By Eidolon90
Carl’s heart thumped as he waited. There was nothing unusual about that, it always beat hard when he waited for her to come to his house. The phone could ring, his wife could come home, any number of things could disrupt the carefully planned rendezvous. He checked himself in the mirror for only the twentieth time in an hour. Everything looked right, but it would not do to forget one of Mistress’ orders.
She had never given him any bizarre orders to prepare for her visit, perhaps in recognition of the precarious nature of their relationship. He was freshly showered, yet dry. He had combed his hair, cleaned his nails, brushed and flossed, scrubbed his face and finally deodorized under his arms before putting on the clothes she had selected. They were nothing unusual either: jeans and a dark green button down shirt over the usual underwear. As Mistress usually ordered, he wore no socks, shoes or jewelry of any kind. Carl looked at the tan line on the ring finger of his left hand. Even without his wedding ring, there would be no mistaking him for an unmarried man. He felt a pang of guilt and a surge of adrenaline at the thought of the impending session.
The doorbell chimed and Carl’s stomach performed amazing somersaults. The doorbell ringing was not part of the plan. Carl opened the door, expecting a salesman or neighbor, but instead, Mistress breezed in with a look of faint amusement on her face. Carl’s face lost all its color as he stared at her neat gray BMW parked on the road in front of the house. He turned, mouth open, but silent, words failing him. “The garage door opener wouldn’t work, I think the battery is dead,” Mistress informed him. Not noticing her raised eyebrow and slight frown, Carl found his voice, “You can’t, I mean, you shouldn’t, but, your car is right there…” The plan they had followed so many times before was now a shambles. Before every session, Carl mailed the extra garage door opener to Mistress’s post office box. That way no one would actually see her enter the house. It was even unlikely she would be noticed at all, unless someone chose that moment to carefully watch his house.
“Is that how you greet me, Carl?” Mistress finally interrupted, sounding more amused than angry. Carl dropped to his knees, but still looked up at the woman. He had a hard time not staring at her. Today, her dark red hair was in a tight bun atop her head. Black, wire frame glasses accentuated the dark green of her eyes and highlighted the pale skin of her face. For the first time since they had been meeting, she wore a black evening dress with a splash of red sequins instead of her typical casual attire. The black leather of her soft, shoulder length gloves contrasted sharply with the fairness of her skin. Carl still had protests forming on his lips when she spoke again.
“You are looking at my face, slave,” she spoke more sharply this time, “and I still have not received the proper greeting.” Carl’s anxiety disappeared, replaced with the somewhat different anxiety he usually felt when serving his Mistress. He wanted to do it right for its own sake, not just to avoid punishment. He even smiled as he dropped to his hands, his face just inches above the black leather of her high heeled pumps. That he was not allowed to look at the Mistress’ face was a long standing and often broken rule, the only rule he dared to break. Usually, the infraction was a stolen glance or chance meeting of her eyes. He had not stared so directly at her since they had gone from merely talking in the library or coffee shop to acting out their fantasies.
From his submissive position he could see only her shoes and the black nylon of her stockings. They would be stockings, he knew, the thought warming his crotch. They were always stockings, and they would be long, all the way to the top of her thighs was the way Mistress liked them. Carl lowered his face and gently kissed the top of her foot, lips brushing nylon instead of leather, just the way she had trained him to do, nearly two years ago now. Instead of rising back to an upright kneeling position, he stayed down to show his contrition at his earlier behavior.
“That’s better, though I think perhaps a still greater gesture of apology is in order,” she shifted her foot slightly and Carl immediately lowered his face again. This time he traced the tip of his tongue along her instep, where the shoe met her foot. His tongue followed the outline of the shoe all the way to the back of her ankle where he stopped. Quickly shifting his body, his head was now on the other side of her foot and his tongue returned to its slow tracing until he completed the circuit of her foot.
“Mmmm, well done, slave. You are provisionally forgiven your earlier infractions. I will chalk them up to the excitement of the moment,” she paused, then spoke again. “Well?” she said, giving Carl permission to rise and speak
with just one word. Carl rose back up to his knees, still looking down at her feet. “Mistress Mist is kind and generous,” he said clearly and evenly. He had learned the hard way not to speak too softly to Mistress, because she detested asking him to repeat himself.
