You put on flesh colored stockings, straight from the plastic package. There is just something about factory-fresh stockings that is indulgent because they are tight and so new. The fabric squeezes against your calves and thighs like a hug. There are no runs, no tears, and no stretching. They’ve never been introduced to a cold cycle and a pile of used delicates that take a beating in a crude washing machine.
It’s 9:04 pm.
You wear velvet because why not, and it’s a beautiful black piece that has been tailored for you. It melts over you, and you melt inside of it, another familiar piece of your wardrobe that has evolved into your uniform with time.
The phone rings. It’s a caller you’ve named “Good Boy.” He is anxious, impatient, and dying a little bit. He rented an expensive hotel room with a view and is probably biting his nails inside of a double suite. Baby stuff. You don’t answer because you’re a Dom, not a mom.
You apply red lipstick, a splash of men’s cologne, and mascara. You don’t overdo it like some Doms, turning themselves into a cheap Cleopatra to prowl around at clubs. Your lipstick is matte and bright, a deterrent against kisses. Doms never offer their lips and never leave kiss marks. Not even on the glass of champagne Good Boy is dutifully chilling for you.
Of course, the hair must be elegant enough to stand up to a dinner party but practical enough to get down to business. You braid two thick plaits on either side of your head and then create a sort-of crown from the braids. The effect is very milkmaid.
Then, you put on thigh-high lacquered boots. They are the kind of boots that little boys dream of and grown men recognize. It is a signal, like a lighthouse in the darkness, shining and calling out to lost sailors. Come here! Come here! You think of how many lovely faces you have squished beneath those pointed toes. They make such a satisfying click on the floor of your bathroom, as you pace and prep.
Ah, I look good.
The toolkit must be cleaned and prepped. You pull out a vintage doctor’s bag from the closet and unpack an array of different toys. Blindfolds, Anal beads, plugs, handcuffs, and strap-ons are included in the kit. Everything is carefully washed and sanitized for your next appointment with the Boy. This isn’t the back room of a sex shop with a few fad gadgets that will break after a month. Bodywork, not batteries, propel these classics.
A dominatrix is cleanly, classic, and on time. She is an amalgamation of your most stringent teachers, school nurses, babysitters, and female relatives, in that there is always something she wants from you that you are not doing. You’re late, you’re a mess, you’re filthy, and you’re uncouth. But she is always herself, always presentable, and always colder than you can imagine. There are no excuses that a Dom will accept. There is no way you can ever please her. And for the love of god, don’t try any jokes.
It’s 9:46 pm.
You are in your final form: tight, tidy, well-done but never over-done. You take the elevator from your apartment down to the street, where the doorman, Dave, has already called you a cab. He’s a cute guy, 40ish, tall as a Redwood. You lovingly pat his butt before entering the taxi, and he giggles. It is a weird exchange with an unknown origin, but you’ve patted that butt for years.
The taxi smells like god-awful Chanel No. 5, which once enjoyed a reputation as a tasteful perfume, but is now the signature scent of dissatisfied old women everywhere. You give the address of the hotel where your Good Boy is pacing around. The taxi driver has a mole on the back of his neck that looks like a slice of pizza.
“Someone should look at that,” you offer.
“That mole? Been there since I was eight,” he says proudly. Disgusting.
The hotel is beautiful and Georgian, and perhaps a trifle too much. It boasts unnecessary columns, cherubs, crystal chandeliers, and gold-flecked wallpaper. You pass the check-in desk and ride the elevator to the sixth floor, and then walk down a stretch of dense red carpet to room 613.
It is exactly 10:00 pm. Good boys are rewarded with a timely mistress.
He opens the door, trembling. “Hello, mistress.” He has dressed, exactly, as you have asked, in a white linen shirt, fitted black trousers, and a thin black leather belt. His black hair has been slicked back on each side, and his face is clean shaven. Good Boy looks so young without any stubble, with a freshness that reminds you of the new tights you are wearing. He bows his head, and you enter.
