The Devil Is in the Details

The feel of the crop in my hand is as familiar as the sight of my sun-kissed hair, tumbling over my shoulders to kiss the top edge of the short, strapless black leather corset dress that clings to my well-toned curves. I wish I could say I wasn’t looking forward to tonight’s punishment session; but it would be an utter lie, and I’ve long since dismissed the game of lying to myself about anything. After all, honesty is paramount in life, and a lack of honesty can destroy so many things. It is, in fact, why I’m here tonight. Why I’m running the well-oiled crop through my hands, caressing it, as though preparing it for the night’s work. And why I’m smiling. There’s always a sense of amusement that comes with a slave’s attempted deceit. Disappointment, yes, but the amusement cannot be discounted. And after all, it’s not as if any of my slaves has ever attempted to deceive me twice.

You see, F. is playing a very dangerous game, and he’s about to pay the price for it. He’s been with me for going on two years now, and enjoys the finer nuances of cruelty. As I wound my way into his psyche over the months and years, I grew to learn just how much he enjoyed the fear and humiliation—or potential for humiliation—that only I could give him. So I knew, when F. failed to keep his appointment, when he had the absolute nerve to offer excuses, that he was simply begging me to apply my knowledge of just how to hurt him. And while I hate to be predictable, I simply can’t resist the opportunity to really fuck up someone’s day when they think they’ve put one over on me.

As a Domme, I expect and command absolute deference from my slaves. Absolute obedience, absolute reverence. I simply won’t tolerate anything less than totality, and I am certainly not one to accept my slave’s thinking he has the right to service, or to search for, another Mistress without begging my pardon and my permission. If a slave asks to be released, I would consider it. If a slave asks to experience the glove-handed dominance of another Mistress, I might grant permission . . . I might even arrange it with one of the many Mistresses in my extensive, exclusive network of contacts, in order to provide myself with the utmost satisfaction and amusement from the arrangement. But for this worthless little whore to be begging for attention all over town, and to lie to me about it? That is an indignity and disappointment that will be corrected. Immediately, and at great personal suffering on the part of the disrespectful little shit.

The fact that he has no idea, as he eagerly confirms tonight’s appointment, and no doubt prepares himself as directed, that he will be subject to my disappointment, my punishment, and if he’s very, very lucky, the long climb back into my good graces . . . well, that’s why I smile.

So, much as F. is preparing himself, I prepare myself and my space—so similar, yet so very different. I smudge kohl liner around my sparkling green eyes, and slick blood-red lipstick over my sensuous lips, all the better to distract and seduce my prey. Lotion, perfumed with seductive scent, is rubbed and smoothed into my long, slim legs, my delicately toned arms, and over my collarbones and delicious décolletage. A touch of shimmer here and there, to draw the eye and distract the mind, and a touch more perfume at my heated pulse points. I examine myself in the mirror, critically, and trail my fingertips across my shoulders, down my arms, and over my leather-encased breasts and torso. My jewel-tipped nails flash in the low light, and I continue my tactile examination, skimming my fingertips down my legs. I bend along the lines of my corset until my back is absolutely straight as I examine my perfectly polished toes—red, to match my lips. As I straighten, I slip my feet into ice-pick stilettos and nod to myself in the full-length mirror edged in wrought iron.

Now that I’ve finished my own preparations, I walk downstairs to my play space. The well-appointed dungeon, replete with spanking bench, sawhorses, and Saint Andrew’s cross—among so many other toys and tools—is the last thing anyone would expect to find in my exclusive Aspen Woods home. But after all, if you want something done right, you simply must do it yourself. And between the generosity of my slaves and my day job as a project manager, I’m able to do a great many things for myself, including furnish my dungeon to my own, exacting, specifications.

The low light reveals midnight walls, oiled leather, and polished steel. I tap a manicured finger against my delicately sculpted chin, glad once again that I hadn’t gone with something so clichéd as red walls. As I tell my slaves, the only red that will ever exist in my dungeon will be my lips, nails, and their skin under my ministrations. I occasionally break my own rule, as I do tonight, with a dash of red on the sole of my heels . . . but after all, they are my rules to break. I light a couple of jar candles, knowing how much F. hates wax play. Such an odd limit, but a limit nonetheless, and one that will be well pushed tonight. I check the straps on my spanking bench, as pleased as ever with the meticulous attention of my house slave, and lay out a group of glossy photographs taken of F. over the years.

The doorbell rings, and I smile: It begins.

