Demanding. Insistent. She’s flipping the bird at my earlier text: Give me an hour. Pop-up drinks with the directors to celebrate last night’s Businesswoman of the Year win.

Whatever. Her text is adamant, not a centimetre of wiggle room: I meant right NOW, little whore.

Now, seriously! I must rearrange my world because a capricious whim has lodged in Mistress’s head. She knows I’m the board’s golden girl, but surely, she gets that continually schmoozing my directors is mission-critical.

Yet, she’s not being unreasonable by demanding me at her beck and call. For her little whore did solemnly volunteer she’d not say no again. Nowadays my mindset is: oui, oui, oui, Mistress.

But how can I possibly magic myself away from my own celebratory drinks? Think. Think. Think.

Eagle-eyed Mark notices the surreptitious glance at my watch. “Friday night is chardonnay time, honey. Work must wait; there’s no one around to take calls.”

Oh, my brilliant husband: it's eight pm in Sydney and a working morning in London. My lips thankfully brush his.

Sidling up to a gaggle of whisky-sipping board members, I take time to luxuriate in the chair pontificating on my awesomeness: increases in revenue, lower costs, innovative financial products, … yadda, yadda, yadda. 

Earnestly raising the spectre of business risk is such a deft way of interrupting him in full flight. “London has just scheduled a call on those usurious new charges I told you about.”

“They can’t be serious; talk about torpedoing bank profitability. Of course, you must deal with that. Let me know how you get on.”

I nod sagely, that can is easily kicked down the road. “I’ll call on Monday with more clarity. So honoured by your Businesswoman of the Year nomination.”

“My pleasure, the Australian business community has heartily endorsed your win. The youngest ever top-40 CEO; more dynamic and successful than we had any right to expect.”

Indulgent smiles follow me as I dash from the boardroom and head to my office. No grin from Mark of course. My stony-faced husband just shrugs his shoulders; he has come to expect weekends to be sacrificed on the altar of my career ambitions.

Oui, oui, oui, Mistress.

Text sent; I glance in the mirror. Unnecessary really. Friday’s just-in-case ritual is dressing with Mistress in mind. Today it’s a pleated black skirt whose swirling elegance is her catnip. My Escada blouse’s slut-scarlet colour is a red rag to her nasty side. Shoes are new, but Jimmy Choo is a label bound to pass muster.

Of course, I can afford it, but she fetishizes defiling quality. Our eighteen-month relationship is littered with shredded silk and trashed Louboutins she has delighted in kicking to the curb.

My mobile pings: Immediately is the synonym for now!

Sighing at her impatience, I take just a minute more. Freshen my lipstick. Stuff my bra and knickers into a desk drawer. They’re work wear not whore wear—that’s a Mistress mantra. Just as well my Executive Assistant is homeward bound; that lingering arousal is a giveaway that a certain cunt on Mistress’s speed dial is a tad impatient too.

Hurrying past my personal bathroom, my unique access card opens the door the Head of Security insists I use after hours. Protesters, way too overwrought by my sharp increase in mortgage interest rates, had trashed the bank’s main entrance.  Heading down in the goods lift, I wave to the camera. The night security team is well trained; our little secret, only the boss gets the basement lit at this time of night so she can discreetly slip out of the tradesman’s entrance and up onto an access alleyway.

Just two blocks from the financial district, there’s a seediness that the City Council has spent years playing wack-a-mole with. Nipples tenting my silk blouse are a vote of no confidence in puritanical councils. A block deeper into the grunge, I carefully step down into a dingy basement bar. Pavlov’s pussy oozes on hearing Mistress’s favoured industrial rock echoing off the brick walls.

I nod at Sam, the owner, behind the bar; their butch punk chic effortlessly marketing to whom they’re catering. The smile back is genuinely warm, unsurprising as the interest holiday on their loan was my captain’s pick. The rationale I gave the board, that generous post-covid financing of gay small businesses would enhance our diversity reputation, was inspired.

Mistress adores her little treat. There’s a lot to like about squatting in the semiprivate corner of a Domme-friendly bar with strong finances. And that’s exactly where I find my graduate student queen bee.