She laughed warmly, “Ahh, I really do adore that pet name you have for me, slave. You always seem to know just how to please me, even when you’ve screwed up.” Mistress ‘Mist’ was Carl’s own invention, used with her permission. Along with the injunction against looking at her face, she had made it clear early on that he would never know her name or any other relevant information about her. She had steadfastly refused to give even a pseudonym for him to use. This upset Carl’s notion of propriety and order, which was perhaps her goal all along, until he finally begged her to allow him to give her a name.</p>
http://www.femaleledrelationships.com/female-domination-photographs/ Of course it had not come for free. Mistress chose one of his carefully negotiated limits to stretch, just slightly she had said at the time, but stretch nonetheless. That session had occurred over a year ago, but it still burned in Carl’s memory. Mistress had been more physical than usual, actually moving his limbs and body into exactly the position she wanted, rather than ordering him to move, which was her custom. Then she had applied the restraints, the thickest and heaviest leather cuffs and straps she owned, she told him at the time. Immobilized beyond his fondest hope, Carl vainly tried to look only at ceiling, but could not prevent himself from stealing occasional glances at Mistress. Finally, her preparations seemed to end.
“Let me restate the terms of our agreement so there is no confusion. You will give me a name, a name which is not silly or overly affectionate or insulting. In return I get to push one of your limits, just a little. Any limit I choose, save the prohibition against permanent marks of any sort. Correct?”
Carl could only nod, words seemed to vanish. He broke the the second rule again by looking directly at Mistress’ face. She did not seem to mind this time. His mind seemed incapable of processing any information except for her image. Today she had stripped down to her panties and let her hair flow down her back. Carl had seen various parts of his Mistress’ body before, but rarely all at once. The panties struck him as odd also, she usually wore skimpier. “That’s not good enough, Carl,” her words broke his train of thought. “I need to hear you say that you agree.”
“Yes, Mistress, I agree,” he finally managed to blurt. “Tell me again, using the name you have chosen.” “Yes, Mistress Mist, I agree,” his face reddened as he belatedly considered the chance that she might not like his name. Her eyes widened slightly and she looked at him for a moment.
“Very creative, slave. I like it,” she said as she slid the panties down her legs and balled them up. “Now, keep these in your mouth,” she said as she shoved the wad of slick cloth into his mouth.
Carl mmmpphhed in protest.
“Don’t be a baby, slave, I’m not even taping them in. If there is an emergency, you can spit them out. But this way, you can’t safeword on me without really thinking it over. That would spoil my fun.” Belatedly, she noticed his open gaze. “Rule two, my little toy,” she smiled lopsidedly as Carl hurriedly cut his eyes away from her. His eyes swept back though as Mistress bent down over her bag in such an unladylike fashion that it could only be deliberate. The effect was instant, hardening Carl’s already erect cock even further. She rummaged for a minute, giving Carl plenty of time to consider his fate. His mind whirled and panic began to bubble up.
When she stood and turned, Carl was torn between a sigh of relief and the desire to scream. She held a sketch pad and pencil in one hand and a camera in the other. “I considered this a lot longer than you probably think I did.” She sat down next to his head, and continued, “You have an awful lot of limits, Carl. There are a lot of Mistresses who would not put up with so many restrictions on their behavior. But after talking to you, I knew why you have the limits you do. I also know that given time, many of them will fall by themselves. Frankly, I look forward to the collapse of each and every one of them.”
Carl’s eyes widened, she could not mean that, could she? Some of his limits were against things too disgusting to even contemplate.
“But it’s been the no pictures, no recordings rule that has grated me the most, I think. I can’t trust my memory to capture this moment: the tautness of your limbs, my little fuck toy straining with desire to get into me, the wideness of your eyes. So, I’m going to sketch you, just to help me remember. Also, it just seemed so unreasonable that you will allow yourself to be bound so well that you cannot move, effectively putting yourself in my hands and yet you can’t bring yourself to trust me to be discreet with your image. I will use the camera to take closeups of your wrists, ankles and the delightfully single minded dick that you have pledged to me. Your perfectly panic-stricken face will not appear in any photo. No one will ever see them except me, and possibly you.” With that, she began to draw. Carl relaxed as much as he could, understanding that he was as safe as he could possibly be.</p>
http://www.femaleledrelationships.com/female-domination-photographs/ “Daydreaming again, slut?” Her voice broke him out of his remembrance and he bristled slightly at the name she called him. It was another example of her slow, steady demolition of his limits. Before he could look up, his usual response to her assaults on his sensibilities was to break rule two, she grabbed a handful of is hair and held his head down, keeping his gaze on the floor.
“You were thinking about my naming day.” She did not even pose it as a question.
“Yes, Mistress Mist.”
“I have a confession to make Carl. I’ve thought about it a great deal in the past year, but I never wanted to betray a weakness to you by asking directly. Why Mist?”
