The Mistress Files (10 page)

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CONFIDENTIAL-

For Kingsley’s Personal Files Only

Only you, King. Only you. Well, if you insist. Here we go.

Stats: White Male, age 44.

Level of experience: Whatever is one level higher than “has done every kind of kink ever invented.”

Occupation: I’m not even going to justify this question with an answer.

So...let me tell you a little about him. No, not yet. I can’t start with him yet. Let me tell you about me.

As a Dominatrix, you never know whose ass you’re going to kick today. It might be an eighty-year-old foot fetishist who wants to get in one last good rub before kicking off to that big shoe rack in the sky. It might be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company who needs to be punished for all the naughty things he did to his employee’s pension fund that week. It might be some sweet kid, barely eighteen years old, who pretends to be all nice and normal and vanilla with his friends when they ogle the girls at strip clubs, but at night boots up the fetish porn and jerks off to pictures of women in eight-inch stilettos walking on the backs of bound and gagged men with leashes around their scrotums. He doesn’t know what he is, but he knows I can show him.

The fetishist, the freak, the fearful...I love them all. I’m one of them so I know how they feel, I know what they need and I want nothing more than to give it to them. For a price, of course. In this world, money imparts value. The only way to cheapen the sacred acts I perform would be to give them away for free. I see all kinds and I do all things and I get paid well for it. Yet even with this endless revolving door of precious perverts, I get a surprise every now and then.

Because sometimes, when I least expect it, he walks in. He is special, this client. With all my other clients, it’s work, it’s a job. Sometimes a fun job. Sometimes I think I’d rather be sitting in a cubicle with office drones than doing what I’m doing. But with him, it’s not a job. It’s not professional. With him, it’s personal. And because it’s personal, it’s draining, exhausting...it uses me up so I have nothing left to give for a day or two. I charge him more because of that, and he pays willingly. But for this special client, I make sure he gets his money’s worth. Why? Because we’re the same, me and him, not that either of us would ever admit that to anyone else. We’re both Switches. If you don’t know what a Switch is, allow me to enlighten you. Switches are submissives. We’re also Dominants. Often we’re also both sadists and masochists, Masters and slaves. We’re distrusted in the kink community. No Dominant wants a Switch for a submissive. After all, she might decide halfway through a scene it’s her turn to start doing the flogging. Think about bisexuals. If you were a straight woman, would you want to date a bisexual man? If you did, wouldn’t you have a nagging, gnawing question in the back of your mind—is he really gay and just hiding behind me? Switches get shit from both sides. The Doms think we’re weak. The subs think we’re indecisive sluts who want to get it from everybody—they’re only half right.

That’s okay. We understand each other. That’s why he, my special client, comes to me and no one else.

* * *

The Mistress wouldn’t say he was her favorite client, not to his face anyway. When he showed up she knew he would be the last person she saw that day. He took more out of her than any of the other men who came to her dungeon at the club. He took the most time, the most effort, and he never made an appointment.

Two weeks ago he came to her dungeon. It had been about three months since their previous session together. It might have taken three weeks for him to heal completely from it. She’d worked him over thoroughly that night, just the way he liked it. The other nine weeks between that night and this one, he’d been too busy to see her, or simply not in the mood to be destroyed. The mood struck him at the oddest times and for seemingly no reason. She never asked him the reasons why he decided to show up at her feet. He wasn’t there to talk. He wanted pain, and The Mistress wanted to give it to him.

On a Wednesday afternoon at 4:00 p.m. he strolled into her suite without knocking. The Mistress lay stretched out on the bed reading a book—
Of Human Bondage
by W. Somerset Maugham. A disappointing book. Well-written but she was two hundred pages in, and no one had even been tied up yet. She looked up from her book as he swept in the door, shutting and locking it behind him. He did this often, came into her dungeon. He had every right to. But locking the door meant only one thing.

Play time.

