The Last Submissive – Mistress Elisabeth Hunter (4)

Friday after work, I went for a run, showered, dressed, packed an overnight bag and then went into the kitchen and made myself a turkey wrap—I wasn’t all that hungry but had a feeling I might not eat for some time. I left home with plenty of time to catch the Metro and be in Alexandria by 6:30 p.m. From the King Street station is was a 22-minute walk to Mistress Hunter’s address on South Lee Street. I had done a virtual tour and knew her home was a townhouse in an expensive neighborhood, close to Waterfront Park on the Potomac River.

Finally I’ve Arrived

I reached her home, an attractive three-story brownstone with a Cherokee-red metal roof, a black Lexus parked under a tree on the brick-paved alley to the right side. Black wrought iron steps lead up to the slate-grey and white-trimmed front door, with a set of concrete steps leading down to the lower level. I went down and checked my watch: five minutes early. I waited, feeling my underarms growing damp, wishing I had put on more deodorant, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into.

At exactly seven p.m., I pushed the button to the left of the black, metal door. The door had two curtained windows at eye level, and after a minute had passed, the curtain on the right pane was drawn back and I saw myself looking into a familiar face—the face of the hostess from the Columbia Firehouse. Holy shit, that was unexpected.

Mistress

So It Begins

She nodded at me. A moment later, I heard the deadbolt swing free, and then the door knob turned and the door opened inward a few inches. I heard her muffled voice through the cracked door, “Come in, turn around, face the door and disrobe. Put your clothes in your bag and then kneel on all fours, facing the door. Understood?”

“Yes,” I croaked, wondering if I should call her Mistress.

The door swung inward and as I stepped inside, I got a glimpse of my host sashaying down a dimly lit hallway, a slender figure in black leather pants, black top, an open triangle revealing a good portion of her back. She wore tall high heels. She turned a corner at the end of the hallway and disappeared.

Entering my Mistress Dungeon

I stepped into the hallway, my eyes adjusting to the light. Not much to see, I was at the end of an unfinished cinderblock brick hallway, with some doors on the left side. I closed the door behind me, turned the doorknob button until I felt it lock, threw the deadbolt and dropped my bag on the concrete floor. I stripped down and folded my sweater, shirt, blue jeans, underwear, socks and loafers into the canvas bag, watch and wallet on top of the slacks and shirt for work on Monday. Suddenly, Monday seemed a lifetime away. I zipped the bag closed and got down on all fours, nose to the door.

As I waited, the extraordinary reality of the situation hit me—I was butt naked, kneeling on all fours in a strange house, waiting for my life to change forever. Blood coursed through my body and my pulse pounded in my ears.

Mistress

Waiting on Mistress Hunter

I thought of that beautiful young hostess from Columbia Firehouse somehow a part of this, and then I thought of Mistress Hunter somewhere in this house above me, with who knew what sadistic plans, and my cock grew harder by the second. Sweat trickled down my arms.

After what seemed an eternity, I heard steps coming down the hallway in my direction. Click, click, click, high heels clicking on concrete. A pause. I felt eyes gazing down on me. Then a voice, not Mistress Hunter’s voice, the girl’s voice. “My name is Lilly, slave,” she said. “You will address me as Miss Lilly. Not Mistress Lilly, but Miss Lilly, is that understood?”

“Yes, Miss Lilly.”

“I am Mistress Hunter’s female submissive. You are now my responsibility. She has given me full authority over you, without condition. You will submit to me and do as I instruct, is that clear?”

Miss Lilly’s Takeover

I paused for a moment, processing this, and in that brief instant, I heard the whistle of something slicing through the air, ending with an excruciating, stinging blow to my right thigh. My body flinched and I stifled an involuntary yelp. A searing pain radiated out from where I had been struck. Ouch!

“That’s my cane you just felt, Mr. Green, the consequence of even the slightest disobedience. You will respond and obey without hesitation, is that understood?” As she spoke, she stroked my back and flanks with her cane, then ran it down the crack of my ass, bringing the tip to rest against my balls.

She tapped lightly. “Well?”

“Yes, Miss Lilly!” I didn’t have to think twice.

Collared!

