Femdom Story - Mistress & Her Muse

I told myself the letter had been a mistake when the car stopped at the gates. The iron was black and tall, and the cameras watched me climb out with my portfolio case still under one arm. I had dressed for an interview. Blouse buttoned to the throat. Slacks pressed. Hair pinned so my face looked serious and clean.

The man at the gate checked my name against a tablet and did not smile.

“Elise. Studio wing. Leave the case.”

“I need my work.”

“She has seen your work. Walk.”

I left the case on the stone and followed him up the path. My shoes scraped. Somewhere behind the trees a fountain kept a soft wet rhythm. The house rose white and severe, all windows and sharp edges. My throat stayed dry the whole way to the side door he unlocked with a key card.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled like polish and something floral cut too short. He led me down a hall lined with paintings I would have studied for hours if my pulse had not been hammering so hard I could count it in my ears. We stopped at a door of pale wood. No name plate. Only a small metal slot for a card.

He opened it and stepped aside.

“Enter. Kneel on the mark. Wait.”

I almost laughed. The word kneel hung there like a bad joke at the wrong party. Then I saw the circle of dark tape on the floor in the center of an empty white room, and the laugh died under my ribs.

The door closed behind me. The lock clicked.

I stood with my hands at my sides and told myself I was twenty-nine years old and I had shown in two cities and I did not kneel for strangers. My feet moved anyway. The tape felt thin under the ball of my shoe. I lowered myself. The floor was hard. My knees found the circle. My spine stayed straight because I refused to curl.

The silence stretched until my ears rang.

When the door opened again, the sound was soft. Heels. Measured. A woman walked into the edge of my vision in black tailored trousers and a cream silk blouse open at the throat. Dark hair pulled back. No jewelry except a thin silver ring on her right hand. She stopped in front of me and looked down as if I were a piece she had already bought.

“Elise.”

“Yes.” My voice came out thinner than I wanted. “I am here for the residency review. The letter said three finalists.”

“You are the only one who arrived.” She circled me once. Her heel tapped near my left knee. “You signed the packet last week. All pages. Including the last addendum you skimmed because you wanted the stipend and the studio space.”

Heat climbed my neck. I had signed. Late at night. Tired. Hungry for a room with light and time. The language had been dense. I had told myself contracts were always dense.

“I came to paint,” I said.

“You came because you wanted to be chosen.” She stopped in front of me again. “I am Vera. In this house you will call me Mistress Vera until I tell you otherwise. Stand.”

I stood. My knees complained. She stepped in close enough that I caught the scent of clean skin and cold perfume. Her eyes moved over my face, my mouth, the line of my throat.

“Blouse off.”

I stared at her.

“You heard me.”

My fingers found the buttons. They shook. One. Two. Three. Silk slid from my shoulders. The room air touched my bare arms and the lace of my bra. Shame hit low in my belly at the same second my nipples tightened against the fabric. I hated that they did it so fast. I hated that she saw it.

She did not look away.

“Bra.”

I unhooked it. Let it fall. My breasts were bare under the white light. I crossed my arms without meaning to. She took my wrists and set them at my sides.

“Do not hide what you offered when you signed.”

“I offered art,” I said. The words scraped.

“You offered obedience for opportunity. I am collecting.” Her palm rested under my chin and tipped my face up. “Trousers and underwear. Shoes too. Everything.”

I stripped because the alternative was walking out naked into a house I did not know, and because some ugly part of me had gone wet the moment she said Mistress. My slacks pooled. My panties stuck for a second between my thighs when I pushed them down. The air found the slick heat there and I almost closed my legs.

She looked. Open. Slow. No rush.

“Turn. Hands on the wall. Feet apart.”

I turned. The wall was smooth under my palms. My ass and the soft seam of my cunt were open to the room. My face burned. A thought cut through hard and clean: You can still walk to the door and demand your clothes and call a car. My body stayed where she put it.

Her hands settled on my hips. Firm. Assessing. Then one palm slid between my thighs from behind and two fingers parted me without asking for permission with words.

I jerked.

“Still,” she said.

Her fingers stroked through the wet. Up to my clit. A single press. My hips twitched forward into the wall. A sound left my throat that I would have paid money to take back.

“You are dripping on my floor and we have barely begun.” She took her hand away. I heard her wipe her fingers on something. “Face me.”

I turned. My pussy felt swollen and exposed. My cockless body, soft and open, had already chosen a side. She reached into a drawer built into the wall I had not seen and brought out a black leather collar with a silver ring at the front. A small padlock hung open from the buckle.

“This is not theater,” she said. “This is the start of your training. You will wear chastity when I decide you need it. You will ask before you touch yourself. You will come only when I permit it. Until then you learn to hold, and to beg correctly, and to worship with your mouth and your attention.”

The collar opened in her hands.

“Chin up.”

I lifted my chin. Leather settled warm around my throat. She buckled it snug. The padlock clicked shut. The sound went straight between my legs like a finger. My clit pulsed once, hard, and I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Good,” she said. “On your knees again. Closer.”

