Alison

Alison tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for him to meet her at their agreed place. True enough, the time was just now 4:30p, but she expected punctuality with him as much as she did those who worked under her. After all, in her mind, that's exactly what this was: he was under her, to play by her rules. As a dominant, she expected no less, even in these outstanding circumstances.

The "outstanding circumstances" were something that had occurred after numerous meetings with him in a chat room she frequented. The chat room itself was designed for dominants to talk to others like them, discuss submissives, trade tips and even sometimes the subs themselves. As had often occurred, Alison's last sub had broken far too easily for her tastes, been discarded, and Alison had gone to the chat room to find another one. One of the doms had once commented that she treated her subs like toys: to be used, then discarded once they quit being a source of amusement. Alison had laughed at this; after all, were submissives not just that, people who wanted to be treated like toys? She had been good to her past submissives, no one could ever accuse her otherwise. Alison had not used degrading terms such as "Slut" or "Whore" for her subs. Instead, she had always treated them like beloved pets, often naming them as one would a dog. One of her past favorites had even been called just that, "Puppy." This practice only made sense to her, as the submissives needed to be trained, as one trains a dog. Once trained to perfection, they were released. And perfection was what she demanded, in every aspect of her life, from both others and herself.

Upon this visit to the chat room, however, something was different. After she had been there a few minutes, Alison noticed a new person, who was openly soliciting for a submissive. The members of the chat room had corrected him, telling him that this was a chat for dominants only. His reply had been a surprise: he was aware of this fact and was searching for a dominatrix to dominate. The others had laughed at him, but he kept returning, soliciting for a submissive, and finally issuing an open challenge: to any woman who would take up his challenge, he would try for a single night to dominate them. If he failed, he would submit to her, leaving no doubt that she was the more dominant person. However, if the woman lost, she would be his submissive for as long as he desired, and as such be subject to whatever he demanded. Not one to back down from a challenge, Alison had immediately agreed. Tonight was the agreed upon night.

At 4:35p, Alison called for the check and prepared to leave. Already, he had lost by not showing up on time. I wait for no mere man, she thought to herself. Once the check was paid, Alison stood, garnering the attention of many around her, men and women alike. No wonder she thought laughingly. As a nonverbal show of dominance, Alison had worn her "power clothes": silk blouse, silk bra, short leather skirt, satin g-string and garter belt, silk fishnet stockings, and leather stiletto heels, all in stark, unadorned black. With her long mane of red hair and jade green eyes, she cut an impressive figure, especially for a woman.

As she walked out of the open-air café, a somewhat short, smiling man stepped in her way. She simply moved to step around him, not prepared for what happened instead.

Pain flared across her face as one of the man's hands lashed out, knocking her to the ground. "You were told to wait for me," a surprisingly deep voice said. "I will not tolerate disobedience."

Instead of fear, anger seared through Alison's mind. "How dare you..." she started, only to be cut off by another blow across her face. Alison gave her attacker a withering stare.

"I dare," he said, "because you agreed to let me attempt to dominate you. Do you let your unruly subs mouth off without punishment?"

He had a point, unfortunately. Alison did indeed punish submissives for behaving the way she had. But was she going to admit it? Of course not, she thought, I am trying to retain my position as a dominant, and a dominant never admits to being in the wrong.

"Please," the man sighed, "we've started off on the wrong foot. Let's start over. My name is Garren."

"Fine by me," she said, wanting to rub her sore cheek, but refusing to show weakness. "I'm Alison."

"You are much more beautiful than I imagined," he observed, cocking his head to the side. He held out a hand to help her up off the ground. "I'm afraid your fall tore your stockings."

Brushing herself off, Alison saw what he meant. Indeed, her left stocking was torn across the thigh. He's sneaky though, she thought. He talks as though I simply tripped. Glancing around, Alison saw that all the other diners at the café had returned to their meals as though nothing had happened. Home turf, it seems, she noted mentally.

"You really should take the stockings off," Garren said off-handedly. "It's rather tacky to wear them torn."

