Mistress Debbie

Part One: Background

Half Spanish, half Afro-American, Debbie was the most beautiful women I have ever seen: her skin color, a smooth bronze, and her body --exceptionally proportioned, very large well-rounded breasts, incredible legs leading to a fine, round heart-shaped ass, and a mind, intelligent and artistic. She did art restoration when not telemarketing. Sexually uninhibited--accepting my bisexuality without hesitation—she even encouraged me to talk about my sexual exploits, using leading questions to allow me to reveal the most intimate details. We began a habit I am still addicted to today, sharing sexual adventures over the phone late at night.

We dated and I was as honest about my situation as possible; a strong bond grew between us, but gradually I become psychologically impotent when it came to straight sex. Lying in bed with her sucking on my flaccid cock, trying to get me up to fuck her, was the most unrewarding experience of my life. I revealed my desire to experiment with S&M at that point, and we experimented two or three times with it. [I had no erection problem during those experiments. But I didn't feel owned.]

We also talked about our sexual adventures, usually on the phone. I revealed my promiscuous homosexual escapades in the back room of The Lotus Theatre and The Baths, how I’d spend hours on my knees sucking a couple dozen or more cocks in an evening, or bent over in the corner with cocks, one after another, pounding my ass all night. Talking about it turned me on more than doing it; I would manage to jackoff sometimes twice in a row --it was so hot. She told me of the men she had been with who had very large cocks, for example, her ex-husband whose ten inch member was so thick it couldn’t get down her throat and almost every act of sex ended up hurting her. For quite some time, the knowledge that she knew how much I craved abuse more than anything else in the world sustained my lust, each time I thought of it, a fresh wave of humiliation coursed through me.

Then, months passed; we remained friends, but, because she met someone else and began what became a long-term sexual relationship, we didn’t do any more experimentation. Although, she continued to share with me his peculiarities in bed--especially about his nine inch cock. I kept asking her to take me as a slave and she kept saying maybe --but not now.

I became somewhat of a pest about it, sending her to Internet sites, writing out ideas for sessions—but through this all we maintained a quasi-business relationship. She had left telemarketing and began art restoration full time with a partner who was in his 70’s. They shared a house/place of business.

Debbie and I also shared an inside spot at a flea market on Saturdays and Sundays, so we continued to see each other every weekend—and sometimes during the week because of our mutual interest in computers. On the Sunday in question, we hadn’t discussed S&M for several weeks, so I was quite surprised that day.

You might say I got more than I bargained for—much more.

Part Two: The Humiliation Session

After we set up that AM, Debbie said she had to go get something and would be right back. I sat, smoked and drank coffee for 10 minutes or so. She had told me she would make me lick and suck her boots completelty clean and use my mouth as a toilet when she took possession of me as a slave. So when she returned, she had a bag with her shoes in it and was wearing new black, patent leather boots that went to right below her knees --and they had 4 inch heels.

"Move!" she said.

I stood, she sat --in the only chair we had.

On a milk case, directly across from her, I sat, almost drooling and staring at her boots. I experienced a not so subtle, erotic intoxication, a mind altering one, a penis engorging one. My cock--harder than ever before in my life; my mouth opening slightly, my tongue darting about, my saliva flowing--and my hand reaching and squeezing my hardon. I could picture me on the floor laboriously licking and sucking clean every square centimeter of her black leather boots. My emotions vacillated between gut wrenching fear and absolute joy.

I dared to look up her short skirt [not something she usually wore] and saw her smooth , shapely bronze thighs; their rounded perfection touching, forming a dark sensuous line, and my eyes ran up that interior line of dark flesh to the space beneath her skirt's edge, to a sight I had seen many times before--but now, shame overwhelmed me as my eyes begged to see the pussy of this magnificent, dominant female.

My erotic intoxication focusing, my submissive soul falling prostrate before her; my eyes and soul captured, so I stared adoringly into the darkness beneath her dress' edge. I dared raise my eyes to her face as she lit a cigarette slowly, and then sharply French-inhaled to perfection as our eyes met.

Her onyx eyes burned through me as she lowered them --and my eyes followed as if led by an attached, invisible leash--down...down past her ample, full bosom, where her bronze orbs cleaved to one another forming another arching, dark sensuous line, and down to the space under her skirt's edge. Once there, a personal miracle as amazing as the parting of the Red Sea: slowly, achingly, the dark sensuous line disappeared as my eyes folowed her parting thighs again to the space beneath her skirt's edge, revealing she wore no panties; my eyes, pleasured beyond description, gazed upon a moist, many-faceted jewel crown, or brazen altar, her shaved pussy, with its full moist, pouting lips glistening as my cock, at full mast, throbbed for freedom in my pants.

[I wanted to whip it out and beat it senselessly in abject worship before her. In that moment, I submitted to her not only my body, but my mind and soul as well.]

