Mistress Melissa's Memoirs
You wouldn't be reading my precious, exacting words unless you were craving an exotic young Domina to take complete control of you. I am on a mission of control. It involves delicious revenge and pleasure. Mine, little pet, not yours. You will be the ant under the magnifying glass in the hot sun; you will be the mouse I will sink my claws into and bat around like a powder puff; you will turn yourself inside out for me, till you become something seamless and raw. You will sacrifice to me gladly and without hesitation. Revenge is mine, saith the wicked Mistress Melissa. Let me tell you the story of how it all began.
As a young girl, I had all the benefits that come with being born into an extremely comfortable, upper-middle-class family. We lived in an enormous house in Riverdale, one of the prettiest sections of the Bronx. We enjoyed family vacations in all the right places in Europe several times a year. We spent most of our summer days at a sleep-away camp in the Catskills, learning to ride and care for horses. My life was a fairy tale, and I dreamed of the Prince and the obligatory Happy Ending.
In the fall of my freshman year of culinary school in Manhattan, my mother died in a car accident, leaving everyone in the family distraught over the terrible tragedy. I began staying out too, too late at clubs, which my fake ID and model looks bought me entrance to, drinking to oblivion and having wild sex with older men in an attempt to shove my grief into a far, far away place.
Shortly after that, my father began spending a lot of time with a new friend. No, not another woman, but a charming, well-heeled, fortyish man of questionable reputation with whom my father dashed off to the casinos at the Indian reservations in Connecticut, frequented the track, jetted down to the Islands for even more gambling. But the most damage was done when this "friend"—whom I now call the Evil Prince—suggested my father invest in certain resort real-estate ventures in Jamaica. My father would call my cellular late at night, drunk, telling me how rich we were going to be, how I would never have to work, ever, unless I wanted to, in my own coveted restaurant in Manhattan.
Meanwhile, the Evil Prince was aggressive in pursuing me: armfuls of hothouse flowers; oversized, plush teddy bears with golden boxes of Godiva chocolates; jewelry; designer shoes and matching bags—all purchased with, little did I know, the money he was funneling from my father. Although I spurned all his advances, this only drove him into more of a frenzy to possess me. My father didn't seem to care that the Evil Prince was in full-throttle pursuit of his eldest daughter. Sometimes I wonder if my father hadn't even sold me off, in a sense.
Within a year, my father was broke and had to sell our house in the Bronx. He eventually declared bankruptcy. Relatives spoke of his being swindled out of everything, including my mother's life-insurance monies. And it was those relatives, in fact, who had to sit me down and tell me that there would be no more money for me to continue school unless I could find loans and scholarships to complete my education. Soon my father went into such a severe depression that it became a vicious tailspin from which he would never recover. And the Evil Prince disappeared, most likely to some Island hotel, registered under a fake name, awaiting new prey.
As much as I pitied my father, I detested him for being such a weakling, and I will always resent the sharp turn my life took after my mother's death. Obviously, it was my mother's strength that had held everything together all along. Left to himself, or the company of a mesmerizing male contemporary, my father let everything crumble. Since then, I have decided to make it my mission and legacy to improve the world, one wimpy man at a time.
This is so very sordid, so delicious that I can barely keep it all from bubbling forth. It is, however, such a yummy confection of a tale that I must prolong it, slowly doling out the details and letting it build up like the best of climaxes.
It commences, like most things do, from the beginning. For that, we must go back just a little bit, my pets. I was 17. Some of you may already know that this is the age at which my superiority began to manifest. I had already dominated, publicly humiliated, and smothered my first of many hapless victims, though at the time I knew nothing of my awesome power. That, my darlings, is a separate tale.
I was a baby sitter. I come from a family of very successful entrepreneurs and was always encouraged to run my own businesses and handle my own financial affairs. My sister, who is more than a year my junior, but who is in every palpable way my twin, was my partner. Adolescence was very kind to us both. Our long, lean bodies and ripe, round curves, which are now at their most luscious, were just as lovely and fabulous to behold at that tender stage.
My favorite family for whom to sit was the Applebaum brood. We referred with frequency to the Applebaum children as the "polite delights." Angels, the lot of them. It was their father who tended to misbehave.
