Becoming Mistress Ch 4

The First Woman I Wanted to Become

I wasn't supposed to want to be her.

Not in the way I did.

Other girls wanted to be princesses. Actresses. Maybe dancers. Pretty things that glowed and waited to be noticed. They talked about weddings, about being chosen. Their daydreams were filled with horses and gowns and someone arriving to hand them a story.

Mine were... different.

I didn't want to be saved.

I wanted to be right.

I wanted to be the one who already knew what was behind the door. Who had the plan. Who let the man talk--then handed him the exact thing he needed before he even realized he'd forgotten it.

I wanted stillness, not chaos.

Command, not noise.

Cool, clean control.

And the first time I saw Agent 99, something in me snapped into place.

Her Silence Was Louder Than His Voice

I didn't have words for it then. But my body understood. My breath slowed. My shoulders pulled back. I went quiet--not because I was told to, but because I didn't want to miss a single flicker of her.

She wasn't loud.

She wasn't wild.

She wasn't dripping in diamonds or slapping men across the face.

She was calm.

Cool.

Unshakeably competent.

She moved through the world like it was already hers.

While everyone else watched Get Smart for the jokes, I watched her. Maxwell Smart was a clown--lovable, sure. But always fumbling. Always talking. Always wrong.

Next to him? A woman who didn't need to perform.

Agent 99.

She didn't roll her eyes. She didn't scold. She simply corrected. Seamlessly. Elegantly. And she always got it right.

She was the first woman I ever saw who had everything I wanted to become.

Yes, she was beautiful. That high-cheekboned, mod-perfect, 1960s kind of beautiful. But that wasn't the center of her power.

It was the clarity.

The Undressing

There's one scene I watched too many times.

It wasn't explicit--of course it wasn't. But I watched it like it was.

Max had been captured. Of course he had. He was locked in some ridiculous metal contraption, sputtering nonsense as the villains threatened him with a laser beam or a death ray or something equally absurd.

And then she arrived.

Tight black suit. Hair swept up. Calm as a surgeon.

She didn't burst in guns blazing. She picked the lock. Slipped through the shadows. Silenced a guard with a single blow to the ribs and a flick of her wrist.

And then, standing in the center of the frame, she unzipped the front of her suit--slowly, precisely--and pulled out the hidden transmitter she'd stored against her bare chest.

Max stammered. The camera cut to his face: stunned, slightly flushed. He couldn't speak.

Neither could I.

I didn't understand why I was holding my breath, but I was. Not because of the suit. Not because of the skin.

Because of the timing.

She didn't flaunt. She revealed. With purpose. With precision.

She reached between her breasts not to titillate--but to solve the problem.

And in that moment, I knew: this was what eroticism could be. Not performance. Not permission.

Execution.

The Hallway Interrogation

The setup was simple--routine, even.

A villain cornered Max in a back hallway. Tense music. Dim light. Max, flustered and forgetful, trying to bluff his way through. His hand reached for the wrong gadget. His voice cracked. The situation was about to spiral.

And then--

She appeared.

Agent 99 stepped from the shadows like she'd been waiting there all along.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just... present. Entirely in control.

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't posture. She stood between Max and the attacker with nothing but posture and presence.

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

Her voice didn't rise. It dropped.

Low. Smooth. Slightly tilted, like a blade being turned--not brandished, just shown.

The man blinked.

Max kept talking, babbling some nonsense about shoe phones or explosive cufflinks, and 99 just... waited.

Her hands at her sides. Shoulders square. Head tilted in that subtle, feline way that made it clear she had already read the entire situation--and was simply letting everyone else catch up.

I remember the way her eyes moved.

Not fast. Not nervous.

Slow. Intentional.

A flick toward Max. A flick toward the man.

It was like watching someone do math without paper. You felt the calculation.

She took a single step forward--not big, not showy--and the man stepped back. Instinctively.

It wasn't a fight.

It was an adjustment.

Like the room itself was shifting to accommodate her presence.

I remember rewinding that moment. Over and over. Long before I understood what I was doing, I was using it as fuel.

In my mind, I turned the hallway into something darker. Longer. Private.

I imagined the man wasn't a villain, but a suitor. And I wasn't watching her.

I was her.

She walked forward. He backed up.

Not because she threatened him.