My body, tense; my senses, turned on like an annoying boombox; my breathing --quick and shallow; my submissive soul, prostrate before her, lusting to deepthroat her boot's heel. My mind knew she was about to take me as her slave--as I had begged her to do for many months. My mind wrapped itself slowly around the absolute reality of the situation, but not my cock. It was totally aware. The knowledge that Debbie knew how much I craved and lusted for physical and psychological abuse from her--more than anything else in the world, that I'd beg her for it--sent fresh waves of humiliation coursing through my body. Imobilized, I could only stare at her boots, my tongue almost hanging out, my cock about to explode. I had fully entered the state I call "slave mind." My fear was now fuel for my joy.

Minutes passed --and I couldn't take my eyes off of her boots as she kept rocking them back and forth before my eyes, knowingly taunting me.

"Stand!" she ordered, and her voice, like a slap in the face, jolted me out of the coma-like trance of "slave mind."

Only a foot from her, the bulge in my pants seemed obscenely obvious.

"Look at that hog in your pants...You never were that hard when you tried to fuck me," she said as her hand reached with the speed and delicacy of a mother reaching for her child's hair and smoothing it out. And in a slim moment, her thumb's and forefinger's nail bit into and firmly squeezed my cock's head, then slid down its length to my balls, cupped them as her fingernails flicked through my pants and over the steel cockring I wore. "...sit, now! Your pathetic little hog is now mine; I own it and you. You will not touch this or do anything with this without my permission. Do you understand, slave?"

"Yes, Mistress."

My eyes went straight to her altar--open and flowing. My breathing now even heavier, and as subcumed to an even deeper state of "slave mind," I received a weak signal of drowning in submissiveness from a part of me that seemed adrift and distance --and was quite disappearing. The feeling of being owned and used opened the vast vista and the phathomless ocean of total submission to me. And I was hooked, ready to plunge headlong into it's rewards and punishments, its pleasure and pain. A sense of "home" so powerful in its echoing memories of eons ago, a feeling of being completely taken care of--settled over me like a warm, wet blanket.

On her crossed legs she leaned her elbow as she bent forward, "Here," she ordered. And I leaned forward, my eyes catching a glimpse of hers; they penetrated me and I lowered my own.

"I am so turned on to see you so quickly and completely become my slave before my eyes, with so little effort. Now I really understand how much and how thoroughly you lust, desire and need by birthright to be owned. You are neither gay nor straight, not homesexual, not bi-sexual; that is all byproduct of you being born completely submissive. Nature knit you into a submissive slave in your mother's womb, and you have spent your useless life trying to return. So if you're unsure of anything--know now you're my complete slave; I am your owner, your Mistress, your Goddess, your All, and the pussy you have just stared at is the altar under which you will worhip and be sacrificed. You will not look me in the eyes again, or I will punish you severely. I will punish you severely anyway because you must be trained, or maybe just because we both want that--or because you lust to be whipped and humiliated beyond belief. And in the last minutes --since putting on the boots and seeing you transform before me into a drooling, pathetic creature -- my taste for power and lust to dominate you has increased beyond measure.

“When you gawked at my pussy do you like what you saw?"

“Yes, Mistress,” I blurted out as I dropped to my knees from off the milk case. Time seemed suspended; I had only one sense--whatever sense My Mistress revealded herself to me. Her somewhat deeper voice could growl and purr almost simultaneously, and today it purred sexily and growled menacingly, and her every word seduced me further into a deeper state of submissiveness. She could’ve dominated me right there in front of the whole flea market, if she cared to, stripping me naked and leading me about on a leash.

“Sit back up--there's plenty of time for that later. There’s an old saying, ‘Watch out for what you wish for, you just might get it.’ I think it applies here. You’ve been after me for months to indulge your fantasy of being my slave; I told you I would consider it, and after searching the Internet and viewing sites—many you sent me to—I realized you’re useless to me in any other sexual way. The sites have given me 100’s of ideas and many of them have turned me on. You know I told you many times that I wasn't a sadist, but using you even a little like this today is making me very wet. I see I'm going to have to explore my limits as well.

"John, if you decide to submit to me, I'll own you. So do you submit to me as my slave?"

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good….I asked that only as a courtesy because of our old friendship. I have concluded you indeed need punished and I mean truly punished, no safe word shit; I mean completely under my control, my degree of pain and humiliation, not some arbitrary degree based on your sense of pain. I know what to include in a session, so do not make any suggestions—at all! And all of this is because of your feeling great shame over your extremely promiscuous homosexual acts and for being such an asshole with Chris—sucking cock all day, then coming home and making love to her with a mouth that had, only hours or even minutes before, been full of men’s cocks, assholes and cum . Now, every time you suck a cock you feel a need to get whipped; every time you come back from the theatre or baths you experience a depression--you’ve told me. Isn’t that right, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“So, obviously, you’re a sick puppy, not only a born submissive but a complete masochist, too—and that’s why I feel no safe word is needed. And obviously, you’ve sensed sadism in me—and now I do acknowledge it. I am sexually excited by the thought of inflicting pain and humiliation on you. A pool of my pussy juice covers this seat from watching you grow submissive and hepless over the last 10 minutes or so. The more submissive I perceived you to be, the more my sadistic nature was aroused. I think you should lick all this juice up. You'd love that --wouldn't you, my little slut?"

