tagMind ControlA Feathered Fetish Ch. 01

A Feathered Fetish Ch. 01

byLincolnAndSunset©

Fay's stiletto heels stepped out of the garage elevator and clicked across the perfectly polished terrazzo floors of the lobby. It was exactly 7AM. The security guards, including those off duty since 6:30AM, had waited to watch Fay as her long legs, designer high heels, and perfectly tailored business dress parade by the front desk. Every weekday morning they gathered in the lobby to gawk as the long wavy haired brunette passed the entry point, pressed her ID card on the glass of the electronic turn style, and proceeded to sashay her stunningly beautiful body around the corner to the main bank of elevators.

That morning one of three guards pursed his lips when she was safely out of hearing range. "Ooo, honey."

A newbie looked back-and-forth between his co-workers. "Well, who was that?"

"Miss Fay Pinna. I think she's of hot Italian descent," said the third guard gently sniffing the air for her perfume.

The newbie looked confused. "What was she wearing in the back though?"

"Her skirts normally look like that. Odd, huh?" said the first guard still thinking of her.

A supervisor joined the group and interrupted. "She's high maintenance and way above all of you bums' pay grades, so back to work or get on with go'in home."

*****

Fay exited the elevator on the top floor. She was punctual, efficient, and professional -- the perfect analyst who reported directly to the CEO. Despite rumors started by jealous board members who she had given a cold shoulder, there was nothing sexual or improper. Many guys called her the 'Ice Princess.' She didn't care. She once told a secretary, who had warned about the 'Ice Princess' name being bantered about amongst the guys, that 'Ice Queen' was preferred.

Walking down a long empty hallway, she enjoyed the quiet early mornings. The silky inner lining of her skirt rustled against her smokey colored nylon clad legs. Her snug skirt's hemline hung above her knees finding a balance between conservative and provocative. Her little suit jacket cinched at her waist. Her hair was pulled back and clipped with a slight lift, but her trusses of considerable length still hung far down her back.

Any man noticing how the front of her skirt hugged her thighs would always discretely turn to see how the snug skirt surely hugged the undoubtedly perfect derriere. The urge to ogle hurt all the men trying to resist it. Their faces betrayed their thoughts of caressing, spanking, and sliding the skirt's material slowly up; but then during their attempts at secretly leering back to see her walking away, they would undoubtedly look confused at her skirt's bustle obscuring the view.

Her outfits were perfectly tailored to match today's modern styles except for the extra material that at the waist projected out a few inches and then dropped down to a sudden hemline as if a wedding dress train had been cut off. It was more than a simple flourish of a peplum. Women talked about the design being an homage to a Victorian theme updated to use a short skirt. During a company cocktail party, men joked about setting a drink on the bustle like it was a table. They laughed wanting to know if a wine glass would stand steady in place as she swanned her way through the crowd.

Fay ignored the murmurs surrounding her at work. She always arrived early morning before anyone else, not to hide from the odd gazes of curious people, but to get work done. This morning was no different. She sat at her desk. Her customized chair had a space opened in the back for her skirt's bump to nestle into. In a conference room meeting, she would sit more on a seat's edge. In her office though, she could relax. She leaned comfortably back, lifted her legs onto her desk, rested her ankles on the corner, and began to unwind while reading her mail on an iPad.

"Hi, Fay," said Andy knocking at her open door. She looked over the top of her tablet at the newest in-house council. She was surprised seeing anyone else so early. She continued to look dismissive to avoid signals men interpreted as flirting, but for Andy, she thought how his over six-foot height and athletic build was a cool tall glass a water she wanted to sip. She hid an internal cringe. Why was that the metaphor that popped into her mind?

She set her long legs down, rotating her chair forward. "Yes Andy."

"I'll need to see what marketing had actually said that got everyone upset last week." He walked to the side of her large desk.

"Sure. I have the file right here." She stood and leaned forward to reach a stack of papers. It was obvious that Andy was watching her. Her skirt angled up slightly in the back especially with the bustle adding some extra leverage to reveal more of her legs. She glanced to her side. Andy, like most guys, stayed silent on the bustle topic, but his face betrayed his curiosity while he took in the view. Everyone knew the CEO trusted her work and ignored the whole bustle subject matter. The Ice Princess's bump was clearly a topic off limits.