As long as they were in public, she would play along, Alison decided. As coolly as she did everything else in her life, she simply removed her shoes, reached under her skirt far enough to reach the garters, unhooked her stockings, and took them off. Without so much as batting an eyelash, Alison put her heels back on, then turned to a nearby waiter. "These are ruined," she said authoritatively. "Please dispose of them for me." She took glee in the shocked look on the young boy's face. Apparently he had been watching the entire time.

However, she was surprised to see an appreciative look on Garren's face. Score one for me, she thought, regaining a little of her edge. As a rule, Alison never showed approval of anything a submissive did. Approval leads to laziness. If a submissive thought that they weren't good enough, they would try harder to please.

"I've had enough of this restaurant," Alison told her "date", taking charge. "Let's go somewhere a little less....crowded."

Silently, Garren hailed a cab. As soon as the cab got moving, Garren once again took the lead. "Pull your skirt up so I can see your pussy."

Alison laughed her refusal. It seemed that Garren let her refuse because he started to put his arm around her shoulders. Halfway across, however, he slid his hand into her hair, grabbing a fistful. He murmured, "I said to pull your skirt up," then pulled her hair tight in his fist, bringing tears to her eyes. Still, she refused. He pulled her hair harder.

Alison was getting tired of this. If he thought he could dominate her through pain, he was dead wrong. All he was doing was making her angrier and angrier. Each time she denied his request, he pulled her hair harder and harder. Not only was she getting angry, she was getting a headache from the pain. Finally, Alison gave in, if only to alleviate the pain. However, she still had her underwear on, so he couldn't see her pussy.

"I see you enjoyed having your hair pulled," he murmured in her ear.

Confused, Alison looked down. To her astonishment, her thong was dark from moisture! What was going on?

The cab finally stopped. Alison looked up to see an enormous house. Garren paid the driver and led her up to the door, which was opened by a middle-aged man.

"You've returned early," the man said.

"Things have progressed...differently...than expected," Garren replied.

The man at the door gave Alison an appraising look. "Exquisite," was all he said to her.

Well, of course, Alison thought to herself, There is no other way to be.

As she was led through it, she observed the fine furnishings and hardwood floors of the house. While everything was sumptuous to say the least, the house was as spotless on the inside as it was on the outside. No lint on the upholstery, no odors of any sort in the air, and no dust on the woods that showed everywhere. As he should be. A person demanding enough to be a dominant should be demanding in all aspects of his life. Alison found herself building a grudging respect for the man.

Finally, Garren opened a door with a sweeping flourish. "The Study," he told her, indicating that she go inside. As the two sat in a pair of antique chairs, Garren told the man who answered the door to bring "The usual."

"Simon," he began with a wave to the retreating man, "Is a very essential part of my household. I regret that I do not have the time to run things as I wish I could, but Simon knows exactly what I want and acts in my stead in matters I cannot handle personally. Were he a woman, he would be the perfect submissive to me: does exactly what I want, exactly the way I want it, perfect every time."

"I see," Alison replied, "but why are you telling me this?"

"It establishes the difference between you and me," he told her, standing. "You see, I can tell that you are a dominant because you cannot stand things to be out of the order you have created. I can appreciate that, as I am the same way. However, you also do not trust other people to handle things for you. That is where we differ." Leaning forward, he stroked her hair. It took all her control not to flinch, remembering what happened in the taxi. "I bet that you never orgasm as hard with a sub as you do when you touch yourself," he murmured. "Because they can't do it right every time, the way you can." Resting his hands on her wrists, he began to nibble on her ear and neck. "I promise you that I can. I can make you want me so badly that you'll do whatever I tell you, just to feel me again." His kisses trailed down her collar and chest. Slowly, he raised her shirt and kissed her stomach, gently biting her navel and chuckling when she let a moan escape her lips. As he nipped and kissed her stomach, his hands trailed down her legs, until his weight was resting on her feet. "I'll give you a chance now: Call me master, and I will bring you that pleasure." By this point, his was kissing her knees and nuzzling the inside of her thighs.

Alison found her head enough to realize what he was trying to do. "Do you really think," she gasped. "That I am so driven by pleasure that you can seduce me into agreeing with whatever you want? Fat chance."