Because she unveiled herself as someone he couldn't outmaneuver.

She didn't seduce him.

She made him stand straighter.

Made him fix his tie.

Made him apologize without knowing what for.

And Max? Max was background noise.

This wasn't about rescuing him.

This was about demonstrating something.

That she could shift the power dynamic in any room--without raising a single hand.

And I... I felt it.

In the soft place between my thighs.

In the base of my spine.

In the held breath I didn't let go of until she had turned away.

That hallway was the first time I imagined being watched the way she was--reverently, nervously, with that hushed awareness that the most dangerous person in the room was the quietest one.

She didn't ask for fear.

She didn't demand desire.

She earned submission with a whisper.

And god, how I wanted to carry that.

The Hotel Room Switch

It was meant to be comedic.

One of those classic spy mix-ups where Max checks into the wrong hotel room, the wrong time, the wrong floor. He stumbles in, tuxedo wrinkled, tie askew, talking to a shoe he thinks is a walkie-talkie.

The camera pans to reveal Agent 99 already there--seated on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed, reading calmly through a mission dossier.

Her legs were long. Bare.

Her dress, black. Immaculate.

Her expression? Mildly amused.

Max launched into an apology. Of course he did. Some excuse about losing his key, about thinking it was his room.

She didn't flinch.

Didn't scold.

Didn't even stand.

She turned a page. Slowly.

Letting the silence stretch.

Letting him feel the awkwardness.

And then she looked up, tilted her head slightly, and said, "Are you done?"

It wasn't cruel.

It wasn't dismissive.

It was anchored.

Her tone wasn't sexual. But I rewrote it in my mind.

In my version, she stays seated on the bed.

She doesn't cover her legs.

She doesn't uncross them either.

She just looks at him--and the silence changes temperature.

I imagined myself in her body, feeling the brush of silk against thigh, the weight of authority resting behind my ribcage.

I wouldn't have had to say a word.

In my fantasy, Max trailed off mid-apology--not because he was embarrassed, but because he realized he'd entered a room he didn't deserve to be in.

Agent 99 in that moment became more than competent.

More than elegant.

She became sovereign.

In my version of the scene, I turned it darker. Slower.

I imagined myself standing--not quickly, not dramatically, just decisively.

Approaching him.

Closing the distance without hurry.

He'd start to speak again. I'd stop him with one glance.

And then? Just one line. Cool. Unbothered.

"Take off your shoes."

That was all.

Because in my fantasy, she didn't bark orders.

She offered instructions that already assumed obedience.

It wasn't sex. Not at first.

It was something more erotic than that.

Containment.

Control.

The knowledge that every inch of the moment belonged to her.

That she could end it--or escalate it--with nothing but her eyes.

And as I watched that scene, a child cross-legged on the carpet, the light from the screen flickering across my bare knees, I felt the heat behind the script.

I didn't want to kiss him.

I wanted to own the frame.

Not with body. With gravity.

She didn't lure him.

She quieted him.

And that was the sexiest thing I had ever seen.

Precision as Power: How I Became Her

Watching Agent 99 didn't just arouse me.

It sculpted me.

Long before I ever touched another body, I began touching my own behavior--shaping it with intention. Smoothing the edges. Sharpening the lines.

I started studying myself the way I had studied her.

How did I enter a room?

How long did I let silence stretch?

Did my eyes dart, or did they hold?

Every gesture became deliberate.

Every pause became a test.

Because Agent 99 didn't waste movements.

And neither would I.

The Mirror Was My Training Ground

At first, it was the bathroom.

Late at night. House quiet. Toothbrush on the counter, light dimmed. I'd stand in front of the mirror--not admiring, not preening. Rehearsing.

Her face had stillness to it.

An unshakable calm.

The kind of expression that made men stop mid-sentence.

So I practiced.

Tilting my chin slightly--not up, not defiant. Just enough to say: I see more than you think I do.

Softening the corners of my lips--not a smile, not exactly. But the ghost of one. A suggestion. A dare.

I taught myself to look at a reflection and think: She wouldn't blink here.

At the grocery store, I practiced stillness in the checkout line.

At school, I practiced silence in conversations, letting others fill the air with noise while I watched.

When teachers asked questions, I answered slowly--not because I didn't know, but because I wanted the room to notice when I chose to speak.

