Donovans Doms

[To my readers: Here are two shorter stories about mistresses and their slaves. In the first one, it's a couple of novices; in the second, long-term members of the scene. You choose which appeals to you more.]

Drop Your Pants

When I found out what Jack had paid for the new fishing-rod, I growled like a tigress. Downsizing and paranoia were the order of the day at the company where he worked, and I'd been told to economize just in case he got the corporate hatchet. So I used self-control instead of my credit cards, passing by the most intriguing black plastic jumpsuit and an assortment of fascinating double-ended dildos. But all my efforts were in vain when Jack splurged on a designer fishing rod that cost enough to reel in Moby Dick.

"A man needs his hobbies," was Jack's defiant reply to my initial complaint.

"A woman needs hers," I muttered to myself. I had even given up the tennis lessons with the cute twentysomething instructor who wasn't afraid to discuss technique -- in an older woman's bedroom. Jack and I hadn't made love in years and years, and it cost a decent amount of money for a woman my age to find sexual gratification. But I'd nobly done without for weeks, all in the interests of conserving our cash. And now this!

The hell with it. I grabbed the fishing rod in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other. After a bit of surgery, the designer fish-killer was transformed. It would no longer serve its previous function -- but it was now a long, wicked switch.

Jack was in shock. "Are you out of your mind?" he yelled.

"Drop your pants," I said coldly. "Now."

"You're too young to be menopausal," he groaned, mourning his lost fishing opportunities. "So what's your excuse for going postal on me?"

"Sexual need," I replied. "You think I sacrificed my young lover so you could go fishing? Drop your pants, Jack. It's time you accepted some punishment. You've acted like a little boy, not a grown man."

Jack waved his hands in the air in protest. Wrong move. I deftly stepped behind him and swatted him hard on the meaty part of his ass. Even through his pants, the whip must have made quite an impression, for he squealed and grabbed hard at his buttocks. "You're crazy!" he shouted.

"You're only making it harder on yourself," I said sweetly. "The sooner we get started, the sooner your punishment will be over." Jack had nothing to say to that.

I spanked his hands with the rod, and Jack learned the first new thing of the day: hands don't have very much padding. He squealed again and hurriedly removed his pants along with his boxer shorts, and bent over a leather armchair to show me the hairy contours of his naked ass. Not exactly an erotic sight, but from this new perspective, quite attractive to me indeed. It had been almost five years since I'd had a good look at my husband's naked butt, and it had gotten quite a bit bigger in the interim. Fishing isn't nearly as good exercise as tennis -- or fucking younger men.

Cackling to myself at the wide expanse of white, vulnerable flesh, I drew back with my arm and beat his ass with all my force. No squeal this time. He screamed full-out and started to dance as I brought the rod down over and over and over.

I'd always fantasized about giving a man, and especially my husband, a good whipping. What woman hasn't wanted to from time to time? I'd never had the courage to act on my desires, however, not until I was half-crazed myself with sexual denial. Beating Jack's ass felt even better than I had hoped it would. The sight of his fat and jiggling flesh collecting hot pink stripes -- well, it just made me go all wet in the panties. Hell, I hadn't leaked so much in the crotch since that tennis instructor asked me if I liked to sit on men's faces.

"I hope you're learning something from this, Jack," I screeched. "After all, this hurts you a lot more than it hurts me!"

Jack thrashed and moaned as the implacable switch came down on him as he bent over the chair. But he made no further attempt to protect his tender ass cheeks. Nor did he make any attempt to run away, which after all he could easily have done at any time. I began to grow suspicious. Did Jack have something that he'd been hiding from me all these years? I flicked the switch against his flanks and demanded, "Stand up and turn around."

Clutching at his agonized buttocks, he obeyed, though his face turned as red as his rump with shame. After a moment, though, it wasn't his face that drew my attention. No, after fifteen minutes or more of all-out whipping, he was so excited by it that he'd developed a monster hard-on, as big and purple as I'd ever seen on him.

"So," I said, trying to continue to play it cool. "You enjoy being whipped."

Jack sank to his knees in a posture of abject shame. "It's true," he whispered. "But I could never admit it to anyone. Not even to you."

I was touched, but I didn't show it. "Then it's a good thing I finally beat the truth out of you, isn't it."

He nodded slowly.

"Remove the rest of your clothes."

Jack's shirt, socks, watch, and wedding ring were off quickly enough. I pointed to a place on the floor and commanded him to lie on his back there. I wanted him to feel the weight of his body pressing his well-beaten buns into the bare wood. His stalk was as big as ever, pointing straight to the ceiling.

Standing tall above him, I began to remove my clothes in a slow strip. I could feel his eyes rolling as he stared up my tennis-toned thighs and into the pink depths of my plump cunt. As I've said, I keep myself in shape, but a woman invariably gains a little voluptuousness around the pussy area as she gets into her forties.

"My God, you're beautiful," Jack breathed.

"You're just finding that out now? After twenty-three years of marriage?" My voice was full of scorn as I flicked the rod against Jack's thighs. I was sure he could feel the breeze from the stroke fanning his balls. If I wanted to, I could probably have made him beg me to whip them. That's how badly he was under my spell.

But I wanted something a little more basic than that. I wanted Jack's cock inside me. He could have told me that he needed a little something more to turn him on as he got older, instead of allowing me to think that he'd lost all interest in sex. We had both been denied a fascinating experience for way too many years. Well, I was going to make up for lost time starting right now.

I straddled his body and slowly sat down on him. I grabbed his cock and guided it into my cunt, and began to ride him hot and high. My sticky juices poured onto his balls and thighs. Delicious little screams, quite different from the ones he had given me before, broke from his lips each time I bounced him hard on his well-whipped ass. It was music to my ears.

