Kat's Transformation Pt. 02

It had been two full weeks since that memorable night, when Kat turned Tiger Domme and subbed her husband, Mark. Initially, she could scarcely believe how that evening unfolded. How deeply she'd embraced the role of dominant Mistress, how she'd unleashed this fetishistic debauchery. Barely restrained. But the more she reflected on it, the more comfortable she felt. She began to experience an onset of pride, of entitlement, of renewed lust.

The old good girl / bad girl, superego / id internal debate welled up inside. But, funny thing. It dissipated quickly. She tossed aside those good girl / superego selves. She embraced the bad girl / id within. She felt invigorated. She felt an unrestrained promiscuity. Emotions she'd never quite experienced before, at least to this degree. She liked it. A lot. So much so that she revisited the old links Mark had shared with her months ago, during their couple's counseling...the videos of female domination over hapless males...the commands they issued...the obedience they demanded...the humiliation they dished out. How strange, she thought, how what had seemed so bizarre and kinky back then now held such allure for her. It was as though the spotlights were turned on suddenly in a dark theater. She watched internet videos and learned. She probed further and read stories, both fictional and real, about the femdom world.

"So, these are the sensations that intoxicate people who play top in the Dom/sub game," she thought to herself. Rather than shun those simmering passions, she opened up to them, allowed them to flow, and then caressed them in her mind. She wrapped herself in their lascivious potency, as though she were snuggling into a warm, cashmere throw. She embraced them and plotted the next steps in her exploration. She began to yearn for the adventure. She could think of very little that would be off limits.

As her transformation evolved, Mark had followed her detailed instructions of that momentous night. Right off the bat he created a Sunday evening list of the upcoming week's chores. She saw it when she peeked in her nightstand drawer. It was tucked under her riding crop. Just as she'd instructed. His docile dutifulness pleased her.

Rather than read it, she waited until they were both settled in, sitting on the sofa, catching an evening news show, sipping a glass of wine on Sunday nightfall before the upcoming workweek.

"Slave boy," she interjected into the rhythm of the evening, "Bring me your chore list."

She was pleased how immediately he jumped on the task. He disappeared into their bedroom. When he returned he was naked, on all fours, riding crop secured like a horse's bit in his mouth, his chore list held between his fingers. He shuffled toward her and settled in at her feet. She felt powerful. In charge. Warm. Strong.

"Good boy," she commended him as she took the paper from his grip, feeling very much like she was addressing an underling.

It was a fine list, especially for his first one. It included house cleaning chores that they'd previously collaborated on (vacuuming, dusting, bathroom clean-up). There was a shopping list. He'd be preparing two meals during the week, some leftovers and a take-out on the other evenings. Kitchen / dishes were on the agenda for each evening. Making the beds daily.

"You forgot wife worship," she remarked, taking the riding crop from his clenched teeth. "But since that's totally up to me, maybe it's not necessary to include. Other than that, it's a good list. Well done, slave boy." She paused and looked at the TV. "You can sit on your haunches while I finish this show. You may sip your wine. In fact, here's a toast - to us - a Mistress and her slave boy." She raised her glass and he raised his. They sipped and stared into each other's eyes.

And there they were, she lounging comfortably on their couch, he in front of her, naked, leaning back on his heels, all eyes on the tube, imbibing in a fruity Pinot Noir. Near the end of the broadcast, when Kat had apparently had enough, she quaffed what was left in her glass and then mimed that he should do the same. She then handed him her glass and he placed them both on the coffee table.

She playfully slapped him a bit with her riding crop. Though she still felt somewhat unskilled with its use, she was warming up to its manipulation. It made her feel powerful to pat various parts of his body. His cheeks, his shoulders, his chest and, deliciously, his genitals.

"Spread your legs, so I can spank your balls. And thank me for the attention, slave boy. Ask me to keep using the riding crop on you." He complied readily.

"Thank you for slapping me with your riding crop. Please give me more."

"Please give me more, MISTRESS," she corrected him. "I think I'll like the sound of that."

"Please give me more, Mistress," he answered.

And she did, becoming a bit more forceful with each whack. She didn't intend to leave a welt or anything. But maybe a slightly red mark in strategic locations. Funny thing was, as she kept it up and he kept asking for more, it turned her on. She felt her temperature rise. She watched his cock grow. Her anticipation brought some sweat to her upper lip. And her pussy grew moist.