To both her dismay and satisfaction, Garren immediately stopped his ministrations and stood up. Realizing she must look a mess now, Alison began to stand so she could straighten herself out, but to her surprise, she was unable to get up. Looking down at her hands, she saw what she had been too far gone with desire to notice earlier: Garren had cuffed her to the chair! Not one to let anything get the upper hand of her, Alison studied the restraints for a moment, remarking, "Nice craftsmanship. Fleece lined leather, obviously top of the line. Hand-stitched...nice touch. I'd say...Ganzinni, four-hundred for the set?"

Unfortunately, he was not one to be caught off guard either. "Actually, Padoi, three-fifty per pair. But good guess. I see you know your equipment. Ganzinni's work is good, but I wanted them fitted directly into the armrests."

"Ahh," she replied, finding her bearings in all the banality. She tossed her head. So what if I'm cuffed to a chair and helpless? I don't have to act like it. And I can still get the upper hand here. Alison relaxed down in her seat, spreading her legs slightly, giving him a peek at her thong. In her most seductive voice, she told him, "You know, it's true what they say: the carpet matches the curtains."

As if on cue, Simon came back carrying a covered platter, not reacting at all to what he saw before him. Apparently, this is the room where Garren did all his "breaking." Alison's suspicions were confirmed when the cover was taken off, revealing a small jar and a tangle of rags and black straps, not food or drink.

"Thank you, Simon," he said with a nod, taking the tray. Simon turned on his heel, and walked out of the room. Garren took the platter to where Alison was, kneeling in front of her and setting it on the floor. Up close, she could see that the straps were actually a penis-gag, although the strips of fabric confused her. Also, there was a pair of scissors, and that mysterious jar.

He assumed a position almost identical to the one he had been in before, nuzzling her thighs, stroking them lightly. He slowly slid his hands under her skirt, first removing her garter-belt, then pulling her thong down to her knees. He inhaled the scent of her sex and studied the thong for a moment. "I'm not surprised," he murmured, "that you would wear such expensive lingerie, and I promise I shall replace them, no matter how this turns out."

For a moment, Alison was confused by this statement, not seeing his had reaching for the scissors. When he brought into her view, she almost shrieked, but restrained herself. Instead, she told him, "Those are..."

He interrupted. "French, bought in Paris, at a very chic lingerie store, custom-made not doubt. I regret that I must do this, but I cannot risk you kicking me."

With that, he proceeded to cut the offending underwear off her. "I will replace them," he assured her before returning to his mysterious task. He pushed her skirt up around her waist, exposing her flaming-red curls. Picking up two of the longest strips of fabric, he tied her knees to the legs of the chair, leaving her pussy open to him. Confusion flooded Alison's mind again as she felt herself getting aroused by this. The scent of her sex flooded her nose, only arousing her more. Without a word, Garren buried his face in her curls, first inhaling the scent, then barely tasting her dripping sex. "Ambrosia," he breathed against her. Despite her mind's resistance, Alison's body arched, seeking his mouth.

Instead of giving her what she wanted, Garren picked up the penis-gag, gently rubbing against her swollen pussy, teasing her. Then, unexpectedly, he slowly pushed the four-inch cock into her, dragging a moan out of her parted lips. Almost tenderly, he began fucking her with it, building her arousal even more, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. Giving in to her body's demands, she thrust back against it, trying futilely to rub it against her g-spot, but it just wasn't long enough.

Suddenly, it was gone, leaving an empty, unsatisfied feeling. The smell of her sex became even stronger than before, and something moist touched her lips. Instinctively, she opened her mouth, allowing the object in. Her eyes jerked open as she realized it was the gag. Alison tried to spit it out, but it was too late: Garren had already fastened it around her head.

" I thought I would be fair and give you a taste of yourself," he said, a glint of joy in his eyes.

That old, familiar anger returned. She bit down on the gag, wishing it was attached to him. A scream of rage escaped her, muffled by the four-inch cock in her mouth.

Ignoring her anger, Garren brushed a stray hair out of her face. "Here are the rules: You do not cum unless I tell you that you may. Do not drool around the gag. Do either, and I will strike you harder than I did at the restaurant, only I will not slap your face: I will hit either your pussy or your breasts. Screaming, however, is permitted, since it is muffled by the gag."

