“I think we’re attracting attention, Mistress,” Kat grinned.
It’s not every day when a Londoner might take a lunchtime stroll through St James’s Park and notice a woman seated comfortably on a bench while a second woman faces her, kneeling on the ground, wearing a studded leather collar around her neck with a dog leash leading back to the first woman’s hand.
It was a sunny day and windy, and we’d brought a little picnic snack of bread and cheese. I gazed affectionately at Kat, her eyes moistened and her cheeks reddened by the breeze and her black hair gleaming under the intense pre-Autumn sunlight.
“I should hope so, angel,” I said, enjoying a mild tingling in my abdomen.
A pair of older police constables had been strolling near; they slowed, glanced at each other, and stopped. The female one regarded her shoes briefly and scratched the back of her neck. The two looked at each other again and shrugged. The female one addressed Kat: “Is everything all right, Miss?”
Kat turned and smiled broadly. “Yes, thank you, Constable. Just running lines, rehearsing for a play.”
They weren’t foolish enough to believe that, of course, but they’d got what they needed: a plausible explanation, hence an adequate pretext to evade further involvement. I thought the male one scoffed a bit, but I didn’t much care. They had no reason to linger and promptly moved along, enacting their sworn duty of enjoying a fine afternoon.
And it was so very fine. The sky was brilliant blue. The trees had a stillness about them which I imagined to foreshadow the Fall; they were in repose from their Summer growth, gathering strength for the spectacle of colour they would soon put on, it seemed to me. I watched Kat as I always did, with an appreciation of her beauty and form as if she were some master work of pre-Raphaelite painting, with gratitude for the ways she delighted my senses, and with constant sexual interest. Her voice was sweet and musical, her movements self-conscious like those of a child ballerina. “Is this good?” her body seemed always to say. “Am I keeping your clit nice and tingly?” It was a gentle foreplay that we indulged constantly outside the bedroom.
As she knelt in front of me, she smeared a glistening glob of ripe Camembert over a toast cracker. She held it gingerly by her delicate, little-girl fingers and passed it slowly under her nose, breathed in, and let her eyes flutter. She caught a bit of the oozing cheese on a fingertip and tasted it pornographically for me before bringing the cracker to my lips. Her hand smelled of pussy and perfume.
I patted her head and rubbed it gently. “Good girl,” I said softly.
“Ooohh, Mistress,” she said, and she shuddered.
I’d met her eighteen months earlier in Berlin, where we were made to share a café table. Quite by chance, I’d been seated opposite the woman of my wettest dreams. A petite Eurasian girl with radiant black hair, flawless caramel skin as fine-grained as an infant’s, lips luxurious and full yet delicately shaped, half-slitty eyes sparkling black, high cheekbones, small chin, translucent white baby teeth, delicate, girlish fingers and toes—literally everything in ideal parts.
She was drenched in cosmetics and cheap bangles. She reeked of drug store perfume. She wore an impossibly taut Spandex top, a pleated miniskirt, and black vinyl fuck-me pumps. Her exquisite legs were bare. She was a glorious vision of femininity, the lurid kinderwhore makeup and clothes serving only to illuminate the incomparable refinement of her figure, complexion, and features. I gazed upon her hungrily, committing her to memory, this rare goddess. I studied her openly. She didn’t mind. She neither encouraged nor discouraged my attention. She was all right with it, no more, no less.
She was indeed a goddess, and I simply could not look away. No, and especially as she leaned forward—as she leaned toward me, this angel—as she lowered her head and parted soft, lush lips, and very slowly and very deliberately gobbed into the ashtray between us. Her sputum was stringy, and the gob danced and twirled slowly at the end of a long strand. The strand stretched, and contracted, and stretched again, as raw egg-white does. Then it broke, and the gob gently relaxed into the ashtray and spread among the cigarette ends. A glistening trail of mucous clung to her lower lip for a moment before she wiped it away with two fine and exquisitely manicured fingers.
I was stunned—virtually hypnotized. I couldn’t look away. I had never experienced such a thing. I had never been so sexually aroused in public before in my life.
Nothing could have stopped me. I introduced myself immediately and flirted insistently. She sulked and pouted. She told me that women shouldn’t be so familiar with one another and that she didn’t much care for foreigners anyway. She flipped her hair and tossed her head with a noisy jingle of earrings and bangles. She pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. She deliberately looked away when I spoke. I knew she was interested, and she couldn’t have played it better. I got her phone number and began inviting her out. She turned me down three times, but acquiesced on my fourth attempt. Within weeks we became a couple.
I knew she was submissive, but she didn’t, at least not at first. I sensed it from the start; she had the courage, the openness, and the willingness to trust. She showed it best during moments of distraction. Her responses to off-hand commands told me what she was: “turn here; hand me that; take off your shoes; try this on…” She would obey reflexively, immediately, and without question.
I broke her gradually. In the beginning, I would command her in casual ways, gently working my dominance into the fabric of our everyday relationship. During sex I would introduce a little pain, perhaps pinching her nipple when she was about to come, to see whether it delayed or encouraged her orgasm. I tried some mild verbal abuse, whispering in her ear, “Mmmm, you kiss so well, like a dirty girl, like a cheap slut.”
Pain and degradation did arouse her sexually, so I pushed her a little farther each time we made love. I began to bind her arms and feet during sex. I would blindfold her and take her from behind with a strap-on. Next came hard spanking, leaving her bottom hot to the touch and visibly red for a day or two, using my bare hand or the riding crop that I keep hanging on my bedpost. There was some biting, and brief moments of suffocation using my ass and pussy to cover her face. I used a couple of hinged plastic clothespins as makeshift nipple clamps before she graduated to proper ones, to introduce her gradually to pain and help her to recognise it as sexual.
Within a few months she asked me, what did it mean that she desired only to be used and degraded, and why was that all she fantasised about now. And so I gradually introduced her to the lifestyle, as it’s called, and there she found a context to help her understand these urges and needs. Terribly convenient for me, I know, and it raises a serious question: how do we differentiate between a healthy D/s relationship and mere exploitation and sexual bullying? The short answer is that in a true D/s partnership, the Dom/me has only as much control as the sub yields willingly. One can’t actually take control; one can only invite the sub to surrender, and this can happen only in an environment of mutual trust, respect, and love. The sadist doesn’t care if his victim is happy or fulfilled, and in fact probably prefers that they not be. The Dom/me, on the other hand, is motivated primarily by the sub’s desires and needs.
The long answer is the story that I’ve just begun to tell.
