The Reluctant Mistress and Her Unexpected Transition Part 6
Ironically, the singer mistress and I went to hear that Friday night was named Danny. Unlike my Danny, this one’s last name is Schmidt, a former local singer/songwriter who found fame in Austin and gained a national following. I first heard him on Pandora. His voice is okay, nothing special, but his songwriting is exceptional, accompanied by melodic guitar, a modern-day Bob Dylan. Danny got hooked on him, too. We sat on folding chairs in the low-ceilinged basement hall of the Southern Café and listened to songs of love, lost and found, of money earned and stolen, of sickness and health, of days perfect and hellacious, of marriage and miscarriage, angels and devils, secrets and truth . . . the bittersweet songs of life.
Songs of Life
One row over, next to a pillar, sat a Goth girl, her head nodding to the melodies. She was striking—purple-streaked, coal-black hair cut at her jawline, silver rings in her nose and up her ears, a skimpy peasant-girl dress that revealed tattoos everywhere. The eagle on her left arm soared over her shoulder and a wingtip stretched across her throat. Better than a collar. I caught her stealing glances at Danny, not so surprising, girls do that all the time—his bad boy James Dean look is irresistible. I was used to it. What was hot about the situation was I knew that stuffed in the crotch of my bad boy’s tight blue jeans was a caged cock. Danny was mine, all mine; that steel cage around his manhood was a constant reminder to him. That Goth girl could have stripped naked and thrown herself at him, no dice.
He had worn his cage through dinner, he would suffer it through three sets at the Southern Café, and he would endure my merciless petting on the drive home. When I finally took the cage off his throbbing cock in my bedroom later that night, let me tell you, the sex was hot, over the top.
I even let him cum. Twice.
But not without consequences. I had been doing my reading, and I knew that when you let a sub finally cum, he goes into a sinker. There’s probably a better name for it, but ‘sub blues’ will do.
I knew that when my Danny woke in the morning, he’d not only be spent from the night before, he would be feeling the blues. When you aren’t horny, what’s the motive for obeying your girlfriend? The antidote to this surly state of mine, I had read, was to take his mind off it with punishment and hard work. So while Danny snored away, I started the coffee, then padded down to the basement in my pajamas.
My basement has a mostly concrete floor, dirt under the front porch, with a sump pump that goes into overdrive whenever it rains. At the top of the foundation walls, opaque glass bricks set at intervals provide a hint of light on sunny days. There’s a furnace, hot water tank, washer, dryer, copper plumbing, electrical wires, joists, and in the center, a 4-inch diameter vertical steel post that holds up the main floor beam. On this post I had noticed an oval-shaped eyelet welded just below the U-bracket that held up the laminated wood beam. I stood on my toes and to this eyelet I snapped a carabiner link.
Then back upstairs. In the kitchen I split and toasted an everything bagel and smeared it with butter and orange marmalade, poured two cups of coffee, put them on a tray, and carried it into the bedroom, flooding our bed with a delicious aroma that woke Danny.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was still naked. I snuggled next to him with the tray on my lap. I noticed the cock cage on the carpet in a corner where Danny had flung it as a prelude to our fevered lovemaking. We drank our coffee and shared the bagel, laughing about the sexy Goth girl and the sexy secret she didn’t know. When the bagel was eaten and our cups empty, I sprung my trap. “Danny, I’m still horny . . . do you have to go pee?”
This was our code for “I want to have sex.” From the look on my beloved’s face, I could tell he was not yet recovered from last night’s sexual marathon, for which I must give him all credit. Poor thing, he wasn’t going to be able to get it up for a while.
Danny may have an exceptional sex drive, but he’s not superman. But there was a devious plan in my heart, born of love for my sub. I looked at him longingly, and with feigned disappointment said, “Well, why don’t you go pee anyway, we can still have fun.”
He got up, I think glad to escape my insatiable desire, if only for a moment. I heard his stream pouring into the porcelain toilet. No doubt spattering urine everywhere—another failing I planned to correct. For now, I ignored the sound and the visual of pee spots in my head.
In the top drawer of my chest, I had stashed the leather wrist cuffs. While Danny peed, I hopped up and retrieved the cuffs, slipping them under the sheets. When Danny returned and crawled back in bed, I took hold of his limp member and stroked it while planting a passionate kiss on his lips. His dick stayed limp, as expected.
I lifted an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, pet, can’t get it up this morning for your mistress?”
He looked mortified. Better mortified than the blues, I thought. I let go of his penis.
