Perfect Cruelty

I don't know if this is the start of another run of stories. I'm hoping it is, but I don't want to jinx it. Things ARE settling down, and writing is good for me. So maybe I'll keep it up. We'll find out soon enough.

I was wondering, the other day, why it was I couldn't write anything for so long. And I realized that it is, partially, your fault, my lovely and wonderful readers. I was so intent on writing YOUR fantasies that I stopped paying attention to my own. And when you stopped asking for them, I felt like my inspiration had run dry.

Luckily, someone very special decided to make her presence known and remind me that I still have a lot to say. Today's story is about her.

My Perfect Mistress

           

            She walks with the creak of leather, her boots laced up just barely below her knees. A tight fishnet stocking almost disappears under the frilled skirt. Her torso is covered in a corset that is tight enough to look fantastic, but loose enough that she can breathe without trouble. She smells like sweat, sex, and leather, and it’s intoxicating.

            Her hair flows like milk, liquid and perfect. Sometimes, it hides her eyes. Sometimes she pulls it back into a pony tail.

            Her skin is perfect, porcelain. Her lips are curled into a permanent cruel smirk, so she always looks like she’s judging, and not impressed by what she sees.

            I hear the heels of her boots on the floor with each step as she walks around me. She trails her fingers across the back of my neck, sometimes over my head, sometimes around my face. She has leather gloves; fingerless, so she can scratch if she wants to. Her nails match her lips; both are as black as her heart.

            She laughs at my discomfort, shakes her head at my fear. When she straddles my legs, she puts one hand under my chin, pushing my head back and choking me a little bit. There is never a doubt that she is in charge, that she is in complete control. I’m bigger than her, certainly stronger. But I can no more force her to do anything that I could force the sun not to rise. I can’t fight her, and I don’t have the slightest desire to try.

            She leans in close, a throaty whisper telling me the terrible things she is going to do to me. Her ideas seem endless, cruel and brilliant. She laughs when I respond to an idea. Tells me that I’m pathetic, that she can’t believe I actually like that idea.

            She nibbles my ear, bites it hard. I wince in pain, and she squeezes my throat a bit more, warning me not to make a sound.

            “I think I’m going to whore you out,” she says, her voice whiskey in a smoky bar. “I’ll let other people have their way with you. They won’t pay much though. You’re not worth a lot of money. Maybe a dollar an hour. You think?

            “No, wait, I have a better idea. We’ll go to a club. I’ll chain you up inside the bathroom, in one of the stalls. We’ll put in that spreader gag so you can’t close your mouth. Then I’ll put a plate in front of you and a sign that says you are available to use for a quarter. You’ll hear each coin as it rattles on the plate. Do you like that idea? You might end up sucking cock for a quarter. Or getting pissed on. Or spat on. All for a quarter. Doesn’t that sound like a good idea?”

            She laughs and lets me go, gives me a light slap on the cheek. Then she gets up and walks behind me, so I can hear her heels again. “Or maybe I’ll do something you would like. You keep claiming to love licking boots. Would you lick boots at a club? Five dollars a pair, soles and all? Maybe we’ll do that. You could get five whole dollars for each pair. And then, when you’ve reached two hundred dollars, maybe I’ll let you stop. Think of what I can do with two hundred dollars.”

            She runs her nails along my scalp, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to leave marks. She rests her elbows on my shoulders and leans in, her lips by my ear again. Her voice is gravel after the rain. “Or we could take you and bend you over a table. Tie your wrists and ankles to the legs. Maybe a pillow under your crotch to prop you up. Oh, and a posture collar. Definitely a posture collar, and with a ring gag.” She laughs, and the cruelty of it shakes my spine. “Then a blindfold, I think. I don’t want you to know how many cocks you suck, or how many fuck you in the ass. I don’t want you to know whether it’s a cock or a strap on until it’s too late.” She chuckles. “And I definitely don’t want you to know if the cock that’s about to fuck your face has already had a go at your ass.”

            She runs her hands down my arms, gently tracing the skin until she gets to my wrists. Then she wrenches them behind me, and I feel the shackles tighten. I’m not going anywhere. Not that I was before.

            “Or there’s that toilet party idea. I can’t believe how much that turned you on. A tube leading from a toilet bowl directly into your mouth. It’s awful, really. Almost as bad as the inclined system I came up with. Remember that one? Hang you by your ankles, with a nice vibrating butt plug, and a tube that runs from your cock to your mouth. How long could you stop yourself from cumming? How long could you stop yourself from pissing?” She laughs again as she comes around front. She bends down in front of me so she can look up, but there’s nothing submissive in the gesture. “I could watch. Cheer you on maybe. Would you like that?”

            She reaches forward and swats at my erection, then laughs again. “Of course you would. You like everything I come up with. Don’t you?”

            I know better than to argue. “Yes mistress,” I say.

            She shakes her head and slaps me, hard, across the face. “Don’t just agree with me, you piece of shit,” she says. “Think about it. Admit it. Tell me you love my ideas. Tell me you wish you could lick the soles of my boots after I’ve stepped in dog shit. Tell me you want me to break your mind, to make you my slave and strip away every part of you so that there’s nothing even remotely human about you. You love my ideas, don’t you? The more extreme, the better.”

            I take a deep breath. I want to deny it, but we both know the truth. “Yes mistress. I love every idea.”

            “You don’t care if I keep things safe or sane, do you?”

            “No Mistress.”

            “You don’t even care about consent. Not with me. You consent to everything with me, don’t you slave?”

            “Yes Mistress.”

            “You don’t need limits or a safeword with me. Do you?”

            “No Mistress.”

            She straddles me again, and her leather hand wraps around my shaft. She starts to rub; we both know it won’t take long before I lose control. “You are mine,” she says.

            “Completely,” I agree.

            She puts her hand on my throat again, leaning my head back and choking me as she brings me to orgasm. “Good boy,” she says.

            I orgasm, and she’s gone. I cover the tip of my cock with a finger as I grab a tissue, let the tissue catch my cum so I don’t make a mess. I take a deep breath and ride the endorphins for a little while.

            My mistress isn’t here, but she’s not gone either. She’s never completely gone. She’s always there, laughing at me just a little bit, watching me from the back of my mind, biding her time until she decides she wants to use me again, until she decides to come forward and make me confront the things that I’m ashamed to admit turn me on.

            She is my mistress. My mistress, my perfect, cruel, terrifying mistress. Deep in my mind, a fundamental part of me. Always there.

            Waiting.