The Reluctant Mistress and Her Unexpected Transition Part 15
My father often extolled the virtues of silence when we were growing up. He said it brought peace at home, peace inside your head. He said the strongest leaders listen and learn. He said you should let the other guy do most of the talking, you’ll learn more. He said, when you have something to say, say it, but otherwise, be silent and listen. He said only a fool argues with an idiot. And so on, platitudes about silence with a grain of truth to them. Not that his silence helped his relationship with mom. But he and I shared a wonderful affinity for the unspoken word. One look and I knew exactly what was on his mind.
With my slave, I decided to see what good might come from the rule of silence, so I bought some ball gags from Stockroom, my favorite being a head harness with a ball gag/dildo combo, the idea being that the slave is gagged with a six-inch dick sticking out of his face, staring into his Mistress’ cunt when she mounted the dildo. She can put him on his knees, hold him by the ears and pump away, or lie him on his back and ride him. Poor slave, so close yet so far away. Seriously kinky. I couldn’t wait to try it.
The other half of my silence strategy was a series of short verbal commands accompanied by hand signals (or just the hand signal) to indicate the position I wanted my slave to assume.
One finger meant “Position One,” with slave standing in front of Mistress, his right hand holding his dick in a vertical position while the left hand wrapped tightly around the scrotum so that his balls were squeezed into a tight package, presented to Mistress. I had learned that when Danny’s balls were tightly collected in this fashion, they were exquisitely vulnerable; all it took was a flick of the wrist, a finger slap, and I had his full attention. A snap with my hair brush made his knees buckle and put fear in his eyes.
Two fingers for “Position Two,” slave standing with legs spread and hands behind head. And so on, Position #3 was the same as two only slave on his knees. Position #4 meant (fittingly) to go down on all fours. Position #5 (or simply “get in position”) meant to get into a position of supplication at Mistress’s feet. In all positions, the slave was to be silent, eyes cast down, focused on the floor at her feet.
This way, I could say a few words or make a simple gesture and my slave knew which position to assume. I loved being able to look at him and lift a single finger and have him snap into a submissive position. If he had clothes on, the poses were all the same except for Position One, where he was to drop his pants and underwear around his ankles and present his Mistress’s cock for her attention.
Listening to Learn
The ball gags introduced a whole new dynamic, because now Danny couldn’t cry out his safe words “red” and “yellow” (which we had yet to use). In lieu of a safe word, I instructed Danny to alert me of trouble with three short grunts or three stamps of his leg or three repetitive motions of any extremity or body part he could move. Otherwise, it was up to me to assess the degree of stress or the severity of the punishment and decide if I could risk using a gag, the tradeoff being the slave’s increased helplessness. How sweet the muffled sound of a slave crying out in agony and moaning behind his gag.
The downside of silence was that it prevented verbal communication, which left a girl wondering how her beloved was faring. And then there was the broader issue of communication between Mistress and her slave; which forms of corporal punishment were pushing my slave’s buttons best? To solve this issue, nerdy me, I wrote another questionnaire.
The questionnaire listed every form of physical punishment, each with three scales, the scales rated from 1 to 10. The first scale was for how much Danny liked the form of punishment (example, flogging), the second scale was for how hard the blows had been experienced to date, and the third scale was for how hard he wanted to experience it. I left room for written comments.
I’m glad I did the questionnaire, because Danny’s responses were a revelation. For example, to my amazement, he liked being slapped, rating it a seven. And that slap that came out of nowhere that I felt so guilty about? He rated it a five. A five! He wrote that he liked the spontaneity of a slap, that it gave him instant, intimate feedback from his Mistress. He claimed he would be fine with an eight or nine.
And so it went. Without exception, Danny’s numerical responses indicated that I had been going easy on him, that he would like it harder. Wow. Even with verbal communication, that hadn’t come across, probably because a slave isn’t going to ask his Mistress to hit him harder; that would be topping from the bottom. So now I knew. Not that I would necessarily be able to punish Danny as hard as he seemed to want; after all, I had my own limits, but at least now I knew how far I could go.
I realized I could use the same scale real-time while administering blows. I’d just whack at him and demand, “Rate that, slave.” He’d say “six” or whatever and then I’d have direct feedback on how hard he had been struck. After I got calibrated, I could safely gag him, knowing how hard I was hitting him without further verbal feedback. I wasn’t too worried about him needing to use a safe word, because of my own personal limits; I would have a hard time striking harder than a seven. I could never strike him so hard as to break flesh. I might cut off his hair, but there would be no blood on my hands.
The weeks of November fled by. We moved into a comfortable Mistress/slave routine, with Danny bicycling home from his new job around seven (later than I liked, but the price of being in management). He’d come in the kitchen door, strip, put on his collar, then crawl to wherever I happened to be in the house, usually on the living room couch. He would kiss my feet and I’d snap his leash to the collar with an affectionate but formal greeting, “Welcome home, slave,” then silently continue what I was doing, Facebook or reading or watching TV, while he waited patiently. Sometimes I’d have him massage my feet while he waited, sometimes I made him my footstool, sometimes I’d order him to the dungeon. When we eventually got around to dinner, he was happy to eat whatever I fed him from his bowl.
