Mysterious Mistress Mist · Part 1 (1/2)
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Carl’s heart thumped while he waited. There was nothing unusual about that. It always beat hard when he waited for her to visit. The phone could ring. His wife could come home. Any number of things could disrupt the carefully planned rendezvous. He checked himself in the mirror for about the twentieth time in an hour. Everything looked right, but it would not do to forget one of Mistress’s orders.
She had never given him any bizarre orders to prepare for her visit, perhaps in recognition of the precarious nature of their relationship. He was freshly showered, yet dry. He had combed his hair, cleaned his nails, brushed and flossed, scrubbed his face, and finally, deodorized under his arms before putting on the clothes she had selected. They were nothing unusual either, just jeans and a dark green button down shirt over his typical underwear. As Mistress always ordered, he wore no socks, shoes, or jewelry of any kind. Carl looked at the tan line on the ring finger of his left hand. Even without his wedding band, there would be no mistaking him for an unmarried man. He felt a pang of guilt and a surge of adrenaline at the thought of the impending session.
The doorbell chimed and Carl’s stomach somersaulted. The doorbell was not part of the plan. Carl opened the door, expecting a salesman or neighbor, but instead, Mistress breezed in with a look of faint amusement on her face. Carl’s face lost all its color as he stared at her neat gray BMW parked on the road in front of the house. He turned, mouth open, but silent, words failing him.
“The garage door opener didn’t work. I think the battery is dead,” Mistress said as she tossed the small device at him. He caught it without thinking, shoving it into his pocket.
Not noticing her raised eyebrow and slight frown, Carl found his voice, “You can’t, I mean, you shouldn’t, but, your car is right there…” The plan they had followed so many times before was now a shambles. Before every session, Carl mailed the extra garage door opener to Mistress’s post office box. No one could see her enter the house.
“Is this how you greet me, Carl?” Mistress finally interrupted, sounding more amused than angry. Carl dropped to his knees, but still looked up at the woman. He could not resist gazing at her. Today, her bright red hair was in a tight bun atop her head. Black, wire frame glasses accentuated the dark green of her eyes and highlighted the pale skin of her face. For the first time since they had been meeting, she wore a black evening dress with a splash of red sequins instead of her typical casual attire. The black leather of her soft, shoulder length gloves contrasted sharply with the fairness of her skin. Carl still had protests forming on his lips when she spoke again.
“You are looking at my face, slave.” She spoke more sharply this time, “And I still have not received the proper greeting.”
Carl’s anxiety disappeared, replaced with the somewhat different anxiety he usually felt when serving his Mistress. He wanted to do it right for its own sake, not just to avoid punishment. He even smiled as he lowered himself to his hands, his face barely above the black leather of her high heeled pumps. That he was not allowed to look at the Mistress’s face was a long standing and often broken rule, the only rule he dared to break. Usually, the infraction was a stolen glance or chance meeting of her eyes. He had not stared so directly at her since they had progressed from merely talking in the library or cafe to acting out their fantasies.
From his submissive position, he could see only her shoes and the black nylon of her stockings. They would be stockings, he knew, the thought warming him. They were always stockings, and they would be long. All the way to the tops of her thighs was the way Mistress liked them. Carl lowered his face and gently kissed the top of her foot, lips brushing nylon instead of leather, exactly as she had trained him to do nearly two years ago now. Instead of rising back to an upright kneeling position, he stayed down to show his contrition at his earlier behavior.
“That’s better, though I think a greater gesture of apology is in order.” She shifted her foot slightly and Carl immediately lowered his face again. This time he traced the tip of his tongue along her instep, just above where the shoe met her foot. His tongue followed the outline of the shoe all the way to the back of her ankle where he stopped. Quickly shifting his body, his head was now on the other side of her foot and his tongue returned to its slow tracing until he completed the circuit of her foot.
“Mmm, well done, slave. You are provisionally forgiven your earlier infractions. I will chalk them up to the excitement of the moment,” she paused, then spoke again. “Well?” she said, giving Carl permission to rise and speak with just one word.
