Mysterious Mistress Mist · Part 2

Mysterious Mistress Mist · Part 2 (2/2)
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It was working too. Carl caught himself considering the idea before his normal pattern of rejection asserted itself. He continued walking, eyes forward, knowing better than to respond to any of Mistress’s attempts to push his limits with anything other than agreement.

“Not this time, Carl? That’s okay dear,” she patted his ass affectionately. “That will give me time to decide just what color scheme would look best on you,” she said as they reached the kitchen. “I’ve decided I’m bored with that back room. Let’s see what we can find in here?”

Carl stood still as Mistress surveyed the room. His heart beat loudly in his own ears. The kitchen windows looked out on the wooded backyard, but it was still theoretically possible that someone could see him, naked and bound.

“This is perfect, my pet. Come stand right here,” she said pointing at a spot on the floor next to the small table. She placed her bag on the table where Carl could see it while she made further preparations. She moved a chair and deftly stepped up onto it, removing a hanging plant from a hook screwed into the ceiling.

“These are perfect Carl, nice and sturdy and screwed right into the joist.” She did not ask whether it had been him or Brigitte who had put the hooks in the ceiling. During their negotiations, she had revealed her own limits and her levels of flexibility with them. But she had adopted one hard rule for herself. She never mentioned his wife, and Mistress had never broken that rule. She climbed back down, plant in hand, and set it on the counter. As she did, a button popped from her glove and skittered across the floor. Carl’s nerves had grown so taut that he could not help himself.

“What was that?” he blurted.

“Did I give you permission to interrogate me, slave?” Mistress demanded.

Carl swallowed, trying to settle his nerves. “No, Mistress.”

“I did not think so. Perhaps some additional correction is necessary today to remind you of your proper place. Don’t you agree?” she asked as though the very concept of disagreement would violate some universal axiom.

“Yes, Mistress.”

With his reply, Mistress removed various items from her bag. Another leather hobble strap and a length of rope, neatly coiled, were placed on the table. Following these items was a familiar leather slapper, and ominously, a pair of small clamps connected by a chain. Almost as an afterthought, she extracted another length of dazzlingly white rope. Then she removed the hobble from between the ankle cuffs and grasped his left ankle, pulling. Carl shifted his weight to allow Mistress to position him as she desired. That all this was being accomplished without a word from her was a bad sign for Carl.

In short order his ankles were fastened to the legs of the table, leaving his erection jutting over the place his plate usually occupied at mealtime. Mistress stood behind him, without pressing her body against him to tease him, another bad sign, and reached around to his nipples. These she massaged and pinched until they became firm. Without ceremony, she applied the clamps. Carl’s only reaction was a sharp intake of breath.

“Are those too tight, my little toy?” she asked, dripping concern. She looked at his twitching erection. “My little fuck toy doesn’t seem to mind them. I think it likes the clamps, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Carl said, managing not to grit his teeth. She was right, as usual. His body seemed to be absorbing the pain and by some strange psychological alchemy, transforming it into another sensation entirely.

“Bend over, slut.” Her sharp tone compelled instant compliance. She passed one rope above the chain holding the clamps together and tied it loosely around the table top. Carl realized he could not stand up without yanking the clamps right off his nipples. The other rope she tied to the fastener connecting the wrist cuffs. From behind him, she flipped it up onto the hook. From the hook, it ran down to the floor, and she took out almost all the slack before she tied it to a table leg. Now Carl calculated that pulling his nipples off would not be the only problem associated with standing up. Leaning forward without resting on the table was straining him now as well, and he realized he was trapped between two painful alternatives as well as failing his Mistress with his weakness.

It was no accident that the slapper was positioned directly below his eyes. He watched, barely breathing, as Mistress’s gloved hand reached beneath his face. Her hand caressed the slapper, gloved fingers dragging slowly along its surface. Finally, her hand gripped the instrument’s handle and withdrew it from his sight.

“Don’t you dare come, you little whore, not until I command it.”

