The Mistress Files

“What did he do then?”

“He fucked me again. Not as hard this time. Slower...much slower. It was always slower the second time. And he finally kissed me. And while he was kissing me he started rubbing my clit. That was my favorite...when he touched my clit while inside me. I came every time when he did that.”

“Like this?”

The Mistress turned her hand and pushed three fingers deep into Sheridan’s body as she carefully rubbed her clitoris with her other hand. As the first penetration, Sheridan gasped and dug her hands back into the cushions.

She nodded mutely. Just like that.

“Keep remembering, Sheridan,” The Mistress ordered. “But don’t talk. Just remember how good it felt, this man on top of you and inside you, and how it felt when you hit that moment when the pressure starts to build and you know if he just keeps doing exactly what he’s doing you’re going to come and come hard....”

The Mistress pushed the knuckle of her thumb into Sheridan’s G-spot and smiled as the girl flinched with pleasure. Sheridan’s head fell back and the heels of her shoes dug so hard into the silk cushion that the fabric started to rip. Lost in ecstasy, Sheridan didn’t even seem to notice.

A lifetime of experience with the female orgasm had taught The Mistress that all she had to do now was not stop. A red flush spread across Sheridan’s chest. Her breathing had quickened wildly. Every muscle in her legs had gone taut. The Mistress pushed in another finger and the girl’s body opened to her like a flower. With a little lube, she could have shoved her whole hand into the girl. But they’d save that for next time. Now all that mattered was getting Sheridan to the edge and pushing her over it.

“I want you to come for me, Sheridan. I’m ordering you to come for me. I’m not taking off that blindfold or letting you out of this room until you come for me. I don’t care if takes all night. You can do this.”

“I don’t know...it’s been years...I—”

“It’s not you, Sheridan. It’s them. The guys you’ve been with who didn’t understand who you are and what you are. You can orgasm. There’s nothing wrong with you. They didn’t know what they were doing. Vanilla sex with a guy who treats you like his best buddy isn’t going to do for it. And it shouldn’t. You deserve better sex than that. You belong at the feet of a man who owns you and treats you like his property and inflicts orgasms on you like a punishment....”

“Oh, God...” she panted between breaths.

The Mistress pushed harder onto her clitoris, moved her hand faster and deeper insider her vagina....

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Little Miss.”

Sheridan’s hips rose again off the cushion and hovered a few inches in the air.

“This nothing wrong with you at all,” The Mistress said and shoved in once more.

With a loud and lusty cry, Sheridan’s back arched, her body froze, and every muscle inside her fluttered wildly, almost painfully around The Mistress’s hand as an orgasm years in the making ripped through the girl and sent fluid pouring out of her and onto the red silk.

When the last contraction subsided, The Mistress carefully pulled out of Sheridan and let the girl take a few minutes to breathe.

Sheridan’s breathing slowed. The Mistress grinned as a laugh, a beautiful tired laugh, escaped Sheridan’s lips, and a smile as wide as the sky spread across her face. Nowhere on the girl’s face did The Mistress see shame or self-loathing or fear.

The Mistress reached behind Sheridan’s head and untied the blindfold. Sheridan blinked a few times and looked up into The Mistress’s eyes.

“I can’t believe that happened,” she said in a faint whisper. “I haven’t come with another person in years.”

“Welcome back. Next session I’ll give you two orgasms. But you better tip well.”

“God, you’re good at this, Mistress.”

And for reasons that The Mistress couldn’t explain—and wouldn’t explain—and certainly would never apologize for, she gave the girl the quickest of kisses on her lips.

“Told you so.”

End of Session One

Jesus H. Christ, Kingsley. Stop reading over my shoulder. Do you know how hard it is to concentrate with you breathing in my goddamn ear? I can hear your erection.

Kingsley...what are you doing? Stop biting me. I’m still typing here. I’m typing all of this. I want your biting me in the permanent record.