"Lick me, slave boy. Worship my pussy. Like you did the other night. Use the alphabet. Spell out "I adore You, Mistress," with your tongue. And then say it out loud. Keep doing it until I tell you to stop."

He braced himself with a handful of sofa on each side of her body, bent down and proceeded obediently. He sought to please his wife, his Mistress. He fluttered his tongue and expressed his adoration, with his tongue, lips and voice. He spelled out "I adore You, Mistress" and then spoke those words out loud. And repeated the tribute. Her secretion of juices built up. She leaned back, shut her eyes and enjoyed the attention.

"Show me your cock," she interrupted. He sat back and grabbed his erect penis with both hands. "Fuck me, slave boy," she ordered. She parked the small of her back on the edge of the couch for easy access. And with great willingness he scooted forward and inserted his cock, deliberately at first but then with a hard thrust, into her waiting pussy. They fucked. They moaned. And sweated. Her thoughts drifted to Tom, the delivery boy. The boy who was a manly man. Mark was no Tom, the overconfident, youthful bull with the magnificent penis, but he was adequate for the task. They both groaned. And, though it wasn't simultaneous, they eventually convulsed in their own orgasms.

Thus was set a precedent for Sunday evenings, a ritual that included a presentation of and review of chores, some banter, some worship and, sometimes, some good old-fashioned fucking. That was the ritual Kat created.

She called off the dinner invitation to Becky, the office floozy. She figured she'd resurrect that idea, all in good time. Meanwhile, times were good. Mark set about his chores, different ones each night. The place looked great - vacuumed, dusted. Clean bathrooms. Fresh linens upon her request. Nice dinners. She felt pampered. Deservedly so. Mistresses are entitled.

She was no tyrant. She expressed her appreciation of Mark's servitude and his obsequious behavior. She rewarded him both verbally and with physical attention. Yet, she maintained a distinct formal distance when she chose, especially on Sunday evenings when she regularly made him present his weekly chore list.

On the fourth Sunday following that momentous night of debauchery (when she'd so uncharacteristically binged on sex and unbridled domination), she reviewed Mark's chore list and studied him, naked, on all fours, riding crop held between his teeth. She grabbed the riding crop and set aside the task list.

"Have you had any contact with Becky, slave boy?" she asked him.

"Only at the office," he answered quickly.

"Is she still interested in you?"

"Yeah. She still stops by my desk and makes suggestive talk. She definitely wants to see me again...outside of work. She's told me so."

"You know what? I've been thinking. Next weekend, either Friday or Saturday, whatever works on my end, I think I'm going to invite Tom over. To see me. Alone. And I'm giving you permission to set up a date with the harlot. I don't care where. I don't care what you do. I'll leave it up to your imagination. But you'll be out of the house. And I'll expect a full report afterwards. And don't you dare let on that I know anything about your little affair. I want her to think she's getting away with something. Do you understand?"

Mark seemed flustered and surprised. But he knew how to respond.

"Yes, Mistress."

And that was that. Upon investigation, Kat learned from his work how to contact Tom, texted him and found that he was available on Friday night after 9:00 PM. She informed her husband that he was to be out of the house from 8:00 PM until 12:00 PM. She made a date with Tom, the chiseled young stud with the silver tongue and pushy attitude. 9:00 PM sharp, her place.

The remaining weekdays peeled away, like the skins from a perfectly ripe banana. Funny how the inexorable passage of time does that. But the deliciously ripe fruit under it all was her uncontrollable preoccupation. She knew she was going to have sex with a virile, young and eager man. Promiscuity welled up from deep within. She felt a rise in her temperature and an increase in moisture between her legs whenever she thought of it. Surely Tom was experiencing similar sensations. She wondered about his anticipation. She wondered if she inspired a boner. And she fantasized about how their "date" would unfold.

That Friday night, the night of the rendezvous, Kat didn't change out of her work clothes. Mark made a brief showing around 6:00. He still had a chore from his agenda. Change the sheets with fresh linens. He did that quietly and left the premises a bit after 7:00 PM. They spoke not of the evening's promise. She didn't prepare anything special other than a refrigerated bottle of a nice Rheinpfalz, German Riesling Kabinett. Good sipping wine. Nice tipsy-inducing beverage.

