Down and Down She Goes

Down and Down She Goes

By Saphhia

This is a new series. I'm uncertain how many chapters there will be at this stage, but I'm hoping it will be enjoyable for all. The entire series has a lesbian theme and is a tale of rather extreme BDSM and blackmail/extortion. Some scenes contain graphic content and may be disturbing to read. If this is not your cup of tea, then all I can say, is that you've been warned.

Chapter One

A Fateful Encounter

I don't know what could have gotten into me, to be honest. I'd been a successful attorney for a decade and had the money and possessions to show for it, too. At the tender age of thirty-three, I was where most successful men only dreamed of being by the age of sixty. I had lived in a large estate in an exclusive neighborhood, drove a Bentley, and had no one to share it with.

The only thing that seemed to be wrong with my life, was my ridiculous sex drive. I was what some people would call a nymphomaniac. As careful as I was, the more my cunt took over my life, the riskier my behavior became. For a woman in my position, it was very dangerous indeed. I often wondered if I really was Harriet Musgrove, or just a convenient accessory to my own hairless cunt.

I really couldn't nail down who I was more attracted to, men or women and I figured that I was bisexual. Each had their good and bad points, and I was sure to exploit each to the fullest.

With men, I seemed to be more dominant and was good at it too. I wouldn't exactly call myself a Dominatrix or anything, but men seemed to relish having me put them in their place.

With women, however, it was just the reverse. I couldn't be anything but submissive in the presence of a woman, and that was where my most dangerous behavior exhibited itself. When I say submissive, I was usually groveling at their feet by the end of an evening. For someone with so much to lose, it was a very vulnerable position to be in.

Of course, I was always extremely careful not to divulge anything to do with my vanilla life, either to the men I saw, or the women I served. It was often a delicate line to walk, but up until recently, I was extremely good at it.

That night I was set to meet up with another female dominant I had been paired with. It was a service I paid handsomely for, and the dominants were discreet and never asked questions. They were only there to put me in my place, and as my dossier implied, my needs were extreme and required a skilled hand. The club itself was lavish, catering only to those who could afford its exorbitant fee.

It had all started so casually. I never thought I would ever end up a hardcore submissive. Some of the club dominants even commented, saying that I had all the makings of a true slave and that if I ever grew tired of the monotony of the high life I led, I should consider the sacrifice.

Of course, this line of comments never failed to rile me up, and I often responded more favorably to their power over me. I would imagine myself giving it all up, you know. The thought of signing everything over to a powerful woman made me so hot that I would struggle not to come, even after being warned of the consequences, should I crest without permission.

That night, I would be meeting a new Domme, one that I was promised would meet all my needs better than anyone I had previously been paired with. Her name, at least her stage name, was Valerie. Who knew if it was her real name, who cared?

When I was playing the dominant with men who sought my company, I would go by the name Clarissa, but when I was feeling the need to serve a woman, I preferred the demeaning name, Skunk.

It was a name I had earned, apparently, as one of my dominants insisted. I think her name was Marsha, and she was working me over on the rack, her cat striping my back and ass with raised red welts. "You know, slave, with that stinky faucet between your legs, I really ought to call you Skunk. Would you like that, slave?"

I remember her running her fingers up the inside of my thigh, gathering the juice that I knew was there, and holding it up under my nose. I knew my own scent and knew it was strong, but not unpleasant. She slipped her fingers between my lips, forcing me to clean my own arousal from her fingers.

"What is your name, slave?" She asked, hoping that I might take her lead.

For a moment, I very nearly revealed my actual name, the first letter on my lips. "Ha...H..." I stammered. Then, surrendering my will to her, I groveled, "Skunk."

"Very well, Skunk." And she proceeded to thrash me to within an inch of my life, driving home the name, repeating it, over and over until I finally broke down in a blubbering heap. After that night, I changed the name on my club membership, insisting that all the staff refer to me by my new given name.

And so, when I was introduced to Valerie, I was already one foot into the role, which is exactly as I wanted it. "This way, Skunk." She urged with a curling finger. I was ushered down the familiar hallway to a new and very different room.

