Catherine's Girl

Catherine Roman's chauffeur pulled in front of my house in a black Escalade to transport me to Mrs. Roman's country estate for a weekend visit. Because of a surprise snowstorm, I had canceled my Friday appointments. Nevertheless, I wore my business suit and traveled lightly at Mrs. Roman's behest. Climbing in, I nodded toward the SUV. "Strong and elegant, like Mrs. Roman."

Martin Covington, Mrs. Roman's chauffeur, looked so out of context I almost laughed. His thin, delicate features reflected no humor, and his pursed lips turned down at the corners. Martin, probably in his mid-40s like Mrs. Roman, looked a couple of inches shorter than her five-ten height. His chauffeur's uniform clashed with the idea of an SUV.

After I buckled up, he negotiated the snow-covered road. "Thanks for the lift."

"Let her pamper you. Mrs. Roman invited you so she could coddle you. If you resist, she'll destroy you."

"I'm fine, thank you. And how are you." I couldn't resist the sarcasm.

"Forget the small talk. I'm briefing you for meeting Mrs. Roman."

"Thanks."

"I used to be her girl."

"Beg your pardon?"

"She hates my real name. Calls me Martha."

"I'm Francis. Really. Francis Prince." We shook hands. "My friends call me Frank, but I'll always be Francis to Catherine the Great. She probably spells it with an e."

"You get the picture." He smiled for a moment before his mouth turned down. "Mrs. Roman sold me to a mistress in the City."

"Sold you?"

"I'm history at the end of this week. She wants you."

"Hold on. She can't just sell you." I looked out the window. A cottage half a mile off the highway reminded me of Dr. Zhivago. My mind returned to Martin's revelations. "She blackmailing you?"

"Yeah," he grimaced. "Not that she has to." Martin turned off the highway to a long driveway—practically a service road—leading up to an ornate, colorful mansion on a small hill. The bulbous, swirl turrets—like giant machine-poured ice cream—reminded me of photos of St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow.

Approaching the garage adjoining the mansion, Martin rolled down his window and slid the panel door to the garage up with his remote. "Remember, do what she says."

"Got it."

Martin parked the Escalade next to the limousine inside, lowered the garage panel, and opened a door leading into a cozy parlor. "Please wait here until Mrs. Roman can see you." He reverted to his role as Mrs. Roman's chauffeur. Closing and locking the door to the garage, he crossed the room, took the three steps leading up to another entrance, and passed quietly through that door.

On the right wall, sunlight shone brightly through a large circular window about four feet in diameter, another four feet above eye level. Beneath the window sat a large leather couch. A massive mirror, framed in filigreed gold, dominated the opposite wall with a small couch beneath it. End tables with lamps flanked both couches. Three floor lamps each stood beside wingback chairs. Although magazines were scattered about the room, the chaos looked suspiciously orderly.

Sure enough, the newest issue of W, crammed with pictures of beautiful women in sensual outfits, seemed strategically placed to catch my eye. I sank into the leather couch to savor my treasure. My mouth watered while I turned the pages.

Spotting another issue of W, I gobbled up its visual treats. I flipped through several issues of Vogue, then Cosmopolitan. The Cosmo models looked too young for my tastes. But all of the women, especially those in slinky outfits, turned me on.

When my rampant horniness crested, the door at the top of the stairs swung open, and Mrs. Roman dramatically stared down at me.

She outshone all of the two-dimensional magazine illustrations. Although she wore black in mourning for her late husband, I doubt Peter Roman would have approved of the seductive glisten of her dress, clinging to and highlighting every delicious curve of her body, especially her breasts and rear end. She held a pair of long gloves and a diamond necklace.

Gazing at her embossed mounds, I silently vowed to call her Catherine the Great forever. I jumped to my feet.

"I see it's too late to tell you not to get up." Her nearly-black eyes focused on the bulge in my pants and twinkled in cruel amusement at my embarrassment. Her creamy cheeks dimpled voluptuously, like a decadently-rich dessert beckoning me to destroy myself in self-indulgence. "Be seated."

I robotically obeyed.