"Here you go," she said handing over a folder. "You know," added Fay as Andy was heading out to the hallway. He quickly stopped at hearing her voice. Fay liked how he looked at her, she continued her original thought: "I'd like to go over it in more detail. Could you do a dinner tonight? Let's call it a working dinner." She had never been so forward. A burning need had taken hold of her -- a need demanding some relief.

Andy looked back. He couldn't help but wonder if a date with the Ice Princess was wise. He liked her straight forward confident nature. He also loved looking at her. "I can do that. There's a couple places across the street that aren't too noisy or too quiet."

"Sounds good," she replied. "Stop by at seven."

Andy swore her voice had a little purr in it. He carried the files down the hallway pretending to read them, but he was solely focused on imagining her legs. But why the bump over her butt? He then switched to inventorying what he had in his office. Yep, he was covered -- he had a shaver and a fresh shirt. He reflected for a moment. A fling with Fay could be dangerous. He liked that.

*****

While Andy was meeting Fay for the first time that morning, a new intern from the same firm was across town desperately trying to comprehend some new pursuits of her own.

"Oh god," said Becky. "Please stop my Mistress." She took a breath almost in a panic as a tall athletic woman adjusted their Kama Sutra options by taking a strong male position over her. "Please," pleaded Becky as her leg was raised and used a lever to turn her body over with a wide swing around her mistress. Now face up and her leg placed back down on the mattress, Becky sucked in more air and continued her appeal. "Ashleigh," she exhaled, blowing air between her lush pursed lips with an accidental whistle.

"We're not done yet," said Ashleigh. "Not till you climax again. Looks like you need a little more oil though."

"Please no!"

"No? As in no stopping? Or no oil?"

"I, I, I don't know. Tell me what to say."

Ashleigh smiled, shaking her head in pity. "Always say yes to lube baby." Moving her hips back, she withdrew a long dildo that was buried inside Becky and had been so when the girl had been flipped over. The dildo now swayed across the intern's stomach as the woman on top reached out for a tiny bottle sitting on a nightstand.

Becky's eyes looked over her bare breasts at the large sex toy looming over her. She glanced at her partner. It was frightening to look up at her latex covered mistress. A shiny liquid blackness covered every curve. At least the gas mask had been removed. Lying naked and looking up at a domme woman's eyes hidden behind two tiny glass windows and hearing a voice muffled by a breather was certainly freaky sex right there.

Four orgasms from the night before had worn Becky out. For some reason her mistress seemed displeased. Somehow more was needed to be satisfied. Becky wasn't sure why. She watched the long sex toy protruding from between Ashleigh's legs. It bounced about and then her mistress's gloved hand held it steady as one precious bead of oil dripped onto to the tip.

Becky wondered why Ashleigh acted so reserved with the oil. So stingy! Pour it on!

The pink silicon billy club that her dominating partner used hurt the first time in -- actually even after a few orgasms the girth of the shaft still hurt. It seemed Ashleigh took delight in administering pain. Becky's new sexual partner called it a 'Feeldoe.' Something about a patent was mentioned. Becky didn't care about the details. Her eyes locked onto the thick silicon bent tube with two ends, one still inserted inside Ashleigh. Becky thought of how the two women had been linked several times now with the curved rod, which gave Ashleigh the manly leverage to pump her latest girlfriend's brains out. There was no need for straps. Becky noticed how Ashleigh's body squeezed and held it throughout the roughest parts of their sexual romps that night. During the harsh thrusting, Becky tried to squeeze harder than her dominating lover in hopes that she could snatch control. No luck. Her hope to pinch and filch failed.

The gloved hands continued to work the bottle. The lid was being meticulously screwed back on.

The delay to fetch more oil gave Becky a chance to think. Ignoring all the effort spent on the damn bottle, Becky concentrated on the relationship. She didn't know why she went home with Ashleigh. This was not something she ever did before. It felt great -- or creepy -- or just weird -- no, it was supposed to feel great, but it made no sense. Ashleigh was attractive, but had a strong side, a sinister edge that turned off almost everyone at work. So the whole idea of being there made no sense at all. With no chemistry between them, Becky felt a barrage of questions and thoughts begin to crawl into her psyche.

