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Little Dicky

Kategori: Genel

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Warning- the following contains elements of bloodsport, watersport, scat, menstruation and noncon/reluc, as well as derogatory racial, ethnical and religious references. If any of this offends you–go on, read the story, you know you want to, so you can leave a snarky comment and drop a one-bomb.

All participants are over the age of 18 years. All characters, places and activities are fictitious; any reference to any actual person living or dead, or any place or thing now or formerly existing, is purely coincidental; as to public figures or institutions, a qualified Federal and State Constitutional privilege is hereby asserted.

Mistress Janet Travers decided to give herself a night on the town in Manhattan before catching the eleven o’clock morning flight to Montréal. She left Marisol with complete instructions, not that she needed them. Marisol could take care of Jenny and any drop-ins who might come by. The Connecticut house had good security, and Marisol had plenty of CS gas and the pistol. More to the point, she was trustworthy.

The house had become hers, with Marisol and the money to run it, on the deaths of Mistress Erica and Mistress Andrea in a horrendous snowstorm pile-up on I-95 two years ago. More difficult was the switch from sub to Domme, but fortunately Mistress Erica had her nearly through it when….

The last year had been the marriage of heaven and hell. Heaven, as Mistress Janet grew into the role of Domme. Hell, being without Mistress Erica and Mistress Andrea, having to ask herself not ‘what would Mistress Erica do?’ but ‘what must I do?’ And heaven and hell intersected, when she took the beating from the ferociously sadistic Mistress Lauren, to spare Natalie, a young sub totally out of her depth.

Once she left the hospital, she took Natalie into her own house. She was able to play the role she always wanted, élèveuse, not teacher, but elaborator, like a master vintner, bringing from the fruit of Natalie’s body the delicious nectar that would give pleasure not only to Mistress Janet, but to the others who would possess her.

She would follow the precepts of Mistress Andrea: anticipate but always be adaptable; flog seldom, but flog thoroughly; treat the sub as a child, not an object, but lovingly, caringly, bringing from submission a form of love that no vanilla could ever know. Finally, be a Domme–dominate, subdue, control. Do not let sentimentality, which could engender a terrible kind of cruelty, replace intellect and honesty–and never let sentiment be a substitute for love.

The girls came to her, from where she could never tell. They brought fear with them, rejection wrapped around them, self-loathing hanging on them like a backpack full of stone. They left fulfilled, free, carrying memories of beatings but also nights of almost unbearable orgasms. It was a year she would never forget, her butterfly year.

Now, tonight, it was dinner at Le Bernardin with a half-bottle of Cakebread Sauv Blanc after an evening at the theatre. Soon it would be her bed at the Hilton, alone, unless she found company. But if she found a companion for the night, buttocks to flog, an anus to penetrate roughly, but most of all a person to love, even for a few hours–or if not– she smiled. Tomorrow would be another day.

Walking slowly east on 52nd Street, Janet drank in the city and the night. Yes, it was dangerous, filthy, creepy, expensive–but it was exciting, alive, putting a woman to the test every second, a close-combat course with no second place winner.

She handed a dollar to a beggar at Sixth Avenue, turned uptown and walked into the Hilton. Turning right through the lobby, she found her way to the bar.

At nearly five foot nine and not model-thin, she needed more than a half-bottle of Sauv Blanc, even at 13.6%, to get tipsy, but she wanted no more alcohol. She ordered ginger ale with a maraschino cherry, a little-girl drink. That set the tone for her scan for a little girl.

The girl wasn’t little, only two inches or so shorter than she was. Big breasted, hourglass figure, big hips and a wide ass, maybe a candidate for Weight Watchers. And wearing a wedding ring. Oh well, if you never ask, you never get.

“Are you here for the convention?” It never failed in a big metropolitan hotel; there’s always a convention.

“No. What convention?”

“The one tomorrow.”

“Oh. No, it’s just business.” Good, maybe no husband; or maybe the ring is just for show, like an ADP sticker on the window of a house with no burglar alarm.

“Me too. New York today, Montréal tomorrow. Where are you going?”

“I’m here, teaching.”

“Oh, college?”

“No, work. I work for Ernest & Cowper, CPAs. I’m up from Dallas to teach the international tax accounting course to new hires.” Great, brains and big tits–and straight?

“How long is the course?”

“Just one day. Then home again.”

“Back to the family?”

“Me, the husband and the dawg.” Perfect! Brains, big tits, straight and an accent. Now let me play this right.

“I’m Bostancı Escort going on the road to take some informal continuing ed. I just started a new line of business, personal training, and I’m going to Montréal to talk to someone who was recommended to me as the best in Canada.”