Carl did not have time to reply before the first blow landed on his exposed bottom. He gasped, though the swat was just hard enough to sting. Mistress had grown adept at punishing him without leaving a mark that did not quickly fade. The real punishment was in his natural tendency to flinch when struck. When the blow landed, he had instinctively raised up, moving his ass away from her. That action immediately tightened the rope tied round the table. Carl saw little stars of light. The pain quickly faded, even as the next blow landed on his ass. The sensations quickly mounted in intensity, working their strange magic on his arousal.

“If you keep pushing that little ass back at me, I’m going to think you want me to stick something in it,” Mistress said suddenly, between swats of the slapper. Carl understood. He had been pushing his ass out as he leaned ever closer to the table, trying to give his nipples some slack. Another series of blows pelted his upper thighs and bottom, then Mistress rested, replacing the slapper on the table so that Carl could examine it. From the bag she pulled one last item, a riding crop.

Carl’s sharp gasp alerted her to his impending objection. “Shhhh, Carl. Wait and listen. I’m very aware of your reasons for avoiding marks, and I understand them. I’ve studied the way your skin and flesh respond to my tender mercies for almost two years. I think I can safely employ this crop and still leave you unblemished.” A strange note crept into her voice as she traced the crop along his still stinging backside. “I have left an area untreated by the slapper, saving it for the crop. It is right here where your cheek and thigh meet.” She tapped the spot with the crop, eliciting tiny moans from her victim. Then she stepped toward the table. From the bag she pulled an ordinary hand towel. She folded the towel around Carl’s erection, noticing the signs that indicated how close he was to orgasm.

“There you go, Carl. Do you want to come? I know you do and now, when I allow you to, you won’t make a colossal mess on your very own dining area.” Carl listened attentively. Strange intonations had crept into Mistress’s usually calm voice, a breathy quality that suggested mounting excitement.

“There is, however, a small price to pay, Carl, one stroke with the crop, just to see if I know what I am about. I’ve been thinking about this all day now, and the idea has taken hold of me like few others have. When the tip of the crop connects with your sweet ass, I’m going to come. I’ll probably even scream. I just don’t know for sure. You’ll come too, because not even my harshest command can stop it from happening. But first, you have to trust me. You must give me that part of you that you have withheld so long. Carl, one small flick of my wrist, one tiny instant of time, stretching out into a timeless moment of ecstasy for us both. It’s waiting for you Carl, waiting for your decision.”

Carl’s mind spun. For an instant the word ‘no’ was already forming on his lips. He recognized the budding rejection as a spiteful gesture of self-protection. He also recognized that in her own way, Mistress Mist was as vulnerable and open to him now as he was to her.

“I trust you, Mistress Mist,” he said plainly, bracing for the fire. Mistress delayed the crop for just a fraction of a second, striking in the precise moment when his anticipation had yielded to uncertainty.

The crop landed with a resounding crack, and Carl’s orgasm grasped him and shook his entire body. He could hear Mistress’s soft moan just before she placed her hand on his back to steady herself. Instead of being the center of his orgasm, his spewing cock became just one facet of their combined bliss. It jerked even more when Mistress pressed her legs against his and ran her hands over him, touching him everywhere she could reach. Gradually, the sensation subsided and time restarted.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“You are welcome, Carl, and thank you too. I cherish the trust you have given me.” She continued to gently caress him. “Hold on, Carl,” she said and then quickly unclamped his nipples. She held him tightly as that particularly unique pain wracked him. It too went the way of the other pain he had received, absorbed, transformed, and stored away for their next meeting.

Mistress examined the results of her efforts. Carl’s ass and thighs had a nice pink glow. The crop had left a faint print of its tip emblazoned on Carl’s right cheek, just where it met the thigh. Mistress watched it as she slowly freed her slave from his restraints, breathing an unnoticed sigh of relief when the mark began to fade.

“Oh crap, look at the time!” Carl had returned to the world of worry. “I’m sorry Mistress, my outburst – I was just surprised.”

