Gromet's PlazaTG/CD Stories

Propriété de Maîtresse

by Jo

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© Copyright 2014 - Jo - Used by permission

Storycodes: Solo-M; M/f; D/s; tg; cd; makeup; bond; rope; club; gag; bdsm; captive; slave; collar; cuffs; oral; sex; climax; cons; X

I'm nervous. Melanie and I are going to do the Skype thing in a few minutes. Seems like a good idea given the circumstances. The next step before we meet ITRW.

I went to the shop and had my eyebrows waxed. They're the only hair on my face, not counting my lashes. I had the rest lasered off, but I left the brows. I like to be able to shape them as the whim hits me. I check my nails. I'm kind of anal about them. I had a MAN-icure this morning, too. I see a couple of bubbles on one nail and I have to resist the urge to redo them. Time for that later.

I apply a bit of mascara to my lashes, a bit of color around my eyes. Not a lot. I follow that with a bit of lip gloss. Again, something subtle. She's expecting a tranny, but I don't want to go overboard. I'm still a guy. Just because I'm in a girl's body doesn't mean I have to do the whole girl thing. I run a brush through my hair, give my head a shake to mess it up a bit.

I glance at the clock. Five more minutes.


Someone shakes my ankle. Disoriented I struggle to consciousness. The bed is wrong. The pillow is wrong. I can feel heavy cuffs on my wrists and ankles. There is another around my neck. I try to sit up and can't. I look up to see Alphonse's smiling face. I slip from the bed. The chain locked to my collar is long enough for me to kneel and I do with my head bowed, knees open, and my hands palm up on my thighs.

"Good morning, Sir."

He doesn't answer. He reaches behind me and unlocks the chain attached to my collar. He slips a finger under it and pulls me to my feet. I present my hands and he removes the cuffs. I place first one foot, then the other on the mattress and those cuffs go, too. I suddenly feel naked. Cuffed and collared naked, master and slave naked, is one thing. Alphonse and Melanie naked - not so good. He grabs the robe and holds it for me to slip into.

"Hungry, Melanie?"


"Yes, thanks."

I don't want to eat. I want to go back to bed and enjoy the post subspace glow. I'm not all the way down yet and I want to hang onto it for a while. But I'm a guest and Alphonse is my host.

He heads down the hall. I pad into the bathroom, settle on the commode. Last night is a bit of a blur. I remember being stripped and fastened to the horse, a large, padded thing, with shelves for my knees and elbows. I straddled it and Alphonse clipped my cuffs to it. He attached my collar, too. Gina was there, squatting before me. Things started out painfully, then the endorphins started to kick in and, little by little, I drifted away.

I remember surfacing, sitting on a couch being held by Gina. I vaguely remember her driving my car. I don't remember being chained to the bed.

Alphonse and Gina are a D/s couple I play with occasionally. He's mostly into shibari, which I love. As far as the whole BDSM thing goes, while I'm open to pretty much anything, I'm seriously into bondage. And Alphonse knows his knots. And he knows how to use a strap, too, and some days, days like yesterday, I really crave a strapping. It's like an itch and Alphonse is the master at scratching it.

I wipe myself, flush, step in front of the mirror. I look rough. Not real rough, but I have circles under my eyes and my hair is a mess. I splash some water on my face, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and aim myself toward the kitchen.

Alphonse is chasing eggs around in a skillet. I pour a mug of coffee. The toast pops up, Alphonse slides the eggs on to a plate. I settle in at the table. He pours a mug for himself and joins me.

"Gina's getting her claws done."

Her claws meaning her finger and toenails. She does that every few weeks.

We make small talk. I try not to wolf down my food, even force myself to have a second coffee.

"Can I use your computer?"

"Sure. Help yourself."

I take my mug into the den. I check my e-mail, then mouse over to the forum. I click on the post.

[Dominant tranny seeks submissive female for committed 24/7 D/s relationship. Nonsmoker only. Check out my profile. Pm for more info.]

I've looked at it a dozen time the past few days. I don't know why it draws me, except I'm a sub without a dom ... but a tranny? I've checked out his profile. As trannies go, he doesn't look bad. Certainly not like a man pretending to be a woman. Although he does look a bit butch for a girl.


My e-mail chimes. You have 1 reply to your ad.

-Hi Chris. My name is Melanie. I'm 28 and a lifestyle submissive. I am a registered slave (#1873346), but I don't have an owner at this present time. I'm 5'4", weigh 130. Check out my profile at the slave registry. And, yes, that's really me. And, no, I don't smoke. While, honestly, I find the idea of being with a transsexual odd, I'm curious. Are you into makeup and women's clothes? I mean, do you want to live your life as a woman? Are you planning to have the operation? Have you had it?

-Hi Melanie. Thanks for the note. To answer your questions: no, maybe, no, and hell no! For starters, I'm not transsexual, I'm just barely transgender. The difference is that a transsexual is born with the body of one sex, is raised as that sex, identifies with that sex, but on a chromosomal level, technically, they're the opposite sex. But without a lab test you'd never know. A transgender is someone who is physically and biologically one sex, but identifies with the other. I've had some cosmetic surgery, so I look like a feminine version of me, kind of like my sister if I had one.

-Hi Chris. What kind of surgery?

