Amanda Adams Becomes My Queen Ch 17

I can't sleep. I feel too good to drift off; my mind is firing too hot. Normally when I feel a flow like this coming on I'd get up and grab my laptop and let it bleed into Word. But I'm just going to let it all percolate instead tonight. Maybe I'll still have some of it left in the morning when I can distill it into my computer. I don't want to get up and risk waking up my pretty slaves- they deserve their beauty sleep.

I'm enjoying how this slave lying next to me in my bed reminds me so much of how Sandra was back then... and the one locked in the cage on the floor well- by all rights- he is only on-loan from that same Sandra- formerly MY Sandra. And yet, neither my Buttercup nor my Piglet is merely a surrogate for her. My new pets are mine so much cleaner. This is a new adventure- one that I'm facing with refined and practiced skills- I've become a full-on Jedi!

And I really have relinquished my ownership of Sandra- at least mentally if not spiritually. I gave up clinging to people who don't want me a long time ago- a have no time for them. I give my affection only to those that can appropriately demonstrate how much they need me- like these two. Buttercup especially leaves me little room for doubt- what a catch he's turned out to be! I should have some nervousness just because of my lack of experience with men, but something about him just puts me at ease. I see him as an interesting new challenge for me- the emotions are practically the same as with a woman- maybe it's his submissiveness that does the trick... and the physical attraction... I have to admit it even if just to myself: everything about his body turns me on...

I wonder what he could be dreaming of right now...? I wish I had it on closed circuit TV. I like that I remain to him somewhat of a mystery. It helps make my control of him more intriguing. Wouldn't he just love to know where I got the money to live this lifestyle? Would he be disappointed if he knew the very boring truth? Should I make up a story to make myself more exciting? No. Why lie when I can just keep him in suspense? Besides, I think he'd see through any falsehood. For all his submissiveness, there's a lot going on in his pliant little mind. I suddenly doubt I'll ever have full access to his mind. How sad. Isn't it just like me? The one thing I want the most from a slave is his mind and it's the most impossible part to hack into.

I wonder if he'd lose any respect or awe for me if he knew I got my money the same way Bruce Wayne did?

"Really?! Your parents were murdered in front of your eyes when you were a kid?!" he'd ask.

"Nope. Just a stupid senseless out of the blue helicopter crash...well more like a... car crash... Mom fell asleep at the wheel... drifted into oncoming traffic... head-on... they probably never felt the pain."

Thinking about them always makes me think of where I was when I heard... who I was when I heard... Who I was with... Sandra. Yes- let me think of Sandra- not altogether comforting but... a little better.

I cut my teeth on her. And if MY memories are like title deeds, then I still own at least a piece of her past- the valuable, better half of her soul. And now I have her man under my roof- better- in my kennel... she must know... all-too-well that I could easily keep him for much much longer than the month she agreed to- it's my prerogative- and I hope she's appropriately nervous about that. Just when I lost my need to be, I finally feel like I'm back in her head again. And just maybe, I'm in her dreams again. How ironic.

Sandra was my faithful opiate in those difficult college days. The day she moved into my dorm building she was literally assigned to me- wasn't that just like fate?

I should have known that claiming her husband as my live-in trophy would rouse potent memories like this one: the nymph-like Sandra creeping slowly under my blanket in the dark of our tiny, shared room. The softness of her hot nervous breath against the short, invisible hairs of my navel... pulling the waste-band of the boy's flannel boxers I wore to bed down with her teeth and purposefully down and down over my soft, curvy hips to my un-afraid knees- then her warm, wet lips so tentative at my sex.

"Who gave you permission to..." but back then- with her- my first one- my only one- my resolve was not the sharpened instrument I have since made it. No flare for drama. I let her just keep teasing my labia with her cute little nose without masking my desperate need for her tongue to continue. I opened my legs for her with my knees up and my feet down- making a little tent over her with my blanket. I let her inside me without letting her have the rest of the admonition she had coming.

Horribly, I just moaned inarticulate encouragements and appreciations instead and let the power dynamic teeter as it may. I failed to take my pleasure out of her like she subconsciously needed me to. But I irresponsibly let so much of her submissive stem-cells run through and out of my un-skilled fingers uncollected never to become life-saving tissue.