When she sauntered down the steps, sliding her right hand along the railing, her calf muscles flexed erotically against her black stockings. The sheen of her black dress—cire, she later told me—shadowed and projected the ripples of hips and thighs. By the time she stood before me, a damp circle formed in the crotch of my pants.

Mrs. Roman's raven hair stood in a chignon, accentuating her high cheekbones. Her lush, crimson-painted lips smirked, radiating sadistic beauty, a countenance preordained to dominate. "Hold this." She handed me her necklace.

While I watched her slither one hand and arm into its kidskin, opera-length glove, my cock oozed more pre-cum. Her writhing hand and arm inside the glistening glove intensified my urge to jerk off. Mrs. Roman lapsed into slow motion with the sexual symbolism of her other hand wiggling into its glove-mate. I ached for release! Taking the diamond necklace from my hand, she placed it on the couch beside me.

I knelt before her and adored her black patent-leather pumps, four-inch-tall shrines for her feet. Bowing farther, I kissed each foot repeatedly—I don't know why. I remained on my knees but raised my head to speak. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Princess." She cradled my head in her gloved hands and pressed my face into the fabric covering her sacred delta. When I leaned back, my face betrayed my bewilderment at her firmness, and she explained, "I'm wearing a girdle—just for you."

How did she know I was addicted to girdles? I didn't care. I nuzzled her crotch until reality nibbled at my mind. I looked up again. "Why did you call me Princess?"

"I rule, but you may be my Princess—a contraction of Prince and Francis. Simply subjugate yourself to me: your heart, your soul, your body, and your will. Understand?"

I hugged her hips and pressed my face back into her haven. "Yes, Your Majesty!" I declared, loud enough for her to hear me through the muffling effect of her thighs. My soaring emotions pushed tears through my eyes. My cock throbbed for relief.

"Unhook my stockings."

My hands trembled while I detached her garters. So close to paradise!

After I finished, she turned her back to me and wiggled out of her black girdle, holding down the skirt of her dress to forbid me a free show. Stepping from her girdle, she faced me again, cupped her hands behind my neck to pull my head toward her, and rubbed my nose up and down her mons veneris. "Are you hungry?"

"For you."

Her left hand gripped the back of my head, and her right lifted her dress. Moisture glistened on her hair, and I licked it away, teasing her major labia with sweeping passes. Gently separating them, I kissed her swollen clitoris, sucking and licking her into moans and spasms. She stepped over my shoulders, one at a time, to squeeze every ounce of ecstasy she could drain from her orgasms.

While she subsided from her final climax, I cleaned her thoroughly with my tongue. She patted me on the head. "Was it good for you, too, Princess?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Was anything missing?"

"You are perfection. Nothing was missing."

"I enjoy making you lie, Princess. If you're dishonest for me, how else can I corrupt you? Turn around." Moments later, she said, "You may look now."

I caught a glimpse of her last shimmy to wiggle back into her girdle. "Put my necklace on me, Princess. I can't clasp it with my gloves on."

I picked up the necklace and stood behind Mrs. Roman. My unrequited cock reached for her ass, but I knew she'd banish me from paradise if I tried to satisfy myself. I reached the necklace around her from arm's length.

"I'm watching you in the mirror," she taunted. "Are you afraid of me?"

Our eyes met in the mirror. "I am in total awe in the presence of a Goddess."

"We understand each other," she smirked. "I shall beat you mercilessly. Understood?"

"As you command."

"But if you misbehave, I shall have to punish you." She backed up, nestling her rump against my cock. "Shall I whip you or punish you?"

"I'm your whipping boy!" My response surprised even me, but Catherine the Great made the bizarre seem normal.

She rewarded me by wiggling her ass against my cock, bending over at the waist to press her warm derriere tightly against me, and her semi-softness, despite the girdle, coaxed me into shooting off. She kept full contact while swiveling her hips, goading me into releasing jets of cum into my pants.