-Hi Melanie. I had my face done, had my Adams apple scraped off. I have breast implants. Small ones. I've seen man boobs that are bigger. I don't need a bra, but I usually wear a sports bra to flatten them out a bit. And I have implants in my butt. The overall effect is subtle. I don't usually dress like a woman. I have and I can, but, after trying it, it's not really my thing. As for living my life as a woman. Well ... no.

-Hi Chris. If you don't want to be a woman, why did you have the surgery?

-Hi Melanie. Seemed like a good idea at the time. And, truth be told, I probably shouldn't have done it. But I was curious. I'm not a man's man. I've always been more comfortable hanging out with girls. And I've always thought that if I was to be reborn I'd want to come back as a girl, a lesbian. I am so not into men. Bottom line: I'm a man in a woman's body of my own making, but I still act like a man ... usually. So, about the whole D/s thing. What's your interest there?

-Hi Chris. My relationships have been, sorry to say, boringly vanilla. I've a couple of doms that I spend time with occasionally. Sometimes I go to clubs where I know some people and end up doing scenes. I'm mostly into b&d, but I like pretty much anything that doesn't involve severe pain. I can get into a flogging if it's done right. By that I mean there's a difference between a flogging and a beating. Right? Nipple clamps? Sure. Violet wand. Water sports. Okay, but no scat. Anal is okay. Shibari. Absolutely. Bukkake, not so much. I don't mind doing group BDSM scenes, but when it comes to sex I'm kind of a one-man woman. Know what I mean? What about you?

-Hi Melanie. I'm primarily into D/s with some b&d, and maybe a bit of s&m. Having said that, I have no issues with inflicting as much pain as you can bear if that's what you need. As for group scenes, I'm not big on public displays of submission. This relationship will be a private one. If we're with others of like mind, then, sure, you might find yourself participating in whatever's going on. I've been in two committed D/s relationships. Both lasted a couple of years, but in both cases the women weren't ready to be collared. I don't do the club scene. Nothing against it, just never got into it. What about the girl-girl thing?

-Hi Chris. Girl-girl? If it's part of a scene, okay. Otherwise, not so much. Although, it just dawned on me I'm considering a relationship with someone who, for all intents and purposes, is a woman. LOL

-Hi Melanie. No, not really. I'm just a guy with a pretty face and boobs. It's like that Julie Andrews flick where she was a woman playing a man playing a woman, except I'm doing the opposite. Listen, do you skype? This would be easier face to face.

-Hi Chris. No I don't. Can you show me?


Five minutes is an eternity.

I settle in front of the computer, pop the buds in my ears. I launch the app and nothing happens for a minute or so. I'm getting nervous. What if she doesn't like what she sees? But then, there she is. She's pretty. Just like the picture on her slave registry profile. Not beautiful, but pretty. Her hair is either dark blonde or very light brown. It hangs in gentle waves about her face. She has a prominent nose. Although, it's not big. And her eyebrows are a bit thick. Maybe it's the lighting. The first thing that popped into my head was Steffi Graf. Same hair. Same face. But less of a jock. Not so broad in the shoulders. Huge rack.

"Hi Melanie."

"Hi Chris."

We make small talk for a bit then ...

"What are you looking for in a dom?"

"I want to be owned. To be kept and used for my owner's pleasure. As long as he's into BDSM. I wouldn't want to be kept as a Suzy-homemaker type. I'm not into humiliation. I'll be your slave and your slut, but I object to the c-word. I don't want to be degraded."

"You want to be property, but very valuable property. Kind of like a favorite pet."

"Exactly. And speaking of pets, I need to be kept on a short leash because if you give me too much freedom I'll get into trouble. Having said that, I don't want to be micromanaged."

"Well that's good because I'm not the micromanaging type. Of the three, D/s, b&d, s&m, you're mostly into b&d, right."

"Yeah, mostly bondage, though. I'm not much for discipline."

She laughs.

"That's why there's bondage."

She laughs again.

"Yeah. Right."

"Are you into self-bondage? I mean, you said you don't have a dom in your life."

"Uh uh. Yeah, I crave bondage, but it's something that has to be done to me, not me doing it to myself. I've tried it, but it's not the same. If there's no master there, well, it's kind of like sex versus masturbating."

"Do you masturbate?"

"Oh sure."

"Do you think about BDSM when you do?"

"Uh uh. I'm just into the feelings. I have kinky dreams, though. I've learned lucid dreaming and I can keep a dream going a long time."


"What about you? What are you looking for in a sub?"

"Someone to spend time bound and gagged, someone for me to torment, not torture, torment because it pleases me to do so. I'm primarily into D/s with a serious b&d habit. I want someone to learn my needs and desires and see that they're met - without doting on me. I'm a low maintenance master."

"Or mistress."

"Excuse me."

"The idea just popped into my head. I mean, you look more female than male. And I find it strangely appealing. I mean, it adds a whole 'nother layer of kink."

"So we would have, what, a quasi-lesbian relationship?"

"I think a straight relationship, but the world would see us as a lesbian couple, maybe? I'm sorry, but you look more like a butch girl than an effeminate guy. Maybe without makeup and your hair pulled back ... I don't know. We'd both have a part to play. Me as a lesbian and you as a woman. Not all the time, but sometimes."

"I can see that."

