“Now I know you don’t play with violet wands, and that’s fine. But I do. And the reason I do is because they can make such wonderful patterns on skin when used the right way. Or the wrong way. However you want to think of it.”
“You’re a sadist,” he said, his head leaning back against the cross. He looked up as if to seek help from the heavens. Help, unsurprisingly, did not come.
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
She plugged in the wand and held the contact in one hand and the Wartenberg pinwheel in the other. The electricity didn’t affect her as she’d made herself merely a conduit. Sparks buzzed from the sharp tips of the wheel, and with a slow and steady pace, she rolled it in a straight line down the center of his chest. He inhaled sharply as the electrified wheel left a thin raised line on his skin. She’d been on the receiving end of this technique before. The wheel never broke the skin, but the combination of electricity and sharp edges made the recipient feel like he was being sliced open.
“Only five lines, I think,” she said. “Count them for me. That was...”
“One...” he panted.
She ran the wheel down his chest a second time, then a third. She ran it over the old scars, over his nipples, across the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. When she touched his hip bone with it he coughed from the pain. He had to say the “five” twice because of how labored his breathing had become. She pretended she couldn’t understand him.
“That was five. Very good.”
He exhaled heavily in obvious relief.
“But let’s do one more set. In French. Say ‘un,’“ she ordered and ran the wheel once more down his chest.
The sound that escaped his throat was more animal than human. Exactly what she wanted to hear.
By the time they reached “cinq” he had ten criss-crossing lines on his chest, thin and red as a brand. The welts would fade fairly quickly. The ones produced by the wheel and the wand wouldn’t last more than a day or two. Amazing that something that felt like one’s chest being cut open by a knife could cause no lasting harm at all.
“On a scale of one to ten,” she asked him as she put the wand away and tossed the wheel into the trash can, “what was that?”
“Onze,” he said, his eyes closed tight as his whole body shivered from the last aftershocks of the pain.
“Onze? I hurt you all the way to eleven? I’m pretty damn proud of myself right now, I have to say.” She brought her lips to his chest and licked one of the lines from tip to tip. Her hot mouth against his seared skin must have felt like salt in an open wound. And yet he’d only grown more aroused from this latest round of agony.
Perhaps it was time to put him out of his misery.
She stood face-to-face with him and pushed her hips into his again.
“Your cock is harder than I’ve ever seen it. And I’ve seen it hard a lot.”
“You have a gift for pain, Maîtresse.”
“What can I say? I’m a giver. I’m in a very giving mood right now. Are you in a taking mood?”
“Yes,” he breathed, sounding more desperate than she’d ever heard him.
“So you know what a stickler my hard-ass boss is, right? I’m not allowed to sell sex. Only kink. I can only get women off, not the men....”
“I hate your boss. He has no compassion.”
“Tell me about it. How’s this...I’ll charge you for the pain, and the sex will be on the house. How’s that?”
“A perfect compromise. Surely not even your boss could find fault with that.”
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She brought her lips to his mouth.
“Yes...whatever we do,” he said, smiling against her mouth, “let’s not hurt him.”
With a wink she kissed him long and slow and deep. The kiss felt more wicked than all the pain she’d given him that hour. She was a Dominatrix. Pain was her profession. Not even hookers kissed their clients. Then again, this was no ordinary client.
She pulled back and grinned at him.
“Now I have to get you into the bedroom. How should I lead you there? Leash again?”
“God, no, please.”
“Then it’s on your hands and knees. Down boy.”
With a whistle and a pat on her leg, she summoned him to follow her as if he was a dog. And like a dog he followed behind her on all fours. Once in the bedroom, she grabbed him by the back of his hair and pulled him off the floor.
“Middle of the bed. On your stomach,” she said. “Get comfy. I’ll be right back.”
She lingered in her dungeon a little longer than necessary. He’d waited this long for release. Why not make him wait a few minutes more? After getting herself ready, tightening the strap-on harness and gathering her supplies, she sat down, pulled a file out of a drawer and gave her nails a nice buffing.
Once her fingernails shone like polished glass, she decided to give the poor man in the other room the attention he’d earned.
She returned to the bedroom and without a word took his left wrist in her hand. She buckled a cuff on it and secured him to the bedpost with rope and a snap hook. She gave his right arm and both legs the same treatment until he lay facedown on the bed, spread-eagled and completely unable to get away. As she crawled over the rich gold-and-red brocade sheets she dropped nibbles and kisses from his wrist to his shoulder and down the center of his back, now marbled red and purple with blood and bruises. She straddled his thigh and lightly tickled his side with her fingertips.
“If I remember correctly, and I do, you’ve fucked me up the ass a few dozen times. Not very nice of you considering your cock is bigger than your ego.” She picked up the tube of lube, poured some out on her fingertips and began applying it to him.
“I don’t recall you complaining....” He certainly wasn’t complaining at the moment. With her fingers inside him, his breathing had turned hoarse and ragged. He inhaled between each word, winced with pleasure at every movement farther into him.
