Catherines Whip Hand

The first lash of her whip hurt like hell—much more than I expected. Looking at mistress sites on the Internet always stimulated me through my eyes—the whip of the dominatrix symbolized her authority—and the visual thrill put me in a submissive mind-set before rushing down to my groin. Then I'd take care of my groin.

I know that sounds repulsive, but until I met Catherine the Great, I couldn't find a real woman to punish me. Mrs. Roman also gave me visual, symbolic stimulation by letting me watch her glee in the mirror while she imposed her will on me. But I never imagined the pain she so obviously delighted in inflicting on me. Admiring her in the mirror and simultaneously feeling the sting of her wrath immediately achieved the effect she desired: If she enjoyed hurting me, I craved her abuse—just to watch her ecstasy.

Her expertise revealed extensive practice. Her strokes picked up a rhythm that, incredibly, grew faster! I lost track of time, the number of lashes, and nearly everything else. The constant elements of our bond prevailed—her body, writhing sensually in shiny black latex with each lash—the cruel, fierce beauty of her face: her piercing eyes, with just a hint of slant, her aristocratic cheeks, her lips forming an O, as if on the constant verge of orgasm—and the mounting, throbbing pain, so intense I wanted to cum. She artistically whipped me into maximum arousal.

When she wound up for a dramatic, unbelievably strong lash, I thought this last blow would climax her performance. But, still shuddering from her whip-wielding denouement, I watched, transfixed, while she seized her real climax. Quickly stripping off her right glove, she plunged her hand up her dress and rapidly brought herself to orgasm.

She slinked over to the ottoman, wearing the exquisite expression of a self-satisfied lady, and sat on the edge beside me.

"So that's why your hand was wet before," I noted.

"Think of it as my 'whip hand'—meaning I'm in control." She held out her moist hand in front of my mouth. "Go ahead," she coaxed, "and then I'll take care of you."

Anticipating her ultimate treat, I eagerly lapped her hand. "How's that?" I asked after the last lick.

"Okay," she said, wiggling her glove back on. "Turn over and put the back of your head on the ottoman," she said. After I complied, she knelt beside me and began to stroke my cock with her gloved hand—sexier than tossing me off bare-handed, but ...

"Oh ..." I said slowly.

"I told you it was the whip hand," she winked. "I'm whipping you off. But don't worry. I'll screw you like you've never been screwed before."

"Really?!"

"Just watch. If you can." Abruptly, she rose with her back to me, straddled my head, and sat on my face, leaning forward so that most of the contact was with her vagina and not her ass.

I tried to thank her but couldn't speak. Her thighs, firmly pinning down my shoulders and upper arms, prevented me from moving. When she leaned forward farther and resumed stroking me—the second time she whipped me that evening—I settled resignedly for masturbation instead of intercourse.

She knew exactly how to manipulate me. I heard the tinkle of ice in a glass and then felt her left hand press frozen cubes against my scrotum while her right hand continued jerking. The friction of her gloved hand heated my cock luxuriously, and the contrasting cold around my testicles propelled me toward ejaculation much sooner than I wanted.

With impeccable timing, she leaned back slightly, smothering my face with her rump and vagina, and said, "Call Grey Templeton tomorrow. You're resigning from Federal National."

I struggled to speak. She pressed down so hard I couldn't breathe. Even if I freed myself, her hard-pumping hand lured me away from my last hope of resistance.

She calmly said, "I interpret your silence as 'Yes.' If not, I'll call him."

Her autocratic pronouncement triggered my climax. She expertly drained my cum and energy.

Swinging her left leg back over my head, she finally rose from my face and stood beside me. She squeezed off the condom and dropped it on my chest. "I told you I'd screw you like you've never been screwed before. Get dressed, Princess."

Holding the used condom in my left hand, I picked up her clothes with my right and stacked them on the ottoman. Then I put the condom on top of her girdle and decided to wear Catherine's dress by itself. By the time I slipped it on, she presented me with the notorious sanitary napkin box again. Depositing the used condom, I groused, "That gets old."

Without a word, she returned to the fireplace and picked up her whip. Walking back to me, she commanded, "Kneel with your back to me and bow your head to the floor." After I obeyed, she pulled the skirt of the dress up and administered three quick, hard lashes on my exposed rear end. "And here's for not dressing up for me." She whacked me three more times. "When I lend you clothes, wear all of them."

The pain, on top of my previous beating, caused my eyes to tear.

"What do you say, Princess?"

"Thank you for disciplining me. I am sorry I disobeyed you."

"Look at me when you speak to me!" She lashed me with the whip again.

I stood and faced her.

She peered at me intently. "Are you crying, Princess?"

"No—I mean, yes, Your Majesty. I really want to be your wife. I crave it so much I can't control my emotions. Please take me!"

Even after she'd physically sat on my face, I could make Her Majesty smile by verbally kissing her ass. "Be a good girl and we'll see. Now, put on your girdle and stockings. It's unladylike to go without underwear. And your shoes, too."