"To switch subjects, what are you into? Music? Movies? Food? Hobbies?"

It turns out that we have enough common interests to occupy ourselves when not in the dungeon so we set up a date.

"It has to be a D/s date. There's no point in beating around the bush. If you're going to belong to me, better you experience Chris the dom from the get go."

"Er, okay. What did you have in mind?"

"You said you have friends at Club Maîtresse?"


"That seems like both a safe and appropriate place for a first date."


She's wearing black leather pants, black, spike-heel booties and a black satin halter top that does nothing to restrain her tits and I enjoy watching them move as she approaches. I'm in "guy" mode. I have my hair pulled back and a leather band across my forehead. I'm wearing a leather vest, black jeans, and black boots. I have a small sack slung over my shoulder, just in case.

We stand on the sidewalk. She looks like she's expecting me to say something. When I don't she holds my gaze for a moment than lowers her eyes.


"Chris for now. And for future reference," I point at the sign, "I think I prefer the French. And only when we're in alone."


I remove the black leather headband, wrap it around her neck, and fasten it.

I chuck her under the chin.

"May as well get that awkward first kiss out of the way."

As first kisses go it wasn't bad. I keep a knuckle under her chin and draw the thing out a bit. Just a bit.

It's early yet. The place isn't crowded. There's some retro-sounding French music playing. The lights are dim. There are candles on the tables. The club is furnished in clusters of furniture surrounded by low walls and plants. It affords a bit of privacy I guess. As we pass one space I notice a guy kneeling at a woman's feet. She holds the end of a leash that is attached to his collar. He's wearing leather pants, but no shirt. Instead he has on some kind of harness thing. Not everybody is dressed in scene-wear, but most seem to be. I notice another couple. He's wearing a regular, dark suit, but she's in a schoolgirl outfit: red plaid, pleated miniskirt, white blouse unbuttoned to her navel, black shoes and white knee socks. Her hair is in pigtails and she's sucking on a lollipop.

Melanie leads me through the place. There's a large stage at one end of the room, a smaller one off to the side. The bar is at the other end of the room and we grab a couple of drinks. Down a corridor there are private rooms. The doors have red or green tags.

"What's that about?"

"Red tags means the room is occupied and private. Green means either the room is empty or it's occupied, but you're welcome to go in. Just slide the panel and take a look. If you like what you see you can go in."

"And participate or just observe?"

"It depends on the scene. Some want you to play rather than just watch. Some the opposite."

"How do you know which is which? Like I said, I've never gotten into the club thing."

"Well, it takes a bit of experience. Some scenes, just by the nature of what's going on, don't invite participation. The basic etiquette is to play if you're invited even if you don't want to, just to be polite. Otherwise you just watch."


We double back down the corridor, turn a corner, and run into a bear of a man.

"Oh. Excuse me."

"No. No problem."

"Hi guys. Chris, this is Alphonse and Regina, Gina."

I had made them, of course. They were sitting at the bar and, unlike everybody else in the place, they studiously ignored us when we came in, just as Melanie had ignored them. They were her backup, obviously, and were ready to race to the rescue if I'd dragged her into one of the private rooms.

"Care to join us," I said gesturing to a spot with a couch and a couple of chairs.


It started awkwardly as these things tend to do. But soon the girls and boys separated, the girls talking cars, specifically their respective Mustangs, and the boys talking cooking. The world is a truly messed up place.

We didn't talk about the elephant in the room: the BDSM thing. But that resolved itself about an hour later.

The place had filled. The noise level went up.

After a bit, Alphonse (not Al) said, "Shall we do this?"

He held out his hand Gina took it. He led her to the small side stage. She ducked behind a curtain and emerged a couple of minutes later wearing a black and gold brocade kimono and little, white socks. Earlier, she had been wearing a black leather minidress that was cut so low and so high it was little more than a wide belt. Her unnaturally red hair hung almost to her ass. Now it was up, held in place with a couple of chopsticks. She had added a bit of somewhat garish eye makeup.

Alphonse retrieved a gym bag from behind the stage and proceeded to lay out coils of rope.

"What's the deal with them? Are they married?"


"Is she collared?"

"Uh uh. He's the sub."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, he's a dom, but he subs to her. He's one of the ones I told you about. One of the doms I spend time with sometimes. The other's name is Clive."

"Oookay. Is he collared?"

"Yeah. It's a little weird, but she gets off watching him top other women."

"What about sex? I mean, there's a lot of sex in BDSM. Do you guys ever ...?"

"Uh uh. Which makes it very frustrating at times."

I consider that for a moment, but I decide to let it pass.

"But why is he tying her if she's the domme?"

"She likes being the center of attention and it's kind of a reward for him being a good subbie."

He went with your basic rope harness. When he pulled the rope between her legs, I caught a flash of pussy hair before the rope nestled itself between her lips and the kimono fell closed - well mostly. He added a second layer, weaving rope between the diamonds, drawing the whole thing tighter with every knot. If she had been naked, she'd be acquiring some serious rope marks. Even with the kimono, I'm sure she'd have a few bruises tomorrow.