The doorbell rang right on time, 9:00 PM. She greeted Tom, grabbed him by shirt, pulled him in and shut the door behind them. She kissed him lecherously and pulled him into the kitchen. There she poured two generous glasses of wine.

"Do you like German whites?" she asked.

"Don't know much about 'em," Tom admitted. He impressed her as being young, beautiful, dumb. Young, beautiful, dumb and hung.

She took a long slug from her glass. "Refreshing. Easy to drink. Please...partake," she suggested. He took a tentative sip and immediately acknowledged the palatability. "Mmmm...that's pretty good."

"Glad you like it," she cooed. "Bottoms up." They sipped rather gluttonously as she pressed closely to him. Each long kiss was followed with another hearty gulp. They finished one glass each and she poured two more. They kissed. They fondled. Any shyness he may have initially exhibited was gone. He was as aggressive as she was. They drank. After finishing the second glass she grabbed a handful of shirt again and pulled him into the bedroom. The clean, fresh sheets were pulled down, just as she'd expected, awaiting their bodies. She couldn't wait to squeeze his balls and guide that gorgeous hard on into her waiting snatch.

********

The subsequent Saturday and Sunday came and went with no mention of the Friday escapades. Kat and Mark ran some errands together. They visited another couple from her work. Mark washed her car, even though it wasn't on his chore list. He watched a Sunday football game. Nothing extraordinary transpired until Sunday night.

Come Sunday evening, when they were both home and ready to unwind a bit from the day's commitments, Kat sat heavily into their sofa and announced, "Slave boy, bring me your chore list."

Mark promptly left the room and returned, as he'd been conditioned, naked, on all fours, riding crop clasped between his molars and chore list in hand. He crawled to Kat's feet and waited. She let him sit for some long moments before speaking.

"You're becoming such a good slave boy. Do you like making a chore list?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Do you like doing chores for me?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Yeah, you really are becoming a good slave boy. And last Friday...it was perfect. You were gone between 8:00 PM and midnight. You left clean sheets on the bed, pulled back perfectly...so inviting. You done well, slave boy!" she exaggerated the grammatical license.

"Thank you, Mistress."

"Now, give me a report. Did you meet Becky on Friday? What happened? Lean back on your haunches and tell me. Tell me all about it." He leaned back and spoke.

"I did meet Becky. I left her a brief note early in the week asking if we could get together on Friday. She dropped off a response on my desk saying she could hardly wait. That I should meet her at her place. That she had a surprise for me."

"Interesting. Go on..."

"Well, I showed up at her place. She answered the door in skintight top that advertised the shape of her breasts underneath. I could see her nipples. And she wore a super short miniskirt with nylons, no shoes. She looked crazy sexy."

"Keep going."

"Well, the surprise was that she owned a pair of what she called "fuck me boots." Black vinyl with laces. She had me pour a couple glasses of wine and she sat in a leather recliner. She made me pull the boots over her feet and then lace them up. It took a really long time. They came up to mid-thigh, with laces the entire length. She talked to me the whole time. Called me her "boy toy." And then referred to me as "old man." She kept giving me glimpses of her pussy, as her skirt was pulled up shorter and shorter. Her nylons were crotchless. Her pussy was trimmed neatly."

"Hmm...I'm beginning to like your little whore. What is she, about ten years younger than you? Continue."

"Well, like I said, it took forever to lace them up because they were so long. She insisted that they were perfectly laced. I finished one and then had to start over with the other. When I finally got them both laced up and we had finished our second glass of wine she said something like, "Worship my boots, old man. Kiss 'em. Every square inch."

"And you did, I'm guessing."

"Yes, Mistress, I did."

"And you loved it, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mistress, I loved it. Especially when she gave me instructions. I had to kiss them all over. And then lick them. She even had me lick the soles and suck on the heels. She pushed the skinny heels into my mouth. And then..." He hesitated.

"Come on. Keep going. This is hot!"

"She had me kiss her pussy and then lick it. She grabbed the back of my head, took two fistfuls of hair and guided me into her crotch. She rode me like that until she shook and shivered. And then she said, "fuck me." And I did."

"And did you like it?"

"Yes, Mistress. Very much."

"Good. I like her style. Sounds like she's been around the block in the domme/sub world. And that was it? Did you cum?"

