sade’s stories it wasn’t. We won’t even talk about how it wasn’t safe or sane.”
A guy two rows ahead of me turned around and waggled his brows. “You can spank me any day, baby,”
“Dream on, douche bag,” I had replied, which caused laughter to echo through the room.
When class had ended, a tall, lanky girl came up to me as I was packing away my laptop. “I really liked what you had to say.”
“Calling that dickhead a douchebag or about Sade?”
She laughed. “I guess both.”
“Well, you’re welcome.”
After glancing around, she asked, “Are you in the scene?”
“BDSM?” When she nodded, I replied, “Oh no. I’m not.”
“Hmm, I could have sworn you were.”
“Because I knew about safe, sane, and consensual? That was referenced in the literary criticism essay after the excerpt.”
Her blonde brows rose in surprise. “You actually read that when it wasn’t assigned?”
I laughed. “Yep. As a future English teacher, I kind of get off on that nerdy criticism stuff.”
She grinned. “I see. Some get off on words, others BDSM.”
“Totally.”
“If you don’t have a class right now, you wanna get some coffee?”
Since I hadn’t made a lot of friends at school, I decided to take her up on the offer. “Sure.”
“I’m Lindsay, by the way”
“Sophie.”
Two cups of shitty student center coffee later and Lindsay revealed she was both a professional and lifestyle Domme. While I found the conversation enlightening considering you didn’t find too many sexually-liberated people around our backwoods community college, I had no idea where it was about to lead.
“Have you ever thought about getting into the scene as a Domme?”
Waving my hands in front of me, I replied, “Oh no, it’s not for me. Don’t get me wrong. I like to give a good spanking and pull some hair, but I could never be into that full time.”
“What about for a job?”
“Seriously?”
“The club where I work is always looking for professional Dommes—ones who aren’t likely to let their emotions get in the way by being romantically involved with a sub. I think you’d be perfect.”
My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And just how would you know that from an hour-long conversation?”
“Because you didn’t blink an eye when it came to putting a man twice your size in his place.”
“Yeah, well, I hardly see how a verbal comeback qualifies me to beat the hell out of someone.”
“As a Domme, you learn quickly how to read people. I can read you.”
“And just what do you see besides an opinionated smart-ass?”
“You have way much more depth.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I said, “Do tell.”
“I know you’re a strong, independent woman who thrives on control in all facets of her life. You’re most likely not in a relationship right now because men are always intimidated by your strength.”
I stared at her in surprise. How the hell was it possible for her to know that? “You’re starting to freak me out a little.”
Lindsay laughed. “I told you I could read people.” Her expression grew serious. “I also know you could really use the money.”
“Have you been stalking me or something?”
“Besides the fact that you own a terribly outdated laptop, one of the folders you put in your bag was from Financial Aide.” At what must’ve been my creeped out expression, she held up her hand. “I know because I have the same folder. I’m here on the same grants that you are. Pretty soon they’re going to run out. When they do, the money I make from being a Domme will enable me to finish school without having to take out a bunch of loans.”