This girl likes her toys. I've spent two decades amassing a very respectable collection. I keep several suitcases and duffel bags packed and waiting at all times. I've got them at home, in my car, even one at work; each stocked with basic tools of my trade along with some personal favorites. I supplement these with additional toys depending on the client, of course.
Imagine my dismay when I arrive in Detroit for a special session with one of my old regulars only to find that the airline sent my bags back to Philadelphia, giving them a round trip without a stop in between. If you can't imagine it, you'll just have to trust me. I'm freaking out.
No matter how much I want to lose my shit, I swear I'll keep my cool. As I stand in line for a taxi after reading the airline the Riot Act, I mentally trace the route from the airport to my hotel. Detroit is lousy with nail salons, liquor stores, and Coney Island restaurants. They also have more than their fair share of dollar stores. With my carry-on bag over my shoulder (thank goodness I have makeup and spare pair of underwear) I hail a taxi and tell the driver to stop at the first dollar store he sees.
Within minutes we pull into a strip mall and I fill my basket with implements I can reuse in a scene. $27.56 lighter and I'm on track to my appointment.
I'll admit, I feel like a scrub showing up to the hotel with a big plastic bag under my arm rather than luggage but the hotel staff aren't the ones paying who paid for my airfare and room; that responsibility falls to my precious boy.
He's got the room checked out and ready for his Mistress. I pick up the key at the front desk and find the room set up to my exacting standards. "Good boy," I think, mentally checking off all the tasks I gave him that morning while I snoozed in First Class. Tribute envelope on the desk, wine chilling, candles set up around the room, red scarves over the lamps, three bottles of water in the mini fridge, and a cup of tea ready to steep.
I freshen up, glad that I had extra dainties in my carry-on. I still end up looking like what I am--a business woman on a business trip--albeit one wearing $80 underwear.
I unpack my dollar store delights, making a few adjustments before spreading them across the credenza. Looking over everything I still feel a little silly with so many household items standing in for my regular selection of toys. As a professional dominatrix I try to reinvest at least 20% of my profits into my supplies -- from lube and rubber gloves to new implements of torture. I feel like a fraud seeing what treasures I culled from the dollar store rather than my fine selection of toys. But, also, I experience a bit of a rush -- remembering when I first started out, making due when I was just a wee Domina. I pick up a wooden spoon, thinking about the first time I reddened an ass with one, and smile.
A knock at the door interrupts my trip down memory lane. My client: on time and prepared the way I want him. Good boy.
He's not the most stunning man in the world but he's far from repulsive. More than his looks, he's one of the kinkiest buggers I've had the pleasure of meeting.
Without words he steps into the room, kneeling before me. It's been six months since he's served (if he's been faithful to me). His desperation comes through as he showers my shoes with kisses. When I tire of this I tell him to show some me some respect and get out of his clothes. He jumps up so fast I fear he'll get a nosebleed from the dramatic change in altitude.
I watch him force himself to calm down and carefully fold his clothes as he removes them. He knows I won't tolerate sloppy behavior.
He resumes kneeling. I tell him to get on all fours and, after retrieving a few items, straddle his back. I rest my butt against the back of his head giving me a great angle.
"Have you been a good boy since last I saw you?" I ask, running a feather (from a feather duster) along his back. I watch a shiver roll along his spine.
"I've tried to be good, Mistress," he whines, "I really have."
"I feel that there's something you're not telling me," I say, keeping the feather moving along his sides.
"I've had a lot of... of nasty thoughts, Mistress," he says with a shaking voice.
"And when you think these nasty thoughts," I pause, "Do you touch yourself?"
With as much guilt as he can muster I feel him nod his head and hear him barely whisper, "Yes, Mistress."
"I'm glad that you admitted this indiscretion, slut, as I always feel that it's my duty to you, to myself, and to the world to help correct such bad behavior. Are you ready to be corrected?"
I feel him nodding again but hear no words.
"I said," I growl, "Are you ready to be corrected?"
He quickly clears his throat and says, "Yes, yes, Mistress!"
I strike quickly and harshly, wanting him to experience a shock of pain to remind him that I'm truly in charge. He flinches under me. I hear him suck his breath through his teeth and grunt, "Thank you, Mistress" through the pain.
Now that I've got his attention I begin patting the spoon back and forth from one cheek to the other. Much lighter, yes, but I know how the smaller taps build up in sensation. I'm getting the blood flowing to his butt and I watch redness flushing his skin. Each little tap sends a jolt through him making me rock just a little bit on his back.
He's breathless, holding me up, thanking me for each blow, and trying to work through the pain. I don't want to mark him... yet... and stop once his backside is shines a wonderful shade of crimson.
I tell him to crawl to the credenza, still balanced on his back, where I grab a few more items before telling him to get onto the room's king size bed face up.
I go to each of the bed's corners and secure a length of clothesline around the feet of the bed to his wrists and ankles. I wrap a length of ACE bandage around his head, blindfolding him. I stand back and admire my handiwork, watching adjust to his bondage. I soak him in, thinking about where I need to take him; how I'm going to break him and build him back up again as a better man.
