"Spread your legs," I ordered. "Farther." I ensured with the spreader that they would stay that way. "So remember when you dropped the quarter, losing your orgasm for today?"
She nodded helplessly, I saw through her spread legs.
"There's a loophole. If you can come simply from being paddled, you may come. Do you think you can do that? You'd have to be pretty horny to come just from a good ass whooping."
I think she grunted that she didn't know. Hard to tell with the gag.
"Let's find out. Oh, and don't forget to count off and thank your mistress after each blow. I won't understand you, of course, with the gag and all, but it's the effort that matters." Swats one through sixteen elicited little cries of pain, then garbled counts and thank yous. But I noticed that her legs and ass and torso during that interval all began to tremble. And on swat seventeen I found out why. She let out a wonderful series of helpless, uninhibited piggy noises that signified something dramatic. Upon questioning, with a vigorous sightless hooded nod, druel oozing from the gag down to the floor, she confirmed: She had come.
Ten minutes later, by the time we'd stripped her of her restraints and rubber, given her a chance to tissue off her cunt and the thrill juices dripping down the inside of her legs, she looked wobbly and exhausted.
"Kneel, Slave Celeste, kiss my boots, look up at me, thank me, then drop your head to the floor as I leave."
She did so, shaking, sexually and emotionally and physically overwhelmed.
"Why don't you go riding with me tomorrow, Celeste. Meet me at the stable at 10 a.m. Just dress in comfortable riding civvies. Jeans, a T-shirt, a hat, some tennis shoes or boots for the stirrups. You look like you want to ask me something. You may speak."
"Really? Going riding? Just the two of us?" is all she could muster, happy tears coming to her eyes.
"Really," I said. And as I swept out of the room (OK, a bit melodramatically I admit - who am I, an Ayn Rand heroine?), I thought to myself, Hey, I'm not bad at this.
Much love, from your happy humble slave and domme in training,
five/Mistress Sharon
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English
Five as credible domme
Read on, my astute friend. -Z
Phhttt. She's definitely not an Ayn Rand heroine. Sorry, Z, but I find myself entirely unimpressed with mistress Sharon as domme. Most probably I'm jaded by my tilting at the windmills attitude against all dommes being sadistic (usually psychopathic) and rich enough to support a human menagerie. My current pose and demeanor about the lot of them would actually give them a run for their money.
While I understand the concept of stripping someone down to rebuild them (much as the military does to green recruits), I question it's over use in femdom as compared to male dom bdsm. A major problem is the almost universal lack of constructive rebuilding. Women being turned into mindless beings lacks eroticism. Men being turned into absolutely nothing at all, well, what is less than not erotic?
Sharon choice of words, 'predilection' - what makes her think Six has a prediction for black cock? (Thanks for not making it a damn baseball bat) She would know Six has not made active choices at this point. That entire passage was obviously intended to both put a period to the relationship of five and Six, as well as to cement her supposed superiority and his inferiority. Silver lining is a break up is less costly than a divorce. Of course, the possibility of financial slavery by any and everyone in charge around here is possible. They wouldn't need his money but it's another way to crush him, yes?
You mentioned rebuilding in conjunction with the destruction, and who would want that. As this is following the path of be careful what you ask for, I do not believe this was what Six wanted. It is what he is getting. If there is to be rebuilding of Six then by whom.and into what is indeed the crux here.
My hatehatehateyou is downgraded to moderate irritation at this point. I await the next chapter.more...
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