He dropped a rope from the ceiling, fixed it to the harness, and hoisted her up on to her toes. He roped her right ankle to her thigh and hoisted it up until her left foot just barely brushed the floor. The kimono remained mostly closed, but the people down front were definitely getting a show. He stuffed a wad of white cloth into her mouth, added another as a cleave gag, finished it off with an over-the-nose gag/mask. He stepped off the stage to polite applause.

He left her like that for over an hour. Eventually he untied her and she ducked behind the curtain to change back into her 'street clothes'. Alphonse coiled the rope.

"What's the deal with nudity? I mean, it's clear she wasn't wearing underwear."

"It's frowned upon, but accepted as long as it's not too overt. A flash of nipple or pubic hair is okay."

They settled in with us again. We vacated the couch so they could share it. The waitress brought a fresh round of drinks.

"So how often do you do these shows?"

"Not often. Once a month, if that. There's usually three a night, one every two hours. Nikki is supposed to be up next, but I don't see her."

"What does she do?"

"Flogging. It's one of those showy things with a lot of twirling and not much skin contact. More like a dance than anything else."

While I like them, I'm not much of a talker and I'm noticing the conversation is winding down.

"What do you have to do to get a room?"

"Just check with the bartender."

"Do it."

Melanie hesitates, but then nods and heads for the bar.

"You're welcome to join us," I say to the others.

"Thanks, but there are some friends here we'd like to spend time with."

Melanie returns, we say our goodbyes. We make our way across the room. I stop her by the corridor.

"What room?"


"Go ahead. Wait for me. I want you kneeling in the middle of the room when I come in."

She nods.

"I think the words you're looking for are 'Yes, Maîtresse'."

"Yes, Maîtresse."

I head down another corridor to the men's and I'm momentarily torn. Do I use the men's or the ladies'. But then I notice the unisex handicapped sign and go in.

I pull a plastic shopping bag from the sack. I remove my vest and slip into a sheer, black blouse. I knot the tails under my tits. Off come the boots and socks and jeans. The pouch I wear does a good job of keeping things in check, but the skirt I put on has a few folds of cloth, too. Lastly I add a pair of low-heel black slippers.

I open the makeup kit and get to work. After my surgery, I spent a year as a woman - makeup, clothes, the whole nine yards. I came to realize it wasn't meant to be and have rarely worn makeup since, and I never wear woman's clothes. Well, except for panties and a sports bra. But it's like riding a bike, you don't forget, and soon I was looking back at a prettier version of me.

I take my hair out of the pony tail, comb it, and curl it up into a strict bun. I check myself one last time, grab the sack and bag, head out.

The tag on room 6 is flipped to red. I let myself in. The walls are painted green and there is some worn, black brocade wallpaper. A window is painted on one wall. It has black curtains. There is a light on behind them to give the illusion of the outside I guess. There are two office-surplus leather chairs and a matching leather loveseat. There is an X-frame propped up against the far wall.

Melanie is kneeling as instructed. She looks great. Back erect, tits out, head bowed just a bit. A slave waiting for her master. Or, in this case, her mistress.

I'm nervous. Probably not as nervous as Melanie. But still, this was our first date, I was in drag, and I was going to be the domme and it felt very, very strange. I pull my cell from the sack and take a picture.

"Are you wearing underwear?"

"Yes, Maîtresse."

"Strip down to your panties, then."

She does and it is a sight to behold. Her tits are a bit smaller than they seemed, but not much. Still way more than a handful. She is a bit thick in the waist, but has a flat belly. Her hips blend nicely with her thighs. The effect is gentle, connected curves.

When she had finished she starts to kneel.

"Stand. Place your hands behind your neck. Open your legs."

I walk around her once. The second time I stroke her as I go. I do it again. I take a few more shots. She doesn't flinch.

I chuck her under the chin and kiss her.

"You're very beautiful."

Melanie blushes.

"Thank you, Maîtresse."

I pull a coil of rope from the sack. I cross Melanie's arms behind her back and tie her forearms. I draw the ends of the rope around her chest, above and below her tits. They bulge nicely between the ropes. I grab another coil, loop it around her neck, draw it down between her tits, cinch it around the other ropes, feed them between her arms and body, tie them tightly. Her tits bulge so much they look like something alien, not part of her body. I stroke and squeeze them. She has large, pink nipples. Even with the skin of her tits stretched as it is, they still poke out, demanding nipples clamps that I didn't have.

I wrap another rope around her waist. I tug on her panties, burying them between her pussy lips, the rope follows. I draw it up between her ass cheeks and tie it off.

I cinch her knees and ankles. I would have liked to have done something more complex, but that's all the rope I had. It was enough.

I slip the soft, leather blindfold over her eyes. Last comes the ball gag. Nothing special, just a red rubber ball on a strap. It's a good fit and her lips seem glued to the thing.

I had photographed her at each step. Now I spend a few minutes shooting her from every angle.

I spend the next several minutes stroking her, fondling her, caressing her. I tease her by tugging on her nipples. Tease her some more by tugging on the crotch rope. I do this for quite a while. Long enough for her to get over her embarrassment and warm to the sensation. Then I stop.

There was an intercom on the wall. I punch the button, the bartender responds, I order a drink. It shows up a few minutes later and I settle with it in a chair. I don't want a drink, had one too many already on an empty stomach, but it gives me an excuse to just sit a look at my prize.