Having scathingly rejected his seemingly inexhaustible overtures on many occasions, I was not completely surprised one cold afternoon when his wife told me that she'd caught him having an affair. He was lowly and unworthy of her, like so many of his gender. Worry not, pets. No misdeed goes unrewarded.
Mrs. Applebaum was not one with whom to be trifled. She explained to me that she'd sedated him one eve and given him two piercings whilst he was incapacitated. One was through the head of his puny peashooter; the other was beneath his miserable little sack. She had, of course, put a ring in each new hole and then secured the entire pathetic package with a padlock.
For months she denied him pornography in all its forms and even the merest glimpse of her own naked body. He had to urinate in a seated position, like a woman. He was permitted to masturbate only once a month, under very strict and extreme conditions. On the appointed day, Mrs. Applebaum would make her philandering husband shackle himself to the radiator pipe in their massive and beautifully appointed master bath. Once Mrs. Applebaum was satisfied that he could not escape, they would trade keys.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Applebaum was indulging her impulses with their children's piano teacher. For this she could not be blamed. I'd had many fantasies of my own sparked by curiosity about his broad shoulders and his big, hard body.
On that cold afternoon on which I learned so many of the Applebaum family secrets, I was entrusted with an awesome responsibility: I was given the key to Mr. Applebaum's padlock. Mrs. Applebaum was going to Australia for 2½ weeks with the sexy pianist. Unfortunately for Mr. Applebaum, or Matt, as I would henceforth call him, his masturbation day would fall at the end of the second week. If Matt wanted that key, he was going to have to beg me for it.
How humiliated he had sounded when he called my house a few days later, first thing in the morning. As my mother handed me the phone, she said that he must really miss his wife—he sounded so terribly sad. Smugly, I accepted his call. I'd already suspected he'd try to get me to give him the key early and often. Mrs. Applebaum had told me I could do anything I wanted; her sole request was that I be absolutely sure to have more fun with the arrangement than he. In my mind, I had a very clear agenda.
My sister took the polite delights with her to another sitting job that afternoon so that Matt and I could be home alone. I arrived, resplendent in a crisp white sundress and strappy sandals with four-inch heels, which were not at all appropriate for the weather. The dress was sleeveless, with a mandarin collar and a large diamond-shaped keyhole over my pretty cleavage. The dress also revealed much of my back, and since it belonged to my beautiful little sister, it was way too short. The sandals had six or seven straps making an exquisite crisscross pattern over my feet and exposing my lovely toes. The ankle strap was a sexy touch.
As Matt's eyes drank in my glory, his face began to contort with pain. It was only then that I realized the full gravity of his situation: his erections were extremely painful. My white cotton panties were beginning to cling to my wet, swelling lips, and I hoped Matt could see my nipples expanding through the light fabric. Mutely, he surrendered the key to his handcuffs. I slipped it into the keyhole neckline of my dress for temporary safekeeping. Matt let out a groan, and as he hastened upstairs, I secreted it under the edge of the carpet.
Matt quickly undressed and restrained himself in the master bath. The sight of him so vulnerable, submissive, and uncomfortable started wicked processes in my mind and between my firm thighs. I stared at his naked body for a long time. It wasn't bad. It wasn't the pianist, but it wasn't bad at all. You know. Other than his little bits. Matt mumbled something about the keys, and my mind flashed back to our conversation on the phone earlier that day.
Matt had evidently hoped to be able to be vague with me on the phone, because he'd led off by saying merely, "I know Mrs. Applebaum told you all about . . . you know . . ." Playing coy, pretending to be completely in the dark, I had made him give me every detail of the horror story that had become his life. He began by shakily telling me that his favorite bits were locked up and that I'd been given the key. I asked him why he might need the key when his wife was away, and he reluctantly told me of their arrangement. The more he confided, the more he stammered and seemed ashamed. Naturally, the more shame he evinced, the more aroused I became. I forced him to tell me everything about his new predicament, the transgressions which led to the situation entire, and the fact that his wife was now getting her sexual satisfaction from the pianist he paid, under the roof for which he paid, and was now taking her stud on a vacation for which Matt was also paying. After I bade him to tell me all of this, I assured him I'd drop by after school and hung up. In a matter of seconds I was on my bed, biting my pillow and creaming all over my manicured fingers.
All of that flooded my memory as I watched him being tortured by his own arousal.
"How badly," I asked, "do you need this key?" I held it up in the sunlit room. "Do you need it badly enough to comply with my every request?"