Oh, I won't scream, Alison resolved, once again getting her traitorous body under control. I'm going to play along with your game just far enough to get free, and then I'm going to show you what a true dominant is. She gently sucked on the gag as the taste of her own cum mixed with her saliva, threatening to leak from her lips.

Garren picked up the mystery jar, pretending to examine it. "You were right about one thing," he conceded, "the carpet does match the curtains, as you put it. However, I don't know if you've noticed, but I prefer hardwood floors." Okay, what the hell is he talking about, she thought, more confused than ever. "This," he told her with a nod to the jar, "is heat-free waxing compound."

Realization sank in. It took all her control to choke back a scream. She wanted more than anything say "You are one sick son of a bitch."

Meticulously, he spread the viscous green substance across the top of her curls, pressing a strip of fabric evenly across it. A whimper of pain escaped as he ripped the strip of fabric off, taking the hair with it. After the fourth strip, tears were flowing freely down her face. The pain distracted her so much that she forgot to suck on the gag and a thin stream of saliva escaped. A different kind of pain flared as Garren, true to his word, hit her hard on her now-exposed clit. "I told you not to drool!" he reprimanded before continuing with his torture.

As the anger flared again, Alison reminded herself that the only way he would let her free was if he thought she was broken, so she had to play along. She started sucking on the gag again.

After what seemed like an eternity, Garren stopped and observed his work. "Poor, poor Alison," he said. "I've hurt you so much. But, look, what is this?" He touched her ravaged and red pussy, bringing away a wet finger. "It seems that you actually enjoyed that somewhat. Either that, or you got distracted sucking on the cock in that beautiful mouth of yours. Well, since I'm the one who hurt you, I'll kiss the boo-boo."

Very gently, Garren kissed Alison's now-smooth cleft. Darting his tongue out, he carefully probed her dripping pussy, causing a moan to escape her lips. Slowly, he lapped the honey from her cunt, pushing his tongue deeper and deeper inside her until he was fucking her with his tongue as he had the gag earlier. Not having to pretend to enjoy it, Alison arched against him, encouraging him, wishing it was a dick inside her, filling her more.

Garren's hands came up to hold down Alison's bucking hips. He lifted his face enough to look her in the eyes: a primal look, full of nothing but lust. As meticulously as he did everything else, he unbuttoned her blouse, exposing the black demi-bra that served up her breasts as thought they were on a platter. He deftly undid the front clasp, finally exposing her swollen breasts and taut nipples. After stroking each breast with his fingers, Garren placed his hands on her hips again and bent his head.

This time, he was laving her swollen clit with long, loving strokes, driving her out of her mind. With each stroke, Alison thought she was going to cum, though she tried as hard as she could not to. She no longer had to remind herself to suck on the gag: now, she was getting frustrated that it wasn't a real cock, to cum in her mouth. God, he's good at this, was the only thought to cross her mind as she had to try harder and harder not to cum all over his face.

Just as she thought she would have to give in and take the risk of being hit on her now more sensitive clit, Garren stopped. "You have a very high threshold," he told her, still between her knees. "Most women have cum by now and had to be punished. As a reward, I will allow you to request any one thing." With that, he removed her gag, then began fondling her breasts. "Mmmm, a handful each."

Carefully, he teased her breasts with his tongue, running the tip around her breast in tightening circles until he was teasing the edge of Alison's tight nipple. Instead of taking the bud into his mouth however, he placed his mouth over it, and without touching her, slowly breathed on first one, then the other.

"Please, Garren," she gasped, barely thinking now. "AAAH!" The last became a scream; he had continued devouring her breasts, and had torn a scream from her as he plunged a finger into her.

Alison had to try hard to think as he kept up this double attack on her. Finally, she said, "Stop! Please stop! I can't take anymore without release, no matter how hard I try. Let me suck on you, give you pleasure, give you the orgasm I am not permitted!"

With a chuckle, Garren ended his dual attack on her. "For a dom, you beg well."

He stood up, stepped behind her, and began to tip the chair back to lie on the floor, so that Alison was facing the ceiling, her bare breasts exposed. Once she was lying down, he straddled her chest, removed his belt, unbuttoned his slacks, and released his cock, which didn't fall very far forward. Apparently, he's enjoying this as much as I am, if not more, Alison thought.