She didn’t speak. She shut the book and tossed it onto the nightstand. From the small table she pulled an elegant black mask that covered only the top half of the face. Like the good and well-trained submissive he was playing that day, he kept his eyes on the floor as she approached him. In all the world, she’d only ever met one man she found more attractive than the one standing before her. Night and day, he and the other man were. The submissive masochist in front of her had olive skin, dark eyes, dark as a sin-stained soul, and black hair with a slight roguish wave that fell to right above his shoulders. And at the moment, he had on far too much clothing.

“Lose the shoes. Shirt off, too,” she ordered as she stood in front of him and slipped the masquerade mask over his eyes. It had eyeholes since she didn’t want to blindfold him, only put him in a mental place where he could become another person...someone other than the one who’d walked in her door and the one who would crawl out of it. Plus, no denying, the man looked fucking hot in the mask. With this particular client, she allowed herself to enjoy her attraction to him.

He shucked off his jacket and she took it from him, throwing it on the floor. The embroidered vest came off next. It, too, landed on the floor. Then the shirt. Raising her hands to his chest, she caressed his strong broad shoulders, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. She loved to tease him with pleasure before torturing him with pain. With another client who shared his sort of desires and fetishes, she would have put a collar on him. But no, never with him. He had one hard limit, only one. No collars. He might surrender to a world of pain but he would never submit to such an obvious sign of ownership.

“Stay,” she said as she went back to the bedside table. She pulled a thin black rope lead from the drawer and returned to him. God, how he hated the lead. Loathed it. He wasn’t a dog, after all, and the man had pride. But not on her time, he didn’t.

She put the lead around his neck and slipped the end of the rope through the hole at the other. A choke rope, it would tighten around his neck if he resisted her. Holding the end of the lead she took four steps back to stand three feet from him. She tugged once on the lead and he didn’t move. Good. She loved it when he gave her an excuse to punish him more. Raising her hand, she wrapped the rope one time...two times...three times around her palm. With every turn of her hand, she pulled him closer to her.

“I know you hate this.”

“You know me well,
Maîtresse
.”

She yanked him to her so they met eye-to-eye. She wore eight-inch platform stiletto boots that day otherwise she would have been staring down the center of his chest. Not a bad place to stare. He had a beautiful body, no denying that. Lean and muscular although riddled with old scars. She wouldn’t add any scars to his vast collection today. Only cuts, welts and bruises—all injuries that would heal quickly. If he wanted scars, he’d have to pay extra and make an appointment.

“I do know you...but not well enough. I think I want to get to know you better today. Let’s go into my office. Come along.”

She gave the rope another yank and led him into the second room of her suite. The front room was the bedroom, which she rarely used with clients. Sexual favors were granted for female clients and lovers only—not male clients. But the second room, the dungeon, housed all her toys including her most favorite toy of all.

“Do you know anything about the story of St. Andrew?” she asked as she dragged him by the lead to the ten-foot-tall, X-shaped St. Andrew’s Cross at the back of the room.

“I’m vaguely familiar with him.”

She removed the lead and tossed it aside.

“Up,” she ordered and he stepped in front of the cross. “Arms.”

He knew the drill well enough she didn’t even have to give him the orders. She didn’t have to, but she wanted to. She wanted to and he wanted her to. To be brutalized and dominated—that’s what he came for. To be dominated and brutalized—that’s why he came.

But he wasn’t allowed to come yet. He had to earn it first.

She locked his wrists to the bars of the cross.

“So...St. Andrew. Fun guy.” She left him standing at the cross while she went to a tiny box and pulled out five silver needle-sharp fingernail extenders. Talons, she called them. How fortuitous that she’d gotten a brand-new set of them this week and sanitized them with fire that very morning. “He was Peter’s brother supposedly.
The
Peter—the first pope. They were fishermen, both of them. Brutal profession, catching fish. The rope nets tore up the hands. The work was backbreaking. And imagine how the fish felt—caught in a net, dragged to the surface, drowning in air. They couldn’t get free no matter how hard they struggled.”

He pulled on the bounds that held him to the cross.

“I can sympathize,” he said, the lightest hint of amusement in his voice.

“And worse than the net was, of course, the hook.”