Carl smiled broadly, though his Mistress could not see it. “Mist is the first syllable of the word mystery and Mistress, and mists are fundamentally mysterious, ever changing and a little capricious.”
She relaxed the grip on his hair, and raised his face up to meet her gaze. “You have the soul of a poet, Carl.” “Thank you, Mistress,” he said, almost too softly for her to hear. He was lost in the unnamed quality that the relationship offered. Momentarily forgotten were his pangs of guilt, his fears of discovery and even the very memory of Mistress’ unusual entry.
“Well, this is all so touching, but it does not address the fundamental problem, your need for a good ass whipping and my need to give you one. I wanted to add a few other touches today as well,” she added with incongruous cheer. Dread reawakened in Carl’s heart as she bade him to rise and strip. When he was done, she commanded him to put his arms behind his back. Quickly and confidently she restrained his wrists with leather cuffs. Then she hobbled his ankles as well and began to march him toward the kitchen.
“You know Carl, that is about the way you’d have to walk if I ever get to dress you up like a real play pretty. Can’t you feel it? I know how much you love it when I rub my legs against you. You could feel it for yourself. And a pair of ankle strap heels is a much subtler restraint system than these clumsy cuffs and hobble,” she teased him gently. Carl stared straight ahead, ears burning. No cross dressing was a limit that Mistress had not taken particularly well and she would occasionally toss the idea out for Carl to consider again. She had mastered the art of making Carl’s objections seem unreasonable and of making her own plans for him seem perfectly acceptable and even gratifying.
It was working too. Carl caught himself considering the idea before his normal pattern of rejection activated. He continued walking, eyes forward, knowing better than to respond to any of Mistress’ attempts to push his limits with anything other than agreement.
“Not this time, Carl? That’s okay dear,” she patted his ass affectionately, “that will give me time to decide just what color scheme would look best on you,” she said as they reached the kitchen. “I’ve decided I’m bored with always using that back room. Let’s see what we can find in the kitchen?”
Carl stood still as Mistress surveyed the room. His heart beat loudly in his own ears. The kitchen windows looked out on the wooded backyard, but it was still theoretically possible that someone could see him, naked and bound.
“This is perfect, my pet. Come stand right here,” she said pointing at a spot on the floor next to the small table. She placed her bag on the table, deliberately so that Carl could look at it while she made further preparation. She moved the chair and deftly stepped up onto it, removing a hanging plant from a hook screwed into the ceiling.
“These are perfect Carl, nice and sturdy and screwed right into the joist.” She did not ask whether it had been him or Brigitte who had put the hooks in the ceiling. At Carl’s request during their negotiation period, she had adopted one hard rule: never mention his wife. Despite all her other proddings, Mistress had never broken that rule. She climbed back down, plant in hand and set it on the counter. As she did, a button popped from her glove and landed on the floor, skittering away. Carl’s nerves had grown so taut that he could not help himself.
“What was that?” he asked suddenly. “Did I give you permission to interrogate me, slave?” Mistress demanded sternly.
Carl swallowed, trying to settle his nerves. “No Mistress.”
“I did not think so. I think perhaps some additional treatment is necessary today to remind you of your proper place. Don’t you agree?” she asked evenly as though the very concept of disagreement would violate some universal axiom.
“Yes, Mistress.”
With his reply, Mistress began to remove various items from her large shoulder bag. Another leather hobble strap and a length of rope, neatly coiled, were pulled from the bag. Following these items was a familiar leather slapper and ominously, a pair of small clamps connected by a chain. Almost as an afterthought, she extracted another length of dazzlingly white rope. Then she removed the hobble from between the ankle cuffs and grasped his left ankle, pulling. Carl shifted his weight to allow Mistress to position him as she desired. That all this was being accomplished without a word from her was a bad sign for Carl.
In short order his ankles were fastened to the legs of the table, leaving his erection jutting over the spot his plate usually occupied at mealtime. Mistress stood behind him, without pressing her body against him to tease him, another bad sign, and reached around to his nipples. These she massaged and pinched until they became firm. Without ceremony, she applied the clamps. Carl’s only reaction was a sharp intake of breath.