It’s rare nowadays, but tonight she’s gathered a small retinue of Stepford sophomores. Jesus Christ, they’re such wannabes, vanillas dipping university toes in alternative sexuality. And submissive? For God’s sake give me a break. When you’re that naïve you’re barely capable of following.

Mistress smirks knowingly at my raised eyebrow and instinctive shake of the head. “You’re late.”

I shrug. The nonchalance is deliberate, an on-point reaction to the hangers-on’ syncopated tittering. They’ll never get it. Not sufficiently worldly-wise to understand that plasticine malleability condemns them as unsatisfying marks for women like her.

No need for a fortune teller’s globe, Mistress knows their future. They’re programmed to scarper, spooked by graduation’s reality; reborn in the burbs as soccer mums to two-point-four children and good-cause volunteers. Overconfident that a dalliance with a woman like her has inoculated them against future Domme-craving pandemics.

I should know.

Her patented sardonic smirk makes an appearance: that Mistress-bitch is in the bar means only one thing, the cat intends to toy with a mouse.

“Show me.” Mistress pounces on my hesitation. “Now! You're showing this lot too.”

Unbuttoning my blouse, I feel an achingly exquisite blush blossom on my chest. Hanging my top over a spare chair, my rock-hard nipples are a bitter-sweet testament to kids unworthy of Mistress reading the red lipstick emblazoned across my tits.

Slut.

She takes her time admiring my lipstick calligraphy. “Good girl for freshening your lipstick. Still, you were way too fucking slow.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Skirt off too!”

Juices dampen my inner thigh as my unzipped skirt puddles on the floor. She carefully places it on the chair, out of harm's way.

The wide-eyed hangers-on follow her lead and inhale deeply. I can’t help but shudder with an intoxicating mix of embarrassment and humiliation as the unworthy sample the arousal that now permeates our corner of the bar.

Slipping her foot out of Doc Martens, Mistress’s toe traces the M tattooed above my mound. “Tell the newbies what this stands for, little whore.”

“Mia.”

Her big toe thrusts, twists, and stretches the viscous walls of my—no her—cunt. “Anything else?”

“Um… Mistress. Miss, too.”

The sticky toe exits with a squelching pop and plays pat-a-cake with my throbbing clit. “Crossword correct answers. I respect that you’re the smartest person in any room. But …”

Her toe’s relentless button bumps have me desperate to mash my needy sex against her foot. “But what, Mistress?”

Her heel thumps against the floor. I stare at her glistening toe, whimpering. She fishes today’s Financial Review from her backpack and slaps it on the table.

My heart skips a beat. “I didn’t know you read the business paper.”

Her hard arse look softens. “Sometimes even the smartest can be fucking idiots.  You’ve managed to forget I’m your girlfriend as well as your Mistress?”

Girlfriend! My cunt has gotten addicted to that siren song. She oozes contentedly as Mistress sweetly adds, “Your submission is a treasured gift. You wouldn’t look down on a soft-hearted Domme keeping cuttings about you in a scrapbook?”

 “Seriously? Lost for words.” I’m beaming more than any mosh pit Swiftie.

“There’s a turn-up for the books. I’m actually very proud of your success, little whore… most of the time.”

The joyful swelling of my nipples and clit is punctured by that sting in the tail. “Most?”

Mistress opens the paper to page five. Her eyes lock onto mine. “Remind Mistress what you said when I asked for my name to be tattooed above your cunt?”

“Your wish is my command.”

“Indeed. You could have used the safe word, but you chose not to. That M tattoo: everyone who sees it would recognise it means Mia or Mistress or Miss, right?”

Holy fuck! The picture from the Businesswomen of the Year awards shows me with the Chair of the Board and my husband. The chair’s name is James. My husband’s name is …

My stomach knots. Her foot rises, impatiently toe-tapping my shrinking clit.

“I’m sorry, Mia, I should have mentioned that my husband’s name is Mark.”

“No shit. I’m all in. Are you?”

The tear sliding down my cheek splatters on my tit. “Yes! I’ll do anything for you. I like to please. Sometimes being economical with the truth just seems best.”