A little clarity peered through the mental fog as her mind calmed. Then panic returned. Why did she agree to this? She should leave. Run! Push the horrid woman off and bolt. Come on! The thoughts screamed inside her head. Her body stayed motionless. It refused to listen.

Ashleigh finished applying a gel lubricant onto the massive tip of the Feeldoe. It was a relief to see some extra goo applied. It mixed with the tiny bead of oil. To Becky it seemed so overly cautious how her mistress returned the tiny glass bottle back onto the nightstand, whereas the tube of gel was tossed to the floor. The latex suit crinkled and squeaked with a leaning reach that became precarious but remained too conscious an effort.

Becky realized that now was her one chance to push her domme off and escape. But again her body resisted. She cursed herself as the dildo took aim. Naked and helpless, she felt so cold. Why couldn't she have a latex suit too? She whimpered as the soft tip slid along her outer folds. She stayed silent while fighting her reoccurring confusion as to how she got herself there and what to say to get out.

"Please," begged Becky, propping herself onto her elbows. "No more. I'm starting to get soar. Really." She gulped as she was pushed back down into the pillows and made to watch the Feeldoe press between her legs searching for the entry point. Once the meagerly added lube smoothed its way around and the plump end began to tap into the power of all the sensitive nerve endings, something besides the sexual sensation hit Becky's mind.

A fog flooded her thoughts. Why was she resisting? She should simply do whatever was asked of her.

"Ok, just one more time," she said with a look of shock that she, herself, asked for more. The horror switched to guilt. Remorse took hold for not sounding more enthusiastic. After all, wasn't she the one who insisted on this? Wasn't she the one who wanted to satisfy her sexual curiosity? Experiment? Or was she told to think all that?

Her thoughts were getting all muddled again. Nothing made sense. She looked up at her dominating partner, who smiled back and pressed the Feeldoe deep inside with one long continuous stroke. Becky felt filled. A wonderful internal massage tingled her nerves. More shame followed for not joining-in with at least a good loud sexual moan. She should have shown how much she enjoyed it -- or faked it if need be. She looked up, speechless. She wished her mistress ordered her to enjoy it, but that order had not been given all night. Such mandatory instructions didn't happen with this new round of morning sex either. Oddly, why did it seem so true that a simple order could change her perception?

'Just do it' were the main commands Ashleigh kept saying. But why obey? Everyone at work hated the control freak of a woman. Maybe hate was too strong -- no, hate was correct.

The pumping started again. The mental fog stole the last confusing questions from the submissive's mind.

"Climax, you stupid girl," ordered Ashleigh.

"Oh God," said Becky, thinking and praying this would stop, but she knew her body would obey the order. It would happen. She could feel herself rapidly reaching release even though she hurt inside. Maybe she should give-in and go with it. Stop fighting. She had to get to work in the next hour. Being late at a new job bothered her. She felt rougher ruder thrusting. Was there any escape?

"Do me harder this time," said Becky, switching tactics. She tried to hide her shame and disdain. But did she hide it well enough?

"That's my girl."

"More!" Becky took in some air. Her hands grabbed her lover's waist and pulled inwards. She would climax as ordered but she still hated her mistress. As Becky forced a smile, she worried that maybe she was failing to hide her contempt.

Ashleigh gave a snide almost evil smile back.

Becky moaned and looked at her domme. Maybe the fake interest worked after all. Then again the bitch probably didn't notice the revulsion. Becky quickly added some more encouragement: "Yes, harder" and "faster!" It was all sickening lies, but hopefully it would end the act sooner. She rapidly breathed in and out like she was giving birth. "Do it!" In and out slid the fiberglass rod surfaced in soft silicon. Becky's body raced helplessly towards the peek as ordered. "I'm coming. Please go faster my Mistress. I'm coming."

"Very good my pet. Concentrate. Be a good girl," said Ashleigh, thrusting her hips harder again and again.

Becky looked into the eyes. The eyes told her everything. It was clear there was no physical pleasure behind the rough jabbing. It was all psychological. It was the domination and humiliation that led to the hellcat's joy. Maybe that explained the absence of any orders to enjoy. Clearly all the fake enthusiasm from Becky's side had shown through and fed right into the domme's delight. It was what got the vixen off. The resistance and final capitulation only spurred her domme to do even harder crueler sex. Faking-it didn't hamper the sexual play. Maybe if there had been a true genuine interest, it would have all stopped sooner. It could have removed the catalyst of degradation. Then Becky might have found herself rejected and pushed out the front door as quickly as she agreed to participate. Now it was too late.

