Snips and Scraps Ch. 01

These will be a collection of fond memories from my sexual escapades. Everyone in these tales is 18 or older, and consent is a huge part of play, even if it doesn't seem that way in a scene. I started working as a professional Domme to help pay for college, and I stopped just after graduating. I'm quite queer, so these fond memories won't feature many men, if any.

So if you like bondage, lesbians, embarrassment, and barely-embellished nonfiction, keep reading.

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Amanda's First Stop Whenever I was approached by a new client, two things could happen. First, we might just go to a hotel for a quick session. Those were the bread-and-butter of work, but far less enjoyable than the latter. The second were those who wanted to retain my services. That required us going on a date, setting expectations and safewords, and agreeing on a first scene and session.

One such client was a quintessential sorority girl. Amanda was on the volleyball team, a charismatic party animal, and spoiled rotten rich. It was well known that she was a tease and never went beyond 'first base'. Despite this, a tempest of guys surrounded her, each hoping he'd be the one to claim her as a prize.

It was quite a surprise that, when I was bartending on a slow night, she approached the counter and said, "You're her, aren't you? The--" She trailed off and glanced around before whispering, "Mistress?"

I was taken aback. "Who's asking?" was all I could reply. Surely she wasn't inquiring about my services. That would be the realm of her blue-balled escorts. I looked her over and saw a Barbie version of myself--a tall and slim figure with icy blue eyes, blonde hair cascading to her shoulders, pink makeup that matched her polo.

The cool look turned hard at my answer. "Are you the Mistress or not? I heard one worked here. I read 50 Shades and--."

I cut her off there. "That is nothing like real, sane BDSM." The book had irritated me since it came out, but it did drive up business, especially repeat clients. Everyone now wanted to be 'an owned slave' despite not understanding how much love and trust needed to exist for such titles.

A smirk crossed the once-indifferent face. "Prove it, whore," and she cashed out with a rather generous tip and a phone number, glancing over her shoulder and miming a 'call me'.

The rest of the night passed in a red rage that cooled only when I was awake the next morning. Amanda's arrogance was unbecoming a would-be sub, and she needed to learn respect for Dominants within the community. What better way to learn than at the feet of a 'whore'? My fingers danced across my work phone and found the sorority sister's voicemail. I left instructions for an afternoon 'study date' at the library to discuss what she needed.

At our meeting, Amanda's blinding pride was tempered back to the cool indifference of her first greeting. I politely explained my own hard limits, my rates, and what was expected of a client. Then, I transitioned to letting her tell me all about her fantasies. The more she spoke, the less indifferent and more breathless she became. She had always been interested in BDSM, humiliation, degradation, and most driving and unsavory of all: other women. "To belong to a woman and have to pay for such an honor," she explained, "is what I need." The pleasing tan of her otherwise pale cheeks had become cherry red, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

I caught myself squeezing my thighs together trying to suppress the sudden excitement. This stuck-up witch had just come out to me, a woman she had just called a whore the night before. Calm and in control, I explained that I would work with her starting that Friday evening and proceeding to the morning Monday. She'd get a full experience over the weekend and afterward we could talk about scheduled sessions.

I prepped for the first of the nights like any other casual date--a black lace bralette/panty combo, a fitted cropped tee, my favorite distressed jeans, and my signature Domme stilettos. Bloody red lips would certainly leave marks on whatever they touched, and a single ruby dangle swung from my left ear. I chose a bright red play collar that looked to be Amanda's size and threw it in my bag, as well as a pair of handcuffs. Anything else would be picked up on our tour of the city.

Amanda was already seated at the cafe when I arrived, an encouraging sight. She had opted for a cute pink sundress that made her seem even more like a stereotypical doll. She took a deep breath once she caught sight of me, as if to steel herself, before giving a little wave hello. As we enjoyed an early evening coffee, she confided excitement and showed how she had prepared an overnight bag in her oversized purse.

And that was the inspiration for our first stop. As we left the cafe, I explained that she had to trust that I would take care of her. She didn't need anything in her overnight bag, especially clothes. Our brisk walk took us in front of a small thrift/vintage store. "You will sell every stitch of clothing you brought on this date. Even this outfit," I coolly commanded as I plucked at her dress. "But since I'm such a generous Mistress, we'll use the proceeds to buy you a new one."

A look of defiance and worry crossed her face. Newcomers often had that reaction at their first public order, however benign, and this was what Amanda claimed to need. The woman's eyes softened and she meekly replied, "Yes, Mistress," before entering the store. I followed close behind, making sure Amanda knew I was there if she needed me.

Amanda placed rolled clothes from her bag on the counter. Each was a pre-built outfit she had expected to wear for me. Of course, the underthings weren't able to be sold, and despite the designer labels, she barely got $25 for everything in her purse. There was a pensive pause as the clerk counted out the money to the sub before she asked quietly, "And how much for my dress and shoes?"

Both myself and the clerk, a middle-aged man, stood in shocked silence as Amanda stepped out of her Nikes and slipped the straps of her dress down her shoulders. It was still dead quiet when she gently folded the dress onto the counter and stood back in her socks, bra, and thong. Her face welled crimson and she nervously muttered, "I'll be looking for a new outfit now." She flitted from rack to rack and I joined her exploration.

It was late enough by the time we were at the shop that only two other groups of customers came in while we were present, and both left quickly without incident. Each time Amanda sneaked into a changing room, providing at most a glimpse of the barely-clad volleyball star. Soon, I had approved an outfit for the weekend--a black mesh shirt that dimmed the bright teal of the bra and a short jean skirt that didn't even reach mid-thigh. I explained the excess cash would be saved for more clothes if Amanda earned them.

Once outside we ducked between buildings to finish her new style. I told her to throw her socks into the dumpster (leaving her barefoot), buckled the collar around her throat, and took off for my favorite dungeon.