The Mistress Files(10)

By: Tiffany Reisz



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.

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