The Last Submissive – Mistress Elisabeth Hunter (13)

Going Back To Work As A Normal Person

Going back to work on Monday like a normal person (well, a worker bee/serf in Washington, D.C.) was more difficult than I expected. I fended off the usual vapid inquiries at the coffee bar about how my weekend had gone without pulling down my pants to show off my new brand, or going into how it felt to fuck the wife of one of the most powerful men in the nation—right before his eyes.

It was surreal. I now thought of myself as Mistress Hunter’s slave first, and a normal person second (make that a vanilla zombie second). All I wanted to do was go back to the cocoon of Mistress Hunter’s kinky alternate universe, where life was simpler and more alive . . . infinitely more alive.

Two things kept my workday from being total drudgery, and the first was not anything you might think, it was the oddest thing, an instruction Mistress Hunter gave me as she sent me out of her basement door with an overnight bag in hand. She grasped my left wrist, stopping me in mid-stride, and instructed, “Mr. Green, at work today, when you use your mouse, you will use this hand.”

Mistress Hunter’s Odd Request

I gave her a quizzical look, resisting the impulse to say, “I beg your pardon?” She nodded at me. “You heard correctly. I want you to use your mouse with your left hand. I know your work involves fine motor skills, and I want to be on your mind as you work. This will insure that every moment at work, no matter how tedious, you will be reminded of who owns you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I replied, a little baffled, but whatever Mistress wants. I made my way to the Metro, swung by home to shower and change, inspected my brand in the bathroom mirror a dozen times, and still made it to work on time. Using a mouse with my left hand turned out to be a serious challenge. At first, the cursor moved across the computer monitor like a first-grader playing with an old-fashioned Etch-a-Sketch board. But surprisingly, in less than thirty minutes, I started to get the hang of it . . . or rather, on its own accord, my left hand started to get the hang of it. In an hour or so, I reached a semi-functional level with the mouse.

Just as Mistress Hunter predicted, she was never far from my thoughts. It was like she was looking over my shoulder. For once, I actually smiled at work. The second thing, you ask? I was wearing her chastity cage. Hard not to think of her wearing that.

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Getting Ready to See My Mistress

After work, I returned home and collected all my papers, most of my clothing, packed up the car and drove to Alexandria, parking in the spot behind Mistress Hunter’s Lexus. Inside, Miss Lilly went through my clothes, tossing a good portion of them aside on the floor, “the Goodwill and good riddance pile,” as she referred to it. We would soon make a trip to a men’s clothing store, she informed me.

When Miss Lilly was done with my clothing, she took me down to the mud room and gave me the requisite enema and cold shower, inspected my chastity cage, collared me, helped me into the leather slave harness, and sent me upstairs to Mistress Hunter’s office.

I knocked on the doorframe and positioned myself on hands and knees in the doorway. “Come, slave, take your place at my feet.” I crawled over and took the spot to the left of Mistress Hunter’s swivel chair (I had learned that Miss Lilly’s spot was always to Mistress Hunter’s right). The chair creaked as she moved about, going through my papers. I waited patiently, then with pleasure felt her hand tousle my hair. “You like being my slave, don’t you, Mr. Green?”
“Yes, Mistress, very much.” “How did you do with the mouse at work today, slave?” “I managed, Mistress.”

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Learning To Use My Left Hand For Many Functions

“Good. Henceforth, you may only use your left hand to operate a mouse. And in fact, I want you to start using your left hand for as many functions as possible, from shaving to lifting a water pitcher; do as much of it as you possibly can with your left hand. And if I ever allow you to masturbate, you will use your left hand and think of me. Is that understood?”

Wow. She sure knew how to get inside a man’s head. Who would’ve thought, through his hand? “Yes, Mistress,” I replied, not knowing just how pervasive this instruction would turn out to be, and how difficult I would find it to jack off with my left hand (on the rare occasion I was allowed, that is).

Being A Bull Has Its Benefits

“And you enjoyed your time with the senator’s wife last night, an unexpected benefit of being my sex slave?” I smiled at the floor. “Yes, Mistress.” “I expect absolute discretion in these matters, Mr. Green.” “Of course, Mistress.”

“Well, I believe I can trust you, but just to be sure, you should know I now have an extensive collection of photos of you in compromising situations, you in the dungeon, in my garden, before and after receiving my brand on your bottom, on hands and knees, cleaning my hardwood floors in your slave outfit, and so on. Would you like to see them?” “That won’t be necessary, Mistress.”

She continued running her fingers through my hair, her nails tracing lines down the back of my neck. “I didn’t think so. Nevertheless, until you have earned my complete confidence, I need to be absolutely certain that you won’t ever be tempted to embarrass me or my guests. Discretion is paramount in these matters, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Green?” “Yes, Mistress.”

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Mr. Green Considers Signing Over His Assets to Mistress Hunter

“Good, then I’m sure you’ll be pleased to sign papers giving me the deed to your home in Maryland, as well as signing over the title to your sedan.” I gulped. This made it as real as real could get. My cock agreed, betraying me, suddenly growing hard and filling the chastity cage. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good boy.” A good boy. Yep, that’s me: all dick and no forehead. She wasn’t done yet. “And your checking and savings account, I know you’ll be pleased to transfer those funds to my safe keeping, won’t you, my dear?” She patted my head as she said this.