“Personal trainer as in gym?”

“Not quite, although that’s part of it. Personal development.”


“Yeah. You want another drink? I just finished mine. My treat.” She waved to the bartender. “Same again.”

Keep her talking, keep the drinks coming, find out when she has to be up tomorrow (her class starts at ten–good, and the venue is around the corner). Friendly, non-threatening, no touching, just girls chatting; keep it light, make it mellow.

“What floor are you on?”


“Me too. I’ll ride up with you.” Of course she wasn’t on seventeen, but once alone in the elevator with her prey it didn’t matter. Remember Mossad at Dubai–cameras everywhere. No evidence, right? So let her push the elevator button for her floor, let her walk ahead, walk her to the door–then the quick push-in, the kidney punch to stun her, the handcuffs and the gag…under fifteen seconds.

“Now, sweetheart, don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you…much. And I won’t take anything.”

Quick at undressing her, jacket, skirt, blouse (slide the cuff off, then the sleeve, then re-cuff), bra (oh those tits!), pantyhose (check for tampon, not that menstruation is a problem, just need more towels) and shoes.

Get her on the bed, face down. “Just relax, sweetheart, I’ll be back soon.” Picking up the woman’s room key where she dropped it, Janet left, went to her room to gather the toys and props, and returned.

“OK, darling, nod your head if you need to pee.” No nod. “Sure?”

Janet kissed her neck and shoulder. “We’re going to have a little fun, you and I. Have you ever been with a Domme before? Lift your left leg if you have.” No response.

“Good, I like trainees. Now let me clean you up a little.” She took the baby wipes and carefully cleaned the woman’s anus, inserting her finger in as deep as it would go. When she pulled out the wipe, it was dark brown. “Oh, you dirty girl, you don’t wipe carefully enough.” Smack! Smack! Smack! Whimper. “Don’t whimper, girl, there’s no excuse for a dirty hole.” Smack! Smack! Smack! “Especially when Mistress has a nice clean rod for you.”

Janet reached under her and heard her gasp through the gag as she began squeezing her breast. The nipple was large and firm. Janet pinched it, rolled it in her fingers, pulled at it and squeezed it hard. In the half-light from the room’s entrance, she could see the tears dripping from her eye. “Don’t cry, darling; I won’t hurt you…much.”

She went back to her assault on the breast.

“Now let’s see how you’re doing.” She probed the woman’s anus again, first one finger, then two, then three. “Nice and tight. Virgin? No, don’t answer. If he got a few pokes in, I don’t mind. But I give the best.”

Janet stripped quickly. She never wore bra or panties, her stockings were thigh-highs, and the dress went over her head (no time for zippers).

She lay across the woman’s back. “Feel those tits, darling. You’ll get a chance to suck them later, if you’re a good girl.” She kissed her way down the woman’s back. “Oh, look at the lovely melons. You grow ’em great in Texas. Good enough to eat,” and she bit the woman’s buttock. The woman’s muffled scream was almost too loud. “Sorry, darling, I get enthusiastic,” and she bit again and again, less hard but enough to call up some grunts.

She spread the woman’s buttocks and began. Her tongue drove its way inside, as she kneaded and stretched her buttocks. The woman began to move, pushing herself into Janet’s tongue. Janet paused, said “I knew you’d catch on fast”, spread the woman wider, pushed her tongue back in.

Finally, Janet pulled away and got the antiseptic handwash. Rubbing it carefully over her hands, paying close attention to her close-cropped nails, she shoved two fingers into the woman’s vagina. “A little dry, darling, but we can fix that later.”

Janet took the Astroglide-2, her favorite, and applied it to the woman’s asshole. Too much is just enough. Janet got out the seven-inch strappy; this one couldn’t handle the nine-inch. She carefully put the second prong in her own cunt, which was delightfully wet. “Take a deep breath, precious,” she told the woman, “and think pretty thoughts.”

She climbed on the bed, carefully sited in the tip and inserted the business end. Moving slowly, she forced the outer sphincter aside, feeling the “anal wink” as the woman involuntarily closed, heard her moaning, saw more tears, moved more and more slowly, pushing in.

“Hang on, honey, here it comes.” And she ass-fucked the woman hard, using short sharp strokes, driving the second prong into herself. Her climax was quick. She relaxed, let the orgasmic tide ripple through her, and started again.

The woman groaned, grunted, and spasmed. Anadolu Yakası Escort Shit, she came…a natural. How did I get this lucky?

“Ooooh, aren’t you a horny one?” Janet asked. “He not giving you enough? You came (pun intended) to the right place, darling.”