Many of the dominants used common rooms, with apparatus and equipment already placed for their use. Valerie had her own space, and I knew that she was like me, a wealthy woman with particular needs.

"Strip over there." She insisted, pointing to a corner where the empty milk crate seemed utterly out of place. The room was beyond decadent, with leather upholstered walls, and some of the most unique devices I had ever seen, some of which I did not recognize. They were not the standard fare for a dungeon.

The half mask she wore only served to accentuate her ravishing looks, and I could tell she was several years my junior. Once naked, I was given the one-word command, "Nadu."

Not many of the dominants bothered with the formality of slave positions, but I liked the fact that this woman did. I quickly knelt, drawing my heels into my buttocks and laying my hands, palms up, on the tops of my thighs. My eyes were forward and down, disregarding her movements before me.

"Well, Skunk, I understand you like things... rough." She mused, her open palm landing full force against my cheek, nearly but not quite knocking me out of position. She seemed impressed by my stoicism as I failed to recoil or alter my stance. My left cheek stung like fire, but I knew this was a test, one I was determined to pass.

Three more blows as hard and exact as the first, sent a tear down my cheek as I struggled to maintain my composure. I knew that I would have a hard time covering the bruises to my cheek and eye the following Monday, but then, this was my choice. I did indeed like it rough.

"Perhaps what I have been told about you is not an exaggeration, after all." She commented, walking to an elaborate cabinet and pulling what looked like a whip from its interior. Even though my eyes were cast downward, I could see that this was no flogger. Valerie did not play games. What she held in her hand was a bullwhip. I heard, rather than felt the long whisp of knotted leather whistle past my ear. At first, the pain did not register, but I knew pain like this was such a shock to the synapses that they took a moment or two to temper the signal to my brain.

Only after the third lash did the pain finally hit home, and it was impossible to avoid the loud moan of discomfort from my mouth. It was not a complaint, but an expected reaction to what she was doing to my back. There were rules in the club, and one of those rules was any blood drawn was strictly by explicit permission. I suddenly wished I could rescind the signature I had placed on the release.

By the eighth lash, I was on the verge of passing out, not from the pain, but from the sudden rush of endorphins that flooded my system. Seeing me wobble and perhaps the profuse perspiration on my brow, she laid aside the whip. "That's enough of that, for now." She sighed. "You did much better than I would have expected for one so unmarked by the lash." She ran her fingers down my back and I was not mistaken as to the severity of the blows. Her fingers came away reddened with my blood.

"I'm sorry, Mistress." I slipped, feeling ashamed that I had dirtied her fingertips with my blood. A quick tap to my mouth with the back of the same hand taught me that she did not tolerate unbidden speech. It was nothing more than an instructional gesture.

"You will have scars, I'm afraid, Skunk." She chortled. "To be honest, I am a bit surprised you bear none. It's obvious that you have been treated too leniently in the past. Those days are over for you, slave." She washed her hands in an available basin and returned with a tube of ointment.

I bent my head in thanks, as she applied the soothing salve on what were undoubtedly some ugly cuts to my pristine skin. Tears fell, unbidden from my eyes, the act of kindness in such stark contrast to her violence of a few moments before.

"This will soothe and prevent infection, Skunk, but it will prevent the marks from closing as they normally would." She informed me. "Have you ever seen a back marked by the whip?"

I presumed she wanted a response but was uncertain whether she desired a verbal answer. Instead, I simply nodded that I had. I once topped a man who had been a prisoner of war, strangely enough, marveling over the lash marks on his back. I wondered why someone, who had admittedly been in captivity, desired the firm hand of a dominant woman. I wasn't one to question his motives but did take care not to press him too far. He was always happy at the end of it.

The marks on his back were raised, the welts like ropes, mimicking the lash that made them. He knew they were ugly, but not to me. Now I would sport those same scars, and for a moment I panicked. Valerie saw my angst and caressed my braided hair, which fell to the base of my nape.

"Easy, Skunk. You knew that one day your exploits here would result in you being so marked. You have only to accept them as my gift to you. Once marked, you will forever submit. You know this to be true, yes?"