I step closer to him, unscrewing the cap of a small jar as I do. I place my two fingers on his leg, relaxing him with my touch before moving my hand between his spread legs and wiping what's on my other fingers along the crack of his shaved ass. It takes just a second before the sensation begins. I return the credenza to set down the jar of mentholated ointment. I wipe off the remainder of the ointment and my fingers tingle just a bit. I know how much it will burn and cool him at the same time. If he's a good boy maybe I'll put a touch right on the underside of his cock.
His cock waves around as he thrashes on the bed as much as his bonds will allow. I grab hold of it, yanking on it roughly as if I could rip it out by the root. This settles him down. His whimpers turn to screams as I begin to decorate his cock and balls with tiny clothespins. They bite into him like insistent teeth. The multicolored clothespins soon make his crotch look like an absurd lite brite version of a cock and balls. I step back to admire my handiwork and snap a few photos with my phone.
He hears the click of my shutter and shudders. I'd never take any compromising pictures of him without his permission and he knows this but the idea of being blackmailed plays into some of his favorite fantasies. I know this from the countless letters he's sent me over the years documenting all of his hopes and scenes.
"Oh, that's good," I say. "Yes, that will look perfect on my website. The look on your face is priceless." He moans in response and I watch his cock twitch.
I pull up a chair next to the bed and rake my nails across his chest, being sure to hit his nipples as I do. I return to those sensitive nubs and apply my nails to them, squeezing, pinching. He can't help but cry out. He squeals through gritting teeth, his body raising off the bed as much as it can. I can't tell if he's trying to meet my nails or escape them.
He can't elude the dollops of toothpaste I dab onto his nipples. It takes a delicious second before he feels the cool burn penetrate his flesh. By then, I'm already up and selecting a plastic spatula from the credenza. Back at the bed, I undo the restraints from the bottom and bring them up, his legs with them, to tie them to his ankles, exposing his rump.
Throwing one leg over him, I straddle his face, his legs on either side of me and his breath warming my bottom. I go to work on his backside, slapping with the spatula and rubbing with my hand, giving pain and pleasure at my whim. At one point the crack of the spatula on the bottom seems to unseat what's been restraining him mentally. It's the payoff moment for me. It's when I know that someone has given themselves over to me completely. For some people it's a light that comes on in their eyes, for others it's a sigh; it's when I know a submissive well enough to spot the change that I truly click with them. It's when they really become my property--none of this namby pamby "I'll do anything for you, Mistress," bullshit. This is the real deal.
Now he's mine.
This is what makes my pussy purr.
I continue to push his pain levels, flooding him with endorphins, taking him to a happy place. Up and down his ass I go with the spatula; from his inner thighs down to the fleshiest curves. He's not crying out anymore.
He murmurs his thanks to me after each blow and it sounds like he's a Bodhisattva monk, chanting his mantra, "Thank you, Mistress, thank you, Mistress, thank you, Mistress." His breath warms my thighs as I continue slapping his ass, the flesh radiating heat. Sweat starts to bead across my forehead as I smack his ass with the spatula.
His flesh shades from red to almost purple and I slow down, and eventually stop, my assault. I don't give him a chance to catch his breath before I reach down and begin plucking the clothespins off of his cock and balls. As the blood rushes to the tiny bites he cries out, the sound muffled between my thighs.
I lean back onto him, silencing him with my ass, not allowing him to breathe in anything but me for a few seconds. I count it out; one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi... ten-Mississippi... I know that it feels much longer than the few seconds before the panic seeps through him as his need to breathe increases. I lean up and allow him to suck in some air before moving back again to block him. I wonder if he can smell my excitement or is my scent masked by the burning odor of the mentholated ointment on his asshole?
As I lean forward I slide a finger inside of him, lubricated by the ointment, and his gasp for breath takes on a new flavor from the surprise of the invading finger and the cool burn of the ointment in his tender rectum. I see his cock jump as my finger continues to probe him.
I settle back down and grab onto his cock. Now my counting takes on a new meaning as each second without breath equates to a stroke of his cock. one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi... ten-Mississippi... He begins making noise beneath me. I know he's not begging for breath; to take. He's begging for release; to give. I allow him to struggle and to cry. He's panicked. He's past the point of no return and doesn't know if he is allowed to orgasm without permission. Will I kick his ass for doing so? Will I forgive him? Fifteen-Mississippi... He stops his groaning and whining just for a second and before I can count sixteen-Mississippi, his cock spurts onto my wrist.
I lean up and he gasps, his orgasm still going. He's filling his lungs as his balls empty. I just hold onto him as he his cock spurts, like a creature in the throes of death. He moans out under me, a shade of worry in it.
I won't punish him... yet. But I won't let him know that. He'll be living in anticipation of this retribution for cumming without permission for quite a while. The suspense will thrill him.
I climb off him and clean up, bringing him back a warm, wet towel for his crotch. I set him loose and open up two bottles of water, lifting one to his lips and telling him to drink as he lay in darkness, the bandage still around his eyes. I remove that last, welcoming him back and enjoying the dazed, dreamy look in eyes.
I smooth his hair, smiling down at him and enjoying his re-entrance into the world. I managed to take him out of his skin. Once he's back I have him get dressed and we go out for dinner where I tell him about my luggage mishap. He gets quite a chuckle out of this and dubs me the "Dollar Store Domme." I like it. Maybe I need to get away from my toys more often.