After a while I set the drink aside. I stand and strip off my blouse and skirt. I go back to stroking her, fondling her, but now I rub my tits against her, rub my whole body against her.

I remove the gag and kiss her while I rub against her. It's hard to tell if she's responding or not. She's cooperating, actively. Still, it's hard to tell.

I untie her knees and her ankles. I remove the crotch rope and her panties, lead her to the couch.


"Hello Melanie. Tomorrow night at eight?"


That's the totality of the call. Clive knows my number and there is only one reason I would call him. Tomorrow. Friday. I may get to spend the night. I hope not. Sleeping with him, waking with him, having sex with him seems all too 'normal'.

I step into the room. Clive shuts the door. I undo the belt and he removes my coat. I'm naked, of course. I kick off my shoes. Clive takes a collar and leash from the coat hook, fastens it around my neck, gives it a tug. I sink to my knees, then to all fours to crawl behind him as he leads me further into the room.

He settles on the couch. I crawl over to the cabinet and pour him a drink. I shuffle back to him on my knees. I sit back, open my legs, cup my breasts like a kind of offering. The metal chain is cool between them.

I kneel. He sips.

Finally he takes the end of the leash, stands and I follow him down the hall. The master bedroom is smaller than the bedroom he uses. He has built what is effectively a room within a room, heavily insulated with sound deadening material, heavily reinforced to withstand the forces of a subbie's frantic struggles. There's an armoire in the corner and a short bench up against one wall. On it, neatly arrayed, are cuffs, gags, chains, locks, sex toys.

I settle back on my haunches.

"What are you?"

"I'm your slave, Master."


He locks my cuffs around my wrists. Locks my collar around my neck. These are, literally, mine. The collar, cuffs, made by him just for me. The sex toys, the gags, mine also. Anything that comes into contact with my bodily fluids is mine and has it's own box. Given the fact I'm not his only sub, I appreciate that.

He takes a wad of cloth and pushes it into my mouth. He has to pry my lips apart to stuff it into my cheeks. It's distinctly uncomfortable.

He wraps tape around my head, across my mouth, under my chin, across my eyes until, except for my nose, my head is totally encased in black, stretchy tape.

The crotch rope comes next. It's painfully tight. It feels like it's splitting me in two and the rope cuts into my waist.

He nudges me to the table-cum-rack. I climb on. He settles me onto my back and using the end of the crotch rope he crosses my ankles, ties them, draws them up to my waist. this has the effect of raising my ass in the air, exposing my sex.

He folds my arms and ties my wrists to my upper arms. He wraps the ends of the ropes around my tits. They become firm, then hard, so hard that they feel like they're going to burst.

Something rubs against my pussy. He's dangled a vibrator down. It's going to be quite a contest between pain and pleasure. The ropes already hurt. The position is distinctly uncomfortable. But I know he isn't done.

I feel a bump on the table. It's the caner, of course. A machine he made. The last time I was here he wrapped me in tape, taped my ankles to my thighs, and settled me kneeling, straddling the sybian. He fastened a rope around my neck forcing me to bend over, forcing my clit into contact with the thing. The only things not covered in tape were my nose and my ass. The caning machine delivered a painful swat to my ass every five seconds or so. Now it would swat my tits.

He turns on the vibrator, starts the swatter. It's going to take time for the pleasure to register. It will, of course. I can feel the faintest little bit now. It will take time for the pain of bondage to fade into a dull throb, for my body to get the measure of the cane, work around it to find release. But I won't really be here. BY then I'll be just a collection of nerve endings sending messages to my brain. My brain and body will work it out. As of now, I'm just along for the ride.


I feel good, drained, but content. It's not subspace, but I feel flooded with endorphins. I just want to me held and cuddled.

Clive does this. He leads me back to the living room and hands me a glass of chilled, white wine. I cuddle up against him on the couch. While I don't want to sleep with him tonight, I appreciate this bit of tenderness. He puts his arm around me and I sip my wine while he smokes.



"I've, er, met someone."


"Yeah, but he's a tranny, a transgender. He's had some surgery. Not the big one, I mean. Just some cosmetic stuff. But he's not into living like a girl."


"Yeah. I think he kind of did it on a whim, just to see, the surgery I mean. And he lived like a woman for a while, clothes, makeup, and all, but it didn't work out."

"Seems like a big step just to see."

"Yeah, well, he's not one of these porn trannies with breasts like basketballs. He's kind of butch, butch as in manly-ish female. That's the first word that popped into my mind when I saw his picture, and then, again, when I met him. But with makeup and clothes he looks like your average, pretty woman."



"I sensed an 'and'.

"And I'm confused. He kisses like a girl. I mean, he's had his lips done, you know, they're full and soft and he has no facial hair and he has boobs. Not big boobs, but when he hugged me, well, there they were. And, yet, he acts like a guy. It's just ... I don't know."

"You had a date? How did it go?"

"May I have another glass of wine, please, Master?"


I refill my glass and settle back in.


"How so?"

"Well, he didn't want a vanilla date. He wanted a, you know, kinky date. We went to Maîtresse. And Alphonse and Gina were there. And after they did their thing, he took me to one of the private rooms. He had changed his clothes and had put on a stretchy, sheer top and a skirt and I could see his breasts."

"I thought you said he didn't wear woman's clothing."