I lacked skill. I almost always allowed the immediacy of extreme sexual needs win out over instilling discipline for our mutual, long-term pleasures. I was a sloppy young mistress- never having a proper teacher of my own- nobody to point out all my bad habits. Some sexperts think the only way to become a good dominant is to learn under one- serve an apprenticeship as a submissive. I don't buy that for a second. At least- it's not for me. The only submissive bone I've ever had in my body is Buttercup's.

I learned quickly enough from own mistakes- mostly lapses in leadership- being self-taught is the only style that's ever worked for me anyway. So I learned my lessons through trial and error.

I made the mistake of putting up with all kinds of impertinence from her and only very rarely remembering to punish her for them- to think of all the fun I missed out on! Truth is: I was all mistakes. I let her call me 'Amanda' without permission. I didn't properly interrogate her or hold her accountable to a strict masturbation schedule. I didn't regulate her orgasms. Her side of the room was often a mess- and I rarely mentioned the shoddy job she did dusting my computer or cleaning and folding and putting away our laundry.

I didn't understand her secret craving to be punished and constantly reminded of my ownership of her. I never properly moved in and occupied her mind. I could have made her wear only the panties I approved of- or none at all. These things are practically 'Slave Care 101!' It's no wonder our delicate house made of straw was so easily blown down by the first wolf to come calling.

I didn't know the first thing about the psychology of a submissive back then- oh I thought I knew everything... In a lot of ways I was your typical confident, precocious, empowered, University woman- a scourge of the lecture hall. I knew how to keep my opinions public and my emotions well-bottled-up. I knew how to act aloof when I'd overhear barely audible whispers like "Dyke" and "Lezzie" even when I knew without a doubt- they were aimed at me. I guess those little jabs are to-be-expected when you looked as hot as I did and never went on a single date with a guy. I guess there was nothing stopping me... But I was too secure in myself to throw the dogs a bone just to keep up appearances. No guy ever really caught my eye, or did anything else to draw my attention. And I was an accomplished masturbator. My technique was perfect- I could make myself cum- every time. What did I need a man for?!

I would have been so happy to 'fly under the radar' and just go about my business, but nature decided to curse me with a rockin' body and a face that turned heads whether I wore make-up or not. Being a wallflower was not an option. Dialing back my charisma was...

It's not easy walking around feeling so many predatory eyes on you- and I really didn't have the presence of mind to just double down and embrace it all- all the leering from men of all ages... back then I found it unpleasant at best and creepy at worst. Feeling fine about turning heads is another personality trait I have now, but it had to be crafted.

Painstakingly slowly, I began to understand that many humans feel a strong need to worship their betters. It took a lot of empathy and study because I don't feel any such need myself. I don't feel I have any "betters" to serve. That is to say that I distrust all authority figures- it's no wonder I struggled for so long to become one.

It wasn't like any specific day or event that ramped up my need to try my hand at a little witchcraft in the form of sadism. Just long-held curiosity... I tried to ease-in gently. I let my voracious mind devour the few books there were on the subject- musty old tomes by Freud and his ilk. And even though I ran into mostly dead-ends and disappointment, I soon learned that my own intuition was as good a source as any for new information. I began to rely on my imagination more and more building a whole world there- a world where I was the Queen- a world populated by naked slaves who waited upon me hand-and-foot and waited to be punished.

It was time to just jump in and get my hands dirty- I began to keep my eye out for a... victim- but boy or girl? I hadn't decided- at that point it could have gone either way.

I began to enroll in psychology classes and happily dropped my bullshit sociology classes. I began to doubt even my staunch progressive liberalism- sneering at weak-minded, whiney social-justice-warriors with their constant bitching and 'trigger warnings...' their approval interested me -not at all. Even the boys seemed like their vaginas were about to bleed through their jeans most of the time.

It disgusted me to watch them use recreational outrage as a club to bait and bully people who dared to use the wrong word or try to express a nuanced view. I hated their conformity. I hated that about my school- even much of the faculty allowed themselves to be intimidated by the angry, vocal mob of SJWs. It all seemed so useless and phony. They never did anything to effect real change... just a lot of bitching.