I felt her drape something over my neck, a leather collar, looping it around and fastening a buckle in the back. A moment later, a metal-to-metal snap. “Mr. Green, I haven’t decided what pet name to give you yet, so for now it’s ‘slave’ or ‘Mr. Green.’ I’ve just placed Mistress Hunter’s collar around your neck, slave, and now I’m going to lead you by your leash down the hallway to your room. You will remain on all fours and keep your eyes fixed on the floor just ahead at all times. You will not look up or make eye contact without explicit instruction, is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Lilly.”

Time for a walk?

She jerked the leash and pulled my head to face down the hallway, she led me on all fours down the hallway to the second door on the left, a heavy oak door. She pushed it open and I followed her inside. The room was pitch black. She flipped a switch and an overhead bulb cast a circle of light in the middle of the room. I made out a military style cot against the far wall. Miss Lilly led me to the center of the room, where a multi-page document lay on the concrete floor, with a pen to one side.

“That’s a consent and release form, Mr. Green. You are to read each paragraph and initial the line below the paragraph, then sign and date at the end of the form, on page three of three.

Consent Contract’s

Mistress

I’m going to stand here and watch while you read, and then I will sign as your witness. The second-to-last paragraph are Mistress Hunter’s exclusions, and below that, a place for you to list any exclusions, anything that you consider an absolute hard limit . . . Now get started.”

I went skydiving once, a tandem jump (another extreme sport, come to think of it), and this waver was pretty much the same thing, only instead of one jump, it was for one year. I began reading and initialing paragraphs, the sum of which essentially released Mistress Hunter and any person under her authority from all liability, I was consenting to pretty much anything—and I mean, anything.

Singing my LIFE away!

I didn’t know if some activities were for real or were listed just to scare me; they included anal play and anal sex, branding, confinement, defilement . . . the words began to swim in my head, conjuring up scenarios I could barely imagine, like “anonymous, bisexual sex,” “cuckolding,” “mental, physical and verbal abuse,” “sensory deprivation,” and so on . . . holy shit, what had I gotten myself into?

And if I refused too much of this stuff, was I out the door, the other guy selected? Maybe this was all just a head game. Then again, what if it were real? I had to take it on face value, right?

I finally reached page three and the second-to-last paragraph and read Mistress Hunter’s exclusions, which I assumed applied to Miss Lilly. There were only a few: “animals, age play, blood, burning, cutting, scat and unprotected sex.” That’s it.

Safe Play

Well, I was relieved about safe sex. But if scat play—playing with feces—was specifically excluded, and urine was not, did that mean it was allowed? I presumed so, but I dared not ask Miss Lilly a stupid question. Same for branding, what did that mean? A small tattoo? Or where we talking a real branding, a permanent mark seared on the flesh with a hot iron, like some livestock?

The last paragraph was all mine. It read, “List any exclusions.” I stared at that for a long minute, and as I did, Miss Lilly began lightly caressing my buttocks with her cane. I think that was a message to not to tarry, not to think about it too much.

Limitations: Tell us now or forever hold your peace

Should I list something? Or should I trust that this girl standing over me, and the woman over her, Mistress Hunter, were not total maniacs? Or should I put down something, and by doing so indicate that I took the document seriously, that I had hard limits?

Miss Lilly began tapping her heel. “Take your time, slave, but don’t waste mine,” she said quietly.

I had no idea what to do. I wanted this badly. And without my signature, I knew I was going home, game over. If it got unbearable, I would quit, simple as that. Fuck it, I decided to trust. I grabbed the pen, and next to “exclusions” I wrote: “No permanent disfigurements, no hypnosis, no overt public displays.”
Below that, on the dotted line, I signed and dated the form.

Let the Fun begin!

Miss Lilly stepped forward, straddling my thighs with her heels. She leaned down to pick up the pen, resting her leather-clad breasts on my shoulder blades. I felt her warm breath on my neck.

My, aren’t we the brave one,” she said. “You’ll be fun to play with.”

She signed and dated the form on the witness line below my own:

Lillian Packard – April 18th, 2016

I had to believe that was her real name. Which made this a real document, legally binding in our alternate universe. It was done, I was slave for a year . . . that is, if I made it through this weekend.

Next: The Ordeal begins

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