I knelt at her shoes. The ring on the collar rested against the hollow of my throat. She unfastened her trousers with the same calm she used for everything else and pushed fabric down enough to free herself from the tailored line. She wore a smooth black harness underneath. A thick silicone cock jutted from it, dark and solid, already gleaming at the tip with a thin coat of lube she must have applied before she entered.

My mouth went dry.

“You will learn this cock,” she said. “You will thank it. You will keep your eyes on mine unless I tell you to look down. Open.”

I opened. The head pressed my lower lip. Salt and clean rubber. She fed it in an inch. My jaw stretched. Another inch. Saliva welled under my tongue. She held the base and guided me until my lips met the harness leather and my nose brushed warm skin.

“Breathe through your nose. Suck.”

I sucked. My tongue worked the underside. She watched my face the whole time. When I tried to pull back for air she kept a hand in my hair and held me there one beat longer than comfort, then let me go. Spit strung from my lip to the silicone.

“Again. Deeper.”

I took it deeper. My throat fluttered. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Between my legs I was soaked enough that when I shifted on my knees I felt it slide along my inner thigh. The shame of that wetness made me suck harder, as if use could hide need.

She pulled out. My mouth stayed open a second too long.

“Stand. Hands behind your back.”

I stood. She cuffed my wrists with soft black leather and a short chain. Then she led me by the collar ring to a low padded bench against the far wall. A coil of red rope waited on a hook. She sat me on the edge, pushed my shoulders back until I lay with my ass near the end, and lifted my legs. Rope bit my ankles, my thighs, my calves. She bound me open. Knees spread. Cunt bare and aimed at the room. The collar kept my head from tipping too far when I tried to look away.

“Look at yourself,” she said.

A mirror on the opposite wall showed me everything. Flushed face. Collar. Bound thighs. The pink of my pussy shiny under the light. My clit standing out like it had its own stupid plan.

“Please,” I said, and I did not even know what I was asking for yet.

Mistress Vera fitted a small curved vibrator against my clit and strapped it in place with a thin band around my hips. She thumbed a remote. The toy hummed to life on a low setting that made my hips try to lift against the rope.

“Count to twenty in your head. Do not come. If you come without permission, you sleep locked and empty tonight.”

The buzz crawled up through my clit into my belly. My breathing broke. She stood between my spread knees and stroked the strap-on with one hand while she watched my face. The toy on me climbed a notch. My cunt clenched on nothing. Wet sound. My wrists jerked in the cuffs.

This is a residency, some cold scrap of me insisted. You came here to paint.

The vibrator pulsed. My mouth opened on a moan I could not swallow. She stepped in and rubbed the thick head of the strap-on up and down my slit, gathering slick, nudging my entrance without pushing in.

“You want this inside you,” she said. Flat. Certain.

“Yes.” The word tore out. “Mistress Vera. Yes.”

“You want to be fucked until you forget your own name, and then told you may not finish.”

My hips rolled toward the silicone. The toy on my clit jumped higher. White heat stacked behind my pubic bone. I was shaking. Rope creaked.

“Ask properly.”

“Please fuck me.” My voice cracked. “Please put your cock in my cunt. Please. I will be good. I will wait. I will beg when you want me to beg.”

She smiled for the first time. Small. Sharp.

“Then we begin your real interview.”

She lined the head of the strap-on against my hole and pressed until the first thick inch forced me open. My body took it with a wet stretch that punched a cry out of me. The vibrator still hummed on my clit. She held still there, only the tip buried, while my walls fluttered around the intrusion and my thighs trembled in the rope.

“Eyes on me,” she said.

I locked on her face. She drove another inch. Then another. Full. Deep. The harness slapped soft against my skin when her hips met mine. Full stretch. Full claim. My cunt gripped the cock like it had been waiting for this exact humiliation all afternoon.

She pulled almost out and thrust back in hard enough that the bench rocked.

“You will not come until I say. You will take every stroke. And when I stop, you will thank me for the denial.”

The next thrust knocked the air from my lungs. The vibrator surged. My orgasm gathered fast and vicious at the base of my spine, a hard bright edge I was already skating.

She fucked into me again, deep and steady, and her thumb found the remote.

“Hold it,” she ordered. “Hold, Elise.”

I held. Barely. My whole body was a single tight string. Sweat ran between my breasts. The collar ring clicked when I arched. She bottomed out and stayed there, grinding, while the toy on my clit screamed and my stuffed cunt clenched around her cock in helpless little spasms that were not quite release.

“Please,” I gasped. “Mistress. Please. I need…”

“I know what you need.” Her hips rolled once more, slow and merciless, seating the strap-on to the hilt. “And you will earn the right to ask for it on your knees every morning of this residency.”

She thumbed the remote higher.

My vision narrowed to her eyes and the lock at my throat and the brutal full stretch of her cock holding me open while the vibrator tried to drag me over a line I was not allowed to cross.

“Beg,” she said.

And my mouth opened, shameless, already forming the first filthy word.