I left the company lab to meet with Darcy, my chosen mistress. I was a little late, after helping a colleague with a problem, so I decided to take a cab instead of the F train, thinking it to be quicker; it was not. Some sort of accident on Canal St. brought traffic to a stand still. The cabby, in a thick accent, advised me to walk across the bridge. A check of the map on my phone revealed no subway stations nearby. I didn’t have much time. I ran. I ran in the cold until I was out of breath and kept going. I cursed the length of the Manhattan Bridge, as it seemed endless. I was out of breath, but I’ll be damned straight to Hades if I was going to let traffic, of all things, ruin such an important life event for me. But eventually I arrived at the corner of Jay and York; ironically the exact place the train would have taken me.
I texted Ms. Darcy, as instructed; I still didn’t know the location of my destination. I got an address and walked to it, taking off the leather jacket I was wearing to vent the heat. I found the address, and texted again. I waited… The message came, telling me which button to buzz. After exiting the elevator I went to the door; it opened before I could knock.
She was dressed in professional, sexy garb — totally in character. Knee length skirt, beige hose, white blouse, red lips. Dark, gorgeous hair. And those eyes… If she were any other woman I would long to make her mine. But I knew full well that this was not just any woman. This was a creature with special powers, and abilities. A creature that walks among us, but is not one of us — a creature above us. I acknowledge that such amazing people really exist and yet here, somehow, here I was with the opportunity to experience her art.
I was nervous. The first page of the report I carried said:
Optically Activated DNA Endonuclease Engineering Report:
Project status and simulation data.
Very Big and Unethical Pharma Corp of America(TM)
Prepared for: M. Darcy, Senior Managing Director of
Ultra High Technology Research Division
It was incomplete, and late. It was my fault, and I knew I was going to be in trouble for this. To make things worse I had such a crush on this beautiful imperious woman that I worked for. I was to deliver the document personally to her, but somehow also had to minimize the damage. It wouldn’t be easy: Ms. Darcy was a no non-sense kind of boss.
After a glass of water (for which I was thankful), Ms. Darcy asked me to take a seat. I told her that the report was more difficult than anticipated, and that it was not complete. She chewed me out for having been late with the report. I begged for more time but she informed me that her presentation was tomorrow. Wow, that came down like a hammer: I fucked up way worse than I thought. I begged for my job, but it didn’t work. She said I was fired and handed me my coat. I was desperate, I begged again. She told me to come up with 10 reasons that I be allowed to continue my job. She looked both angry and amused as I stood there before her, only managing to come up with maybe five reasons at the most in my pathetic stammering. She was not impressed. Somewhere I must have said, “I’ll do anything” because I suddenly found myself gagged and being told I was to be “the office bitch boy.” I had no choice but to accept this fate and now, with her power over me firmly established, the next phase was for her to exercise that power.
She demanded my wallet. I gave it. She gave it an amusing peruse and took the cash for herself. She then lit a golden cigarette that smelled of mysterious herbs, possibly clove. She smoked it close to my face; I relished the smell of it. She put the gold tip between her luscious red lips and took a drag before making little smoke rings. I stared, mesmerized. What an incredible beauty she was! Also, frightening… She made me confess that I had goofed off by playing video games and jerking off to porn when I should have been working. It was humiliating. I totally deserved it, and I knew it.
Ms. Darcy then made me strip, commenting on my good looks and making a note of my broad shoulders (I must admit this made me happy). But she said it was too bad my cock was so small. Then the ultimate humiliation: she took out a measuring tape and confirmed that I was half a man. This felt strange; here a woman openly confirmed what I already knew. However, no woman had ever made an issue of it before, which was obviously just them being kind. I had expected the SPH to make me very sexually excited—after all, one way to deal with a small cock is to make it part of a fetish. But, instead I actually felt a bit of relief, a sort of acceptance. My Domme had given me brutal honesty, scene or no scene. She acknowledged something no other woman in my life had ever been straight with me about.
Again she berated me for fucking up with the report and tore it up, tossing the papers away from her. She ordered me pick them up and pick them up I did, as she kicked me and ordered me to do it faster, and do it faster I did. I was doing as she commanded. She was building a pattern now, a pattern where she commands, and I do without question. Before I knew it my cock was covered in a condom and skillfully bound up with string along with my balls. This didn’t hurt, but felt right somehow, it seemed to symbolize that I was now bound to her; its seemed to symbolize my slavery to her. It was a powerful feeling.
I was ordered to the floor in front of the couch. Ms. Darcy sat on the couch wanting her feet rubbed. I think she still had one of those mysterious cigarettes. I started to massage her feet but she stopped me, barking that I must first wash my hands. It did as she asked, catching the naked, bound, and gagged image of myself in the mirror; shocking, but unimportant. Quickly I washed and dried and took my place in front of her on the floor. I carefully took off her shoes and caressed her feet gently, massaging them through the shoes. Her feet were so lovely with those red nails, and they smelled nice. It was heavenly. I had the urge to kiss them. She demanded I rub harder, and I did. As I rubbed her feet, she talked. She talked about how humans are fundamentally animals, and that hierarchies are natural and good for us. That egalitarianism is bullshit, or at least certainly not something we’re ready for. I loved listening to her talk about these things. I couldn’t respond—not that I wanted to. I looked into her face and found myself not questioning anything she said. It all made such perfect sense at that moment. I was obviously not her equal, I belonged on my knees looking up at her; and I would not have wanted it any other way. Of all the amazing wonders I experienced in that hour, this was a moment that was particularly special to me. It might have even been my favorite.