With those words she pricked his back with her talons. He flinched and five tiny drops of blood appeared on his shoulder like a red constellation.

“That fucking hook,” she sighed. “Can you imagine how much it would hurt to have a hook in your mouth? And then to get dragged by that hook all the way to the surface...brutal.”

She moved her hand down and left another five bleeding pinholes in his back.

“We are solitary, poor, nasty, brutish creatures, we humans,” he said between winces. “We deserve all the punishment God has to give us.”

“I suppose that makes me an instrument of God’s wrath, doesn’t it? I kind of like the thought of that. Here’s a little more wrath for you.”

She ran her talons in a straight line down his back, leaving four shallow bleeding rivulets about three inches long. He panted through the pain and she could only smile. With her free hand she reached around his hip and felt his erection pressing against her hand. Nasty and brutish—his favorite way to play. Luckily, it was hers, too.

“Poor St. Andrew...he was crucified, too. An X-shaped cross, not a T-shaped. He didn’t think he was worthy to die on the same sort of cross as his Lord. His brother Peter had already been crucified upside down. He couldn’t go that route, either. They got very creative with their crucifying. We might have to get creative one of these days....”

The Mistress let that threat hang in the air as she unbuttoned his trousers. While she stroked him with one hand, her other hand continued to prick his back with tiny pinholes. She’d undergone this particular torture herself a time or two. Bee stings hurt worse but only barely. And at least the bee died after stinging you. No such luck with a sadistic Mistress. She wasn’t going anywhere and had nothing but more pain to give him.

“I’ve always wondered about your love of pain.” She ran a finger from the base of his erection to the tip and back down again. “Born masochist? Or made? Nature? Nurture?”

“Who knows? I didn’t know I loved it until someone hurt me the first time. After that I couldn’t get enough. Was I made?
Peut-être
? Then again, I didn’t know I loved Cabernet Sauvignon until I had my first glass, either. But the taste buds, they were already there....”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter how you got it. It’s here. Drink up.” At that she stroked him hard as she left four more parallel lines of blood on his back.

She removed her talons and sat them aside before stripping her victim completely naked. As she dragged his pants down his legs, she bit his upper thigh, lower thigh and calf hard enough to leave three black bruises. She couldn’t help herself—the man did have exquisite legs.

Now that she had his back bared and bleeding, she decided it might be time to give him some real pain. Of course, she’d broken the skin, which meant a few more precautions would be necessary. She opened a case that had a new deerskin flogger in it—never before used. Doing edge-play with a client meant more work for her during and after. Usually she charged through the nose for even a cut or two, but for him, well, he was a special case. Not that this was a freebie. To quote the boss: “No freebies. Ever.”

She stood behind him and examined her handiwork.

“You’re bleeding,” she said. “A lot.”

“
Merci
” was his sole response, the only one she expected, the only one she wanted.

“But they’re tiny little cuts. If I left them alone, they’d heal up in two days. Where’s the fun in that?”

She raised the flogger and brought it down hard onto his bleeding back. She struck again. And again. She struck high and hard, low and deep. She added welts to the cuts, bruises to the welts. The tips of the flogger tails smeared the blood and soon his entire back had turned a rusty red.

After a good—for her—half hour of flogging she dropped the deerskin and let him catch his breath.

“Have you ever safed out with anyone?” she asked as she came to stand at his side again. A few drops of semen had leaked from his cock and she caught them on her fingertip.

“
Non
,
Maîtresse.
”

“You like pain that much? Or is it pride?”

“You know the answer to that already. Why did you never safe out with him?”

“I did,” she corrected him. “But only once.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said as she wrapped her hand around his erection again and squeezed to the point of pain, “he ordered me to marry him.”

“He must be a masochist, too,” he said through gritted teeth. The Mistress could only laugh.

“Oh, you’re gonna get it big-time for that.”

Big-time meant the cane. Not the rattan cane she used to leave the hand-sized bruises on a client’s ass or thighs. No, what she needed was the little cane—white plastic, long as a conductor’s baton. In fact, it had always reminded her of a baton; one she used to conduct a symphony of pain.