Even my footsteps changed.

I started walking heel-first, measured, like someone who assumed they had somewhere important to be--even when I didn't.

From Pretty to Poised

There's a difference between being admired and being obeyed.

Agent 99 taught me that.

The girls around me still cared about being cute. Bubbly. Effortlessly likable.

But I started playing a different game.

Not flirtation. Not seduction.

Command.

I stopped giggling on cue.

Stopped making my voice rise at the end of sentences.

Stopped apologizing for being right.

And people noticed.

One teacher called me "intimidating" in a parent-teacher conference.

My mother beamed.

A boy in homeroom said, "You look like you'd get people fired."

I said, "Only the ones who deserve it."

Even then, I understood what I was doing wasn't about costume or performance.

It was infrastructure.

Agent 99 wasn't dressing up as powerful.

She was wearing her competence like a second skin.

And I wanted that.

So I layered myself in discipline.

I watched how she sat--legs crossed but grounded, not posed.

I watched how she deflected--never defensive, always surgical.

I watched how she touched--rarely, briefly, always on purpose.

She didn't flirt.

She placed energy exactly where it was needed.

And I began to do the same.

Real Life: The Suit and the Silence

I didn't plan to dominate him.

Not at first.

It was a gallery opening.

Downtown. White wine, soft jazz, women in sculptural dresses.

I wore black.

Not revealing. Not loud. But it fit like a rule no one could break.

He approached with all the usual confidence--sharp suit, rehearsed charm, that little smirk that said he was used to being the center of attention.

And I let him talk.

Not because I was interested.

Because I was curious.

I tilted my head. Just slightly.

I smiled once. Slowly.

And I said almost nothing.

He started to fidget.

Adjusting his cufflinks.

Shifting his weight.

Making more jokes. Faster now.

He didn't realize what was happening.

But I did.

He was unraveling in real time--trying to impress a silence.

I let him keep going.

Every now and then, I'd say something short.

"Is that right?"

"Mm."

"Go on."

Nothing more.

Agent 99 taught me that stillness is seductive.

That the woman who speaks the least often has the most to say.

Eventually, he asked if I wanted to see a smaller installation in the back.

Private room. Dim lights. Less crowd.

I nodded.

We walked in. He tried to show me the art.

But I turned toward him instead.

Let the silence pool.

And when I stepped closer, he actually held his breath.

I didn't touch him.

I just leaned in--close enough that I could see the pulse jumping in his neck.

Then I whispered, "You're very loud."

He froze.

Smiled. Unsure.

Then waited.

Not a word.

Just... waited.

I didn't make a move.

He did.

His hand grazed mine, tentative, like he was asking permission with his skin.

And I let the pause stretch--long enough for him to feel how much of the moment belonged to me.

Then, finally, I touched his wrist. Light. Exact.

And said, "Slower."

That was all.

And from that point on, he obeyed.

In the car. In the hotel. In the hour that followed.

I didn't raise my voice.

I didn't give instructions.

I just moved the way I'd trained myself to move: with quiet precision.

When I unbuttoned his shirt, I did it one button at a time.

When I kissed him, it was once--under the ear, where it made his knees buckle.

He asked nothing.

Because he didn't want to break the spell.

I made eye contact only when I wanted his knees to weaken.

I gave praise with the barest curve of my mouth.

And when I leaned in to say, "You may come,"

his entire body shuddered.

Because I hadn't asked for surrender.

I'd made it inevitable.

And that?

That was Agent 99.

Not in costume.

Not in name.

But in every breath, every look, every calibrated gesture.

Real Life: She Knew Before I Touched Her

She was soft-spoken.

Sharp-dressed.

A little older than me.

We met through a mutual friend--at a cocktail event, somewhere sterile and upscale. She wore slate gray with a burgundy heel, and carried herself like she expected to be underestimated.

I didn't underestimate her.

But I did notice how quickly she dropped her eyes when I held her gaze.

It wasn't shyness.

It was instinct.

Some women know before anything happens.

They feel it before it's named.

We made polite conversation.

I let it go no further.

Until she reached for a second glass of wine and said, "You look like you're used to telling people what to do."

I smiled. Slowly. "Only the ones worth directing."

She flushed. There it was.

