Kat's Transformation

Dedicated to a certain Cyber Mistress,

She who taught me how fulfilling submission can be.

Her firmness and imagination were exquisite.

My reverence for Her endures.

Recently it had been an unsettled stretch in their three-year marriage. Kat really loved Mark. He was the smartest guy she'd ever been with. And she'd enjoyed quite a stable of suitors in her day. He was handsome, quick-witted, funny, gainfully employed and a fine mate in most ways. She considered herself a pretty fine catch too. She was a highly regarded software developer. For those who still watch TV news, some told her she looked a lot like news reporter Hallie Jackson. And at thirty-nine she still had her youthful physique. Long and lean. It was not unusual that she'd receive compliments for her looks and her appearance. She took great pride in that and worked to preserve her comeliness. Tai Chi, swimming, jogging, weights and a good diet contributed to her salubrity. She was at the top of her game.

But in recent times it became obvious to her that Mark was dissatisfied with something. Distracted is perhaps a better descriptor. His discontent manifested itself in some silly bickering. She was loading the dishwasher when he informed her that she was doing it wrong. He claimed that there was an optimum method for loading dishes. She poo-poohed it but he wouldn't let it go and it turned into a spat. Then there was the toilet paper, and whether it should unwrap from the top or bottom of the dispenser. Again, it was a stupid kind of disagreement, hardly worth the expenditure of good will. But the childish squabbling continued, far out of proportion to the importance of the arguments.

Meanwhile, that spark of spontaneity - touching, smooching and rewarding sex - was slowing down. Way down. Nonetheless, Kat still loved him as much as ever. He was still smart, funny, and generally kind. She was willing to tolerate what she hoped was a passing phase.

Mark informed his wife of an upcoming office party, sponsored by his mechanical engineering firm. It was a successful enterprise with well over a hundred employees. And if the previous year's soiree was any indication, it would be a fine affair, what one might expect of a thriving enterprise. She looked forward to meeting some of the other couples and even strutting her stuff. She secretly liked to think of herself as eye candy for those nerdy male engineers.

The night came and Kat was stoked to enter the hotel ballroom as a most handsome couple. They greeted and made polite talk with others while she sipped on a glass of chardonnay and he guzzled a Manhattan. Gregarious by nature, she was very much in her element and was enjoying the affair as they found their seats at one of the round tables, settings for eight.

She sat next to a woman employed by the firm, Giselle, a German transplant with a pleasing Teutonic accent. She was just a little older than Kat but far more matronly in appearance. Kat pegged her as a rumormonger, and she didn't disappoint. She was a gossiper par excellence, pointing out various individuals around the room and sharing whatever scuttlebutt she could muster. She went into greater detail with one particular attendee. She mocked her as being a mere administrative secretary, not a professional. But a real looker. In her early thirties, dressed more provocatively than most, a sleeveless, short dress whose low-cut front revealed some impressive cleavage. Just short of inappropriate for the occasion.

"Watch out for her," Giselle warned Kat. "Name is Becky. She has a well-deserved reputation for promiscuity. And has an eye for married men. A potential homewrecker." She continued the prattle while surveying the room. It didn't bother Kat but surprised her that so much intrigue could possibly exist in a company of nerds.

About halfway through dinner, Mark excused himself to use the rest room. Taking longer than expected, Kat decided to check up on him and make sure all was okay. He had guzzled a couple cocktails, she thought to herself. Maybe even three. She wandered a bit toward the restrooms without success and then sauntered toward the hotel bar. And there, in a dark corner booth, she was flabbergasted to see Mark cavorting with the infamous Becky. They were kissing. She seemed to be the instigator. She was all over him.

After the initial shock, Kat chose not to make an immediate scene and returned to her seat. Mark returned shortly after. She gave him the cold shoulder. He surely must have known that something was up. But she said not a word about it...until they were in the car and driving home.

She unloaded on him. About what she'd just witnessed in the hotel bar but also about the senseless bickering and recent lack of attention. She demanded that they immediately begin counseling. At her behest, that's what they did.

It's during counseling that Mark revealed, after much prodding from the therapist, a secret he'd never shared with his wife. He was consumed with a powerful fetish. He was a submissive who craved the control of a dominant female. He admitted that he'd held but repressed these desires since childhood. That he'd fantasized about them, explored them online. But had not yet sought them out in the real world. (Or so he claimed.)