Carl rose back up to his knees, still looking down at her feet. “Mistress Mist is kind and generous,” he said, pleased that his voice remained clear and even despite the awkward start to their session. He had learned the hard way not to speak too softly to Mistress, because she detested asking him to repeat himself.
She laughed, the soft sound warming his spirit and other parts. “Ah, I really do adore that pet name you have for me, slave. You always seem to know just how to please me, even when you’ve faltered.” Mistress ‘Mist’ was Carl’s own invention, used with her permission. Along with the injunction against looking at her face and other rules, she had made it clear early on that he would never know her name or any other relevant information about her. She had steadfastly refused to give even a pseudonym for him to use. This upset Carl’s notion of propriety, which was perhaps her goal all along, until he finally begged her to allow him to give her a name.
Of course it had not come for free. Mistress had chosen one of his carefully negotiated limits to stretch, just slightly, but stretch nonetheless. That session had occurred over a year ago, but it still burned in Carl’s memory. Mistress had been more physical than usual, stripping him with her own hands, moving his limbs and body into exactly the position she wanted, rather than ordering him to move, which was her custom.
Hands on his shoulders, she pushed him to the edge of the guest bed in the spare room that usually hosted their sessions. He tried to keep his gaze down as she spun him roughly and pushed until the backs of his legs touched the mattress.
"Land flat on your back," she said. Her harsh tone was completely at odds with the bright smile on her face as she shoved him hard. He stayed on his back as she had ordered. His body still bounced slightly from the force of his landing, but Mistress was already tugging him into position. She pulled his arms and legs until he was splayed into a wide X.
Then she applied the restraints, the thickest and heaviest leather cuffs she owned, she told him. Starting with his right wrist, she moved from limb to limb buckling the cuffs around each extremity. Carl's nose twitched at the faint smell of leather. He thought about moving, or putting on a show of resistance, but he knew that would not improve the experience for either of them. So he remained still as Mistress manhandled his body.
She paused for a breath at his left wrist, then clipped a heavy leather strap to the cuff and attached it to the bed frame. Mistress had actually grunted lightly with the effort of taking the slack out of the strap, pulling hard to get the roller buckle moved to the desired spot. Once again, she worked her way from corner to corner until she strained at the strap buckle on his right wrist.
Spreadeagle on the guest bed, immobilized tightly beyond his wildest fantasy, Carl vainly tried to look only at the ceiling, but could not prevent himself from stealing occasional glances at Mistress. Finally, her preparations seemed to end.
“Let me restate the terms of our agreement so there is no confusion. You will give me a name, a name that is not silly or overly affectionate or insulting. In return I get to push one of your limits, just a little. Any limit I choose, save the prohibition against permanent marks of any sort. Correct?”
Carl could only nod. His words had vanished. He broke the second rule again by looking directly at Mistress’s face. She did not object. His mind seemed incapable of processing any information except for her image. As he watched, she stripped down to her panties and unbraided her hair, letting it flow down her back. Carl had seen various parts of Mistress’s body before, but never all at once. His gaze wandered over her, stopping at her hips when he realized she had on full cut panties. On those few times she had flashed him her underwear, they had been a smaller cut.
“That’s not good enough, Carl,” her words broke his train of thought. “I need to hear you say that you agree.”
“Yes, Mistress, I agree,” he finally managed to blurt.
“Tell me again, using the name you have chosen.”
“Yes, Mistress Mist, I agree,” his face reddened as he belatedly considered the chance that she might not like his name. Her eyes widened and she stared back at him for a moment.
“Very creative, slave. I like it,” she said as she slid the panties down her legs and balled them up. “Now, keep these in your mouth,” she said as she shoved the wad of slick cloth into his mouth.
Carl mmphed in protest.
“Don’t be a baby, slave, I’m not even taping them in. If there is an emergency, you can spit them out. But this way, you can’t safeword on me without really thinking it over. That would spoil my fun.” She noticed his open gaze. “Rule two, my little toy.” She smiled as Carl hurriedly cut his eyes away from her. The wry, slightly twisted grin she flashed was yet another reason he couldn't resist her face.
