day, writer by night, dominatrix on the weekends.
Chapter Two
I think perhaps dominance appealed to me because in my personal relationships, I had always been at a disadvantage. My lovers had always had the upper hand, emotionally, financially and therefore, psychologically. I had had enough of being dominated, used and dumped because I was basically just a real sweet person. Mom raised me right, except I always took a beating. Never a physical one, but there are other kinds of beatings.
During my lurking phase, I watched the “other” dommes (Like I was one already! It doesn't happen overnight.) to see what to adopt, what to discard, what I might have to invent from scratch. Since being submissive was my “natural” role, I took that part first, to learn. In that role I was just one of many naked slaves, moving from cavern to closet to cell; wherever my many mistresses wanted me to go in the dungeon, doing whatever they wanted me to do. I had been told by one of the staff that no one becomes a dominant without spending some time as a submissive first, although the opposite was not true. Most of the submissives I've ever met not only wouldn't be dominant, they couldn't. Some of us could switch, most of us chose a role and stayed. I decided that if I could become dominant, I would stay put right there, where I felt safe and in control.
After learning all there was to know about the submissive mind-set, and it was dangerously comfortable for me, I approached one of the staff dommes for formal training before I lost my nerve. Her name was Beverly and I chose her because she was silent, reserved, rigid and absolutely not stereotypical. No stilettos, mesh stockings and bustier for her. Those things were rare among lesbians anyway. She barely said a word, most of her control coming from a look or a gesture. She wore a Nazi SS uniform, complete with jackboots, sidearm, swagger stick and dark glasses. It was perfect for her. At well over six feet tall, blond and with not a little of the Prussian about her, she pulled it off well. She wasn't a Nazi herself-far from it. The Nazis had wanted to wipe out homosexuals, after all. A Nazi officer was, however, the scariest thing she could think of, and I had to agree with that. Everyone agreed with Beverly if they knew what was good for them. She was the alpha domme, and no one even thought to challenge her.
I flat out told Beverly I wanted to become a domme because I was writing about the life and I was sick and tired of being taken advantage of. It had occurred to me by then that it could also be a part-time job and would keep me safely from real emotional involvements.
Beverly didn't give a shit why I wanted to do it. She took my money and ordered me face down on the cold stone floor to lick her size 12 boots, whacking my backside liberally with her swagger stick when I failed to lick hard and fast enough. Thus began my apprenticeship.
Several months of weekend nights later, when I was aching and sore from tongue to toes and had had every conceivable object inserted into every orifice, Beverly told me she could do no more with me. To begin with, she had thoroughly torn me down and when I was nothing, she began to build me back up into a domme after her own image. I emerged from my submissive chrysalis as a fledgling domme. Together we took on the subs, starting with the least experienced, working up to those who were inured to all but the most specialized and intense forms of pain. Having been the recipient of pain myself, and having gotten off on it, I was no longer squeamish about giving it. I needed very little pain to climax, myself. Mere verbal control and a completely authoritative manner were enough to excite me nearly to orgasm, and the delay or denial of orgasm itself usually sent me the rest of the way. Beverly had a lot of fun with that, and suggested that since I knew it so well, it would make an excellent specialty for me. I concurred and incorporated this behavior into my repertoire.
The costume, the role, came last, almost an afterthought. Having been tossed out of the Army before attaining the rank of major, I chose that as my title: The Major. I wore unrelieved black: combat boots, fatigue pants, dress shirt and suspenders, topped by a black military-style cloth cap with a high peak and a large brim. The gold leaf insignia rode below the peak of the cap. I carried a riding crop and wore dark glasses, like Beverly's. I had to, or my round, innocent good-natured baby face would have rendered me a joke. I hid my short blond hair under the cap so that I looked utterly androgynous-as long as you overlooked my big tits. In the dark, and anxious to be dominated, most subs didn't notice them at all.
As dommes frequently came and went, there was room for me on the staff as soon as Beverly pronounced me a graduate of her program. My shift was not the best, ending late Saturday and Sunday nights when I had to be up early for work on Monday morning, but I went along with it for the experience and slept in as much as I could on my other days off to compensate. Usually I was so jazzed when I got off work on Sunday night that I just stayed up until I finished work Monday, then crashed. It was annoying to have to spend the rest of the week adjusting to Sunday nights, but gee, the money almost made me contemplate not writing anymore. I admit, until I was done with my training and got used to the weird schedule, my writing went on a back burner, but, oh, the material I was collecting!
All week long I looked forward to Friday, when I worked eight PM to three AM. I loved my little outfit, I loved seeing the subs wet themselves for me, and I loved getting off on their faces. It was so much better than caring! What the hell took you so long? I would demand of myself. I swore I would never get involved again. I didn't have to.
Beverly and I weren't the only ones with costumes, of course. Almost everyone had one, although there was a lot of duplication. Among the dommes, there were police, military of every description, cowgirls, mechanics, clergy (yes, isn't that scary?) doctors, and dark-suited lawyer and broker types. Subs came in rags, slutty bimbo outfits galore, dressed as schoolgirls, or just plain naked. I had regulars and I had one-time visitors. The galleries were full of women in street clothes, either curious or contemplating a foray into the life.
All of the staff dommes had regular customers. There was no need for staff subs. Subs showed up by the carload every weekend. Any visiting domme who wanted one had a huge variety to choose from. It wasn't infrequent that a sub took a number to be with the domme of her choice for thirty minutes to an hour to all night. I didn't care how many I saw; the rates were the same regardless.
After a few months on staff, I knew all the regular subs and could do their routines practically in my sleep. Thus I discovered one of the drawbacks to being this involved: after a while, it isn't different enough to be exciting. Eventually I needed “fresh meat” to get off during a performance. That, or I would spend some time with Beverly, playing sub to her domme when time permitted. She wasn't the best for no reason and it scared me that I was starting to find her attractive and even necessary in my life. I used those interludes only as a last resort. I had the impression she would have liked more, but I loved that sternness, those boots, the silence until her orgasm, way too much not to be very scared of where it might lead. I just wasn't ready for more quite yet. Besides, I was supposed to be a domme myself!
Before that became a real problem for me though, something happened. Something happened to mess up my nice, carefully orchestrated life, and I didn't know whether to be pleased or pissed off.
Chapter Three
Friday afternoon.
“Good evening, Dr. Jeffries.'
She sniffed. My day was complete.
On the way home to change, I thought about her. The little dynamo was both a mystery and source of amusement to me. She was cute as could be, but she hid behind a tough, brainy exterior that had the students, faculty and staff either on their toes or back-pedaling out of her way all the time. Just over five feet tall, and not one to bother with foolish and uncomfortable high heels to compensate, she could still silence a rowdy assembly or faculty meeting with one steely look. Most of the teachers, especially the men and not a few of the women, would have killed for a smile from her. No one stayed on her good side for long. No one was perfect enough for Lynn Jeffries, BA, M. Ed., Ed. D., Fulbright scholar, published author and sought-after lecturer. Did I mention she wasn't married? When would she have had the time?
I think if she had been nice to me, I would have adored her. I could have adored her. She was just my type,