Kat was taken aback. She had a potent (at one time ravenous) sexual appetite. And she'd explored her own sexuality extensively before hooking up with Mark. She'd definitely been out after midnight on many a Saturday night. But this was new territory. This dominant/submissive stuff was unfamiliar and strange to her. She listened and agreed with their counselor that this kinky fetish of his was what was holding him back from more fulfilling intimacy. And fidelity.

By mutual agreement, Mark supplied her with the links to some websites, to familiarize her with his preferences in the so-called "femdom" realm. Female domination. There were restraints, floggers and gags. Women subjecting men to reproach and humiliation...lots of humiliation and abasement. Also demands of unconditional obedience to and worship of females. These were apparently what really pushed his libidinous buttons. She checked out the websites he'd suggested fairly thoroughly.

The complication was that this was completely unexplored and uncomfortable territory for her. Frankly, she thought it was kind of weird. Bizarre. And she couldn't quite imagine herself all dolled up in fetish gear holding handcuffs and a whip, snarling commands at a kneeling husband. And, on a fundamental level, she thought it was extraordinarily impolite to be barking orders at her mate. A breech of decorum and good taste. And not in her nature.

Nonetheless, she agreed to engage in some exploratory sessions in the ensuing couple months. They were tepid expeditions from Mark's perspective. She bossed him around a bit. Blindfolded him, gave him a gentle reprimand and a light spanking. Berated him once for neglecting some household chores. She noted how excitedly he seemed to respond to a dressing down. Alas, she decided the female domination thing was not for her. They agreed to abandon the femdom project and pursue more "normal" (Mark thought of it as "vanilla") sex. And they left the submissive / domination adventures - in the closet.

Kat was proud of Mark's seeming "recovery." He'd made a commitment to repress those kinky desires. And Kat attempted to be a little more aggressive (although short of domineering) in the bedroom. Things were going reasonably well. Until recently, when he seemed to be withdrawing once again from intimacy. More aloof. Less invested. And that's where the card came in. Ah, the card.

Kat was taking Mark's sport coats to the cleaners. (Why he wouldn't do this himself was beyond her comprehension. Her annoyance almost inspired a resurrection of an experiment with verbal reprimands.) She was doing a quick pocket check. In the inside breast pocket, she found a card - homemade - addressed to her husband. On the cover was the photo of a sexy young female showing a vulgar amount of cleavage, beckoning the reader with an encouraging index finger. It was no internet fantasy photo. Kat recognized the young lady as the notorious Becky. The one Giselle had warned her about. The one Mark was cavorting with at that hotel bar. The promiscuous bimbo. The caption on the card cover read, "Worried about incriminating work e-mails? Step inside for a more discrete message!" Kat opened the card to find a piece of loose stationery with a handwritten note. It shocked her like a hard slap in the face.

"Hey there, slaveboy. I'm so glad you shared your secret with me. I love making you kneel and crawl for me. I love making you kiss my shoes and my feet. I love making you beg to worship my holes...all of them. Let's continue where we left off, eh? I promise a hole-some experience! Becky."

Kat realized that those submissive desires weren't so repressed. She confronted Mark and chastised him thoroughly, both for his indiscretion and for his taste in paramours. Mark was mortified. He knew he was busted - the card was explicit proof of his infidelity.

Kat struggled in an internal back and forth over how to respond. "He's just struggling to cope with his fetish. He deserves another chance...No! He's incorrigible and unwilling and incapable of changing. Fuck his sorry ass!"

He knew he was on his wife's shit list, big time. He feared he could even lose her. He didn't want that. He loved her and was sure she loved him. That's why he apologized profusely, brought Kat some gorgeous flowers and a beautiful filigree necklace, begged forgiveness, swore he'd never be lured by Becky or anyone else again, pledged a renewed love and asked for some reconciliation.

Kat was in no hurry to forgive. He endured the iciest shoulder. He was thankful that his indiscretion didn't trigger an immediate breakup. It took a while, a good six weeks, but during that time he'd been so diligent, considerate and cooperative, Kat was finally buying into his sincerity. And as part of the celebration of a newfound commitment to one another and in an effort to spice up their love life, she suggested a weekend evening get-together. Not a formal date. She attached minimal importance to it. She simply asked him if he'd be interested in watching a movie with her and sharing Chinese take-out on Friday night. Not a big deal. But in her own mind it was a big deal. And a date. Though downplaying it with him, she orchestrated the affair for over a week. She sought to create an evening that would mark a reconciliation and reignite their passion and commitment.

