Mistress Terra rang Her bell three times. Ding ding ding. Snack time.
B the house slave darted from his quarters, an exact replica of a slave’s room at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello plantation. He knew if he prepared the snack to the London Dominatrix’s satisfaction, She would allow him to admire her body.
He prepared potato pancakes with smoked salmon and caviar from Wolfgang Puck’s Spago cookbook.. He understood that the London Mistress wanted a New World wine to pair with the snack. B went to Her wine cellar and looked at the Charles Smith Kung Fu Girl Riesling, a New World wine from Washington state.
He stared at the chastity cage the London Dominatrix had him locked in for the last three months.
Hesitantly, yet confidently, B reached for the FE Trimbach Clos Sainte Hune Riesling, an Old World wine from Alsace. B anticipated, no, looked forward to, the consequences of his disobedience. Mistress Terra had allowed him to only clean the house for the previous month and he longed for Her attentive punishment.
The London Dominatrix reclined poolside in her chaise lounge, her left leg extended and the right leg propped at a forty five degree angle. She was nude except for her Bottega Veneta Lido mule heels. B gingerly approached, gaze averted, set down the platter and opened the wine. Mistress Terra examined the presentation of the snack.
“You may glance at my body,” She allowed.
B turned his attention to Her consummate body, athletic, sensual, lithe; an instrument of sovereignty, dominion and seduction. He felt his organ push against the steel of the chastity cage and recede in meekness.
B’s face reddened. The London Mistress giggled contentedly.
B filled a Maxwell and Williams stemless wine glass. Mistress Terra sipped and rolled the wine around in Her mouth, exposing her sommelier level taste buds to the wine.
“I taste peach,” She said indifferently.
“Put the platter on the floor.”
The London Dominatrix eased the sole of her shoe into the caviar and gently smooshed it, grinding the caviar into the grooves of Her shoe bottom.
“Assume the position,” she said.
B got down on two knees, put his hands behind his back and grabbed his right wrist with his left.
“You may lick,” the London Mistress cooed.
B leaned forward, scraping his tongue against the salty caviar and grit filled grooves of each sole of Her shoes.
“Now, head back,” Mistress Terra purred confidently as she stood up. B tilted his head back, gazing upward at the London Mistress’s utopian breasts. “Good boy.”
She eased Her heel into his mouth, B caressed the back of Her shoe. A muffled moan oozed from his lips while his head yo-yoed up and down, sucking Her heel.
“Mmmmmmm.” From time to time the London Dominatrix aided the hapless B, penetrating his mouth with the spiky treat.
After B appropriately sucked both heels, she instructed him to steady himself on all fours. “Let’s go to the rocking horse, winner,” she declared.
The London Mistress sashayed to her dressing room and B crawled to the Red Room. For the slave, the Red Room’s crimson, scarlet and deep burgundy hues brought on feelings of claustrophobia, isolation and terror. For the London Dominatrix, the room inspired power, strength and passion.
The room faced east, with a Saint John’s Cross inhabiting the south wall and a pegboard filled with assorted paddles, canes and cats o’ nine tails filling up the north wall. B stopped at the base of a Berkeley horse which occupied the room’s centre.
Mistress Terra entered the room wearing a fishnet leotard, black spiked pasties and thigh-high boots. She thwacked B’s arse as she strode past him.
“Let’s make some money, Paul,” she whispered coquettishly.
B cherished the floggings because they served as a form of foreplay to the peggings. The London Mistress would lube his arse, penetrate it with a strap on and throb, then surge, then swivel. Her flawless abs would occasionally brush the small of his back and she would caress his arse cheeks if he moaned the right way.
He straddled the horse and laid on his stomach.
Mistress Terra inserted a red ball gag in his mouth to muffle his screams. The London Dominatrix secured his hands and feet with leather straps and methodically chose a cat o’ nine tails from Her rack.
She used light strokes at first, dainty figure eights that intensified with each motion. B’s muted cries of agony heightened accordingly yet also fell dramatically in tone, indicating feverish pleasure.
The London Mistress stepped back to examine Her artistry. She walked to the pegboard, the click of her heels providing a backbeat to B’s euphoric moans. She pored over the board in the same manner a painter chooses a brush. She opted for a rattan cane; slender, flexible and providing a delightful audio component to the subsequent visual result.
The initial thwack established Her strike zone.
In short order, the London Dominatrix was colouring his buttocks with vertical, horizontal and diagonal whacks.
B’s eyes rolled back on rapture, belying his deadened wails. The physical pain and emotional gratification spiked equally, leaving B in a state of transcendent bliss.
B’s backside resembled a monochromatic Jackson Pollock painting. His torso as he gasped for air.
Now anticipation took over B’s imagination.
Soon the London Mistress would strap on her prosthetic cock and violate him with joyous malice.
Mistress Terra leaned down to B’s eye level and purred, “No pegging today. You gave me the wrong wine. Cuckolding comes early. Off to the bedroom.”
B loathed and delighted in the cuckolding.
On the one hand, he was able to view the London Dominatrix’s body in all its splendour, moving with grace and fluidity; not unlike a Clark’s grebe defying gravity as it runs across the tranquillity of a lake.
On the other hand, cuckolding reduced him to hapless spectator, unable to avert his eyes with no chance to pleasure himself due to the chastity cage.
Whereas the Red Room was designed to oppress, the bedroom had a décor that highlighted contemporary romance. The bedroom faced south, a king sized bed with a three-meter oak headboard being the centrepiece. Two lamps, one black and one white, hung from the elevated ceiling on either side of the bed. A heavy duty steel single door dog cage was on the north wall, ideal for viewing the bed. A collar attached to the door ensured that the cage’s inhabitant would be immobilized and compelled to focus on the bed.
Mistress Terra instructed B to enter the cage.
She secured the collar and exited the room. She returned a few minutes with a man behind her. He was 183 cm (six feet) tall, 82 kg (180 lbs.) with the chiselled physique of a professional fighter. The London Mistress was nude except for the Louboutin So Kate heels She had changed into.
“This is Donatello,” the London Mistress announced.
“He’ll help me entertain you today.”
“You lie there,” she said softly to Donatello.
Silently, he laid down on the bed.
He felt Her soft, groping, potently desirous hand caressed his body. Her hand stroked his face softly, with unending pleasure and security, and ultimately she softly kissed his cheek.
B stared, mesmerized yet forlorn. The grace and sensual power of the London Dominatrix captivated him. Nonetheless, he was powerless and resigned to watch another man receive Her immobilizing beauty and passion.
The London Mistress settled atop him.
Donatello tried to move, but it felt as if imperceptible threads tied him to the bed. Once she had him deep inside, Mistress Terra slowly rotated her hips.
Her pelvis undulated as if she were undecided about opening a wine bottle. Cork in. Cork out. Cork in. Cork out.
Donatello groaned a complex, extended vowel, the sort of sound that a waiter might give when he drops a bottle of Chateau Lafite 1990 on a tile floor in crowded dinner service.
The London Dominatrix rocked back and forth, arching her back like a cat stretching.
B feverishly jerked at the chastity cage, vainly attempting to masturbate. Still focusing on Mistress Terra’s sinuous movements, he failed to notice the skin of his ball sack snagging in the U-rings and locking pins of the chastity cage.
At the precise moment the London Mistress allowed Donatello to have a sudden helpless orgasm, B wrenched the chastity cage in desperation.
In unison, the London Dominatrix, Donatello and B howled, “OH GOD!!!!”
Mistress Terra dismounted Donatello and laid on the bed.
A brief, yet unending silence filled the room. Then, the London Mistress broke out in ravished laughter.
Ding ding ding.