I often rolled my eyes at the loudest and proudest of them: his name was Darnel; he was black and so flamingly gay that anybody within a two-mile radius would have no doubt. Darnel was the captain of his debate team in high school- he made sure we all knew that about him as well. But I had to wonder how he managed to become a nationally ranked debater because as far as I could tell, the only books he ever seemed to have read were Alex Haley's "Roots" and "Queer" by William S. Burroughs (although with the latter- I think he only liked the title).

How exactly had I drawn his ire? How well I remember the horrible day... How could I forget? How did it happen? Maybe I'd felt it coming on all morning- I always had the same annoyed feeling whenever I felt my 'crimson wave' approaching. We were let out of class and all shuffled into the hall of the main auditorium, "Hey, girl," he hollered at the back of my head as I tried to hurry through the hall unnoticed. I remember stopping and slowly turning to see if it really was me he was accosting. It was. We weren't friends... how dare he address me with such informality? It felt condescending- that put me right on edge.

"There's a big group of us that are going to be marching in the Pride parade downtown to celebrate the victory... you want to ride on the bus with us?" It must have been the day the president signed the amendment to the constitution finally legalizing gay marriage.

That's how it all started with them. I felt I was being 'called out'- put on the spot; I never let anybody put me on the spot.

"Thanks, for the invite- but I've got plans."

"No you don't!" Darnel pushed.

"Excuse me?! Are you calling me a liar, faggot?!" It slipped. But yes- I actually had said it- clearly and distinctly. His eyes lit up angrily in disbelief. He looked around to see how many of his gang members had heard me. Several had. They knew I had just committed the most unforgivable sin anybody could commit on our campus: I had used 'hate speech' and I had apparently meant it. Now what?

Cold dread began to fill my veins as my heart began to pound. I could see elbows subtly bumping into biceps as the traffic in the hallway came to a sudden and silent stop. Empathetically nervous eyes darted back and forth from Darnel to me from Darnel to me. People were watching and listening- witnessing. What little reputation I had was on the line and Darnel certainly knew it.

"Did you just call me a 'faggot?'" Darnel's disbelief managed to make him sound like a victim even though his voice easily carried to the furthest end of the hall.

"I'm not a bigot." This non-sequiter was all that came to mind to say to defend myself, "I wasn't... I wasn't..." I'd never sounded so weak to myself.

But before any other words could come, Darnel cut me off, "It's alright, Amanda Adams," Saying my full name sounded pointed and accusatory, " I'm sure you didn't MEAN to call ME a FAGGOT..." He paused dramatically, "You probably... meant to call me... a Nigger!... That right?!"

"Hey, NO! of course not!" words were called for here. Intelligent words... humble words... usually words so easily came to my brain- but not that day. Blind in the blood-shot suffocation of stage-fright, I could see no safe exit from this sudden mess. All I managed to finally say as I turned and fled was, "Look, I really do have to get going, Darnel, I hope you have fun at your rally."

My choice of words was truly horrifying: 'rally?' really?! as in 'Klan Rally?!' Somehow I knew this connotation was immediately apparent to all the students who had stopped to listen to our exchange. Belying my regret, I did something loathsome to myself: I slunk away sheepishly with my gaze turned downward- their eyes ushering me out.

In thirty short seconds, I had become persona non grata- worse- a veritable villain... because of one ugly word slipping out... and the worst part was: I had nobody to blame for this. As much as I hated and resented Darnel instigating this scene- I knew he hadn't deserved to be called a 'faggot.' It really had just been my excruciating PMS talking. Didn't I deserve to be cut some slack by these radical feminists?! Hadn't some of them been carrying copies of Albert Camus in their very hands?

But this was my wish-thinking. They simply wouldn't have seen how absurd it was from my perspective. I had thrown them the very type of case they're always on the hunt for and they weren't about to let such a golden opportunity go to waste. How well I knew that anybody familiar to my name would hear at least one version of the story of my hate crime within the next 24 hours.

"Hey did you hear about Darnel? That ice-bitch, Amanda Adams, straight-up called him a faggot to his face! Yeah... A bunch of people heard it. It was really ugly... Yeah he's seeing a therapist about it... seems to be making a full recovery."