“Best for whom?”

 Guilty as charged. “Me, Mistress.”

Mistress points to a Stepford, the fawn in her headlights with the fakest smile. “You like to please; okay, you’re hers, now audition to be her fucktoy of choice.”

Hers! I only just stop my foot’s petulant stomp.

Can’t let Mistress down twice in a day. Dropping to my knees, I slide the harlot’s panties off, spread her legs and watch her pretty pussy folds unfurl. My cunt resumes oozing.

Slowly my tongue rasps up her dewy slit. Bitter-sweet flavours explode on my taste buds. I love this; I hate this. Mistress knows how embarrassed I feel servicing unworthy cunts, no matter how tasty they are. Yet, pussy juice is my catnip, so I voraciously lick and suckle her pink.

But that’s not wanton enough for Mistress. She wraps my hair in her hand and cuffs the gooey sex with my mouth. Then shakes my head so unworthy honey is smeared all over my fuckpig face.

She’s in full-on Mistress-bitch mode, determinedly triggering my bittersweet relationship with humiliation, that most intoxicatingly risky of my kinks. The promise to Mistress of ‘Oui, oui, oui,’ adds to my thrilled embarrassment when the random howls like a dingo and christens her new fucktoy’s mouth with orgasm.

Mistress drags me to my feet. Her hand choke-grips my neck, forcing me to hold her stare. The fingers of her other hand twist deep and hard into my sex. Her knuckles stretch my slick velvet walls. “So wet. Seems humiliation agrees with you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other unworthies agog at the responsiveness of my mortified cunt to her thrusting fingers. “I’ll get Mia’s tattooed above my, I mean your, cunt as quickly as possible.”

Her fingertips rasp my g-spot. Her thumb starts bashing my clit. My world narrows.

“Slapdash submissiveness is never okay. Luckily for you, Jade has a gap in her diary. She’s in her tattoo studio awaiting your economical-with-the-truth arse.”

Mistress slides her fingers out of my cunt, leaving me teetering on the cusp of orgasm. “You’re not to cum until I’ve seen Mia’s inked above your mound.”

Tears splatter onto my tits. Mistress wraps me in her arms, her tongue tip sweeping the final tear from my cheek. Whispers, sotto voce like we’re in church, a treasured Mistress mantra, “No one humiliates you as I do…”

The balm is her confirmation. The response is etched on my DNA. “Because no one loves me like you do.”

Mistress slowly dresses the newly penitent in the pleated skirt and scarlet blouse. Transforms Ms Hyde, the whore, into Dr Jekyll, the successful businesswoman. “Take a second chance. Then the apartment; just you and me, baby.”

My Choo echo in downtown canyons as I scurry deeper into Sydney’s TGIF nightlife. The block closest to Jade’s studio is reputedly the grungiest in town; this time of night it’s swarming with pleasure cruisers, both the habitual and the tourist.

Jade is lurking outside, girl-watching. “Your Mistress texted.”

Her eyes don’t meet mine; they’re following, laser-like, a passing kitten’s remarkably scrumptious derrière. The wide-eyed newbie smiles as her friend points out another sight that shouldn’t titillate given their upbringing.

The young thing glances back distractedly. Jade pounces and passes over her business card. “Tattooing this client now. Then I’ll see you?”

Nodding, nervous excitement is writ large on her baby blues. “Wasn’t thinking of a tattoo.”

“Neither was I.”

The kitten instinctively licks her lips. Her friend is shocked; weirdly, she only sees some random with a liking for leather and buzz cuts. But, as for me two years ago, dormant desires have stirred in the kitten. Jade is the complete bull-dyke package, a magnetic force field of dominant sexual energy. She’s also Mistress’s mentor.

Upstairs, passively undressed, I’m told to lie down. My arse presses into the edge of the bed with my feet in stirrups. Jade sits on a stool between my legs, inches from my semi-aroused cunt. This feels like a setup, a test of navigation skills in treacherous waters.

