“May I taste you, Mistress?” he asked.

I knelt beside him and ran my hand from his hair to his ass, rubbing and petting him like my most-prized pet.

“Yes, my pet,” I whispered in his ear, feeling him shiver. “You may please your Mistress.”

I stood, tossed the whip onto the bed and positioned myself at the foot of the bed. With dramatic flair, I lifted my five-inch spiked heels onto the backless settee at the foot of the bed and parted my legs, giving my pet a full view of the warm, wet place of his desire.

“Come to me, my pet,” I said and watched him crawl to me, kneel before me upon the settee.
He licked his lips, and I smiled.

“Run your hands up my legs, Pet,” I whispered, and controlled the pant that threatened to release itself at his hands on my ankles. Even through the latex, I could feel the heat from his touch.

His hands moved from ankle to calf, massaging along the way. From calf to knee. From knee to thigh. His eyes never left mine.

I closed my eyes tightly and inwardly moaned. On my mind’s screen, I saw him, the one I carried into every episode that took place within the Mistress’ Boudoir, the one who made me cum without a touch: Drew Winger.

It might seem odd to hear a dominatrix, someone used to being in control, talking about a person who could demand me, command me to do anything, but I think that’s what makes a good dominatrix: she knows both sides. She knows how to be vulnerable, submissive. She knows how that feels, what parts of the body react to what speech, look, touch. And she can incorporate that knowledge into delivering a remarkable performance for her pets as a dominatrix.

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