“Not a chance, slave,” I told her. She wasn't my slave, really. Not yet, anyway, but subs love to hear dominants talk like that.
“Please, I was so bad this week. Punish me,” she whispered.
“Tell me about how bad you were,” I instructed, waiting to get over the aftershocks of the pleasure she had given me.
“I was… mean to my staff,” she began.
I almost laughed. I knew that was a lie, for a change. “Mean in what way?'
She seemed to be considering. “I made them wait for me while I masturbated. I thought about you and I held up the staff meeting until I came and cleaned myself up.” She pressed tighter against my boot and just held still.
“You were definitely bad, Lolita. Get up and lean over the stool. I want you so your breasts are hanging free and you can feel the weight of the clamps pulling on them.'
Silently she rose and went to the stool where she carefully leaned over until she was arranged as I had required. She was so short that her feet didn't quite touch the floor and I could tell she was uncomfortable. Too bad.
“How long did you make your staff wait for you, Lolita?” I asked. I had my crop out now and I was tracing the cheeks of her ass with it.
“Fifteen minutes,” she grunted. “I came twice.'
“Then I'll give you 15 lashes, and if you take them well, you can come once,” I decided.
“Fifteen?” she shrieked, but the descending crop cut her off.
I wasn't hitting her that hard. Sure, it stung, because if it didn't, the sub didn't reach “subspace,” that mental condition in which pain and pleasure couldn't possibly be separated. Some subs could climax just from being whipped. You didn't even have to touch them. But I would touch Lolita.
She was wailing when I got to ten, so I stopped and left her over the stool while I went for some lotion for her bottom. Part of the deal was not only pain, but also caretaking, yet another form of control. I applied the lotion liberally and smoothed it on slowly while she panted with relief.
Then her wig fell off.
I had hoped it would. Being head-down in that position long enough, and sweating, gravity would have its way. With a yelp of surprise, she grabbed at it with her manacled hands, and her glasses dropped off, too.
Rather than returning the items to her, I helped her slide back to an upright position. She buried her face in my shoulder. “Please don't look,” she begged.
“All right, I won't, but you have the loveliest hair,” I remarked, running my fingers through it gently. “I'll take your cuffs off and turn away and you can put this stuff back on, if you want, okay? Then we'll continue.'
She nodded and I did as I had promised. I wished I could have seen her eyes, but it wasn't as if I had never seen them.
“All right,” she announced, and when I looked, only the glasses were in place.
I must have looked surprised because she said, “Well, you've already seen my real hair, and the wig is hot. I can put it on before I go back out there,” she nodded at the door.
“I won't tell anyone about your crowning glory,” I told her. “Now, get down on your knees. I need a shine.'
“Yes, Major,” she agreed quickly, kneeling.
I'm sure she thought I meant for her to shine my boots with polish, but I had a better idea. I brought a chair and a footstool, of which there were several of varying heights in the room. Putting my foot on the stool brought my combat boot to the level of her crotch. “Shine it,” I ordered.
“Wh-with what?” she asked, absolutely baffled.
“Your twat,” I snarled, “and if I don't like the way it looks, you'll lick it off.'
She was on the boot in a heartbeat, maybe less. She was a small woman, but she packed a wallop in that hard, trim body. She grabbed onto my thigh and rode me like a real rodeo star. It took about six seconds for me to wet myself again as she squished her hot little quim all over my boot. I wondered if she might break my leg with her efforts, but her balance was excellent.
“Oh, God, oh, please, Major, let me come,” she whimpered.
“Not yet,” I told her. “I want you to shine both of them, so you had better slow down.'
She did, looking up at me, all but worshipping me. I crossed my arms and scowled down at her, but then I relented and caressed her cheek with the back of my hand. “Slowly, sub. Make it last. And I want you between my legs before you come. Remember that.'
She grunted with effort, changing boots at my command, and finally when I felt her pulling back, I knew she had had all she could take.
“Eat me, you cunt,” I said, my voice a low growl, and I felt her shudder.
I leaned back and raised my feet so she could get into my crotch, and then I rested my boots on her back while she went down on me. My hands were finally in those soft curls I had so longed to touch, and I let her finish me off twice before I permitted her to raise her head and breathe.
“You love it, don't you, my slut?” I demanded when I could breathe again. “All right, get on my boots. I know you want it.'
“I want it, I want it so badly,” she agreed, her perfect grammar never deserting her even under this much duress.
“Fuck my leather,” I commanded, and I grabbed her hands and held her in place so she would have more freedom of movement.
Hanging onto me, depending on me, she squirmed down hard with all her strength, bouncing and groaning in desperation. Lolita's release was explosive, and she cried out and sagged, but I held her up and jiggled my foot so that she came again and again until she slumped bonelessly to the floor.
I devoured her presence, feeling strong and protective and utterly in her control, all appearances to the contrary. After a few minutes, she crept to my feet and began to softly lick my boots.
“That's not necessary,” I said. “You did a good job.'
“I want to,” she whispered.
I let her.
Chapter Seven
I was beside myself with longing for Lynn Jeffries. I had to find a way to reveal myself to her without frightening her away or making her angry. I didn't say a word of this to Bev. Not only would she have disapproved, she would have found a way to stop me and she would have been furious. I don't know how many times she and others had cautioned me against becoming involved with clients, but I thought this case was different. Actually, most attachments were initiated by clients who fell in love with us. The answer to that dilemma was to pass them to another dominant. That answer wasn't going to work this time.
I realized I risked my position in the dungeon by proceeding against the rules, but Lynn Jeffries meant so much to me I didn't care. It wasn't my day job; it carried no benefits. The money was nice but the time might be better spent writing. I decided to write out some scenarios for my revelation and go with the one that sounded the most practical. So I put my exobiologist on the shelf for a week and worked on my approach to my sweet little sub.
When I went to the dungeon the following weekend, I had the framework of a plan in place. A lot depended on Lolita herself, and on whatever progress I could make encouraging her trust. I thought I would start with some apparently innocent conversation.
She was my last customer again on Friday, and as she rested on the mat on the floor between the bouts of exertion I had planned for her, I asked, “Why do you call yourself Lolita?'
She tensed. “It's my name.'
I sighed, “No, it isn't, any more than I'm a Major, or any more than that wig is your hair. I'll go first,” I said, and I explained the origin of my title.