"Yeah, well, it was kind of my idea, that during a scene he would be my mistress. I don't know why. The idea just popped into my head when we first talked and I blurted it out. Well, texted it. We were texting at the time."


"Well, after a bit he got undressed and he was wearing only a leather pouch for, well, you know. But he looked, for all intents and purposes, like a girl wearing a thong. Well, he rubbed against me and kissed me and part of me was going 'Mm' and part was going 'WTF'."

"Then he untied my legs and sat me on a couch and tied my ankles apart and he settled between my legs and ate me."

"And how did that make you feel."

I snickered.

"Master, you're sounding more like a shrink than a master."

"What makes you thinks there's a difference?"

I was pondering that when he said, "So, where are things now?"

"Confused. You know I don't like cunnilingus with a guy. Something about a man kneeling between a woman's legs is just not right. A girl? Sure. But not a guy and certainly not a dom."

"Unless he wants to."

"Yeah. I guess. Anyway, he hit a nerve, definitely hit a nerve. He knows his ropes and he knows how to treat a sub, so he pushed all the right buttons."


"Well, the buttons didn't stay pushed. I mean, every time he pushed a button it would pop back out. Drove me crazy. Which is why I'm here, Master. And thank you, Master."

"You're welcome."

"Anyway, when he's not wearing woman's clothes and makeup, he's a guy, treats me the way a guy treats a girl. And yet, he wants me to call him "maîtresse" which is French for mistress."

"I know."

"Yeah, but it was my idea! Like I said, I don't know why. I just kind of blurted it out. I called him Mistress, but he prefers the French version. Anyway, we'd be a straight couple acting like a lesbian couple and I'd call him maîtresse in the dungeon. I think. Maybe."

"I can see how that might be confusing."



You have 1 new message.

-Hi Chris. I'd like to see you again.


"What time's your interview?"


"Where again?"

"Carson Associates, an architectural firm. They're in the First Vue Tower."

"I know where that is."

I cool my heels in the coffee shop. At about 3:15 she comes in. She's wearing a blue suit, skirt a modest length, crisp white blouse, low heel shoes. We chat for a while, then I walk her to my car. She lives in the city, about eight blocks north, so she doesn't drive. Doesn't see the need, I guess.

While I work from home, I have clients in the city, so I have a reserved spot in one of the parking decks, back in the corner near the stair well. We take the stairs.

At the door to Level 3 I grab Melanie's hand, pull out a set of cuffs, and snick it to her wrist.

"What ...?"

She doesn't struggle, but she doesn't cooperate either. I interpret that as her being the kind of girl who likes to be forced to do what she already wants to do. I pull her other hand behind her back and connect her wrists.

I crack the door. The coast is clear. I half guide, half drag a reluctant Melanie to my car. I settle her in the front seat, reach across her, and fasted the seat belt. From the glove box I retrieve another set of cuffs for her ankles. The clear plastic tape distorts her lips into something resembling a smirk. The old-fogey wrap-around sun glasses, the ones I painted black on the inside, blind her.

I slow as I approach my house. It's a small bungalow on a corner lot. It's across the street from the university athletic fields, which is more like a huge park with a few sports venues dropped in. My neighbor across the street has tall shrubs around his back deck for privacy. His or mine? The whole neighborhood is old with plenty of overgrown trees and bushes. I can't even see my other neighbors, the ones behind. Next door I notice the cars are gone. They're at work. He'll be home at round 5:30. She rolls in closer to 7:00. I pull in and drive up to the shed.

I unbelt Melanie, remove the cuffs from her ankles, and walk her into the shed. I push her to the floor and cuff her into a hogtie. I remove the glasses. She looks at me, looks around, struggles a bit. She mmf's something.

"Here's the deal. You have a decision to make. You have to decide whether you want to stay with me or not. If you don't want to, you're free to go. But ... I'm not going to let you go for a week. You can scream, beg, curse me, it doesn't matter. If you make too much noise I'll simply gag you."

"Speaking of noise," I tapped the concrete wall, "nobody can hear you. You'll be gagged in the house, but out here, scream your head off."

I close the door to the shed and pull my car into the driveway. I call it the shed, but it's actually a large, cinderblock building. The windows are those old fashion thick ones that allow in light, but you can't really see through them. I spent the weekend fixing the place. I set off the bug bombs, cleaned.. There was a partial wall about a third of the way. I use the larger area for my workshop. This end I planned to make into a den of sorts, a man cave if you will. Not being married, I didn't need a man cave, but now that I had Melanie, it might become a dungeon of sorts.

I painted the walls and laid down some prefab, wood flooring. I erected a wooden post in a corner opposite the door. I set a small futon against the wall. There were other plans, but I stopped there. I liked the simplicity of it. As finishing touches I added a large, woven mat and a couple of heavy, wooden candle holders. The whole effect was kind of Asian, Japanese. What kind of a dungeon would you find in Japan? I mean, with their rice paper walls and all?

In the workshop I set up the camp stove, dumped a can of stew into a pot. I had found an antique chamber pot at a flea market and a couple of bowls at the pet store.

Back with Melanie, I set the pot and bowls by the post. I had managed not to slosh anything on my trip. I opened the chest. It's filled it with ropes and a selection of scarves. While I hadn't planned it, the room had taken on a Japanese look and I decide to do the Shibari thing.