I order of things is fuzzy, but I found myself on my knees, my Domme standing over me and looking down at me. This was another special moment. There was this music in the background, funky and eerie; I liked it. The smell of high quality incense in the air. The light behind her head made her look all the more imposing, changing her apparent scale and tricking my eyes. She looked radiant, literally. It felt right. I was at the feet of a Goddess. It was perfectly sublime.
I was ordered on all fours, my hands cuffed before I knew it. A strange sensation since I’ve never been clapped into real handcuffs before. Next I found myself on the mysterious medical looking table. I was a little scared at this point; as earlier, I told her I had no hard limits. I meant that, as I really don’t have any limits (is not life too short for silly, arbitrary limits?), but my only concern was explaining mysterious marks on my body. I personally didn’t care about marks at all, but dealing with those close to me would be awkward. Actually, I don’t much care who knows that I saw a dominatrix. The only reason to keep it private is to avoid the endless stream of curious questions from those that cannot understand, much less survive and appreciate such an experience. But there I was, prone on the table, feet in cuffs and hands secured somewhere over my head. I didn’t know what was coming, and that sent a pulse of fear through me, but I would boldly accept what cometh. It’s very hard to tell what happened next and it seemed like I couldn’t see the entire time—I don’t know why. She tickled me, but not like one tickles a child; this was torture. It was real, and I’d never been tortured before, but it was real and it was happening. My body writhed against the restraints, breathing so hard, I struggled to endure. It was rough and expertly executed. I was noisy but cannot recollect what my sounds of agony where like. She rolled the table more than once, it was very disorienting. The feet and areas close to my hips where the most difficult to endure, but endure I did — I had no choice. My nipples were then in serious pain. I don’t know what was being done to them but I thought that they might bleed. I could see again. She looked at me and brought her face close to mine, and without stopping said, “kiss me.” I wanted to. I strained to bring my lips close to hers even though being bound and gaged made it impossible. The futility of it was cruel and mocking, but I tried anyway. I was compelled. She leaned over and spat into the hole in the front of the gag. I appreciated being given a little taste.
Before I knew it I was freed and the gag removed. I was ordered into the bathroom and into the tub. Here again I’m unsure of the order of events. I remember her spitting into my eager mouth as I looked up at her. I thanked her immediately and earnestly, it was wonderful. At one point she sat behind me in the tub. I couldn’t see her. She took me in her arms and grasped my head in a way I still can’t describe, but I heard her say: “This is my gift to you.” And before I knew it I felt light headed, as if I were high. I never felt like that before without being under that influence of a powerful drug. I think it was the euphoria from oxygen deprivation to the brain, but I felt no pressure that I can remember; it was like magic. It felt amazingly good: pure bliss. I told her how beautiful she was, as if they were my dying words. Then she was standing over me, her gorgeous bottom hovering over me. She pulled her panties aside, and I was told to touch myself as she showered my cock. Her nectar wasn’t yellow and strong but clear and sweet. I resisted the urge to drink it directly from her body. She said that this would be the first of many orgasms to come over the next few years that I would be serving as her office bitch, and that I would be able to have them only in her presence from now on—never at home, alone and never with another woman. As exciting as it was to have my cock controlled like that, it took me by surprise, as having an orgasm actually never entered my mind going into this. When it comes to sex, cumming had never been the highest priority for me — it was the sex itself, the intimate contact, and the sensuality that I loved the most. A dominatrix is not a prostitute, just as a geisha is not a prostitute. Because I knew this, I didn’t expect that she would want me to orgasm or even care if did. If it happened, it happened, but I didn’t know it was expected. I usually only cum when relaxed, and pressure makes it harder. I was taken off guard. I told her I didn’t think I could. She knew what to do though. She squirted something onto my wet cock, and then she showed off her gorgeous body from the waist down. She was surprisingly curvy for such a petite woman — how could I resist. I loved looking at her legs, they were a ten out of ten: total perfection. If she had showed me her breasts I probably would have exploded sooner than I did. But I’m happy she didn’t. I will see her again, if she’ll see me, and I don’t want to receive all the gifts at once. She laughed and mocked me for being impotent. But cum I did, and powerful it was.
The scene was over now, I think. I showered, dried off and went out. I asked if this meant I could still “keep my job.” Mistress Darcy smiled and gave me the “time out” signal indicating we were in character no longer. I was told that I was to get dressed and then fuck off. I got dressed and sat on the floor in front of her. She asked what made the experience great and I told her that she herself was what made it great. That was the truth. I didn’t yet have time to process and reflect, but when I did I was to write about it and send it to her, as I’m doing right now.
She counted the tribute taken from my wallet and told me to, “Save your pennies little boy, so that next time will be longer.” (I love the diminutive terms she uses for me; they make me melt). I couldn’t have agreed more. I respectfully kissed her hand before I left (another thing I love), and I did it with absolute appreciation and sincerity.
I floated back to my apartment. It was like losing my virginity, only not at all disappointing this time. I felt strong and happy, fucking giddy almost. I make it a habit to smile at strangers, but now I didn’t have to try at all, I couldn’t help myself. She warned that I might experience a lull after the euphoria wore off, but I didn’t.
The power of the experience cannot be overstated. Indeed this was the first time I ever let myself be submissive to a dominant woman. I would have done it before now, but I had never met a real dominant woman before — it’s not something that one can pretend and even if they could it wouldn’t be real and thus would not have the same effect. No, this was different, this was perfection. Something I have wanted for as long as I can remember really happened. Not only did it happen, but also I was guided by someone who really knew what she was doing. I would not change anything.
Mistress Darcy is gorgeous, a perfect female specimen, and an expert whom I fully trust after just one experience with her. She could not possibly be lovelier. I can’t say it enough.