Could someone tell Kingsley to please stop biting me?

Fine. I’ll do it myself.

And now you’re taking your clothes off.

I love this damn job.

END OF FILE

The Mistress Files #2

The Case of the Diffident Dom

By Nora Sutherlin

Okay, client profile number two coming right up. This one should be a lot easier to write without that nymphomaniac Frenchman Kingsley hanging around. Big mistake trying to write these files at Kingsley’s house. The man just cannot keep his nose out of my business sometimes. And by “nose” I, of course, mean “penis.” And by “my business” I mean...

Well, you know what I mean.

Hello, dear reader. I’ll assume that if you’re reading this file you’re also in Kingsley’s employ as either a pro-Dom or a pro-sub. He has some ridiculous notion that I am the greatest Dominatrix working today and that all pros can learn a thing or two from my interactions with clients. All right, maybe it isn’t that ridiculous. I’m pretty damn good at this. What can I say? I learned from the best. But the less said about Him the better.

Back on topic. As you know, Fellow Minions of Kingsley, this job we do is really just a job. Most days at least. We show up. We kick ass—or get our asses kicked...I’m not forgetting you cute little subs out there. We yell, we flog, we insult, we beat and bruise, and then we send them home happy and hand off our 15 percent to Kingsley.

But some days the job is more than a job. And those are either the best days or the worst days. Some days I’m less a Dominatrix and more a therapist. A lot of people come to me already broken and only by breaking them again can they finally heal right. I like those days, although they scare the shit out of me. You try never to take the job home with you.

Although, on rare occasions, you go home with the job.

Client: Robert Bruce, age 45.

Wife: Cara, age 36.

Robert came to The Mistress on a Thursday afternoon during her office hours. Kingsley had scoffed at the idea of a Dominatrix holding a weekly salon for her clients. Anything that involved kinky people in the same room together keeping their clothes on baffled his poor French brain. But The Mistress understood that the dynamics with her clients changed and their bonds strengthened when they could interact as Domme and sub without the erotic stress of a scene looming. The subs brought her their bruises for inspection and applause. The Doms came to learn her secrets. One hour a week could breed a lifetime of well-paid loyalty. The Mistress, as always, knew what she was doing.

When Robert entered the room—Kingsley’s private lounge on the first floor—The Mistress couldn’t quite discern exactly what he wanted from her. He stood in the corner and watched as The Mistress rubbed the shoulder of her favorite female submissive. Her Little Miss had played too hard with a sadist the night before and had a pulled muscle to prove it. The Mistress loved to coo over her broken-winged doves. This Little Miss melted into her hands as the sub regaled The Mistress with the story of last night’s erotic adventure. Robert listened attentively but without any discernable lascivious intentions. He had the posture and the bearing of a Dominant. He stood straight with his chin high, and at no point did he shrink from eye contact. Although the Little Miss at The Mistress’s feet told a lurid story of pain and passion—and some double penetration while suspended facedown from the ceiling, via a leather harness and some elaborate Kinbaku, i.e. Japanese rope bondage, see attached diagram—Robert never once batted an eyelash. The story neither repulsed nor astonished him. He listened as if he’d heard the tale before. Or perhaps even lived it.

Curiosity got the better of The Mistress and with a quick kiss, she sent her Little Miss on her way. Alone with Robert at last, she lounged back in the black-and-gold embroidered armchair, crossed one booted ankle over her bare thigh and waited for him to speak.

He clearly sensed her interest in him and withheld his words as he sat across from her on the low sofa by the quietly burning fireplace. A handsome man in his forties, he looked just enough like Denzel Washington that The Mistress rather hoped she was wrong about the whole Dom thing. Robert was new to The Mistress, but he must not have been new to Kingsley to be inside the inner sanctum.

“I’ve heard of you,” Robert said as he clasped his large, well-manicured hands by his knees.

“Who hasn’t?” The Mistress asked, giving him a smile.