While the candles are definitely low-tech, the camera hidden in the rafters is high-tech, ridiculously expensive, but small with outstanding resolution, and a built-in mike.

I peel the tape from Melanie's lips. She starts to say something, but I shove a scarf into her mouth, hold it in place with another tied around her head, wedged between her teeth. I alternately tie and strip her so that in the end she wears only a simple short, black, silk robe, her wrists tied behind her back, ropes tight across her chest.

I wrap rope above and below her tits, down her torso a bit, overdoing it as the Japanese are want to do. I tie her to the post with just enough slack for her to reach the bowls, reach the pot. Just enough rope that I can lay her down and fuck her. I do.

I take my time, tugging the robe, exposing her tits and pussy. I treat her roughly and she responds. It was either pain or lust, I don't know, but it leaves her panting, nostrils flaring.

I pull the gag from her mouth.

"That's your food, water, and toilet."

She looks from me to the bowls and pot. I step through the door.

"Please ...!"

Please what, I have no idea. I go into the house. I wake up the computer, mouse to the camera, click.

There's Melanie, sitting, back against the post, one tit hanging out. Her head is tipped back. Her eyes are closed. I crank up the volume. Silence.

She sits like that for over an hour, then she gets up on her knees and bends over the water bowl, takes a few slurping sips.

I crack a beer and settle on the front porch. A while later Shannon pulls into their yard. Shortly after she and Rob emerge, drinks in hand. They wave. I wave. The coast is clear. I finish my beer, go through the house, grab the pail green kimono, and head out to the shed.

Melanie's head bobs up as I step inside, but she doesn't say anything.

"Not hungry."

She doesn't answer. The moment drags out. She shakes her head.

"Too bad. But here's the deal. When I give you food and water you eat and drink. Now you can eat and then I'll take you into the house or not and you stay here."

Again it's one of those long moments, but she pushes herself to her knees, bends, and eats. After the first couple of bites she realizes she's hungry and cleans the bowl.


I release her from the post, but leave her tied. I help her to her feet and drape the kimono across her shoulders, belt it. I grab the food bowls and lead her across the back yard and into the house.

Once inside I remove the kimono and untie her. I snap a set of cuffs to her wrists and guide her into the bathroom. It's pleasant watching her bathe, pleasant watching the foamy waves run down her body, drip from her tits.

I give her a bottle of water, order her to drink it, she does. Then I pop the ball into her mouth and fasten the strap.

I let her do my makeup, brush my hair. She spends several minutes with a comb and hairspray. I look in the mirror. The whole thing is over the top. Or maybe it's just been a while since I was in full girl mode.

I opt for the padded bra that gives me a semblance of cleavage. She grabs a pair of black panties, tugs them up my legs. The pouch is part of my scene wear. I wear panties the rest of the time. It's not a fetish thing, I just like the way they feel. They're a spandex blend and they're all stretchy and smooth. She helps me into a white blouse, black skirt, and heels, dabs a bit of perfume on my cleavage.

I'm not big on TV, but a football game is on. I have her kneel at my feet, fetch wine and snacks.

I love watching her move, love watching her tits sway, love watching her ass jiggle.

At around midnight I remove the cuffs and gag. I tie her wrists, loop the rope around her neck to make a makeshift leash. I drape the kimono over her shoulder and lead her back to the shed.

I tie her, the same basic tie as before, but I leave the kimono on her. It's supposed to be chilly the next few nights and, while the shed holds the heat well, it would be cold by dawn. Besides, I have an encasement fetish. I love to see a naked woman all bundled up. I even add a pair of those little, Japanese toe socks. I adjust the belt, tug the kimono open a bit until one of her tits pops out. I push her down onto the futon, tie the rope to the post, pull her to her knees with her ass in the air. I fuck her again.

In the morning I go to my shop and fix breakfast for her. Nothing fancy, just oatmeal and fruit. I set the bowl before her, notice she hadn't used the pot. She starts to kneel, but I guide her in front of me. I undo my pants, pull out my cock. I slide my hand into her hair, but it doesn't take any urging. She opens her mouth and gives me a very credible blowjob.

I leave her there, kneeling over her food.

The next three days go like that: Bj, breakfast, the day in the shed, an afternoon fuck, evenings in the house, nights back in the shed. We hardly speak. I never speak to her in the shed and in the house she's always gagged.

Thursday I let her stay in the house, let her sit with me on the couch. I even allow her a glass of wine or three. We talk a bit then, but since she's in slave mode it's mostly one-sided. After sex, I chain her to the bedpost. She sleeps on the floor.

Friday I take the day off. Although, technically, that's not true. I work from home, so I make my own hours. But I spend the day in the shed.

After my breakfast blowjob I empty the chamber pot and wipe her crotch with a wet, baby wipe. She's had no choice but to get used to the thing and, apparently, she has. I leave her for an hour or so, then go back to the shed.

I untie her enough to remove the kimono, then retie her with her wrists up between her shoulder blades and ropes across her chest. I'd installed a hook in the ceiling and pull her up into a quasi strappado. This forces her tits to dangle nicely and I wrap thin cord around them until they bulge round.

I release her wrists and run a cord from her tits to the ring. I hoist her until her toes just brush the floor. She makes the most delightful grunting noises while I flog her ass.