“Are those too tight, my little toy?” she asked, dripping concern. She looked at his erection, which twitched slightly. “My little fuck toy doesn’t seem to mind them. I think it likes the clamps, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Carl said, managing not to grit his teeth. She was right, as usual. His body seemed to be absorbing the pain and by some strange psychological alchemy, transforming it into another sensation entirely. “Bend over, slut,” she said curtly. When he did, she passed one rope above the chain holding the clamps together and tied it loosely around the table top. Carl realized he could not stand up without yanking the clamps right off his nipples. The other rope she tied to the fastener connecting the wrist cuffs. She ran that rope up over his head and flipped it up onto the hook. From the hook, it ran down to the floor, where she tied it to a table leg. Now Carl calculated that pulling his nipples off would not be the only problem associated with standing up, but by leaning forward, he realized he could transfer some of the heavy rope from pulling the clamps to laying on the table.
It was no accident that the slapper was positioned directly below his eyes. He watched, barely breathing, as Mistress’s gloved hand reached beneath his face. Her hand caressed the slapper, gloved fingers dragging slowly along its surface. Finally, her hand gripped the instrument’s handle and withdrew it from his sight.
“Don’t you dare come, you little whore, not until I command it.”
Carl did not have time to reply before the first blow landed on his exposed bottom. He gasped, though the blow was not terribly hard. Mistress had grown adept at punishing him without leaving a mark that did not quickly fade. The real punishment was in his natural tendency to flinch when struck. When the blow landed, he had instinctively raised up, moving his ass away from her. That action immediately tightened the rope that he had originally considered superficial decoration, the rope tied round the table. Carl saw little stars of light. The pain quickly faded, even as the next blow landed on his ass. The sensations quickly mounted in intensity, working their strange magic on his arousal.
“If you keep pushing that little ass back at me, I’m going to think you want me to stick something in it,” Mistress said suddenly, between swats of the slapper. Carl understood. He had been pushing his ass out as he leaned ever closer to the table, trying to give his nipples some slack. Another series of blows pelted his upper thighs and bottom, then Mistress rested, replacing the slapper on the table so that Carl could examine it. From the bag she pulled one last item, a riding crop.
Carl’s sharp gasp alerted her to his impending objection. “Shhhh, Carl. Wait and listen. I’m very aware of your reasons for avoiding marks and I understand them. I’ve been studying the way your skin and flesh respond to my tender mercies for almost two years now. I think I can safely employ this crop and still leave you unblemished.” A strange note crept into her voice as she traced the crop along his still stinging backside. “I have left an area untreated by the slapper, saving it for the crop. It is right here where your cheek and thigh meet.” She tapped the spot with the crop, eliciting tiny moans from Carl. Then she stepped toward the table. From the bag she pulled an ordinary hand towel. She folded the towel around Carl’s erection, noticing the slight twitching that indicated how close he was to orgasm.
“There you go Carl. Do you want to come? I know you do and now, when I allow you to, you won’t make a colossal mess on your very own dining area.” Carl listened attentively. Strange intonations had crept into Mistress’ usually calm voice, a breathy quality that suggested mounting excitement.
“There is, however, a small price to pay Carl, one stroke with the crop, just to see if I know what I am about. I’ve been thinking about this all day now, and the idea has taken hold of me like few others have. When the tip of the crop connects with your sweet ass, I’m going to come. I’ll probably even scream, I just don’t know for sure. You’ll come to, because not even my harshest command will be able to stop it from happening. But first, you have to trust me. You have to give to me that part of you that you have been withholding so long. Carl, one small flick of my wrist, one tiny instant of time, stretching out into an eternal moment of ecstasy for us both. It’s waiting for you Carl, waiting for your decision.”
Carl’s mind spun. For an instant the word ‘no’ was already forming on his lips. He recognized the budding ‘no’ as a spiteful gesture of self-protection. He also recognized that in her own way, Mistress Mist was as vulnerable and open to him now as he was to her.
“I trust you, Mistress Mist,” he said plainly, but softly, bracing for the fire. Mistress delayed the crop for just a fraction of a second, striking in the precise moment when his anticipation had yielded to uncertainty.
The crop landed with a resounding crack and Carl’s orgasm grasped him and shook his entire body. He could hear Mistress’ soft moan just before she placed her hand on his back to steady herself. Instead of being the center of his orgasm, his spewing cock was integrated into the overall sensation. It jerked even more when Mistress pressed her legs against his and ran her hands over his back and ass. “Thank you, Mistress.”
“You are welcome, Carl, and thank you too. I cherish the trust that you have given me.” She continued to gently caress him. “Hold on, Carl,” she said and then quickly unclamped his nipples. She held him tightly as that particularly unique pain wracked him. It too went the way of the other pain he had received: absorbed, transformed and maybe stored away for their next meeting.
As she undid the restraints Mistress examined the results of her efforts. Carl’s ass and thighs had a nice red glow. The crop had left a perfect print of its tip emblazoned on Carl’s right cheek, just where it met the thigh. Mistress simply watched for a few minutes, breathing an unnoticed sigh of relief when the mark began to fade.