So, I was “her dear” now? I had worked dearly for that money. I had about five-thousand dollars in checking and just over twenty thousand in savings. Then there was my 401K retirement savings account; did she want that, too? She sensed my hesitation, however brief, and her hand swiftly moved from my hair to a tight grip around the backside of my collar, choking me slightly.

“You do realize, Mr. Green, that I do not need your house, your car or your money.” She relaxed her grip so that I could reply. I cleared my throat. “I know, Mistress.” “So why would I want control of your finances and possession of your property?” “So that I will never say anything about what goes on here, Mistress?” I ventured.

A Dominant Female Controls Everything Her Submissive Has

“No my dear, that’s not it, try again. Here, I’ll help you think.” She tightened her grip on the collar, making it hard for me to breathe, let alone think. The way she held the collar, it was actually restricting not only my windpipe, but the flow of blood to my brain. I started to get a little dizzy. I thought furiously, hoping to come up with something before I passed out. Spots formed before my eyes. I tried again, “Because if I’m your possession, then that means you should have possession of everything I possess, Mistress?”

“Good answer, Mr. Green, that’s it exactly.” Her grip on my collar relaxed. Blood made its way back into my brain. I took a deep breath and my vision cleared. She continued, “I’ll have the papers drawn up this week and you can sign them Friday. I’ll even let you sign with your right hand.”

In another life, I might have been tempted to make some sarcastic retort, but my ego was already beginning to transform; I was starting to think of myself as a slave, and a respectful one at that. Slaves didn’t own property; slaves were property. I was a slave; ergo, it made perfect sense to sign over everything to my Mistress. This adventure was on, all or nothing, and I realized that owning nothing was the path to all.

Slaves Are Not Entitled to Own Anything

“Thank you, Mistress. I will be pleased if you take possession of everything I own.” She released her grip on my collar and resumed stroking my hair. “Now that we have that settled, let’s talk about your education, Mr. Green. You did a passable job as a butler yesterday, and my friend Dabney was quite pleased with your performance.” “Thank you, Mistress.”

“But being a bull for a Mistress is just the start, Mr. Green. I want you to be able to escort me or my lady friends to any number of social functions . . . the opera, symphony, dinner parties, charity balls, and so forth. A capable, debonair escort. Think James Bond. Do you know how to dance, Mr. Green?”

I assumed she meant more than doing the Hustle on a crowded dance floor. Other than that, I could jump up and down to techno music with the best of them and do a slow dance. But actually dance? No. “What sort of dance, Mistress?” “I mean ballroom dancing, Mr. Green: Cha-Cha, Rumba, Swing; Tango, Foxtrot, Waltz, and so on.”

Mr. Green’s Training Continues

“No, Mistress.” “I swear, your generation has taken a giant leap backwards in the social graces.” I didn’t know what to say to that. Guilty as charged, it seemed. I held my tongue. “We will arrange dancing lessons, for you, Mr. Green. You’ll start immediately.” “Yes, Mistress.” “You and Lillian.”Suddenly, ballroom dance lessons sounded like a great idea. “Yes, Mistress.” “Stand up, Mr. Green.”

I rose to my feet, keeping my eyes cast on the floor. Mistress Hunter swiveled in her chair and stood. She took me in hand by my chastity cage and led me to the island of hardwood floor in the center of the office. My cock swelled in its cage as she drew me against her body. She was barefoot, dressed in a satiny blouse and pleated skater dress. She rocked her hips and led me around in a circle, her breasts pressed against my bare chest. “You’ll like dance lessons, Mr. Green. Do you know why?”

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There is One Cardinal Rule In Dancing

It was hard to think straight, but if this was dancing, I thought, what’s not to like about it? But I didn’t want to say something flippant and spoil the moment, so I replied, “No, Mistress, why?” “Ballroom dancing is an excuse to hold a lady, Mr. Green . . . and if you know what you are doing, you’ll make her want to come back.” Even I, a card-carrying, socially inept Millennial, could see the attraction in that. “Yes, Mistress.”

“And there’s more, Mr. Green, something wonderful, something that every red-blooded male should know about. There’s only one cardinal rule in dancing. Do you know what it is?” I had no idea. The only cardinal rule I knew of had been reinforced with Miss Lilly’s cane. I shook my head no, my eyes fixed on her hand, still holding my cock cage, leading me in her slow dance.

“The rule is this: the man leads, and the woman follows . . . even if you are her slave. So that means not only will you get to hold her, but you’ll get to lead Miss Lilly around the dance floor.” She let go of my chastity cage. Her hand rose and found my chin. She lifted it, so that I was looking directly into her blue eyes, which were filled with mirth . . . dancing, even. “Won’t that be nice?”

I couldn’t help but smile at the thought.

Next: Forbidden fruit

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Freelance author living near the Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia.

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