You ignore him and approach the bed, placing the doctor’s bag on the fluffy cream duvet. You can hear him breathing in the corner of the room, anxious, afraid, and thrilled.
“Undress,” you command.
You lay out all of your tools across the bed while he fumbles with buttons. You can see him from the corner of your eye; he is white, a little fat, and covered in tiny moles. But clean, and somehow, adorable. You like a man to tremble the way he does, to show reverence as his body shakes. This is the third time you’ve met with him privately, and yet he is already better behaved and more obedient than clients who have been seeing you for years.
But first, there is the matter of the chilled champagne. It’s your favorite, Canard-Duchene, and he has left only one glass beside the ice bucket. All yours. You pop the cork and pour yourself a full glass. He can wait a little longer. The champagne is dry and crisp on your tongue, the way you like it. You sip with pleasure before deciding to get down to business.
Good boys are clean and silent, like little mice. They say “yes ma’am” and hold in their whimpers and cries. They take the whip with pleasure and accept the pain without asking for anything in addition to the pain. The better the boy, the more you are inclined to reward them.
“Face the wall,” you say once he has fully undressed.
You pick up a leather switch and surprise him with the first swipe across the back of his legs. He stifles a cry, and you continue. You strike ten soft blows to warm him up, across his ass and back and legs. Little red lines form on his flesh, and you feel as if you are an oven pre-heating before a feast.
“Don’t make a sound. I don’t want to hear any noise from you at all,” you say. “Get on your knees, on the floor.”
His expression is anxious, like a man about to sing karaoke for the first time. He bites his lower lip as if to keep sound from escaping. He looks like the kind of sweetheart that holds doors open for endless groups of people and likes to listen to Frank Sinatra. He is a coffee shop hunk, a dreamy library catch. Your business is to reward him for all of these unacknowledged efforts.
You crouch beside him and run your hand over his ass, which is soft and firm as a woman’s.
“So obedient,” you whisper. “I’m going to spank you now, evenly, on each cheek. If you don’t cry out, there will be a reward.”
Bent down beside him, you begin the blows. A perfect spanking takes some effort, the hand must land flat against the ass without cupping or hitting. There must be an even smack sound for each spank that matches perfectly with the blow that came before it. A red mark should always form, and you always switch from one cheek to the other when you are feeling kind. Smack, smack, smack. His breathing becomes irregular and heavy, and you can see his arms shake from gripping the carpet.
He is motionless and perfect otherwise, and you feel a rush of something like excitement rise through your stomach and into your chest. You stop the spanking and move your sore right hand over his back and ass, feeling between the cheeks. You run your fingers over his asshole and circle it; it’s pink and lovely. Clean as any you’ve seen before, and tight.
As his reward, you lean in towards him and move your tongue around his asshole. He obviously spent time cleaning himself and tastes like expensive hotel soap. Charming boy. For the first time at this angle, you notice his erection. He is pleased, swollen to fullness. It is an adorable, crooked thing with a pink tip. The kind of a dick a woman could fall in love with.
You eat his ass for a moment longer but release just as you hear a moan choking in the back of his throat. You can be nice, but not for long.
“Tight, very tight,” you say. “I think we’ll need to open that up a bit before I can have fun. What do you say to me?”
“Is that all?”
“Thank you, mistress.”
You stand up and look down at your work. His ass is evenly red, and marks remain from the switch. You are wet from the sight, itching to touch yourself. It’s easy to finish with such a good boy. You take the wooden butt plug from the bed and kneel down beside him.
“This should stretch you out a bit.”
You spit on his ass for lubrication and insert the small, smooth wooden plug. It’s not large enough to be considered a punishment. You can see him tense and relax as the object is inserted; he’s an old pro. The round bottom of the toy presses fully against his asshole. Experienced. This sight makes you itch all over to be fucked with that plug stuck inside of him.