Friday evening arrived. She had decided on a romantic war drama - The English Patient - one of her all-time favorites and one that got her emotional juices flowing. Too bad if it wasn't Mark's kind of film. The local Chinese restaurant would be delivering their favorite dishes soon. After trimming her pussy (she admired her skillful job) she chose a casual but sexy outfit to wear. A low-cut blouse encouraged a subtle glance at her modest cleavage. She was not large-chested, but she made sure the outlines of her pert nipples were visible when they pressed against the fabric. She wore a sassy, short skirt, showing off what she felt was her greatest physical asset - long, slender legs. (At 5' 9" it wasn't hard to show them off.) Underneath she donned some naughty, crotchless pantyhose. A pair of calf-high, stylish black boots with heels, which she rarely wore, much to Mark's disappointment, rounded out the ensemble. She was pushing six feet with those heels. Her shoulder-length auburn hair framed a longish, high cheekbone face. Flawless complexion. She put a cherry on the cake by including the delicate chain necklace he'd given her, along with some tasteful tear- drop earrings. She was confident that she looked good enough to stand out at any chic dinner party. Mark should positively flip over her preparation.

And to cap their date off, she pulled out her Canon PowerShot digital camera, with high quality video functioning, and set it up on a tripod next to their bed. It had been a persistent request of his early in their marriage (he'd explained that it would be a wildly crazy turn-on for him to watch her having sex on screen) to videotape some hot sex between them. She had always been reluctant, and they never got around to recording anything. But tonight, she'd make it up to him. She was planning to be a real tigress and produce for him a video for the archives, one that would make a whore blush. He wanted dominance? "Bossy bitch, coming right up," she thought. "Mistress Kat sounds about right." She was psyching herself to deliver. Yes, she was going to extraordinary lengths to make this a fabulous night for the two of them.

Mark had gone directly from work, as was not unusual, to hit some golf balls at the driving range. She did some last-minute tidying up, put fresh sheets on the bed and tried to calm her growing anticipation of their date. She hadn't been this excited in a long time. She hadn't felt this horny in a long time, and she felt a flush come over her and a warm dampness between her legs as she imagined teasing Mark through dinner, through the movie and then escorting him into the bedroom where he'd surely be overwhelmed with passion and affection for her when he'd see the video recorder all set up and ready to go. She imagined turning it on then pulling him into its view while she'd make him stand at attention and refer to her as Mistress Kat while she unbuckled his trousers, release his cock and make him masturbate for her as a prelude to some good, old-fashioned fucking. She was horny, and she savored the reverie.

To make sure all was in order she turned the camera on, pressed the record video function, and viewed its panorama. She bit her lower lip in consternation. Though she had not planned this, she thought she'd try a quick dress rehearsal. She sauntered seductively toward the camera's focal point, the bed, and lay down, propping her back against the headboard. She glared back into the lens, pretending to be one of the actresses from one of Mark's porn sites, and created the naughtiest visage she could conjure. She licked her lips and inserted one, then two fingers into her mouth. Staring at the camera's impersonal and silent functioning, she then reached up her skirt, rubbed her crotch and gently caressed her pussy with the fingers of her free hand. It felt good. Her pussy was moist and getting wetter by the second. She sucked seductively on her fingers. She wished that men were as adroit at fingering a pussy as the owners were.

"Yeah, why not film a little prelude?" she thought to herself. Mark would appreciate a short preview before the main attraction. But Mark was due home before long and the Chinese delivery would soon arrive. There she was, debating with herself again; seems like she was always having this internal dialectic. But when she fingered that special spot and her normal breathing turned into abbreviated pants her impulses won out over her reticence. She spread her legs lewdly and spoke aloud, "I'm a dirty Mistress - and my pussy needs some attention!" Then she added, "SLAVE!" as though she were practicing for her more assertive self. She caressed her clitoris with more vigor and reached a hand under her blouse, massaging her nipple between forefinger and thumb. Her eyes rolled back and her eyelids fluttered. She lifted her blouse and exposed her breasts. She wondered how well the camera would capture her arousal. This wasn't acting. She was transporting herself to another dimension. She diddled herself and forgot about the camera. Layers of inhibition dissolved away and she embraced the carnal. Her temperature rose, she perspired, she convulsed in a series of anticipatory sexual eruptions. She would cum soon. Then she was terribly startled.