She starts tattooing i next to the M above my mound. Yummy pain sears both body and soul. It's a rare Domme who’s skilled in sensuously entwining pleasure and pain, those Siamese twins of my sexuality. Jade certainly can, but that's moot tonight. The tattoo’s ache is outgunned by the tidal wave of lusty love birthed in the bar by my commitment to never again let Mistress down.

Yet, in the here and now, lust slipping into the driver’s seat is a vulnerability. Focused, Jade quickly finishes the second letter of Mistress’s name. Lulled into lowering my guard as Jade admires her work, her palm cuffing my semi-swollen clit shocks. And tosses my needy cunt into a vortex of desire.

Whimpering, I shuffle up the bed, desperate to squirm out of reach. “Can’t cum till Mistress sees the tattoo.”

“You moved without permission!” Fuck. Jade is also in Mistress-bitch mode. Her fingernail flicks my engorged clit. That smarts and tremors rock me; my traitorous cunt has never found resisting temptation easy. Think. Think. Think.

“Your cunt is addictively intoxicating.” Her curled tongue takes my fuckhole in a way that cleverly caresses my velvet walls. Her nose sensuously bumps my sensitive clit.

Brilliant, Miss Jade. Not everything is intoxicating. Sauerkraut, sauerkraut, sauerkraut, becomes a protective silent mantra as she tortures my super-aroused sex with artful and increasingly intense tongue swirls.

Jade pauses. Perturbed. “What are you thinking?”

“Your tongue is wonderful.”

Her palm stings my arse. Hard. “And?”

“Sauerkraut is awful.”

“You’ll have to trump that.” Her teeth softly press my clit, then sensuously tug. Again, I’m tossed onto the precipice of lost control.

“Um … Squirming will ruin the remaining letters. Mistress will be pissed with you too.”

She smirks. My clit slips from her mouth. “Always got an answer. I love your mind. But you deserve this for lying to your Mistress.”

“Didn’t lie. The truth, Readers Digest version.”

Her teeth nip my clit and heavenly orgasm precursors ripple through me. I’m struggling to resist yet she surprises me by letting go of my sex. “The smartest person in the room is your strength. And Achilles’ heel.”

“No, it’s not! … Sorry, Miss. Explain.”

“Using submissives seems straightforward. But emotions add complexity.”

“How so?”

“You’re programmed to serve, to say yes. For a Domme that’s like Artificial Intelligence. Can a programmed, yes, really be a meaningful, yes?”

“But Mistress understands. She’ll always come and cum first.”

“Brain the size of a small planet. Use that not your cunt for thinking this through. I’ll focus on the tattoo and leave your dripping sex alone.”

I play-pout. “Surely you’ll use me again?”

“Yes, you’re a delicious submissive. Not right now, Mia suspects you’re her soul mate.”

Goosebumps. “Submission is firstly a nerve-wracking leap into the unknown. Really think I’ve screwed up?”

“Yeah. Pushed the boundary. Been pulled back. A trusted submissive can’t be parsimonious with the truth. It has got to be all in. I’ll be rooting for you if you get it right.”

“Makes a change.”

Mistress-bitch cracks a smile. “I know, ruining my reputation for just getting my jollies by fucking eye candy du jour.”

She carefully inscribes the remaining letters that ink Mia’s on my skin. Eyes closed; I wallow in the painful joy of pleasing Mistress. Miss Jade asks me to stand and holds my blouse, so I can comfortably slip my arms into the sleeves. Button by button I’m slowly dressed. “You know what you must do?”

“No more slapdash submissiveness. Poor Domme Jade though. Slumming it with a subbie on training wheels.”

“You’re such a brat; but remember, that’s where you started.”

Suddenly, she spins me towards the bed. Viciously, her palm stings my arse again and again; a super-hard spanking, clearly intent on leaving painful lingering bruises.

Whatever; not backing down. Nor giving her the satisfaction of my safe word. Provocatively, kitten-like, I enticingly wiggle my aching bum.

Turning me back to face her, the stare is as analytical as it is cold, seemingly she sees right through me. “That sassiness a cry for more pain? Or an insubordinate act of defiance?”