“Shhhh, Carl. Do not be afraid,” Mistress calmed him. “I will vanish like my namesake in mere moments. Treasure the waning seconds of our time together.” Carl was stunned. Her words and the genuine emotion they contained struck him like none of her taunts or teases could.

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he said, breaking rule two again as he spoke, “Now who's the poet?” He held out his hand, for once feeling unashamed to be standing naked in front of her. Mistress took his hand and squeezed, then went to the front room and picked up his clothes while he put the plant back on its hook and straightened up the table and chairs.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he said, bewildered by her behavior.

“Well, I am running a touch late. I must do what I can to avoid any… problems.” She quickly stuffed her tools back in the bag. “I’ll straighten them out in the car or at home. Good bye, Carl. Write again soon.” She stroked his cheek once before exiting through the front door, somewhat more slowly than when she had entered.

Carl heaved a huge sigh and began the process of ending this strange interlude in his life. He checked the kitchen for telltales, sniffing the air. As usual, Mistress had worn no scent during her visit. Like the mist he had named her for, she was gone without a trace. Satisfied that their secret remained inviolate, Carl waited for the guilt to come. It would arrive accompanied by a host of recriminations and accusations. How could he do this to his wife? How could he allow these unmanly things to be done to him? He did not pledge to end their relationship as he had in the past. He had long since acknowledged the reality of his weakness and embraced the knowledge that there would always be another letter to Mistress Mist, another plan, another session.

He sat down on the kitchen chair that his Mistress had so recently stood upon. Staring at the table, he let the tide of regret and negativity wash over him. Gradually, his breathing slowed. Carl's mind cleared enough to allow other thoughts. His eyes flicked back and forth, studying the wood grain of the old table. He searched for patterns. Maybe the table would tell him a secret, revealed as it might have to ancient oracles. He knew he was zoning out, but he couldn't muster the energy to care.

The garage door opened, the sound of its motor and the clattering of the old rollers and wood panels startled him into motion. As he moved to the door, a quick glance at the clock surprised him with how much time had passed. Carl waited at the door, ready to help his wife with whatever packages she might have. Brigitte pulled the little Toyota into the garage with practiced ease.

“Hey love,” she called cheerfully. “Sorry I’m running late. The construction on the viaduct started today, and I had to stop at the store. How was your day off?” Brigitte had a natural ebullience that never failed to lift Carl’s spirits.

“Fine, fine,” he said, watching her ponytail bob as she pulled grocery bags out of the back seat. The fiery red color of her hair never ceased to amaze him. Her parents had been inspired when they named her, he thought. He received a kiss and a twinkle of her green eyes as he helped carry the bags into the kitchen. Bags on the table, he wrapped her in a hug that she returned enthusiastically. He backed up just enough to stare at her face.

"Let me loose, you lunk! Stop staring and help me put this stuff away before the ice cream melts," she said with a laugh.

"One more look," he said. "I never get tired of seeing you."

"Take a picture. It'll last longer!" She laughed again, then turned serious. “You look tired, Carl. Have you been exercising?” she asked as she put the milk into the refrigerator and sorted the items on the counter for their proper destinations.

“No, I’m just feeling a little wrung out, that’s all. Maybe my damn allergies are acting up.” He paused, “Would you mind if I sat down for a bit?” His voice sounded tired, but his eyes were not. His gaze roamed freely over her, taking her in as though he meant to freeze the moment in his memory.

“Well, you must not be completely tired out,” she smiled, promising for later. “Go and get a little rest then, you’ll need it tonight.” She watched Carl walk away, admiring his lean body and the way his backside rounded out the seat of his jeans. She pursed her lips in thought, he moved like he might be a little sore.

As she stepped to the table to retrieve one more item for the pantry, something skittered away from her foot. She tracked it to the baseboard by the door and picked it up. It was a small, round black button.

“Damn,” she cursed softly, “that’s going to be a bitch to sew back on. At least Carl didn’t find it first,” she said aloud. Thinking about his possible reaction to the button brought a lopsided smile to her face as she stuffed the tiny thing into her pocket and finished putting away the groceries.

Mysterious Mistress Mist · Part 2 (2/2)
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