I take my time walking to the front door. My slaves know to disrobe immediately after ringing the bell and to wait on their knees for my permission to enter. My corner-facing lot and lush trees minimize the risk, but all of my slaves remain exposed until I open the door. Some love it, some loathe it. F. is among those that abhor every second of wind and sun on exposed flesh, so of course, tonight, I let him sit there as I watch on my security camera. A minute passes.



As sweat pearls on his forehead, his hands clench and unclench at his sides. He raises a hand, considering knocking, and then remembers his place. A good sign, this one can most likely be redeemed. I unlock and open the door and beckon him inside. I greet him with none of the warmth he’s earned over the years, and gesture sharply to the open door of the dungeon. A flicker of fear in his eyes, but he says nothing as he crawls.

Downstairs, he notes the bench, front and center, and the cheerfully burning candles, and he shows the first sign of actual fear. “Mis—” he begins, and I cut him off almost immediately. “Shut up and get on the bench. Not another word.” I punctuate the statement with the lift of a brow and a cruel smile. “B-but,” he starts again. “Did I fucking stutter?” I ask. “Shut up and get on the fucking table.” This time, he complies wordlessly, and I strap him in . . . tight.

“Now you may speak, slave, but only when spoken to. Do I make myself clear?” I ask the question calmly, but firmly. “Yes, Mistress,” he replies softly. “Now, F., over the years we’ve been together, we’ve come to understand some things about one another, haven’t we?” “Y-yes, Mistress,” he says. There’s a hitch in his voice. He knows something is wrong, but he’s not sure what. “For instance, slave, we’ve learned that you hate being spanked, and you hate having wax dripped on you. You hate having it scraped off even more. Am I right?” His reply is so soft I can barely hear it. I command him to speak up, and he replies, “Yes, Mistress.” “Good, good. I’m glad we understand each other on that point. In your time as my slave, what have you learned about me, F.?” “Mistress?” he asks, uncertain of the answer I’m looking for. “Answer the question, slave.” “Well, Mistress, I’ve learned that you . . . that you . . . you like to be worshiped. You like to hurt me.” He trails off. So unsure, it’s almost cute. “Oh, what you’ve learned doesn’t matter much anyway, because you’re going to learn the most important lesson tonight. Do you know what that might be, slave?” I ask, as I retrieve from my workstation the first of the printouts and drop it in front of his face.

It’s an e-mail inquiry to another Mistress, one I know and play intimately with on a regular basis. She forwarded it to me immediately, without even the courtesy of replying to the little worm. I can see the exact moment he understands. “Mistress, I can—” “Shut. Up.” All warmth has fled from my voice. “You do not have my permission to speak. You have no permission here at all. You fucked up. And what’s worse, you don’t realize how much smarter I am than you. How much better I am than you. And you don’t realize, if we’re to continue on our path, just how hard I’m going to punish you. So I’ll give you one chance to explain, and one choice. The choice is simply whether you’ll accept your punishment and move on, or if you’ll pussy out and try—in vain, I might add—to find another Domme in this city who’ll even take the time of day from your worthless ass. So what’s it going to be?” My eyes are cold, and they watch as he comes to realize just how pissed I am.

I . . . have no explanation, Mistress. I’m sorry. I’m a worthless slut, and I accept your punishment, whatever it might be.” He says it slowly and carefully, but I can hear the tremor in his voice. Good. I walk around him slowly, noting his upturned ass and his trembling muscles. “Good,” I say out loud now. “We can begin then.” I fasten a large ring gag in his mouth, just at the upper end of his tolerance, and his tongue darts through it to moisten his gaping lips nervously. I stand in front of him, letting him watch as I draw on black latex gloves and reach for a broad paddle . . . hesitating, and then veering toward the candle at the last minute, but leaving the paddle in his direct line of vision. A taste of things to come. A low, wet moan escapes him as drool begins to drip on the polished floor, and I walk slowly behind him. My heels click purposefully on the floor as he squirms in vain against the padded leather straps of the bench.

Finally reaching my vantage point, I lean forward to grab a handful of his hair with my free hand, and press the length of my body against his as I drag his head back sharply. “Now, this is going to hurt . . . but if you’re very, very lucky, it won’t be the last time your worthless ass grazes my bench.” He moans again as I drop his head and grab a handful of his ass to spread the cheeks for the hot wax. I tilt the glass jar ever so slowly, feeling his trembling increase, and hearing his breath quicken as I draw out the moment of anticipation. The first hot drips elicit the first of many screams, and I smile, thinking, it’s going to be a long night.

But you can hear about the rest another time. If you’re lucky.


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