She slides my elegant, pleated skirt up my legs and over my aching bum. Zips it. “Everything about you, including your submissiveness, reeks of substance. I’ve been around the block more times than you can imagine. Thought I’d seen it all, could always sift the trusted from the game players.”

Amazingly, she reverently slips my feet into the Choo’s. “Gorgeous, gorgeous shoes. So, understand this: you’re overconfident. Having been economical with the truth, your arse wiggle carries undertones of untrustworthiness.”

“I’m all in! Pain slut, not defiant bitch.” I can’t prevent my Jimmy from petulantly stamping on the wooden floor.

“It’s not me who needs convincing. Begone.”

That’s so unfair. Mistress’s name is forevermore tattooed on my skin. Yet, in grungiest Sydney, I’m still branded untrustworthy.

God forbid that Mistress is of like mind. She needs to hear from Dr Jekyll, the girlfriend, before Ms Hyde, the submissive whore, dares cross the threshold of our pied-a-terre in ritzy Woolloomooloo: Girlfriend, in being too clever by half I’ve undermined your trust in me. I love you; I’ve learnt my lesson. No more slapdash submissiveness ever.

Mistress’s reply is instantaneous: Girlfriend, I love you for who you are, not because I’m in the thrall of some uber-Domme fantasy. That said, you let me down. Come home; our dungeon is prepared, Spanish Inquisition style, for the truly penitent.  

I hail a cab. Somewhat relieved, somewhat puzzled, but with a grin on my face. Mistress has me giggling as I recall that old comedy show that my dad loves: ‘Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.’

The intrigue deepens in the apartment. Not the usual industrial rock, rather it is opera music reverberating off the walls. Surprising and Spanish, no doubt carefully chosen given Mistress’s fetish for stimulating and teasing my intellect.

Stealthily sleuthing for insight, I peek into the dungeon. She’s seated in the gloaming, her back to the harbour views. Naked; her eyes are closed, her auburn hair cascades over her shoulders, and the nipples of her full breasts are perky.

She’s lost in repetitions of the Toreador March from Bizet’s Carmen. An oiled hand rhythmically strokes the horse end of a black Feeldoe jutting lewdly from her lasered cunt. No doubt the pony end is teasing her g-spot to the melody’s tempo.

Boudicca with a girl-cock; she’s gorgeous.

One change is readily apparent. She’s placed a cushion under an overhead spotlight in the centre of the room. That rationale is clear, but I don’t get why she’s edging herself to music about a toreador preparing for a bull. She knows I detest a bull ring’s pointless slaughter.

Of course, I’ve read that aficionados see beauty in the ritual ruination and flamboyant domination which culminates in a bull’s gory-glory submission to the Toreador’s will. That’s weirder still. Got to think but my cunt can’t be part of that process. One peek at Mistress and she’s expectantly oozing again.

In the bathroom, I get into Mistress’s mindset: I’m the picador preparing my body for the metaphoric cape. Nipple clamps sensuously bite. In the mirror, I watch my eyes water with delight as I tighten the clamps to the edge of brutalisation.

Lubricating my thickest plug doesn’t prevent searing pain as my anal ring stretches beyond reason before my arse can swallow the plug. Though there’s a modicum of relief-satisfaction when my ring tapers back and grips the plug’s neck.

One notch, then another; I tighten the collar Mistress presented me last birthday, craving the neck constriction for its constant reminder that every breath I take, I take for her.

Finally, I refresh my lipstick, painting SLUT vibrantly red on my tits. The freshly tattooed Mia’s is raw and inflamed, but, in contrast, Mistress’s recent bite mark on my neck has faded. This supplicant needs that ownership mark refreshed.

My love of pain entwines with the anticipation of fulfilling Mistress’s desires and leaves honey strands hanging from my pussy lips. Not going to clean up, I need her to see what she does to me.

I pause, thinking about the music as the notes infuse me. Obviously, I’m not a bull who’s going to die, gloriously or vaingloriously, in testament to the art of Mistress’s domination. Yet, she’s repeatedly playing that classic. Think. Think. Think.

That earwig chorus starts to grate. My heart beats faster. Maybe that’s it, Mistress’s message: the chorus about love awaiting the toreador. The analogy suits the circumstances, though it’s not quite what was in the composer’s mind.

