Down and Down She Goes
By Saphhia
This is a new series. I'm uncertain how many chapters there will be at this stage, but I'm hoping it will be enjoyable for all. The entire series has a lesbian theme and is a tale of rather extreme BDSM and blackmail/extortion. Some scenes contain graphic content and may be disturbing to read. If this is not your cup of tea, then all I can say, is that you've been warned.
Chapter One
A Fateful Encounter
I don't know what could have gotten into me, to be honest. I'd been a successful attorney for a decade and had the money and possessions to show for it, too. At the tender age of thirty-three, I was where most successful men only dreamed of being by the age of sixty. I had lived in a large estate in an exclusive neighborhood, drove a Bentley, and had no one to share it with.
The only thing that seemed to be wrong with my life, was my ridiculous sex drive. I was what some people would call a nymphomaniac. As careful as I was, the more my cunt took over my life, the riskier my behavior became. For a woman in my position, it was very dangerous indeed. I often wondered if I really was Harriet Musgrove, or just a convenient accessory to my own hairless cunt.
I really couldn't nail down who I was more attracted to, men or women and I figured that I was bisexual. Each had their good and bad points, and I was sure to exploit each to the fullest.
With men, I seemed to be more dominant and was good at it too. I wouldn't exactly call myself a Dominatrix or anything, but men seemed to relish having me put them in their place.
With women, however, it was just the reverse. I couldn't be anything but submissive in the presence of a woman, and that was where my most dangerous behavior exhibited itself. When I say submissive, I was usually groveling at their feet by the end of an evening. For someone with so much to lose, it was a very vulnerable position to be in.
Of course, I was always extremely careful not to divulge anything to do with my vanilla life, either to the men I saw, or the women I served. It was often a delicate line to walk, but up until recently, I was extremely good at it.
That night I was set to meet up with another female dominant I had been paired with. It was a service I paid handsomely for, and the dominants were discreet and never asked questions. They were only there to put me in my place, and as my dossier implied, my needs were extreme and required a skilled hand. The club itself was lavish, catering only to those who could afford its exorbitant fee.
It had all started so casually. I never thought I would ever end up a hardcore submissive. Some of the club dominants even commented, saying that I had all the makings of a true slave and that if I ever grew tired of the monotony of the high life I led, I should consider the sacrifice.
Of course, this line of comments never failed to rile me up, and I often responded more favorably to their power over me. I would imagine myself giving it all up, you know. The thought of signing everything over to a powerful woman made me so hot that I would struggle not to come, even after being warned of the consequences, should I crest without permission.
That night, I would be meeting a new Domme, one that I was promised would meet all my needs better than anyone I had previously been paired with. Her name, at least her stage name, was Valerie. Who knew if it was her real name, who cared?
When I was playing the dominant with men who sought my company, I would go by the name Clarissa, but when I was feeling the need to serve a woman, I preferred the demeaning name, Skunk.
It was a name I had earned, apparently, as one of my dominants insisted. I think her name was Marsha, and she was working me over on the rack, her cat striping my back and ass with raised red welts. "You know, slave, with that stinky faucet between your legs, I really ought to call you Skunk. Would you like that, slave?"
I remember her running her fingers up the inside of my thigh, gathering the juice that I knew was there, and holding it up under my nose. I knew my own scent and knew it was strong, but not unpleasant. She slipped her fingers between my lips, forcing me to clean my own arousal from her fingers.
"What is your name, slave?" She asked, hoping that I might take her lead.
For a moment, I very nearly revealed my actual name, the first letter on my lips. "Ha...H..." I stammered. Then, surrendering my will to her, I groveled, "Skunk."
"Very well, Skunk." And she proceeded to thrash me to within an inch of my life, driving home the name, repeating it, over and over until I finally broke down in a blubbering heap. After that night, I changed the name on my club membership, insisting that all the staff refer to me by my new given name.