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving that year stands out in my mind as the day when my role as Mistress truly solidified—and for a completely unexpected reason. We were going over to Rebecca’s house for dinner the next day. Before I left work, she called me into her office. Looking up from her uncluttered desk, she said, “We’ll see you at three tomorrow afternoon, then?” An errant strand of platinum blonde hair fell across her forehead. As always, she was radiantly beautiful, dressed in a demure white silk blouse with a beautiful gold necklace and matching earrings.
“Yes, at three,” I replied. “I’m still planning on brining my green bean casserole.”
“Vegetable in name only,” she laughed, alluding to the stick of butter and crumbled cracker crust that made my casserole a heart attack in a dish. “And you’ll be bringing young Mr. Barton with you?”
“Good. We look forward to seeing him. I presume he won’t be wearing a dress this time.”
I laughed. “No, regular guy clothes this time.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow and said mischievously, “And how is his training going?”
“You mean at work?” I replied, assuming she was referring to his new job.
“No, I mean at home, darling,” Rebecca responded, her eyes smiling but boring a hole through me. My jaw dropped; my face must have turned sheet-white. I felt stricken. What did she know?
“Why don’t you have a seat, Vanessa. Let’s have a little girl talk.”
I collapsed into one of the seats across from her desk. How could she know?
Reading my mind, Rebecca said, “Honey, I know exactly what you’re doing with Mr. Barton.”
“Wha . . . what do you mean?” I stammered. Had she been peeking through my windows?
Rebecca looked at me kindly. “Vanessa, you know the saying, where there’s smoke, there’s fire? Sweetie, I’ve been smelling smoke for a month now. First the new joint account, then you start driving his truck—I love the vanity plates by the way—then him wearing a nurse outfit at my party, then the short haircut, the new job, his paycheck deposited into an account that only you control—”
“His finances were a mess; I’m just helping him get out of debt,” I protested.
“Oh, I know you are.” Rebecca rose from her seat, walked around the desk, and plunked down in the seat next to me. She took my hands. “Vanessa, I approve. I approve of everything you’re doing.”
What did she approve? Me taking over Danny’s finances? “You do?” I stammered, still wondering just how much she knew. But how could she know? I felt hot, like I had been caught stealing money from the bank. I felt flushed. I must have been beet red.
“Yes, I do,” Rebecca insisted, leaning in close. She brushed my right cheek with her lips and put her mouth to my ear. “Vanessa, darling, welcome to the club,” she whispered throatily. “I knew from the day we met you had in it you . . . I’m so proud of you.” She sat back and beamed at me.
I looked at her in shocked silence. She couldn’t know. But somehow she did. If I was just silent I could bluff my way out of this. No, I couldn’t . . . not with Rebecca. “How do you . . . what do you—”
“Vanessa, it takes one to know one. Hamilton is my slave. We’ve been in a female led marriage for over a decade, now. I am his Mistress.”
She crossed her legs and sat primly in her seat, a Cheshire grin on her face. It seemed to me as if she had just informed me that she vacationed in Maui, same as me, so we could dispense with telling each other about our vacation adventures. Hamilton is my slave and I am his Mistress. Hearing her say those words sent me falling through the looking glass, Alice in Wonderland meeting the White Rabbit and the Queen of Hearts . . . I didn’t know what to say. I still felt like I had been caught in a crime.
Rebecca spoke, “Honey, you should be relieved to know there are other couples on the same path. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s just who you are. It’s no different than being gay or lesbian. You are a strong woman and you found a good man to mold into a better man. And I approve . . . that’s it.”
“So you . . . you and Hamilton . . . he—”
“He does exactly what I tell him, Vanessa. He is my submissive slave. And he loves it.”
I just sat there, trying to comprehend her words, which seemed so foreign even though she was describing exactly the relationship Danny and I had embarked upon. Why was it so shocking to hear it spoken out loud? I guess because until that moment what Danny and I were doing was shrouded in my own mind with a cloak of secrecy, as if we were partaking in society’s greatest taboo. How silly.
Rebecca took my hands again. “I know this is a shock, but I suspected from the start that you had started down this path. After Halloween, I knew for certain. You are a dear friend; how could I remain silent when I know exactly what you are going through? And that’s all you need to take away from this, Vanessa, if you need someone to talk to, if you need advice, I am here for you.”
Silly me, I began weeping. Rebecca stood, went to her desk and brought back a box of Kleenex. I went through a few tissues, collecting myself, finding my way back through the looking glass. Rebecca was too kind to be the Queen of Hearts, she was not a tyrant . . . she was more like the Red Queen, cool, calm, fair, the Governess offering Alice guidance. Offering me guidance. I realized that our friendship was about to go to a deeper level. She was a gift from heaven. I had a million questions for her.
I blew my nose and said, “If everything you’ve said is true, and I know it is, then I’d like to bring Danny over tomorrow wearing his collar.”
Rebecca smiled broadly. “Now you’re talking like a Mistress.” She reached out her hands, lifted me to my feet, pulled me into an embrace and said in a naughty voice, “But I have a better idea.”
Next Episode: The Mistress Sisterhood
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