"Need help, little Princess?" Her condescension vacuumed more juice from me. Facing me, she took my head into her arms and pressed my face into her bosom. She knew how completely her breasts and vagina, safely sequestered from my direct touch, enticed and frustrated me. Arching her back, she rubbed her dazzlingly-packaged pussy against my crotch to create enough friction to drain me completely.

While my body jerked in pathetic, erratic spasms, Mrs. Roman indulged herself in a rich, earthy laugh at my expense, underscoring her superiority and my helplessness, oddly spurring me into deeper erotic desire for her—though I had no more to give her.

I knelt and kissed her feet again.

She figuratively crushed me under her heel when she admonished me, "Princess! You've made a mess."

Her entrapment—luring me into cumming in my pants and blaming me for it—tightened her psychological vise on me. Rapture engulfed me. I walked on my knees behind her and pressed my lips into the slick, black curtain over her girdled ass.

"Good girl!" she crowed. If I intended to resist her, she'd already defeated me. "Later, when my royal ass is completely bare, you can kiss it properly. For now, hand me your clothes, and I'll have Martha—I mean, Martin—clean them. Give me everything. No tired jokes about taking you to the cleaners. We both know I'll do that later."

Catherine the Great knew how to agitate my craving for her. She was the antidote to my hectic career as a banking executive—the decisions, conflicts, rudeness, guilt—especially the guilt. Mrs. Roman would punish me severely to cleanse me of my sins. I only had to surrender unconditionally to Her Majesty—enduring physical torture in exchange for mental absolution.

I stripped quickly.

She took every article of my clothing, even my shoes, socks, and underwear. Walking back up the steps, she paused with her left leg crossing over to the top step while her right remained on the step below—presenting an artistic portrait of her magnificent, tightly-wrapped ass. "I've adjusted the thermostat," she said. "If you start to feel comfortable, I'll lower the temperature five or ten degrees."

She paused long enough let me admire her posterior for a moment and then left.

Her power of suggestion about the room temperature, as well as the absence of her sizzling persona, made me feel cold. Five or so minutes later she opened the door and stuck her head through. "No more accidents. Here." Hiding behind the door, she extended her arm to toss me an object.

I snagged the three-pack of condoms in mid-air. "Thanks. Could I have—?"

"—something to wear," she finished my thought, tossing a bundle toward me. After she closed the door, I heard the bolt click in the lock.

I glanced up at the oval window—permanently inset not to open. Martin had locked the door leading to the garage. No escape.

So I concentrated on the clothes Mrs. Roman had lent me—her dress, girdle, stockings, and shoes. I suspect she distrusted me with her gloves because they were so expensive and hard to clean.

I shivered. Mrs. Roman's intentions were clear. I could freeze my tail off. Or be a good little Princess and play dress-up for her.

The furnace stopped running. I suspect she turned it off.

Catherine the Great had me completely at her mercy, down to the clothes I wore, and the sensation of yielding to her made me tingle. My indelible image of her arrogant, aristocratic face and curvy, nubile body pumped the first, faint throbs of renewed life into my just-spent cock. Empress Catherine had me by the balls, and I wanted her to squeeze tight.

My reverence for Her Majesty placed her clothes in a different perspective. Forcing me to wear her clothes constituted a pure power play to dominate and humiliate me. But her clothes were also fetishes, filled with the magic of her power. God only knows what "fetish" means on the Internet these days, but the original fetish was an object that conveyed power, like a voodoo doll.

Mrs. Roman's stockings were potent. When I picked them up and rubbed them against my cheeks, I could feel her energy and see the dynamic beauty of her legs. I spread her dress across my chest and pressed it to me with my hands as if hugging Mrs. Roman. Picking up her girdle, black and shiny like her hair, I buried my face in it. To me, a part of Mrs. Roman still resided in all of these garments.

I lifted my head and my voice, as if Mrs. Roman were a heavenly deity instead of an earthly Goddess, and proclaimed, "I am yours. Take me, keep me, use me." The impromptu ritual reminded me vaguely of saying grace over a meal.

And then I began my sensory feast by stepping into her girdle. The tight, stretchy open-bottom foundation reminded me of a woman's pussy, and I was a giant cock sliding inside. The sensual feel of elastic squeezing my upper thighs, belly, and ass massaged me into budding arousal. I pulled the girdle up, past my crotch, allowing my cock to stand erect.