"I don't know how she'll ever live it down. I don't understand how she thinks she can get away with such verbal abuse..."

"I hadn't figured her for such a redneck- do you think she might be a Republican?!"

"If I was her, I'd transfer... coasts."

Their new glances were horrible to withstand. They used to look at me with at least some lust- but now it was with purified disdain. From the moment it happened, I had anticipated some 'scarlet-letter' treatment, but I thought eventually it would just blow over. It didn't.

The socially awkward, stiff-necked, crew-cutted president of the young Republican's club started making kissy faces at me in a presumptuous way that made me certain he was stalking me. So my reputation had become a carcass even for such opportunistic buzzards as him.

***

"How was your advanced Psych class, Mistress?" Sandra was treading lightly that night- wisely. She was sensitive enough to read my moods well. And to her credit, she was the only one who I knew would stand by me through this.

"I skipped it again." I answered flatly. "I hit the gym instead...maybe I should just drop out..."

"Pardon me; it's not my place to advise you, Amanda..."

"No- it's not!" I flashed at her but I was actually curious to hear what she was thinking. For once, I was wanting a little bit of counseling. What was this? I was allowing my depression to throw me off my game, "Come here and kneel down on your kneeling spot and say what you were going to say, my little pink one."

Sandra humbly did as she was commanded. It always coincided with the sensation of sponginess between my legs to watch her hurry to her kneeling spot. 'Maybe if she displeases me I'll make her kneel on some rice,' the image added to my arousal.

"Mistress, I know that you are as kind as you are progressive. People got you all wrong! You haven't made any attempt to set the record straight and it makes you look... guilty."

I moved in behind her and rested my knees against the curve of her back- feet on the outsides of her calves. I took her loose blond hair into my fingers and gently pulled it into a single pony tail and held it still in my hand against her long bare neck - her neck so warm at my fingers.

"I don't want to give him the satisfaction," I knew I sounded stubborn- I was stubborn, "Are you just worried that people will associate you with me?"

"No! I mean, no, my Mistress, I'd never be ashamed of you! But I know you have a way with words and all it would take to fix this would be for you to have a conversation with Darnel, he's really not such a bad guy, but he is a very bad person to have as an enemy. Maybe you wouldn't even have to apologize- just explain that you were having a bad day..."

I let go of her hair and slowly crumpled to the floor next to her. I patted my stomach and she put her head down on my bare abdomen.

"Oh, Pinky, do you really think I haven't thought of simply going to talk this out with him? I don't want to show that kind of weakness. He's a jerk and he'd probably just use whatever I said to him to make me look even worse."

"My mistress, it's not just your reputation that's slipping, it's your grades. It pains me to see such a small thing affect your life in such an unnecessarily large way."

"It pains you?! It causes you pain? Hmmm You're tempting me to just stay this course... if that's the case..." I joked. My hand was resting on her butt and I conveniently gave it a little swat for emphasis. There was no way I would admit to my own slave that I was afraid of another awkward altercation with Darnel- that a scrawny, queer boy like him had somehow succeeded in intimidating me.

"You're not only my mistress, Amanda, you're my friend and my hero. You're strong and stubborn and pragmatic- so why can't you just do the practical thing here? Do something. Deal with this problem."

She was right.

"Lick me to orgasm, Pinky; while I think it over some more... your tongue on my clitoris helps me think positively." Still lying on the floor, I pushed her off me. I pulled my pants off baring my crotch to her and snapped my fingers as I pointed at my pussy, "Now."

As she moved in, I could see the hunger in her eyes.

***

That next day, I got dressed and did my hair and make-up thinking about how exactly I would approach Darnel. I was feeling perky in the way that only resolving to fix a matter can make me feel. I'm a lousy pessimist and depression was to me a foreign state that I was all-too-happy to be taking steps to leave.

I knew Darnel would be reluctant to be confronted by me and I also had to make it as much of a scene as before- with witnesses and everything- right there at the scene of the hate crime. There he was... I had him in my sights... I was making a B-line straight for him... Was that fear I could see in his eyes? Good.