Wednesday, 7:15 pm.
I arrived at Mistress Hunter’s townhouse from my martial arts lesson and let myself in the basement door. I showered (which meant cleaning myself inside and out, in case Mistress Hunter wished to peg me later), and changed into my house uniform—a web of black leather straps, mostly bare flesh, not unlike the studded slave harness we wore at the party. Of course, my cock cage. Upstairs, as usual, the house was deserted; Mistress almost always worked late.
First stop, the kitchen to prepare supper. Tonight’s menu included an appetizer of crackers and roasted pine-nut hummus dip, tossed mixed-green salad with French baguette, vegetarian casserole, and Italian gelato for dessert. Once the casserole was in the oven, I set the crackers and dip on a plate and carried it to the library. I poured a crystal tumbler with Scotch whiskey and set it on the tray next to Mistress’ recliner. I checked the built-in wall fridge for ice and a bottle of sparkling water, just in case she wasn’t in the mood for her usual Glenfiddich.
Getting The House Ready For Mistress Hunter
Next, I raced through the house, dusting and then running a dry mop across the hardwood floors. Then to Mistress’ bedroom and bath: wipe down the counters, clean the mirrors, and scrub the toilet. Back to the kitchen to wrap the French baguette in foil and put it in the oven, turn the oven down to low, prepare the salad and a vinaigrette dressing, then set the table with linen and silverware.
I checked the clock: five to eight. Whew. One last glance around the dining room and kitchen, then I raced down the hallway. I dropped to my hands and knees next to the front door, placing the cell phone she had provided me on the floor (she had taken my iPhone; the only calls I was permitted were to my work, her office and cell phone). If she didn’t call, I was to expect her between eight and eight-fifteen.
My Last Glimpse Of Lillian
I waited, my forehead resting on the floor, listening to the sound of rain thrumming on the door and pelting the windows down the hallway. I thought about my last glimpse of Lillian on Sunday, before we were herded into the truck. She was supervising the female subs, all fully dressed, looking like sorority sisters as they climbed into a large, 12-passenger van—how different from we male subs, stark naked, shackled together, led single-file into a delivery truck.
Just before I stepped on the loading ramp, Lillian slipped away from the van to a vantage where she could catch my eye. Her lips formed into a bittersweet smile and she held my eyes long enough to send a message of reassurance. She was well; she would be okay on the farm.
This reverie was interrupted by the metallic sound of a key being inserted into the door lock above my head. A burst of adrenalin pulsed through me. I snapped into proper position: head down, rear end up, muscles taut, back arched, eager to receive my Mistress.
Lick My Boots Dry
“Ah, good boy, Chance,” she said as the door swung open. Cold rain swept in behind her. She closed the door behind her and let the rain drip from her umbrella, forming a puddle on the hardwood floor. “Lick it up, Chance,” she said casually as she closed the umbrella and clanged it into its brass stand.
I crawled forward a few inches and began to lap up the puddle. The rain tasted slightly acrid, pollutants or sea salt, carried in by easterly squalls. “Lick my boots dry, boy,” said Mistress Hunter. I applied my tongue to her boots. The tops were easy enough; it was swallowing down the grit and grime off the underside and heels that was always a challenge.
“That’s enough,” Mistress Hunter commanded as I finished up on the second heel, three inches buried in my mouth. I parted my lips and backed away. “Is supper ready, Chance?” “Woof!” I replied. “Good. And you’ve prepared a drink for me in the library?” “Woof!” “Good boy. Now crawl to the library and wait by my chair; I’m going to change into something more comfortable. I could use a foot massage and a stiff drink.”
What Will The Evening Bring
“Woof, woof,” I responded, my doggy intonation for ‘Yes, Mistress.’ Ten minutes later, Mistress Hunter entered the library. “Good evening, Paul.” This salutation carried two messages: first, she was pleased with me; whatever the reason. Second, this was my cue to revert to slave status, more appropriate for serving drinks and giving massages.
“Good evening, Mistress,” I replied formally, keeping my eyes on the floor, but intensely curious to know if she had changed into a dressing gown or leggings and a sweatshirt. If the latter, she wouldn’t be in the mood for anything but pampering, supper and bed. If the former, anything could happen.
As she settled into the recliner, I caught a glimpse of her satin dressing gown, the short one. Ahhh. “Massage my feet, slave,” she commanded as she settled back in the recliner with her drink. I crawled around the chair and rose to face her on my knees. Mistress Hunter held the tumbler of Scotch to her lips and gazed at me appraisingly, watching as I took in the electrifying sight of her body, her lacy, vanilla-pink bra and panties visible under the violet-hued gown. Her feet were bare, her beautifully manicured toenails as red as her lips.
Mistress Hunter Receives A Thank You Note
I went to work on her feet, kneading her arches with my knuckles, sliding my fingers between the toes, gently massaging the muscles and tendons. It was a pleasant task. A few times I glanced up to see her head thrown back, eyes closed, pleasure written across her face. After about ten minutes she spoke. “Slave, I received a nice thank-you card today—about you.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, striking a balance between acknowledging her statement and sounding curious, while keeping any hint of pride from my voice. “It’s from Doris Downing,” she continued, feeding my curiosity. “Yes, Mistress.” “She said you were very helpful to her and her husband. ‘He showed exceptional delicacy and understanding,’ she put it. Do you know who Mr. Downing is, slave?”