She fucked the woman and herself to another orgasm, then removed the strappy and went to the bathroom. “Back in a New York minute, darling, got to clean the toy.” She washed and dried the strappy, took a long, pleasant piss without flushing the toilet, left the bathroom light on, and returned to her guest.

“Now, if you promise to be good, I’ll take off the cuffs and the gag, and we can play. But if you try anything silly, they go back on, and,” lifting the woman’s head from the bed by her hair and brandishing the nine-inch in front of her face, “you get the grand prize, in your cunt and in your ass, with no lube. Understand? Lift your left leg if you do.” The woman did. “Will you play nice, sweetheart? Lift your right leg if you promise you will.” The woman lifted her right leg.

Janet uncuffed and ungagged her. Janet turned her over and kissed her, thrusting her tongue into the woman’s mouth. She began playing with the woman’s breasts, kneading and pinching. The woman’s nipples were hard, and her breath was shorter.

“OK, baby, it’s time for my fun,” and she shifted rapidly, on her knees, over the woman’s face. “You never did this before, right?”


“It’s not that hard, darling. Just do what comes naturally.”

She bent over, placed her tit in the woman’s mouth. It was warm, and the woman salivated heavily. Nice. “Now do me,” Janet said, straightened up, and put her pussy where her mouth was.

Mediocre blowjob, but what the hell, perfection never happens on the first date.

The woman’s face was dripping Janet’s cum when she finished.

“You’re going to make a great sub for some lucky Domme, darling. Lose the ‘him’ and join the movement.” Janet kissed the woman, dressed and left.

She needed some sleep. Tomorrow, even if it was another day, was going to be a long day.


The shuttlebus to LGA was tiring. New York traffic was its usual self. She was so glad the ride was over that she was glad even to deal with Central Terminal check-in, and get settled in waiting for her flight. Fortunately, the screaming babies and the energetic toddlers avoided the mid-morning flight to Trudeau-Dorval. The desk crew were nothing special, and Janet had long since given up hope of finding anything enticing among the Air Canada cabin crew. The first class cabin lady looked old enough to have taught Charles Lindbergh how to fly.

Baggage claim and Douane Canada Customs were less nerve-wracking than she feared. Apparently her toys were tamer than some, or maybe the Canadians were more naïve or tolerant than their colleagues south of the border.

She hadn’t bothered to rent a car, nor look up her destination on that infallible guide, GoogleMaps. The cab fare was substantial; although a bus was available, the nearest stop was about a quarter-mile from her destination on the far side of Mount-Royal, and would have necessitated two changes from public transport to get even that far. But the end was worth the journey.

Once she had walked to the gate, which spanned barely a car’s width, in a high concrete wall topped by razor-wire and what looked like shards of glass, she located the telephone box and announced herself. The gate swung open to reveal a Renaissance château at the end of a sweeping driveway.

“Walk inside the gate, put down your bags, and wait at the drive,” crackled an unseen loudspeaker. Janet did as she was told. The gate swung shut with an authoritative “Bang!” From behind the house (house? Palace was more like it) came what seemed to be a golfcart.

As it drew closer, Janet observed that the driver was black, African black skin nearly blue. She was also naked. Fortunately it was a hot July day. Janet was uncertain what her greeting would be like if it were January.

The golfcart stopped, and the driver stepped out as if she were the diva arriving at the red carpet. Then, surprisingly, she knelt on the grass in front of Janet, subservient but not without spirit (‘Ooooh,’ thought Janet, ‘what fun she’s going to be’), big black breasts with dark chocolate nipples, and an ass that looked like the last two watermelons on the wagon. Big white teeth and a winning smile greeted her. “Welcome, Mistress Janet, I am slave Xirelle. May I have the exquisite pleasure of serving you?”

“It is my pleasure, slave,” said Janet, slipping her foot from her slip-on for Xirelle to kiss. “Take me to your Mistress.” No piercings, no collar, not even a tattoo? ‘Strange way to treat one’s slaves’, thought Janet, ‘but maybe that’s how they do it in Canada.’

“At once, Mistress Janet.” Xirelle rose, and in one fluid motion hefted Janet’s bags into the back of the golfcart. Janet admired the muscular arms, the wiggle of the tits and ass, and the delightful Ataşehir Escort smile. Xirelle handed Janet into the golfcart and drove up to the entrance door. It must have been fourteen feet high, wrought iron inset with leaded glass, and weighed at least a ton. Xirelle pushed a button and the door swung open silently. “Mistress Janet, I’ll be back with your luggage momentarily. In the meantime, here is slave Soon-Ja Kim to serve you.” Xirelle bowed her way back through the door and went off, apparently to park the golfcart.