That night, I invited her over.

No pretense. No drink offers. No music.

She walked into my apartment and paused.

Looked around like she was assessing the scene--one professional to another.

But I didn't give her time to orient.

I stepped behind her.

Unzipped her dress to the small of her back.

Let the fabric hang.

She didn't move.

I leaned in, lips not quite touching her ear, and said:

"You may speak freely now, or not at all. Either is fine."

She exhaled--sharp and shuddered--and whispered, "Yes, Ma'am."

It wasn't about cruelty.

I never pushed her to her knees.

Never barked orders. Never called her names.

I edited the world down to sensation.

Every instruction was soft. Precise.

"Hold the back of the chair."

"Kneel, but don't spread yet."

"Stay where you are until I come back."

And she followed.

Not because she was weak.

Because she knew what it meant to be led well.

She was strong. Controlled. Used to directing others.

And for once, she wanted that authority lifted.

And I gave it back to her piece by piece.

Through approval.

Through control.

Through silence between instructions that made her ache to be noticed again.

When I finally touched her, it was gentle.

Fingertips behind the knee.

Fingertips down the side of the neck.

She trembled--not from fear, but from relief.

Like someone finally being spoken to in a language they hadn't heard since childhood.

I didn't tie her up.

Didn't blindfold her.

Didn't mark her.

All I did was contain her.

Hold her in a spell of sharp attention.

And she broke.

Beautifully.

Gratefully.

Later, as she dressed again, she turned to me and said, "You made me feel like I was the only thought in your head."

I smiled.

She had no idea how much of my technique had been borrowed.

From a woman who once disarmed a bomb without smudging her eyeliner.

Who could silence a room with a glance.

Who never raised her voice, and always got her way.

Real Life: The Long Game

He was mine for nearly two years.

Not a submissive at first.

Not even kinky, in his words.

But he loved precision.

That's where it started.

He watched the way I moved. The way I dressed.

The way I sat perfectly still at dinner until he corrected his posture without realizing it.

He once said, "You make me nervous in a way I like."

That was the tell.

I let the slow burn begin.

I didn't rush the dominance.

Didn't push dynamic.

I let him arrive at it on his own.

The first time I directed him, it was almost invisible:

"Go back and iron that again."

His tie had a wrinkle. He obeyed without thinking.

Later, he apologized.

I looked at him for a long time, then said, "You don't have to say sorry for following a standard."

The next time we were intimate, I let him undress me.

But only halfway.

Then I stopped him.

"Ask."

He hesitated.

"For what?"

I smiled. Not coy--measured.

"For what you want next. Say it clearly."

His breath hitched.

He asked.

And from that point on, I never had to raise my voice.

The bedroom became a site of calibration.

He learned what "Stay still" meant.

What "Only your mouth" allowed.

What "You're done" truly meant--because I would say it with a kiss, not a growl.

He liked to be good.

And I liked to shape goodness into something obedient.

He brought me coffee in the morning, just the way I liked it.

He laid out my clothes without being told.

He learned to wait at the edge of the bed--eyes low, back straight, cock hard, silent--because he knew what came next was mine to decide.

And when I used him, I did it precisely.

I liked the feeling of my stocking-clad foot against the side of his jaw.

Not to hurt.

Just to mark the balance.

To remind him--gently--what he was serving.

I never tied him down.

I didn't need to.

He was bound by instruction.

By want.

By the ritual of being seen, shaped, satisfied--and dismissed.

He never begged.

But he lingered.

Afterwards, he once said, "You make me feel like a machine that only runs when you turn the key."

I kissed his forehead.

"That's because you are."

Agent 99 never barked orders.

She didn't punish loudly.

She didn't need to prove anything.

She simply was.

And I had built that into myself so thoroughly, even he couldn't name where it came from.

Only that I gave the kind of direction that left no room for defiance--because it arrived wrapped in elegance, inevitability, and something just north of worship.

The Art of Erotic Control: What Agent 99 Taught Me

Agent 99 wasn't sexy in the way women were usually told to be sexy.

She didn't pout.

She didn't giggle.

She didn't strut around in lingerie or flutter her lashes like she was trying to get away with something.

She didn't flirt.

She unsettled.

There was nothing loud about her.

No drama. No spectacle.

And that was the point.