I flog her hard enough to make her toe across the floor in a vain attempt to evade the blows.

Hard enough for her to beg, "Please Maîtresse!"

After a couple of shuffling steps I order her back. She hesitates, but she always shuffles back and sticks her ass out for me to lash some more.

When her tits become discolored I remove the cord. I had made a dildo stand, a simple metal base with a metal shaft and a large dildo on the end. I work the rubber cock into her. I don't need any lube.

I adjust the thing until it's fully buried inside of her, until she is helplessly impaled.

I add clamps to her nipples and pussy lips, add weights to the clamps.

I leave her like that. Back in the house, I rewind the video, watch myself bind her, flog her. Watch her struggles, hear her cries. Now she just squirms, helpless on the shaft, the clamps biting into her skin.

Call it a late lunch or early dinner, but I put together a picnic basket of sorts. There are small sandwiches, crackers, fruit, cheese, wine.

I remove the clamps, remove the shaft. I untie her wrists, but leave the ropes across her chest. I adjust the ropes so that she can feed herself, which she can, but just barely.

When she's finished, I tie her to the post. She kneels, then settles on the futon and soon I can hear her snore, a soft, gentle sound in the silence. I sit, sipping vodka, killing time until I can bring her into the house.

Her cleaned clothes are on hangers in the bathroom. She gives me a look.


"It was just-"

"If you say weird one more time I'm gonna scream."

"Okay. It was bizarre, but oddly intriguing. And a bit schizophrenic."



Gina tops off our wine.

"He kidnapped me after my interview, handcuffed me, gagged me, belted me in his car, and put blacked out glass on me. When we got to his place he brought me into a room. He has a big building behind his house. He calls it the shed. He's made part of it into a playroom of sorts. It has kind of a Japanese feel to it. Very austere. He stripped me and tied me, lots of rope around my chest, and he tied me to a post in the corner."

"He kept me there for three days. No, that's not really true. I slept there and I spent the day there, but he brought me into the house at night for a few hours."

"In the morning he'd bring me food and I had to give him a bj before he'd let me eat. If I used the chamber pot, he'd clean me."

"Chamber pot?!"

"Yeah. It felt very Story-of-O-ish. You know, slaves have no secrets from the masters. Anyway, later on he'd bring me into the house and let me take a shower. Then I'd do his hair and makeup, dress him."

"Dress him? How?"

"Just a blouse and skirt, a leather waist cincher, heels. Nothing over the top. Just ..."


"Yeah, weird. Even dressed that way, he's not really in girl mode, although he's not as rough with me as when he's in guy mode. During the day he'd come check on me and on one visit each day he'd rape me, or maybe ravage would be a better word. Anytime we were in the shed he'd be in guy mode, in dom mode. He'd tie me and use me as he pleased."

"And you liked it? I mean, it's what you've always said you wanted."

"Oh yeah. It was good. Very good. Dream-come-true good. Boring at times, though."

"It's called bondage and discipline for a reason."

"Now, don't be going all domme on me, Gina. You're channeling Clive."


"He told me the same thing a while back."

"Then I suggest you pay attention."

"Yeah. Well anyway, in the shed he was in dom mode, but in the house he was in maîtresse mode and he didn't so much dominate me as I served him."

"So when it comes to b&d it's Mel and Chris, but for D/s it's slave and maîtresse?"

"I hadn't thought of that, but, yeah, maybe. Although I can see the line blurring. He may want to do a scene as maîtresse. I don't know. I like it. I haven't worked it out yet, but yeah, Gina, that's brilliant."

I finish my wine and Gina upends the bottle.

"Well, Friday came and he brought me into the house and he said I had to decide to stay or go and I said I'd stay. So we went out on a date. Now that I think of it, it was our first real date. You know, vanilla date: cocktails, a show, dinner, back to his place for sex."

"How was it?"

"Well, I think the diva missed a couple of notes during the aria."

Gina whacks me with a pillow.

"Not that! Sex! You had issues with what you saw as a woman with a dick."

"I still do. We both do. And now I've complicated things with this maîtresse thing. But it's really more like he's a guy with boobs than a woman with a penis. Well, most of the time anyway."

"So maybe you should shelve the maîtresse thing."

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know. It was kind of thrilling in a disturbing kind of way to be kneeling, worshiping his feet. Her feet? I kissed and licked his shoes, kissed  his legs. He had me take off his shoes so I could lick and suck his toes. It felt all warm and girlie. Not at all like Chris in the shed."

"Maybe you should refer to Chris as 'her' when you're doing that kind of scene. Might help you get your mind around the idea."


I sip wine as I consider that option.

"I could never see myself licking a man's boot."

Gina gives me a look.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, discipline. But if it's just between us girls, well ... And he ate me and I liked it."

"So what are you gonna do?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't. I mean, I'll see him again, but I have no idea of where it'll lead if anywhere."


I'm watching the tattoo guy trace the pattern. He picks up the gun and makes the first line. I wince.

He's managing to get all the little accent thingies in there. The words are in a soft, flowing script. He works quickly, smoothly, but I still wince. I hate needles - even when someone else is on the receiving end.

In a few minutes the words appear on Melanie's shoulder:

Propriété de Maîtresse


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