Becky's internal walls flexed. The orgasm hit hard and sucked joy and energy away. It didn't bring the expected wonderful relief. This orgasm somehow seemed dark and demonic. It still forced a violent shiver and a loud series of gasps signaling to her mistress the peak had hit.

Her mistress stopped thrusting and relaxed on top of her. It was finally quiet.

The aura surrounding the demanded orgasm quickly left Becky's body. Shame stole any remaining bits of fleeting euphoria. There was no hiding it. This wasn't right at all. Tears formed in her eyes.

"Good girl!" said Ashleigh pulling out and resting along side the crying intern, who felt the wet stick slap onto her thigh. The mistress stole a pillow to prop up her head so she could look down at Becky and grope a breast and pinch a tit. "Mmm," hummed Ashleigh adding a laugh.

Becky gazed back defeated. She felt empty and hopeless. Why wouldn't this woman stop looking at me -- evaluating me? Can't she see how embarrassing this all was? More than that: humiliating. Would everyone know or figure it all out at work? She thought how the other two interns would tell everyone that she had stayed out all last night. They saw her leave with Ashleigh. Oh no! A look of realization came across Becky's face. She was ruined. She would need to hide, switch industries -- switch schools: not because of possible rumors of being a lesbian, but because it was Ashleigh.

The bitch smiled even more as the intern's world fell apart. "My little pet. Now that was priceless. Oh my. Look at the time. We need to get ready to leave."

Becky now knew that she was being perceived as a little pathetic girl from work. She rolled to her side facing away from Ashleigh, who in-turn got-up for the bathroom. Becky thought that the bitch wouldn't be so smug if the real reason came to light for the overwhelming shame. She knew that being dommed wasn't the reason. Being a possible lesbian wasn't either. Doing it with Ashleigh, of all women on the planet -- that was the real tormenting regret. Clearly the domme loved breaking young women and destroying their self-esteem. Becky felt in her heart that finding herself to be a submissive lover or even gay would at most have been surprising. She felt no shame in either if true. Experimenting seemed a fair and good choice. Despite agreeing to be done by a dildo wielding woman, somehow she still knew she was straight. But right now she couldn't be certain. It didn't matter though.

The only thing that made Becky feel any notion of being broken was that she had been intimate with a personality like Ashleigh. The intern sobbed again, but this time loudly letting it all out.

Why did it have to be creepy Ashleigh?

The intern vowed that later, one day, she would wound the bitch's pride; call the want-to-be dominatrix a Medusa whose snakes didn't break and recondition any free spirited souls but only numbed them to stone. That was it. That was the feeling. Becky felt frozen, not broken.

From Ashleigh's smug look, the bitch clearly enjoyed the sobbing sounds of her latest conquest. "Loved it," she smirked as she unzipped her latex suit.

*****

The workday had passed. It was evening and little time remained before Fay's big date.

Sarah, a blonde wearing a Mrs. Cleaver full skirt dress from the 1950's with its dozen puffy underskirts, looked over her friend Fay's new apartment while yelling out her half of an unfruitful conversation to a closed bathroom door. Her many petticoats rustled from her nervous pacing strides back and forth.

Was Fay telling her everything? Things were just too close to give-up. She pulled out an amber glass bottle from her purse. Its lid was as wide as the bottle allowing her to peer inside praying she missed something. With the past few weeks filled with anxious desperation, she had checked many times already. There was only a smear of oil on the side. Damn it! Fay was almost a year into her treatments and now everything might be lost. Sarah put on white dress gloves that matched her overall 1950's theme. The gloves were made of vinyl to make them completely waterproof. She inserted her pinky finger into the amber bottle frantic for even a smudge of oil.

"I'm almost ready Sarah," said Fay's voice through the bathroom door.

In the bathroom, Fay stopped for a moment. She felt a sharp pain. She cringed as she felt it again. She pulled her skirt up showing a stocking top and its attached garter belts. She rested a knee on the sink to reach under her skirt with her small hands searching, searching some more, then finally pinching something under the gathered dress. She gave a tug plucking a red feather. The quill was tipped with the minutest dot of blood.

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