"Yes, Mistress." I finally answered. She caressed my face where her hand had reddened my cheek, urging a smile from me.

Deep down, I knew that what she said was true, beyond a doubt. How could I ever go to a man, and dominate him, wearing such scars? Valerie had made that choice for me, and in a way, it was a relief to know that I would no longer be tempted by the weakness of men.

After that she took me on my knees, her hefty cock splitting me as she described the marks she had inflicted in detail. Only after she had come by the friction of the base of her harness, did she permit me to masturbate before her. Empty, my cunt gaping from her fucking, I furiously brought myself off. I felt the cold sting of the laid stone floor against my wounds, the pain coaxing my orgasm as I lay prostrate and exposed.

Her amused laughter was enough to send me crashing over the edge, the utter humiliation of my position at her feet coursing through my mind like a spear. Then in one final gesture of domination, she brought her naked foot down over my panting mouth, forcing it inside. I came as I gagged on her fragrant toes, Valerie deliberately forced them inside.

Then, to drive home my position, which was so decidedly below her own, she kept them there. Long after I had suffered the afterglow of my orgasm, the pain in my back returning for what it was, she made me suck on her foot. The circumference of the appendage stretched my mouth to splitting, she moved her toes deeper to elicit my gagging response.

Declaring the session at an end, Valerie excused herself from the room, leaving me to dress in the corner, alone. I looked about me; all the fancy equipment and toys, and she had used only two items to put me so completely in my place. A whip and a cock.

Licking the Wounds

I could feel the moisture seeping through my blouse as I drove home, hoping that my blood didn't seep through enough to ruin the leather of my car seats. I had retrieved a towel from the trunk that I used whenever I had to resort to putting anything in there. It was spotless, of course, but it was the trunk.

The towel had saved the seat but made me painfully aware of just how extreme my lashes had been. I knew my white blouse was ruined beyond help as I stripped out of it in the laundry room. I placed it in the trash, daring my open garage topless, for the first time, ever. What had come over me?

I slowly made my way to my bath, hoping that a good long soak would relieve some of the pain I was experiencing. As I turned to fill the tub, I caught the first long look at my back in the mirrored wall.

Where once was pure alabaster skin, angry red slashes now opened the skin at random angles cutting deep into its surface. I wondered if I might actually need sutures, but then I remembered Valerie's words. Real slaves would receive no such treatment, oh no. I could see the salve, slathered generously on the vicious wounds, invested deep into each of the long sweeping cuts.

I was suddenly fascinated by the pattern which would forever be etched into my skin. Several intersections, spread wider than the individual lines, would certainly make for an uglier scar. X after X seemed to crisscross my skin, dissecting it, dividing it. They were beautiful and horrible, and most decidedly ugly.

Foregoing the bath, I found a sacrificial sweat top that would absorb the oozing sufficiently, and donned it, opting for a sponge bath to clean away the spent sexual exudates from my cunt. I thought I should brush my teeth, the taste of Valerie's foot still bathing my tongue with its pungent odor. Then, I thought better of it, preferring to allow my tongue to languish in the flavor.

Slowly, over the weekend, the cuts on my back, laid open so deliberately by my better, began to scab over. It itched like crazy but knowing I would only make the scarring more evident in the end, I resisted the urge to scratch. I had finally relented and brushed my teeth, but having lived with the taste for so long, found myself unable to forget the flavor.

I resisted the urge to call into work on Monday. I always despised those office girls, who, having indulged themselves too deeply, found themselves unfit for work the following week. Was I any different? A different sort of indulgence, for sure, but not all that removed.

Having found a surgical supply house on Saturday, I had been covering the lion's share of the lashes with gauze wrap, which I wrapped about my torso. If my subordinates could get a look at what I had going on beneath my expensive suit, they would all be exceedingly amused.

One week turned to two, and I had missed a weekend session at the club, one I had arranged before meeting the illustrious Valerie. I tried to imagine myself submitting to anyone other than her, and the thought seemed patently absurd. She had marked me.