Chance Makes An Impact On The Downing Couple
I looked up. “No, Mistress.” “He’s the CFO of a very large defense contractor, an important client.” “Yes, Mistress.” “You may kiss my feet, slave.” This was an honor not to be taken lightly. I kissed the tops of her feet, placing my lips on that inviting, tendon-ridged plateau between the base of her toes and the first rise of the arch.
“Doris is a bridge partner; an intelligent, delightful woman. She wrote in her note that she shall be taking a more, shall we say—assertive—role in their marriage. In fact, she’s already convinced William to shift his annual NRA donation to the Circle-S Animal Welfare Fund. Isn’t that lovely?”
“Yes, Mistress.” I tried to stifle my grin. After seeing Mrs. Downing wield the flogger on her husband, I was pretty sure they were headed in that direction, especially when later on, as events unfolded in the dungeon, she turned to me with a strapon cock rammed up his ass and excused me for the night. “I had a feeling that might—” I started to say, but stopped. Not my place.
Your Place In My Household
“No, go ahead, slave. What were you going to say?” I fixed my eyes on her beautiful feet. “I’ve had a great teacher, Mistress.” She snorted. “That’s not what you were about to say. Spit it out, or I’ll have you over my knee.” I smiled; not that I would mind. “It was amazing to see Mrs. Downing find her power,” I observed. “She enjoyed being strung up and flogged, but when she had her husband that way . . . well, it was like a tumbler clicked into place. For both of them. They came alive; they found their natural polarity.”
“Hmm . . . not unlike you.” “Not unlike me, Mistress.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “You’ve come a long way, slave, but you still have a lot to learn.” “Yes, Mistress.” “Actually, slave, I’ve been giving this considerable thought. I’m afraid that assigning you to serve as Dabney’s bull, and now this episode with the Downing’s . . . well, these experiences have given you the wrong idea about your place as a submissive in my household.”
I remained silent. What she said was true. Between learning to ballroom dance, cuckolding the senator, learning martial arts (even if it was only a few lessons), openly declaring my love for Lillian and breeding her like a stallion, I had tapped into a masculine part of me I didn’t know existed. Mentoring the Downing’s, I realized I could become a Dom. A damn good one, too.
I Love You Mistress
Mistress Hunter put down her drink, eased forward in her recliner and stood up, cupping my head in her hands, drawing my face to her crotch. “But this is where you truly belong, my sweet slave, isn’t it?” I couldn’t speak with my mouth pressed against her. I nodded and mumbled yes. “And you love worshiping me, don’t you, slave, worshiping at this sacred altar?” Again, I nodded. I began to press my tongue against the lacy fabric, finding my way to her clit.
She pulled my lips away and tilted my chin up. “I know how much you want to serve me, sweet slave, and I know how much you love Lillian. Don’t you?” I longed to swim in the sea of her blue eyes; they drew me in with a powerful tide. “Oh, yes, Mistress,” I gushed. And then I blurted out, “I love you, Mistress. I love you . . . and I love Lillian.”
The words just came out, shocking to my own ears. Mistress Hunter smiled; her expression saying she wasn’t hearing anything she didn’t already know. “My dear, sweet boy, I know you love and adore us both. So, it won’t be hard to give what I’m about to ask . . .”
The Ultimate Request
Tilt. What else did I have to give? She had my house, my car, even my phone. There wasn’t anything else left to give. Freedom is nothing left to lose, right? I replied, “Whatever you want, Mistress.” “Good boy. That’s what I wanted to hear. Because what I’m about to ask of you is going to take real commitment, it will be a major life adjustment . . . and you will have to quit your job.”
Oh. I had forgotten about that, my job. My identity. Well, at least, my work identity. I had spent my life to land a position with the National Archives. “But how will I earn a living, Mistress?” I asked. “You’ll come work for me.” “Oh . . . I see.” That’s not all of it. There’s more.” “Yes, Mistress?” I asked in a daze. “I want to turn you into a woman.” “I beg your pardon, Mistress?” “You heard me . . . I want to turn you into a woman. You’ll come to work for me as a woman.”
Now, my head was spinning. I heard her voice, firmer: “You just said, ‘whatever you want, Mistress.’ Did you mean that, slave?” She shook my jaw, jarring my brain, forcing me to re-focus. “Well?” I cleared my throat. “I . . . I meant it, Mistress.” She smiled. “I knew you did. And you do want to see Lillian again, don’t you, Paulina?”
My universe came to a screeching halt as I absorbed what she had said. She had just pushed me overboard, and in the same breath, thrown me a life preserver . . . with “Paulina” stenciled on it. She stared at me with a ferocious gaze, her eyes glittering. Drowning in her ocean. I blinked. “Yes, Mistress.” “That’s my girl,” she replied.
Next: Life as Paulina