“Danny, put your arms out, love . . . that’s an order.”
That’s an ORDER
He complied without resistance, sticking his arms out in my direction. I pulled the leather cuffs out and laid them on the sheets so he could see them. Surprise. I fumbled with the first cuff—it was more complicated that I thought; you’d think it would be simple but no—eventually got it properly wrapped around his wrist and the buckle fastened. Danny remained silent, somewhat bemused. The other cuff went much quicker. Then I snapped the little D-rings on each cuff together with the padlock that I had pre-positioned on one buckle. I removed the key and admired my handiwork. The leather cuffs were as effective as metal police handcuffs, and more comfortable for what I had in mind.
Taking Danny’s flaccid dick in my hand, I said, “Let’s go, slave. Follow me.”
I noticed an instant perking of the flesh between my fingers. Fancy that.
I led Danny by his dick out the bedroom, down the hall, through the living room and to the foyer inside the front door. The stairs leading down to the basement were opposite the front door, which I almost never used. I realized I had forgotten his collar and the flogger, both of which I intended to use. (Note to self: plan a scene like you plan a meal.) “Wait here,” I ordered, leaving him standing in foyer. When I returned, his cock was at half-mast and rising fast. I put the collar on him, snugging it down a little tighter this time, not choking him, but tight enough that he felt the leather against his throat.
I kissed him on the cheek. “Better.” I took his dick—now it was firm—in one hand, the flogger in the other, and carefully led him down the stairs to the basement. When we got to the bottom, I flipped the light switch, which turned on a single 100-watt bulb which hung in the basement center. Looking at Danny’s face by the light, I could tell he didn’t have a clue of what was coming next. I led him to the steel post, sticking the flogger in the waistband of my pajama bottoms like a pirate would her sword.
“Lift your arms, high as you can, against the post.” He did as I told. I left him and retrieved the step ladder I kept by the washer and dryer.
Then brought it over and stood on it, lifting his cuffed arms another six inches, bringing him up on his toes. I snapped the carabiner around the linked cuffs. I hopped down. Danny was on his toes, his arms outstretched above him. He looked very sexy, that beautiful lean body arched and straining. Amazingly, his cock was fully erect, sticking out to one side of the pole.
I took his cock in my hand and stoked it, making him moan. I said in a matter-of-fact voice, “So slave, now that I have your full attention, let’s review the plan for the day.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Danny panted.
“After you’ve completed your time down here, you have chores to do.” I kept stroking his cock and it kept getting harder. “First, you’ll clean the toilet bowl of all your pee stains.”
“Then I want you to rake up the leaves in the backyard.”
“Then you’re going to clean out the cab of your truck. The floor is filthy.”
“Then we’re going over to your place. It’s a pigsty, and you’re going to clean it up while I supervise. You’ll be naked and wearing your collar and cock cage while you do.”
His cock was like carved wood in my hand. Oh, the power of chores to arouse the submissive beast.
I extracted the flogger from my waistband and lifted it to his nose. I wanted him to absorb the rich leather fragrance and remember it. “Smells nice, doesn’t it?”
He inhaled. “Yes, Mistress, it does.”
I got behind him and caressed his beautifully muscled back with the strands of the flogger, ran the handle down the deep furrow of his spine. “I’m going to give you a flogging now, slave . . . not because you’ve done anything wrong, simply because you are my possession and I can do what I want with you.” I added an afterthought, “And because you weren’t hard for me this morning.”
Ouch. That wasn’t quite fair. But he offered no retort.
“What do you say?” I demanded, wanting him to bring up last night in his defense.
“Thank you, Mistress?” he ventured, saying it with a sarcastic tone in his voice.
Humor, Yes. Sarcasm, NO
Humor, yes. Sincerity, yes. Sarcasm, no. Without warning, I gave him a swift, stinging swat that made him flinch. Then another. And another. And another. In a few swings I found out just how close to stand and how hard to swing. Something came over me, I found a rhythm, I went into the zone where my shadow dominatrix dwells. She was merciless. I landed blow after blow and didn’t stop until Danny’s poor back and ass were inflamed, one big red blotch. He took it like a man, gritting through his teeth.
It was like an aerobic workout. When I finished I was gasping for air. Sweat beaded on my forehead. My pajamas clung to my body, damp with perspiration. I needed a shower. Without saying a word, I left Danny hanging there, cuffed to the pole. On my way out, I flipped the switch, leaving him in the dark.
Lord have mercy on my savage mistress ways.