“Why would I complain with your cock in my ass?” She pulled her fingers out of him. “That sounds like Christmas come early to me. Oh, by the way, merry Christmas.”
With the dildo in her hand, she pushed into him with one smooth stroke and stopped, pausing only to make him groan with his need.
She started to move and move slowly, letting him open up to her. The man loved anal sex...giving, receiving, watching, all of the above. But he kept his Switch side so private that he rarely allowed himself this pleasure. Other men in their community had a bad habit of looking down on male bottoms and submissives. Hypocrites, all of them. They snuck in her dungeon while the world wasn’t looking and sat at her feet and begged her to fuck them like this. She beat the shit out of them and sent them on their way. She never even gave them the chance to earn the pleasure she gave this special client so willingly. Those faux-Doms with their dick-swinging machismo didn’t deserve to be her bitch.
“I’m only doing this because you earned it,” she said, pushing into him again. She caressed his shoulders, his sides, read the welts underneath her fingertips like Braille writing. She leaned forward and lay briefly on his back as she continued to work against him. “No other reason.”
“None? You don’t enjoy it?”
“Hardly. I hate it,” she said as a tremor of pleasure ran through her hips. She closed her eyes and dug her fingers into his sides. “Absolutely hate it...”
He laughed at her lies and she flicked him on the back to punish him.
“No laughing allowed. Just moaning, groaning and maybe gasping.”
“Gasping?”
She pushed in hard and deep, and he gasped.
“Right,” she said, giving his back a little bite. “Gasping.”
She did love doing this sort of thing, with him especially although she had a female sub or two she’d nearly fucked unconscious. Nothing in the world more empowering than penetrating another person and fucking them right to the dark and ragged edges where ecstasy intersected with pain.
“Had enough?” she asked as his breathing grew more and more labored.
“Never,” he panted.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll keep fucking you. I was going to blow you and let you come in my mouth but whatever. If you insist.”
“Can I change my answer?”
“I think you just did.”
She pulled out of him and removed her harness, tossing it on the ground with a flourish. Men should be so lucky to have a cock that indestructible.
An hour of pain-play, dominance and fucking had made her more than ready to have a cock inside her mouth. She stripped him of the bounds, pushed him onto his back and with her knees, shoved his thighs wide open so she could sit between them. She took him first in her hand and then into her mouth.
She wasn’t in much mood to tease him right now, and he was in no mood to be teased. Not anymore. Not after so much pain and erotic torture. He needed to come and she wanted him to come, hard and soon.
With her tongue she caressed him from base to tip and back again. With her lips she massaged him. Then she sucked long and deep on him as his hips rose off the bed, pumping into her mouth. She loved the warm taste of him, the size of him, the way he lost himself so utterly in submitting to her. He grasped at the sheets and arched underneath her.
Nudging his thighs a little wider, she pushed two fingers into him. She kneaded all his favorite spots inside him with just the right amount of pressure to bring his shoulders off the bed and send him coming into her mouth.
She received every drop of what he had to give her and took him in with one swallow.
“Feel better, slut?” She crawled up his body and straddled his chest, sitting on his stomach.
“Much. Merci, Maîtresse.”
“For you, anytime.” She grabbed his hands and pushed his wrists back into the pillows. “As long as you pay me, of course.”
“Of course.”
Bending down, she gave him one more kiss, letting him taste himself on her mouth.
“I suppose I need to clean you up.” She sat up again and gave him an appraising look. He was beaten, bloody and covered in lube. Pretty typical evening for both of them.
“I would appreciate it.”
“I could give you a bath. A nice long hot bubble bath. Maybe some vanilla-scented soap?”
“You wouldn’t dare.” He grimaced at her.
“I might. You still have my mask on. You’re still my pretty submissive”
“I can’t take any more,” he said and she detected a rare note of sincerity in his voice. “Have you no mercy?”
“No. Not usually. But for you...maybe a little.” She winked at him and gave him one more kiss. “No bubble bath. I’ll get the basin and some warm water. I’ll clean the blood off. I think we’re going to need the first-aid kit.”
“If we ever have a session where we don’t need the first-aid kit, I’ll find a new Dominatrix.”
“I can’t have that. You’re my worst tipper and still my favorite client. Don’t tell the boss though. He says I can’t play favorites.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“And yours are safe with me. Always,” The Mistress said, tracing his full bottom lip with her thumb. She would guard his secrets with her life. It took so much courage for a man to admit to his submissive side. The last thing she wanted to do was betray him after he’d made himself so vulnerable to her. He kept her secrets as she kept his. He knew she still bottomed every now and then. At the clubs and in the scene, they billed her as a “former submissive,” an “ex-submissive,” even a “reformed submissive.” But there was no “ex” or “former” for her. And God knew she’d walk into Hell before she let anyone “reform” her. No, just like him, The Mistress was a Switch.