This time squirming into my Goddess's girdle hurt because of the welts on my behind. Drained of sexual energy, I found no joy in sliding her stockings up my legs and hooking them onto garters. And when I squeezed into her shoes, the tightness irritated me without arousing me. "How do I look?" I asked dutifully.

She pinched me on the cheek. "Precious. Now, come join me while I snack." Still carrying her whip, she led the way to the kitchen. Martin had laid out a small tray of caviar and crackers, a chilled bottle of champagne, and two glasses. Catherine the Great sat down, placed her coiled whip on the table, and gestured for me to be seated. "Show me how you spread caviar on a cracker."

I picked up a cracker and applied a thick layer of the rich caviar.

"Perfect," she said, snatching the cracker and putting it to her mouth. She took a generous bite and chewed it slowly, sensually.

"May I—"

"Yes, you may have all the champagne you want." She poured a glass and slid it in front of me. "Watch me eat, and I'll watch you get drunk." She chewed thoroughly. Her decadent expression displayed more joy in tasting caviar than she had shown during sex with me.

"Please. I'm hungry."

"You can eat after I've finished the caviar and crackers."

"Eat what?" I asked, exasperated.

She stood up, turned her back to me, bent over, and patted her beautiful derriere. "Drink up!" she laughed, sitting down again.

Even then, Catherine the Great was irresistible. I was addicted to her. Besides, if I miraculously broke her spell, she'd humiliate me with the video to regain the whip hand. I realized at some point I'd have to draw the line at what I'd do for her, regardless of who saw that video.

Meanwhile, I downed my glass of champagne and poured another.

"Martin," Her Majesty called. He appeared at the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room. "Before you turn in, Martin, please bring our guest more vodka. A bottle, no decanter. Princess insists on being a slut instead of a lady."

When Martin retreated, I noticed tightness in his eyes, signifying anger. He wouldn't look at me when he returned and placed the vodka on the table. To Mrs. Roman, he said politely, "If there's nothing else, madam, I shall retire." He glided out quietly.

"Thank you, Martin." She turned to me. "You may drink all the champagne first, or all the vodka. Or mix them. I don't know which method is most lethal," she confessed. "Either way, I'll intoxicate you thoroughly and quickly. You shall have the biggest hangover in history." She uncorked the vodka bottle and nudged it in front of me. "Drink," she said.

I chugged a couple of swallows—liquid flames roaring down my throat. "You don't need alcohol to intoxicate me," I said, my head swimming. "Being with you makes me high."

"That's sweet, but drink up. I will totally incapacitate you."

Even that thought aroused me: getting wasted on Catherine the Great's whim. She would inflict severe cruelty on me, and my last remnants of self-defense would crumble. I guzzled vodka and champagne until most of the events blurred together. I recall that when my speech was slurry and my movements erratic, my irresistible tormentor handed me part of a caviar-smeared cracker from which she'd taken a large bite.

"Thank you!" I went to my knees, hardly able to hold the precious food.

She kicked it out of my hands and laughed derisively.

I crawled toward the cracker smeared with caviar, but she overtook me and dug the heel of her boot into the top of my outstretched hand. Lying prostrate at her feet, despite my buzz, I felt blasted by her power—and the sensation electrified me. When she stepped on the cracker with her booted foot, even in my near-stupor, I cringed at the waste of food.

I needn't have worried.

Sitting on the tile floor, she raised her boot to me. The caviar attached the cracker to the sole of her boot. "Eat!" she demanded. I reached for the cracker on her boot. "Don't touch it!"

And so I knelt on my hands and knees and tried to get my teeth into the cracker while she playfully swung her boot around to taunt and tease me into making a complete fool of myself. When I finally flicked the cracker off her boot with my tongue, I bowed, as if bobbing for an apple, still fearing her admonition not to touch it.

Just as my lips made contact, I felt the heel of her boot on the back of my neck, slowly but firmly pressing my face into the sticky cracker. Apparently tiring of her sport, she said, "Lick the caviar off my boot, and I'll feed you the rest of the cracker." She picked up the cracker, walked back to her chair, and sat down.

Sitting at her feet, I cleaned her boot thoroughly, continuing to lap away long after the caviar was gone, glancing up occasionally into the cruel beauty of her face to reinforce my feelings. "You're humiliating me thoroughly, I said, "but I can't get enough! Not because of your punishment, but because it's coming from you!"

Eating from her hands, further subservience, solidified my bondage to her. Totally abdicating to Catherine the Great gave me the greatest rush I've ever had, or will ever have, in my life.

When she handed me the vodka bottle, she commanded, "Drink up!" and reached for her whip. I took several healthy belts and meekly got on my hands and knees to absorb the punishment that she thrilled in delivering. I wondered if she intended for the alcohol to anesthetize me so that I could endure more pain. But I concluded that she intended to tranquilize me in order to destroy my resistance.

When I finally, clumsily raised my hand in self defense during one of my numerous whippings that night, Catherine the Great tossed aside her whip and began slapping, punching, and kicking me—further igniting the passion of her savagery—for both of us.