By the end of the day on Friday, I decided to escape the office a bit early. There was no one to object, as I was the most senior partner in the firm. The scabs had been sloughing a bit at a time, until all that remained were the X's. Those crisscross scabs that were deeper than the rest, were hanging on, stubborn to let loose their final judgment. How ugly would it be?

I slipped into the bath, knowing that the warm water would seep beneath the scabs and release them from the edges. I wasn't incorrect. I could feel the skin relax as the scabs let go of their grasping edges. One by one, they fell away, and at last, I would know just how disfigured I would be.

Prolonging the inevitable, I dressed and went out, deciding to swing by the office to read over some last-minute changes to a case I had been working on that afternoon. I was feeling free for the first time in weeks. The bandages I had been forced to wear were no more, and the newly created scars on my back felt like excited little erogenous zones as the silk blouse caressed them.

As I entered my office, I knew I was the only one there. It was Friday after all, and all the little kids were out to play. Flipping on the light I walked across my corner office to my carved oak desk.

That's when I saw it. My breath caught in my throat as I looked down at the insidious little insult. Where my usual nameplate would stand, inscribed Ms. Harriet Musgrove, Esq., there was a different plaque. No less ornate or more poorly engraved, the new nameplate simply read 'Skunk'.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to create such a thing, but that was hardly my biggest concern. Someone in my office knew about my escapades at the club. I immediately took the plaque and stuffed it in my purse, wondering what had happened to the original.

Obviously, someone had intended for me to find the thing Monday morning, as I rarely returned to the office over the weekend. Panicked, I immediately ran to the security desk and demanded to see the office footage from the previous several hours, explaining that something had been taken from my desk.

The guard on duty suggested calling the police, but that was the last thing I needed. I imparted that it may just be a mistake or a prank by one of my co-workers. He pulled up the file and began scanning back from when I had entered the building.

To my surprise, only an hour before I returned, someone had been in my office. I tried to recognize the person, who was decidedly female, but she never turned toward the camera, as if knowing that it was there. All I could ascertain from the footage was that she had long dark hair, a slender build, and appeared well-dressed.

The video showed her replacing the plaque with one from a small box that she opened on my desk. My original went in the box and had left with her. So much for finding that, I thought. The guard then suggested leaving the plaque with him, so that he could have it dusted for fingerprints.

Considering what was printed on it, I sincerely doubted I would be leaving it anywhere. I thanked him for his trouble and disappeared back into our offices. I pulled up my computer and started checking personnel files. There were five women who matched the description on the video, but I couldn't imagine any of them having any information on me from the club. All were exemplary employees, but that certainly didn't rule them out.

The one person I kept coming back to was Vanessa Worth. She was a contemporary and every bit as successful an attorney as myself. I dare say, she might even surpass my success, considering..., my heart lurched. Scrutinizing my experience at the club with Valerie, my memory was normally sharp as a tack. Everything seemed a bit blurred, and I attributed that to my state of mind.

I pulled up her file, looking carefully at her face. Was she? Could she be? I dismissed the notion out of hand, because the consequences of such a thing were too gut-wrenching to consider. She was always clamoring at the bit, trying to weasel cases from my grasp at every turn. I admired her tenacity, but if she was, indeed, Valerie, I shuddered to think what that might mean. I quickly read over the case, wrote down the notes to myself for the following Monday, and took off for home.

V for Vanessa

The entire weekend was fraught with worry, as I imagined going into the office Monday and facing Vanessa. By Sunday, I was thoroughly convinced that she was Valerie. It would certainly explain her ability to afford the club's ridiculous fees, and I could certainly see her as the aggressive Domme she had been with me.

The really frightening part was, I never wore a mask in any of my dalliances at the club. It was the one risk that I considered acceptable. The chances of anyone recognizing me were next to nothing, or so I thought.

What a thrill it must have been for her, to realize who she had in her clutches that night. No wonder she marked me as she had. The great and powerful Harriet Musgrove, Esquire, reduced to nothing more than a sniveling skunk. God, she must have been over the moon.