Maybe Mistress-toreador, for love’s sake, is minded on skewering every vestige of resistance to her will. I’m in.

Creeping into the dungeon, I lower the blackout curtains. Sydney vanishes, leaving Mistress and me on a private voyage of discovery. She smiles; her hand firmer now in fucking the slick toy into her squelching cunt.

Kneeling on the cushion, knees spread, I shuffle forward until the spotlight fully illuminates Mia’s tattooed on my skin. Then cross my arms behind my back, which pushes my head up and my throbbing tits forward.  

Patiently, I wait in supplication.  

Eventually, Mistress kills the music and opens her eyes. An inscrutable gaze rakes over my body. My heart skips a beat as she smiles contentedly. “Adore the tat. Unambiguous. Jade wonders if economic truth-telling is your fatal flaw. That’s overreacting. Sometimes, you’re too fucking clever for your own good. Tonight is a reckoning, baby, not a punishment. Understand?”

“Thank God, Mistress. I’ve only ever wanted to please you.”

She smiles radiantly. Her index finger moves, a come-hither motion.

Crawling to Mistress, the sway of my hips accentuates the plug’s pressure on my aching arse. The chain linking the clamps drags along the floor, tugging on my numb nipples. As always, while the pain is excruciatingly lip-smacking, it’s overwhelmed by the anticipation of pleasuring her flooding me with addictive endorphins.  

Kitten-like my tongue laps the underside of the Feeldoe that protrudes from her pungent cunt. Beseeching eyes glance up to her. Nodding, her glorious body settles millpond still.

Eyes locked, my mouth slowly stretches over the tip of the girl-cock. I languidly bob, again and again, a centimetre deeper each time, my eyes watering when my throat is violated. Not deterred, I’m absorbed in the joy of building pleasure-pressure on Mistress’s g-spot.

Her muscles tense. She’s so teasing me, edging motionlessly to make me work harder on bursting lust’s dam. Finally, feisty fellatio triumphs; her hips jerk and impale my throat. Moaning, her hand gropes for the chain connecting my nipple clamps. Her voice quivering, she intones that adored Mistress mantra, “No one hurts you as I do …”

The chain is tugged hard. The excruciating pleasure-pain rises, a snow-fed mountain torrent that tumbles in flood onto my rock-hard clit. Gurgle-screaming, I ride the bucking bronco that is the cutting edge of her power. My capacity to pleasure her pretty cunt ebbs. The drool-smeared toy slips from my mouth. “Because no one loves me like you do.”

Turbocharged, Mistress finger-flicks my hair to one side. Her teeth sink into the soft flesh of my neck. I feel her masticating, indenting a teeth tattoo on my skin. Heavenly hard; she bruises then pierces.

A drop of blood slips down her chin. Self-satisfied eyes rake over my marked body. “You’re mine, little whore.”

Awed. “Oui, oui, oui, Mistress.”

Dragging by the hair across the room, she tosses her ragdoll facedown onto the bed. Surprisingly softly, a finger traces the marks on my bum. “Your blushing arse is fiery; it’ll be purple and bruised come Monday.”

“Miss Jade abused me. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of the safe word.”

“Good. I told her to.”

“Fuck, how could you?  … Sorry. Oui, oui, oui, Mistress. But why?”

“I’m your Mistress. You’re a pain-slut. Me hurting you will always be an act of love. Jade on the other hand; let’s just say you needed that wake-up call.”

“Any remaining doubts about your marionette’s commitment?”

“None. Even when you’re acting like a ventriloquist’s sassy puppet, I trust you.”

“I screwed up. Sorry.”

“Apology accepted, baby.” Mistress butterfly kisses my needy sex. Frissons of acknowledgement dance over my skin.

She stands. Guides the Feeldoe’s tip against my pussy’s opening. Reaching forward she tightly wraps my hair in her hands. Like reins Mistress roughly tugs on my scalp, snapping my head back.