The doorbell rang and she knew she'd gone too long. Her delivery guy, reliable as always, had their dinner. She abruptly ended her masturbation, gathered herself as best she could, straightened her clothes, shut off the camera and answered the door. She knew the "delivery guy" would be Tom, a college kid attending the local city college who'd been delivering to them for the past year.

Tom was disarmingly handsome, and he knew it. She pegged him at his first ever delivery as a shameless flirt and lady's man. He reaffirmed her assessment by being quite forward with her. She guessed that he came on that way with all females. He was just that kind of guy. He'd flirted with Kat at that first delivery and had never let up. He would actually stare admiringly, with a slight smirk and almost imperceptibly raised eyebrow, at her physical assets and then go back to staring deeply into her eyes, not the least bit self-conscious about what he was doing. And while she would ordinarily take offense at that kind of forward and almost disrespectfully lewd behavior by most men, there was something she found incredibly flattering about such a young and handsome man paying a "compliment" to a woman damn near twice his age.

She opened the door and there was Tom in his untucked, casual short-sleeve shirt, unbuttoned halfway down, revealing a chiseled physique. (He had shared once that he was a swimmer who worked out regularly.) He wore loose-fitting baggy jeans and tennis shoes. He grinned, showing off his youthful, pearly white smile against the backdrop of a rugged, tanned jaw with a five o'clock shadow, revealing a physical maturity that belied his youth. God, he was beautiful, Kat thought, still dizzy and flushed from her sexual reverie.

"A delivery for the most attractive woman in the Piney Creek subdivision," he crowed. She blushed and his gaze averted to her breasts, exposed as they were in her special outfit for Mark, the material clinging to her moist skin a little more suggestively following her sexual arousal. She realized that her nipples were still hard and well-outlined in the fabric of her blouse. His subsequent eye contact and devilish grin were more forward than ever. She gathered herself, guessing that some kind of playful reprimand would be most appropriate.

"Watch out, young man. That kind of flattery could get you in trouble," she warned as she handed him a wad of bills that included a hefty tip.

"If it's trouble with the Mister, I withdraw the observation," he quickly quipped. "But if it's any other kind of trouble, hey, I've got a reputation as a troublemaker." He grinned almost sheepishly, "I figure, life can be a lot more fun if you flirt with trouble once in a while. Trouble can be a lot of fun if you know what I mean." He winked suggestively.

Damn, if he wasn't actually coming on to her! And he was good at it too; silver tongue, silver screen looks AND a body to kill for. And the timing was disturbingly good. For an instant...but just an instant, she thought of grabbing the front of his shirt and dragging him inside. But sobriety returned and she reminded herself that he was being unusually forward, even by his edgy standards. She suppressed her id in an instant, deciding to end the banter. She smiled politely, took the bags of food, thanked him, and added a parting, gentle reproach.

"You know, being naughty isn't always nice. You should measure what you say to your customers."

Tom's demeanor changed and he seemed sincerely hurt. She had put him in his place in an instant. He averted his gaze to the ground and spoke slowly and almost shamefully. "I'm sorry, Ms. Winston. I didn't mean to offend. I was trying to be charming but I guess I screwed it up." Then she felt bad. She'd gone too far. And she even felt a little flustered. She witnessed herself apologizing.

"No, no, no, you're fine. Look, Tom..." She reconsidered. "You can compliment me any time you want." As soon as she said it she speculated that he was far more sly and manipulative than he let on. She had just invited him to continue flirting with her. She had perhaps just given him the green light to come on to her. That was not her intention. Or...was it, she wondered. Her inner debate kicked in. She realized that she was quite fond of dallying with the young man and would actually be disappointed if they didn't engage in some light-hearted philandering. Then she added, softly, with a coquettish smile and an encouraging lilt, "I actually like it." She slipped him two additional twenty- dollar bills, an extraordinarily generous tip. A moment of silence passed between them. She questioned the wisdom of the tip and the remark, but the deed was done.