Remembering Mrs. Roman's warning about accidents, I took a condom from the pack and slid it on. The sensation of being inside my Goddess's girdle linked so firmly with the thought of being inside her that I wanted to jerk off. But I forced myself to think about her hose.

When I rolled the first stocking up my leg, I came close to ejaculating without touching my cock. The ticklish, creepy encroachment of the second stocking up my thigh heightened my rush. By the time I hooked the garters on her stockings, I was beside myself with lust.

But I concentrated long enough to slip into her dress. I pulled it over my head and tried to let the shiny material shimmer down, but I needed to tug at it. The cool, slippery material sent tingles through me. Although my waist curved out and my hips were flat—contrasting with Catherine the Great's slim waist and gracefully curved hips—even my body looked better in the glimmering material.

I reached for my cock but knew I must finish dressing first. Vainly trying to step into her shoes, I carried them over to the couch facing the large mirror and sat down. I managed to squeeze my feet into her pumps. I've read that some women purposefully wear shoes too tight to stay aroused. It worked for me! When I stood up, the elevation of her heels tightened my leg muscles and accelerated the eroticism coursing through me, from my Goddess's shoes to my groin.

"Pumps," I specified aloud. Turning my back to the mirror, I pumped myself, no longer able to resist. Catherine the Great's clothes were physical vestiges of her essence. Glancing over my shoulder at the mirror, I realized not even a wig and industrial-strength makeup would have made me pretty, so I trained my eyes on the shiny-clad butt bobbing to the rhythm of a concealed hand stroking under a dress and girdle. The reflection resembled a woman fingering herself—lousy shape, but what a sexy dress!

Lust intoxicated me. The surge kept escalating until the magic of Her Majesty rushed from her clothes through me and shot cum repeatedly into her other gift, the condom.

Mrs. Roman swung open the door while I squeezed out the last dribble of jism. "Even my clothes enslave you, Princess." Her voice was thick and her face flushed. Her long-sleeved, highly-polished latex dress accentuated her body even more dramatically. She wore a mid-length black latex glove on her left hand and held the other glove. Her naked right hand glistened.

I fell on my knees, face down. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty. Knowing you'd worn those clothes overpowered me."

She walked over and stood before me, patting me on the head. Her fingers felt damp. "You are weak, Princess, but obedient. You may wear my clothes any time I tell you to."

"Thank you, Your Majesty!" Her bitchy way of voicing a command like a favor sent perverse, erotic chills down my spine. Her figurative grip on my testicles was insufficient; she must twist them, too. And I craved even her symbolic touch so desperately I complied with whatever she wanted.

Silently she held a sanitary napkin box before me. I slipped off my condom and dropped it into the box.

"Kiss me, Princess." She turned her back to me, bent over slightly, and presented her glossy-covered ass. When I gripped the hem of her dress to pull it up, her delighted, surprised giggle made me want to make love to her. "You may do that after dinner. For now, simply show me you know your place."

I pressed my mouth against the slick latex covering her derriere and stuck my tongue into the stretchy material as far as it would go.

"Oh, Princess! I am so pleased with you!"

I stood up. "I'm glad you found me."

"And now I own you completely." Her demeanor told me she played for keeps.

"If you hadn't taken my heart, I would have given it to you."

"You don't get it. Your ass is mine. I video recorded you putting on my clothes."

"The large mirror is a one-way mirror," I realized. "And you also got off watching me. That's why your hand was wet."

"You put on a hot show! Martin is making copies now. If you don't agree to be my wife..."

"You mean husband."

"No, my wife. You'll do all the work, and I'll take all the credit."

I visualized how pathetic I must have looked—especially thrusting my face into Mrs. Roman's girdle. "If I refuse you, I'm screwed."

When she took me in her arms, I knew she owned me, even if she didn't blackmail me. "Considering that I'm Catherine the Great," she cooed, "if you do become my wife, you'll be royally screwed."

The End