With a grunt, she takes me, impaling the thick girl-cock in my slippery cunt. So deep, so hard, so good. Again and again, metronomic thrusts delight my squishy pink, as do thighs slapping against my achingly bruised arse.

Until I start pushing back, aiming to alter her flowing thrusts so the pony end wiggles against her g-spot. She stops and spanks the plug repeatedly, ratcheting up the exquisite agony. “Stop micro-managing your Domme.”

“All I crave is pleasing you.”

“Let the toreador be the puppet mistress.”

A deep frustrated sigh constricts my neck against her tight collar. That is a reminder, being supine demonstrates my trust in her.  

Mistress’s girl-cock restarts; animalistically she ruts my prostrate cunt. Raw primal fucking, taking me again and again until she fires my nerve endings to her satisfaction.

She reaches for the clamps.

Releases: the blood flowing into my numb nipples sears me in pain. It’s so her; exquisite timing that puzzle piece perfectly entwines the pain I adore with the pleasure I love and scalds my sex with delirium.  

Adrift in pleasure-pain, my supplicant longing eclipses all else that matters. Time and space contract to a single point of obsession. There an impossibly high mountain pierces lust’s fog.

She’s there, my light on the hill. Craving her; marionette feet are stuck in the treacle of their obedience. Needing her, I can only exhort, “Use me, Mistress.” Again, and again and again.

She feeds off my neediness. The flamboyant domination of the thrusting Feeldoe hoists me, one ledge at a time, higher and higher. Ritually ruination drags me to her mountain peak.

Transmogrified, surrounded by a void of powerlessness, I’m what I was born to be. Putty in Mistress’s hands. She lifts my marionette leg and drives the girl-cock deeper.  

There’s only one step possible from this peak. My inflamed cunt has never been one to think. She leaps, I follow: a swan dive into the void’s inky darkness. Trust is the umbilical cord that transforms my need to please into religious obedience that unlocks the portal to submissive heaven.

Through the door she has opened, her banshee screams echo through me. Wracked and wrecked by cataclysmic orgasms, her essence floods the thrusting Feeldoe. Using me, the toy feeds my ravenous cunt, baptising my body and soul in a monstrous gush of her cum cream.

The reality of the dark void’s helplessness dawns, it’s a glimpse of nirvana. She’s so perfect I’ll never need to cum again; so perfect I’ll never be able to stop cumming. Accepting the power of powerlessness is the bull’s final breath.

Oui, oui oui, Mistress: my obedient cunt’s convulsions crescendo.

Oui, oui, oui, Mistress: la petite mort is transfigured, une grande, grande mort.

The all-consuming orgasms only just skirt unconsciousness.

Her choke collar turns my pants into breathless gasps. Overwhelmed, I haltingly refocus; on her, my Mistress. She’s gobsmacked, wonderment writ large on her pretty face. “I know that look, Mistress.”

“You do?”

“In awe of your power. Like me at work; a Mistress in the shark-infested Australian business world still stuns me.”

“I didn’t realise how good we could be.”

“That’s on me taking too long to get our heavenly paradox. I maximize my pleasure when my strings are yours alone.”

“Only if there’s complete trust can I use you like you need to be used.”

“Yes, trust allows me to embrace sub-space.”

“Slapdash a thing of the past then?”

“Yeah, I meant well but Mark deserves better. You too; it’s a single-minded focus on who matters from now on.”

“The chair?”

“Seriously; business advice, Mistress?”

“Bet you told a porky pie to get out of the Businesswoman of the Year celebration.”

“Yeah; managing business risk by talking to London. No dramas, I’d already sorted it.”

Mistress’s smile is winsome; I’ve no idea when she found the time to swallow a canary. “Then what will you tell the boss on Monday?”

 “I’m not a slapdash CEO either, Miss Smarty-pants. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth: It was a storm in a teacup, my bad.”

Snuggling, my cheek contentedly rests on her soft breast. I can’t resist. “Talking of truth telling. Miss Jade tells me you think I’m your soul mate.”

Mistress reprises her impersonation of an inscrutable Easter Island statue. But Little Miss Tease is a busted flush. For there they are again: goosebumps. Her fingernail has outlined a love heart on my skin.