And so, when I was introduced to Valerie, I was already one foot into the role, which is exactly as I wanted it. "This way, Skunk." She urged with a curling finger. I was ushered down the familiar hallway to a new and very different room.
Many of the dominants used common rooms, with apparatus and equipment already placed for their use. Valerie had her own space, and I knew that she was like me, a wealthy woman with particular needs.
"Strip over there." She insisted, pointing to a corner where the empty milk crate seemed utterly out of place. The room was beyond decadent, with leather upholstered walls, and some of the most unique devices I had ever seen, some of which I did not recognize. They were not the standard fare for a dungeon.
The half mask she wore only served to accentuate her ravishing looks, and I could tell she was several years my junior. Once naked, I was given the one-word command, "Nadu."
Not many of the dominants bothered with the formality of slave positions, but I liked the fact that this woman did. I quickly knelt, drawing my heels into my buttocks and laying my hands, palms up, on the tops of my thighs. My eyes were forward and down, disregarding her movements before me.
"Well, Skunk, I understand you like things... rough." She mused, her open palm landing full force against my cheek, nearly but not quite knocking me out of position. She seemed impressed by my stoicism as I failed to recoil or alter my stance. My left cheek stung like fire, but I knew this was a test, one I was determined to pass.
Three more blows as hard and exact as the first, sent a tear down my cheek as I struggled to maintain my composure. I knew that I would have a hard time covering the bruises to my cheek and eye the following Monday, but then, this was my choice. I did indeed like it rough.
"Perhaps what I have been told about you is not an exaggeration, after all." She commented, walking to an elaborate cabinet and pulling what looked like a whip from its interior. Even though my eyes were cast downward, I could see that this was no flogger. Valerie did not play games. What she held in her hand was a bullwhip. I heard, rather than felt the long whisp of knotted leather whistle past my ear. At first, the pain did not register, but I knew pain like this was such a shock to the synapses that they took a moment or two to temper the signal to my brain.
Only after the third lash did the pain finally hit home, and it was impossible to avoid the loud moan of discomfort from my mouth. It was not a complaint, but an expected reaction to what she was doing to my back. There were rules in the club, and one of those rules was any blood drawn was strictly by explicit permission. I suddenly wished I could rescind the signature I had placed on the release.
By the eighth lash, I was on the verge of passing out, not from the pain, but from the sudden rush of endorphins that flooded my system. Seeing me wobble and perhaps the profuse perspiration on my brow, she laid aside the whip. "That's enough of that, for now." She sighed. "You did much better than I would have expected for one so unmarked by the lash." She ran her fingers down my back and I was not mistaken as to the severity of the blows. Her fingers came away reddened with my blood.
"I'm sorry, Mistress." I slipped, feeling ashamed that I had dirtied her fingertips with my blood. A quick tap to my mouth with the back of the same hand taught me that she did not tolerate unbidden speech. It was nothing more than an instructional gesture.
"You will have scars, I'm afraid, Skunk." She chortled. "To be honest, I am a bit surprised you bear none. It's obvious that you have been treated too leniently in the past. Those days are over for you, slave." She washed her hands in an available basin and returned with a tube of ointment.
I bent my head in thanks, as she applied the soothing salve on what were undoubtedly some ugly cuts to my pristine skin. Tears fell, unbidden from my eyes, the act of kindness in such stark contrast to her violence of a few moments before.
"This will soothe and prevent infection, Skunk, but it will prevent the marks from closing as they normally would." She informed me. "Have you ever seen a back marked by the whip?"
I presumed she wanted a response but was uncertain whether she desired a verbal answer. Instead, I simply nodded that I had. I once topped a man who had been a prisoner of war, strangely enough, marveling over the lash marks on his back. I wondered why someone, who had admittedly been in captivity, desired the firm hand of a dominant woman. I wasn't one to question his motives but did take care not to press him too far. He was always happy at the end of it.