His eyes swept back as Mistress bent down over her bag in such an unladylike fashion that it could only be deliberate. The effect was instant, hardening Carl’s already erect cock even further. She rummaged for a minute, giving Carl plenty of time to consider his fate. His mind whirled and panic began to bubble up.
When she stood and turned, Carl was torn between a sigh of relief and the desire to scream. She held a sketch pad and pencil in one hand and a camera in the other.
“I considered this a lot longer than you probably think I did,” she said as she placed the items on the bed and stepped away. From the corner, she pulled a chair to the side of the bed, sat down and continued, “You have an awful lot of limits, Carl. There are a lot of dommes who would not put up with so many restrictions on their behavior. But after talking to you, I knew why you have the limits you do. I also know that given time, many of them will fall by themselves. Frankly, I look forward to the collapse of each and every one of them.”
Carl’s eyes widened, she could not mean that, could she? Some of his limits were against things too disgusting to even contemplate.
“But it’s been the no pictures, no recordings rule that has pricked me the most, I think. I can’t trust my memory to capture this moment. The tautness of your limbs, my little fuck toy straining with desire to get into me, the wideness of your eyes. So, I’m going to sketch you, just to help me remember. Also, it just seemed so unreasonable that you will allow yourself to be bound so stringently that you cannot move, trusting yourself to my hands, and yet you can’t bring yourself to trust me to be discreet with your image. I will use the camera to take closeups of your wrists, ankles and the delightfully single-minded dick that you have pledged to me.
Your perfectly panic-stricken face will not appear in any photo, and for privacy's sake, I'm using an old camera instead of a phone. No one will ever see them except me, and possibly you.” With that, she began to draw. Carl relaxed as much as he could, understanding that he was as safe as he could possibly be.
“Daydreaming again, slut?” Her voice broke him out of his remembrance, and he bristled at the name she called him. It was another example of her slow, steady demolition of his limits. Before he could look up, his usual response to her assaults on his sensibilities was to break rule two, she grabbed a handful of his hair and held his head down, keeping his gaze on the floor.
“You were thinking about my naming day.” She did not even pose it as a question.
“Yes, Mistress Mist.”
“I have a confession to make, Carl. I’ve thought about it a great deal in the past year, but I never wanted to betray a weakness to you by asking directly. Why Mist?”
Carl smiled broadly, though his Mistress could not see it. “Mist is the first sound of the word mystery and Mistress, and mists are fundamentally mysterious, ever changing and a little capricious.”
She relaxed the grip on his hair, and raised his face up to meet her gaze. “You have the soul of a poet, Carl.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” he said, almost too softly for her to hear. He was lost in the unnamed quality of their relationship. Momentarily forgotten were his pangs of guilt, his fears of discovery, and even the memory of Mistress’s unusual entry.
“Well, this is all so touching, but it does not address the fundamental problem, your need for a good ass whipping and my need to give you one. I wanted to add a few other touches today as well,” she added with incongruous cheer.
Dread reawakened in Carl’s heart as she bade him to rise and strip. When he was done, she commanded him to put his arms behind his back. Quickly and confidently she restrained his wrists with leather cuffs. Then she hobbled his ankles as well and marched him toward the kitchen.
“You know Carl, this is the way you’d have to walk when I get to dress you up like a real play pretty. Can’t you feel it? I know how much you love it when I rub my legs against you. You could feel it for yourself if you just let me choose a pair of stockings for you. And a pair of ankle strap heels is a much subtler restraint system than these clumsy cuffs and hobble,” she teased him gently.
Carl stared straight ahead, ears burning. No cross dressing was a limit that Mistress had not taken particularly well, and she would occasionally toss the idea out for Carl to consider again. She had mastered the art of making Carl’s objections seem unreasonable, and of making her own plans for him seem perfectly acceptable and even gratifying.
Mysterious Mistress Mist · Part 1 (1/2)
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