“Oh my God, look at the time!” Carl had returned to the world of worry. “I’m sorry Mistress, my outburst…I was just surprised.”
“Shhh, Carl. Do not be afraid,” Mistress calmed him. “I will vanish like my namesake in mere moments. Treasure the waning seconds of our time together.” Carl was speechless. Her words and the genuine emotion they contained struck him like none of her taunts or teases could.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he said, breaking rule two again as he spoke, “Now who is the poet?” He held out his hand, for once feeling unashamed to be standing naked in front of her. Mistress took his hand and squeezed, then went to the front room and picked up his clothes while he put the plant back on its hook and straightened up the table and chairs. “Thank you, Mistress,” he said, bewildered by her behavior.
“Well, I am running a touch late. I must do what I can to avoid any…problems.” She quickly stuffed her tools back in the bag. “I’ll straighten them out in the car or at home. Good bye Carl, write again soon,” she laid her hand on his cheek and went out the front door, somewhat more slowly than when she had entered.
Carl heaved a huge sigh and began the process of ending this strange interlude in his life. He checked the kitchen for telltales, sniffing the air. As usual, Mistress had worn no scent during her visit. Like the mist he had named her for, she was gone without a trace. Satisfied that their secret remained inviolate, Carl waited for the guilt to come. It would arrive accompanied by a host of recriminations and accusations. How could he do this to his wife? How could he allow these unmanly things to be done to him? He did not pledge to end their relationship as he had in the past. He had long since acknowledged the reality of his weakness and embraced the knowledge that there would always be another letter to Mistress Mist, another plan, another session.
His thoughts were interrupted by the garage door opener. A quick glance at the clock surprised him with how much time had passed. Brigitte pulled the little Toyota into the garage with practiced ease. Carl waited at the door, ready to help her with whatever packages she might have.
“Hey love,” she called cheerfully. “Sorry I’m running a little late. I had to stop at the store for a few things. How was your day off?” Brigitte had a natural ebullience that never failed to lift Carl’s spirits.
“Fine, fine,” he said, watching her ponytail bob as she pulled grocery bags out of the back seat. The fiery red color of her hair never ceased to amaze him. Her parents had been inspired when they named her, he thought. He received a kiss and a twinkle of her green eyes as he helped carry the bags into the kitchen.
“You look tired, Carl. Have you been exercising?” she asked as she put the bread and milk into the refrigerator. “No, I’m just feeling a little wrung out, that’s all. Maybe my damn allergies are acting up.” He paused, “Would you mind if I went and sat down for a bit?” His voice sounded tired, but his eyes were not. His gaze roamed freely over her, taking her in as though he wanted to commit her form to eternal memory.
“Well, you must not be completely tired out,” she smiled, promising for later. “Go and get a little rest then, you’ll need it tonight.” She watched Carl walk away, admiring his lean body and the way his backside rounded out the seat of his jeans. She pursed her lips pensively, he looked a little sore or stiff to her.
As she stepped to the counter to retrieve one more item for the pantry, something skittered away from her foot. She tracked it to the baseboard by the door and picked it up. It was a small, round black button.
“Damn,” she cursed softly, “that’s going to be a bitch to sew back on. Well at least Carl didn’t find it first,” she said aloud. Thinking about his possible reaction to the button brought a lopsided smile to her face as she stuffed the tiny thing into her pocket and finished putting away the groceries.
Author’s afterword. Why an afterword? I like to talk about writing and reading and the creative process. I could talk all day, but I really want you to read the story without having to wade through my verbage to get there.
Have you ever written something and wondered ‘where the hell did that come from?’ I don’t really know where this came from, but once I started, it practically wrote itself. Of course, the obvious answer is that this is a message percolating up from my subconscious, some kind of vicarious imaginary submission on my own part. I don’t totally reject that notion, but I don’t really embrace it either, it’s just too simple. But, enough of that. My previous stories (and I just know you’ve read them all, right? 
) contained elements of darkness and/or unfulfillment. Although this story has a slight twist to it, neither of those other elements are really present in it, which is something new for me, along with the faint romantic quality of the story. This is my sixth posted story and as ever, I would really like to know what you think. Good, bad or indifferent, please email me your opinions if you get the chance.
Originally posted 2012-12-08 08:08:49.
Mysterious Mistress
Female Led Relationships - F/m Fiction, Male Chastity, Feminization Stories, Female Domination Erotica, Femdom Photographs