She'd beat or whip me until she was too exhausted to continue. Then she'd ask, "Had enough?" And I'd shake my head, No. After each performance, she'd peel up the skirt of her latex dress and finger herself to orgasm while placing her right boot in my face or on my throat.

Through the alcoholic haze, I vaguely remember arriving at her room, soaking in a bubble bath, and going to bed with her. Although thoroughly inebriated, I recoiled from her ultimate edict: licking her anus while she lay on her side and diddled herself. I came so close because I was drunk with champagne, vodka, and Catherine the Great's power.

Inches away, I stopped. Despite my previous bravado about kissing her rump, I couldn't actually go through with it. I drunkenly provoked her wrath. "I said I'd kiss your ass, not French kiss it."

She beat me furiously, arousing both of us. When I again refused to lick her tail, she philosophized, "I'll save that conquest for another day."

And then she let me suckle her breasts while she fingered herself to sleep.

* * * * *

I awoke the next morning with the horrific hangover Mrs. Roman had promised me, and I was wrapped in the pink nightgown she made me wear. My body throbbed with pain.

Martin brought me a breakfast tray, scraps from Catherine the Great's meal, complete with her lipstick print on a cup half full of cold coffee. I cherished the remnants as tokens of her dominance, more binding than love.

Before departing, Martin pulled back the curtains to what appeared to be a window—actually the two-way mirror providing a view into the parlor.

And what a view!

Catherine the Great sat on the edge of the leather couch under the circular window, with the hem of her dress pushed up to her waist, while a naked blonde with her back to my pressed her face into Catherine's nest. Noticing a condom on the table, I surrendered to my Goddess's premeditated, visual seduction.

My racing pulse amplified the pain and pounding in my head. Opening the condom, I slid it on. The pear shape of the blonde's ass made me think of Suki Swisher, the office cutie I wanted to bang from the day I met her—and the devious bitch who wanted to overthrow me at Federal National Bank. Fatalistically, I knew if I ever screwed her, she'd screw me out of my job. She was that cunning.

When she tossed her head while pleasuring Mrs. Roman, the birthmark on her cheek convinced me she was Suki. She brought Catherine the Great to an orgasm before I ejaculated, but her next gesture ignited my climax. She reached down, picked up a stack of money that looked suspiciously like the amount I'd brought with me, and gave the money to Catherine.

Mrs. Roman's nearly palpable domination jolted me with currents that alternately stirred rebellion and hopeless capitulation in me. I wailed a guttural cry, celebrating Catherine's might and lamenting my futility in resisting her. My cock erupted into the condom.

Catherine touched a button on the wall behind her. The two-way mirror panel slid down, and I was suddenly face-to-face with them—feeling ridiculously silly in Mrs. Roman's pink nightgown, mentally and physically impotent with my spent, limp cock in my hand.

"You belong to me," Mrs. Roman smirked, "and so does Suki."

I felt crushed. The physical beatings I'd endured, though sexually arousing, wouldn't get me an executive position at Mrs. Roman's Savings and Trust Bank. Suki had, indeed, shafted me out of a job—at Mrs. Roman's bank, not Federal National.

But I also felt liberated. "Maybe Suki is the banker you're looking for. Martin can still be your wife." And, although I didn't tell her, I planned to return to Federal National, sadder but wiser.

Her mouth turned down in anger and her eyes narrowed. Her wrath awed me. "Are you saying," she spoke in measured tones, "that I don't need you?"

And so she nailed me. If she said I was expendable, I was free. But she forced

me

to decide and take the responsibility. "I want to stay, but you don't need me."

"You can't take it. And I thought you were a man!"

"Is that why you made me wear your clothes?"

Wrong comment.

"You'll regret that." Her expression chilled me. I was torn between escaping and crawling under her heel. "Martin will return your clothes and drive you to your house. Suki and I will return to my study to plan the future of Savings and Trust Bank."

Suki gave me a triumphant smirk, unaware she was just another pawn in Mrs. Roman's game.

Martin and I were soon on the road. He thanked me profusely for delivering him from the clutches of Honey Bates, the New York mistress he'd been sold to. He reiterated Honey's suspicion for murder, adding, "Honey will buy her way out of this mess."

I didn't have long to ponder his narrow escape. I had troubles of my own. As soon as I returned home, I phoned my boss, only to find out Federal National had let me go.

And Mrs. Roman had blacklisted me from every bank I could think of. In the two hours or so it took Martin to deliver me to my doorstep, Mrs. Roman had phoned all of her key contacts, who in turn called their contacts, to shut me out of banking. She had essentially ended my career.

That's when I realized how thoroughly Catherine the Great held the whip hand over me. Later Suki would betray me into the hands of Honey Bates, whom Martin feared for his life, and Mrs. Roman would storm in and reclaim me—not necessarily because she liked me, but because she resented anyone else tampering with her property. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Being completely at Mrs. Roman's mercy both aroused and disgusted me—not that my feelings made any difference. Catherine the Great demanded that I be her little girl until she tired of using me. My only responsibility was to live my personal and professional life on her terms.

End of discussion.

The End