You stand above him now, looking down at his bent head. You shimmy the velvet fabric of your dress over your thighs, and though he hears the sound, he does not look up. Taking a pointed fingernail, you tear a hole in the middle of your tights, right next to your pussy lips. Of course, you aren’t wearing any underwear.
“Look up at me,” you say.
He does so and sees your exposed pink lips. You are glistening from the anticipation of it, and he knows.
“I want you to eat me now until I cum on your face. Then, I’m going to fuck you in the ass. What do you say to me?”
“Get on your knees in front of me.”
He kneels in front of you awkwardly, unsure where to place his hands or how to begin. This pause annoys you, and you slap him across the face. Startled, he lifts his hand to reach at his cheek before you stop him.
“Good boys don’t hesitate. Now start.”
His tongue is warm and thick but misses the swollen mark at first. He moves to correct it and starts to lap you up. He is quick and sloppy, but enthusiastic. You are over the moon with him, tingling everywhere between your legs like a schoolgirl.
“Two fingers!” you shout. He obeys. In out, in out. His fingers are thick and skilled, and you feel a fluttering in your pussy that signals you don’t have much farther to go. It’s wonderful, you love your job. You refuse him the pleasure of your moans, holding everything inside of you like a ticking bomb.
“I’m getting close, go harder,” you command.
He seems happy to receive feedback, any feedback. It didn’t take you a long time to get here. It is a treat to see his closed eyes between your legs, naked and crouched before you. His nose and cheeks are wet with your juices, and you can see his arm working to dig harder, deeper. The mistress may come; the boy might never come. That’s the arrangement.
Your breathing quickens, but still you refuse him the joy of a sound. You feel your orgasm building and building, climbing the rollercoaster until it drops. You shudder just enough to let him know that you’ve finished, and he releases from you with downcast eyes. You deliver no compliments. The velvet dressed remains hitched up as you walk over to the bed.
“Get down on all fours again, on the floor.”
A strap-on is a magical thing. It delivers the power of poke, and it fills lonely holes in ways that the holes did not know they could be filled. You love the way the leather feels around your waist and ass, and the way the slick black dildo sticks upward and says “hello.” Sometimes you think about the person that the dildo must have been shaped after but push that thought away for the moment. God bless him, wherever he is.
You rub down the dildo with lube, a courtesy for your Good Boy. You kneel behind him and gently, slowly remove the butt plug that has worked to stretch him out for you. The tip of the dildo meets his small pink hole, and they kiss. You push the black cock into his ass one tiny centimeter at a time as the boy takes a breath with each push.
“Now then, it’s infinitely easy. Look how stretched out you are.”
You let the dildo rest in his ass for a moment before pulling back and thrusting in again. You ignore his breathy moan and watch the dark object moving inside of him and outside of him, tugging at his stretched hole. It is remarkably beautiful; everyone feels it. Even the dildo feels it, or the spirit of the man who owned the real thing. You groan from the pleasure of this sight, and your client’s dick hardens in response.
Your speed increases. “What a good boy,” you coo, “you are taking this enormous cock so splendidly. I love to watch it fuck you.”
Because he has been very obedient and because he ate your pussy so well, you decide to give him a treat. “Jerk yourself off while I fuck you,” you command.
He pauses in doubt but then lifts his right hand to start masturbating. You match his pace and push the dildo into his ass with each stroke. Both of you are working together, master and servant. He starts to speed up and you start to speed up. You can see his balls lifting to cum, ready to spill hot cream all over the hotel carpet. It makes you feel ravenous, so you fuck him wildly and out of sync.
And then it’s done. The very Good Boy groans to completion while you keep the black dildo still pressed inside of him. You can see he made a mess on the floor but forgive him. You pull the cock out of his ass and then plant a kiss on his warm left ass cheek, still red from the spanking.
“That’s what good boys get. They get to cum.”