“Mistress Janet, welcome. I am slave Soon-Ja Kim. Slave Xirelle will place your luggage in your room. In the meantime, Maîtresse Marie-Ange is in the Grand Salon. She directs me to take you there immediately.”

“Then do so without delay.” Janet was curt as she looked over the woman. Older than Xirelle, maybe early thirties. Naked, of course, but like Xirelle, Soon-Ja Kim had no piercings or collar. Tall for a Korean, with small slightly sagging tits, shaved mons, flat ass, and an inscrutable face, no hint of emotion. Might be anything, but if what she’d heard of Maîtresse Marie-Ange was true, even her slaves weren’t to be trifled with.

Soon-Ja Kim led her through a marble-floored foyer into a large, sunny room, furnished in sixteenth-century French style. Only the modern electric fixtures gave a hint that the Twenty-First Century had arrived even here. Soon-Ja Kim dropped to her knees and crawled into the Grand Salon. She crept to the feet of the woman seated in a carved chair, suitable to the room’s décor, and kissed her booted feet. “Ma Maîtresse, v’la Maîtresse Janet Travers.”

“Bien. Va t’en, vite vite!” Soon-Ja Kim crawled rapidly away, spreading her legs to show her shaved cunt and plugged asshole as she went.

“My dear Janet, how pleasant to see you! Do sit down. If you wish refreshment other than what is here, I’ll ring at once.”

“Maîtresse Marie-Ange, it is so gracious of you to invite me to your beautiful home and let me share all its delights.”

Janet looked around her as she and Maîtresse Marie-Ange exchanged pleasantries. There was a plate of cheese, apples and grapes, a plate of breadstuffs, and a silver wine cooler with three opened bottles. Choosing a Lirac rosé and carefully taking a slice of Gruyère on a slice of dark bread, Janet sat down on a chair across from her hostess, just a trifle lower in height and less ornately carved. As a Mistress, Janet did not ask if she might eat, nor require another’s slave to serve her.

Maîtresse Marie-Ange was clearly pleased by Janet’s demeanor.

“How lovely to see a real Mistress, even one so young as you, who knows how to be a Mistress. These little trollopes, who buy some cheap titholders from Victoria’s NonSecret and a pair of even cheaper stilettos from PayLess Shoes, and order a sjambok from, Christ help us (here Maîtresse Marie-Ange made the Sign of the Cross, leaving Janet open-mouthed), Amazon-dot-fucking-com, for eighteen Loonies (expédition compris, tu sais), think they are ‘mistresses.’ Saint Sebastien fuck my grandmother! I wouldn’t let them be my toilet bitch!”

‘What the fuck is a sjambok?’ thought Janet. Her puzzled look betrayed her.

“Don’t play poker, my darling Janet, at least not with me. This is a real sjambok.” She handed Janet what looked like a three-foot long stick, gray but glistening with oil, a proper thickness for a hand-hold at one end but tapering to a finger’s width at the other. The texture was like medium-grain sandpaper.

Janet examined it and handed it back.

“It’s oiled rhinoceros hide, dear, from South Africa. The Boers used it to flog what they called the kaffirs, the Bantus and Zulus. They’re illegal in Canada and South Africa both; in the first as it is made from an endangered species and in the second as a relic of apartheid. But a dear friend in the United States got it for me and got it here. He is a true Master, Le Grand Charles.

“Amazon-dot-fucking-com sells a plastic version, made in China, naturellement. Moi, je fais poopoo de ça, entièrement!”

“Of course, ma Maîtresse,” was all Janet could say.

“But you must be tired. Do you need to piss or shit?” Janet was taken aback by her directness.

‘I’ll be in style around here if it kills me,’ thought Janet, and replied, “A piss would be just lovely.”

Maîtresse Marie-Ange reached behind her and pulled out an Iphone. She pushed a button. “Go through that door to your left and into the alcove. My toilet bitch will be waiting.”

Janet went through the door, and into a marble room. The ceiling was mirrored. Awaiting her was another slave, naked, anorexic-thin, her pelvic bones jutting out, her breasts barely visible. Her hair was clean but lank, as if washed and coarsely dried, but never shampooed. “Mistress Janet, I beg you, let me serve you.” She sank to her knees on the marble floor. With no flesh to pad them, the impact must have hurt.

“Proceed, slave.”

“Mistress, please, I beg you to let me state. I am not a slave, I am the toilet bitch. See.” She rose and turned around. Her back, her ass and the backs of her thighs showed deep scarring, from a beating at least as terrible as the conscienceless Mistress Lauren had given Janet. Janet felt her stomach turn, sickened by what she saw, but she fought hard to keep her cool demeanor.

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