The only downside was that there was hardly any friction, because I was sopping wet. I had to grind my clit quite forcefully into his pelvis to bring me to my climax. Of course, my fervor did nothing to decrease the pressure on his painful behind. I howled in triumph as I galloped into the first of what was to be a whole string of full-throated orgasms. Eventually Jack gave up his joy juice, and the scene was over.

I no longer need a boy toy, and Jack no longer has time for fishing. When people ask what the secret of our long and successful marriage is, I just smile and look mysterious.

##### ##### #####

Yes, Mistress

He wore a studded black dog collar around his neck, a pair of form-fitting black leather jeans, and not much else. There was no doubt in my mind that he was somebody's slave. Besides, the look in the eyes is unmistakable. When you've had as much experience as I have, you can always tell.

However, I've never had any hesitations about poaching on other women's property. So when I spotted him across the room at a certain well-attended leather convention in Vegas, I walked right over and padlocked my leash to his dog collar with a satisfying click. If a bitch is dumb enough to let a slave walk around without a lead, she's got to expect that he'll be picked up by the local dog-catcher.

What's more, this one had a body that must have been exercised daily with the finest weight-training equipment around. He was waxed and tanned like a professional bodybuilder. I like physical strength and beauty in my slaves, so I wasted no time in yanking his chain in the direction of my hotel room.

"I'm not allowed to go with strangers, Mistress," he whined.

I yanked harder on the leash, pulling cruelly on his neck. Slaves aren't the only ones who work out with weights, of course. "Haven't you been trained to be respectful to women?" I asked. "If I have to report your discourtesy to your mistress, I shall expect to witness a harsh punishment. Very harsh."

He licked his lips and looked around the room, apparently not seeing what he was looking for. "Yes, Mistress," he whispered.

I was staying in the convention hotel, of course. Like many casino hotels, it was laid out so that you had to walk past the maximum number of tables and slot machines to get from the meeting rooms to your own room. Patrons turned their heads to stare at the beautiful long-legged woman in leather (I know my own looks, no one better) dragging the hunky, shirtless male body behind her on a leash. I heard approving murmurs, too, mostly in female voices.

If the stud was ashamed of himself, he certainly didn't show it. Alone with him in the elevator, I felt the lump in his form-fitting pants. It was impressive. In fact, his zipper had come unsprung and moved slightly downward in response to the pressure from within. I squeezed gently, making him moan. Had his mistress missed him yet? Or was she busy herself getting it on with some other slave -- maybe even one of mine? I smiled at the thought. If so, I would be able to beat it out of them soon enough.

But that was then and this was now. Once we were behind locked doors, I unclipped the leash from the slave's collar and ordered him to remove his pants and kneel. Naked now except for the dog collar, he knelt at my feet and confessed everything -- his real name, his years of service, his particular fetishes. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth, showing me the stainless steel stud that pierced the fleshy part in the front of his tongue. I smiled to myself. Impressive again.

I used a pair of safety handcuffs to secure his hands behind his back, leaving him in the submissive kneeling posture. Then I removed my own clothes. The thought of that stud was already filling my mind with fantasies. He began to pant fervently when he caught sight of my slick and well-oiled nudity.

"Eat me," I commanded. "And do a good job, unless you want to feel this!" I took my favorite riding crop from my luggage (I carry most of my tools in a golf bag -- it saves questions at the airport) and brandished it across his shoulders threateningly.

He ate me. Sweet Christ, how he ate me. His tongue was any woman's delight. He must have been a talented suck even before he got the piercing, because he knew everything: how to pucker up to diddle a clit, how to guide a tongue-tip into an oozing vagina, how to suck hard on low-hanging pussy wattles. Combining all his techniques with the extra pressure created by the stainless steel stud and all I can say is, I nearly went through the roof. My knees were jelly, but my clitoris was a rock. Screaming, arching my back, pounding him with clenched fists, I came again and again on his face in sweet shuddering waves of ecstasy.

Nevertheless, there was never any doubt that I had to punish him. It wouldn't be hard to find a suitable excuse. When I came back down to earth, I pulled him roughly to his feet, leaving his hands still bound. I flung him face upward on the bed, lying awkwardly and uncomfortably on his handcuffed hands. His cock was thrusting forward and upward, and the tip was oozing pre-come at an alarming rate. Then I knew.

"Who gave you permission to get excited, slave?" I screamed at him, slashing at his chest and upper thighs over and over again with the whip. "No one leaks in this room without my permission!"

"I'm sorry, Mistress, I'm sorry," he whimpered. "I can't help myself. You taste so wonderful. Oh please, Mistress, let me make it up to you?"

Well, I liked the crisscross pattern of whip marks on that handsome chest and strong legs, but I liked the shape and movement of that dick of his even better. I flung the riding crop to one side and dived headlong for the bed. We both grunted when I crash-landed on his fully loaded rocket, and it bent back and forth ominously before slipping between my pussy petals without my having to grab it. My damp opening stretched wide to accept every inch of him.

Did I mention that his cock wasn't only long -- you take that for granted in a slave like this -- but thick? Ahhhh, so thick. I impaled myself on him over and over again, yowling. I sat high in the saddle, bouncing up and down as I galloped to heaven on top of him. Did he come? I don't know or really care. I knew that being with me would more than satisfy his real needs, even if he had to take care of himself in the bathroom afterwards.

Bitches, if you don't want your slave stolen, whipped, and well fucked, all I can say is, don't turn your back on him for a second. Otherwise he's mine.