He could barely get out a whimper. "Well, I'm not going to give it to you." I smiled cruelly as Matt burst into tears. I let him cry and beg incoherently for five solid minutes, and then I clucked my tongue and left the room. Once alone, I checked my panties, which were so wet that one could see right through them. I steeled my resolve and focused on my objective.
When I returned to the bathroom, I had in my possession a blindfold, compliments of Matt's mean-spirited wife. "I'm not going to give you this key, Matt, unless you get me off first." I began to blindfold him. "You haven't seen a nude woman in ages, Matt, and I'm not about to make that change for you. However, I am going to let you smell me, taste me, and feel me on your lips and face until I tire of that amusement." He made a face, and it wasn't a happy one. I realized then that not everything had been taken into account.
Further questioning revealed that Matt did not enjoy performing oral sex. Unfortunately for him, that was what lay between him and his next orgasm.
Needless to say, he was forced to swallow my abundant juices as I had climax, after climax, after climax that cold, sunny day, and there simply was not enough time left over for him to have one of his own. Oh well. There would always be some other day, right?
That afternoon was a linchpin event between him and me. I reigned over Matthew Applebaum, who was old enough to be my Daddy, for a few years before I lost interest in using him. By then, he'd learned to live for the taste of my creaminess.
A Prayer to the Holy Mistress (written by Melissa's Gallic devotee)
Glory to Mistress Melissa
She is the Mistress;
i am the moron.
She is the perfection;
i am the unworthy.
She is the world;
i am the useless.
Glory to Mistress Melissa!
She is the princess;
i am the peon.
She is the light;
i am the dark.
She is the law;
i am the loser.
Glory to Princess Melissa!
She fucks real men;
i am the cocksucker.
She demands large cock;
i have a small prick.
She expects potent sperm;
i produce egg white.
Glory to the holy pussy of Mistress Melissa!
She controls my mind and body;
i belong to Her.
She hates my empty testicles;
they love Her.
She wants them to suffer;
i punish them to please Her.
She expects balls to be blue;
i render them purple.
Glory to the holy fluids of Princess Melissa!
She controls my ejaculation;
She commands me to jerk off.
i exhaust my dick to entertain Her;
She laughs at my pathetic orgasm.
She delights in making my dick limp;
i sacrifice my milk to show respect unto Her.
Glory to the orgasm of Princess Melissa!
There is no light out of submission to Mistress Melissa.
i belong to Mistress Melissa.
Please, Mistress Melissa, save me.
The Rake's Progress: A Cautionary Tale
My girlfriend’s wedding tomorrow is canceled. The groom never intended to go through with it, disappeared Wednesday with cash his fiancée lent him to purchase a tuxedo for his son. Our investigation determined that he lied about his many appointments to be fitted into his tux, he lied about having purchased the rings, he lied about the supposed custody battle and supposed impending adoption of his son by my poor friend, and worse; his cellular usage indicates that instead of going into Mt. Vernon as he was expected to do, he went out to Long Island and made calls to the Dominican Republic as late as 2:15 Thursday morning. After that, his phone ceased to put out a GPS signal.
I'm forcing her to go see a play with me about a flawless murder. The original plan was to take her to a movie and get her comfortably numb on the stickiest pot I could buy, but we've decided to avoid anything that might have a love theme with a happy ending. The play is inexpensive, has been running off-Broadway for years, and the lovers do not meet a happy end.
I've just stopped home to cook her some supper. She's had all the time outside she can tolerate right now, and I refuse to cook in her kitchen. I hate it. Oddly, it rained all day today. Her wedding was to take place in a park near where they met. The rain seemed to cheer her up a bit. I'm putting the dress on eBay when she's ready so she can use the money to buy a new couch he's never caused to sag.
I'm annoyed that he's gorgeous and charming, hung like a bull, and sharp as a tack. He'll have no trouble causing some other woman the same grief. I hope his dick falls off.
Even my cooking does not tempt her. Her body has never looked better. The dress swims on her. eBay has a curiously large inventory of never-been-worn wedding gowns. While online, we chanced upon DontDateHimGirl.com. Fortunately, she has many excellent photos of him, as he always loved to pose for the camera. Turns out it is surprisingly easy to manipulate Google so that name searches yield links to such resonant words as “impotent.” We enjoy our time at the computer.