"Actually, no, Mistress. We fucked until she decided she'd had enough and then she stopped all of a sudden. And she said, "I'm not going to let you cum." And sent me on my way, before I could cum. She remarked that she wished I had a bigger cock. And she reminded me that she controlled my orgasms. She made me thank her for not letting me cum."

"And did you?"

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I said 'Thank you, Mistress Becky, for not letting me cum.'"

"Oh, I do like this little floozy. Humiliating you AND taking control of your orgasms. Go girl!"

"That was pretty much it. She called it a night around 10:30 so I went to Lucky's until midnight, when you told me I should come home."

"Well done, slave boy." Kat waited for a good minute in silence. Then...

"Would you like to hear about my date?"

"Yes, Mistress. I would."

"Go get a towel," she ordered.

Mark scurried away on all fours and returned with a towel.

"Put it on the floor in front of you, to cum on. You're going to jerk off while I tell about my date. It's going to be a quickie so get going...fast and hard!"

"Yes, Mistress," he complied, rising to his knees, grabbing his cock and flailing away at breakneck speed.

At that point, Kat had a decision to make. Give an honest rendition of what transpired; or tell a story as she wished it would have happened. There's a reason she was inclined to embellish. Here's what actually happened...

Soon after Tom arrived, after quaffing some wine, kissing and fondling each other in the kitchen, she pulled him into the bedroom and practically ripped his clothes off. He returned the favor and had her naked in record time.

Then he said, "Suck my balls, baby, like you did last time. Only hum me a song while you do it this time." He took her shoulders in his powerful hands and guided her in front of him, into a kneeling position. He was not waiting for her to take the initiative. And though she bristled a bit at his presumptuous air, she was desperate to make love with him, then and there.

She knelt dutifully in front of him, held back his cock with one hand, craned her neck and took one of his testicles in her mouth. She began to hum "Ave Maria" by Franz Schubert. She fingered herself while she "sang." Kat was surprised by how quickly she became wet. She alternated between his two hairless balls. When she finished the song he said, "Good girl," grabbed his penis and began rubbing the head over her lips. "Suck me, baby," he instructed her. Again, his brash tone rubbed her the wrong way. But she obliged him, licking it hungrily until he guided it into her mouth. He fucked her lips in short strokes. She loved it. He was delicious.

Then he grabbed her upper arms and pulled her up so fast you'd have thought he was going to launch her into orbit. He steadied her on her feet, she stood in front of him and they kissed. He fingered her pussy. It was well-lubricated. Then he announced, "I'm gonna fuck you. And you're gonna love it!"

She was about to say, "wait a minute buster," in response to his boldness when he tossed her back onto the bed so she might offer herself up, missionary style.

He knelt between her spread knees, rubbed the hard head of his cock over her clit and pussy and announced, "Beg me to fuck you." She was taken aback by the turn of events. It was SHE who should be calling the shots. He wasn't out of bounds necessarily, but still too cocky for her liking. She could feel that hard cock primed to enter. She wanted it badly. She couldn't help herself.

"Please, fuck me. I really want you to fuck me."

"Call me by my last name," he said. It's 'Godbehere.' 'Godbehere,'" he enunciated again, slowly, syllable by syllable. "God be here."

She thought "you gotta be kidding me!" and said, "Seriously?"

"Seriously," he answered. "The family name goes back over two centuries. "Ask Godbehere to fuck you." She went along with it.

"Godbehere, please fuck me. Please, Godbehere. I'm begging you to fuck me."

And he proceeded to fill her up and give her the intercourse of her life. She squealed and squirmed. Occasionally, at his prompting (and she couldn't believe she complied), she'd say, "Thank you, Godbehere. Thank you for fucking me."

He brought her to orgasm and then experienced his own ejaculation. When the deed was done, he stayed inside her. He smirked, "My grandpa, when he decided I was ready for "the talk," used to tell me, the best piece of ass, that's what he called it, is a horny, middle aged, suburban housewife. You're a great lay."

She thought of slapping him in the face. His grandpa too. Instead, without prompting, Kat sank into the depths of submissive depravity. She said, "Thank you. God be HERE!" and with the emphasis on the last syllable of his name she flexed her vaginal muscles around his shrinking penis. And again, "God be HERE! God be HERE!" Until he finally withdrew from her and smiled triumphantly.