“Yes, Mistress.”

She stood and pointed at the mosture on the plastic seat: "Lick it clean, slave."

I knelt before the seat, and as my face came closer the aroma of her pussy cream was intoxicating. My tongue tasted the plastic but her cream's taste shot through me as if it were a drug. In moments, I cleaned it.

"Now, sit back down," she ordered.

I complied and she sat back down.

"Anyway, during those first sessions of ours, I was torn by my own reaction to inflicting pain on you. Not exactly guilt over feeling turned on by doing it, but a sense of self-embarrassment about my own sadism. But since then, I have lost any sense of guilt or self-embarrassment; I have masturbated quite successfully and numerously to a variety of fantasies--having a whip in my hand and beating you and seeing you experience pain and humiliation caused by me, and many other fantasies. You’ve awakened my sadism and I now lust for your pain and humiliation, and woe to you, for I intend to deal with you severely and intensely as a slave. Do you still agree to serve me as my slave? Do you agree with all I’ve said?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

"I love asking questions I alredy know the answer to!" she with a giggle.

Once again spreading her legs apart, “You may look at the altar. That’s your personal altar, slave; and I’m your Goddess, and if you’re behaved during a session you may get to worship there physically, like licking it clean after I piss—maybe…yeah, maybe.

“Today, you begin your training; what I call Panty Waste Training. So do well, in other words--I expect complete obedience--or I’ll never have a session with you. Also, if you’re real lucky, I may turn you into my complete toilet slave; just think of how much I’ll save on toilet paper, he, he, he,” she said as she closed her thighs and reached for a bag next to her chair. “Take this,” she said as she handed me the bag. “I know your little dick is still as hard as a rock—isn’t it, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Well, stand—oh, yes, so it is; wearing your cock ring, slave—with no underwear.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“After you dropped me off today, were you planning a trip to the theatre to suck cock?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Well, if you behave—you won’t make it today—he, he! Now, walk to the men’s room. Take out the panties in the bag and wrap them about your nose and mouth—go in a stall, of course; masturbate and cum in your hand. Then, wipe the cum on the panties and stuff the panties in your mouth and return here. Don’t speak—just obey me, slave,” her voice growling, no hesitation like the other times she tried to be dominate, but now controlling and ominous—eliciting instantly from me an honest two-fold response: first, real fear of her reappeared and what she could do to me and second--complete submission, knowing I wanted her to do as she said: the masochist’s paradox.

Instantly, I obeyed, leaping, diving into what was to come.

Part Three: Humiliation Continues

In the closed stall I opened the brown bag; inside was a zip-plastic bag with her panties. I opened the zip; placed my nose and mouth inside the bag and took several deep breathes. My cock was in my hand as I yanked it furiously and inhaled the bag’s pungent but obvious aroma. Within 30 seconds I orgasmed into my hand, wiped the cum on the panties and stuffed them in my mouth. I didn’t think, I couldn’t—I just acted, I just obeyed.

I was like a rollercoaster car going over the other side of the steep climb, and all I could do was continue the ride to an eventual, inevitable end. And like the law of gravity --the law of my own masochism and my need to submit were too strong to break or resist as I willingly flew headlong into the web of her domination.

Afraid and still turned on, I walked back to our booth feeling like a condemned man—but loving it! Aware that what was to come was no fantasy but the real thing—not my silly and abortive attempts at self-inflicted masochism while beating off.

Upon my return she was talking with a customer. So I sat, my mouth full, and amazingly --my cock still hard. The bitter mixture building in my mouth I ignored.

When she finished, she lit a cigarette and sat with her legs open wide. I knew the panties in my mouth had been next to the pussy I stared intently at—and she was quietly laughing at me: “Do you like the taste of panty juice, slave?—just nod your head.”

I nodded yes and she laughed. And inside--a part of me realized I would do anything, anything she said, anything—and I wanted it all to be depraved. And I wanted to hear her evil laugh over and over.

“Let me tell you about the panties in your mouth. They are cheap cotton panties, a three pack, I bought just for you. Two weeks ago, I wore those the day I moved. Remember how hot a day it was, and I drank a lot of cold liquids and pissed all day long. I never wiped myself; I just let those panties soak up my droplets. Now, you see what I do for my slave, so return the favor: you’ll pay for the boots and the panties--$20 a week until paid. Understand?”

“I nodded yes."

“Good, now let’s see—Oh, yeah, I must have pissed at least a dozen times that day; but best the part is, in the two weeks that followed, I used them to wipe myself after pissing almost every time and I spit into the bag after each wipe, too. So the liquid dripping down your throat each time you swallow is the golden nectar of your Goddess. He, he! So swallow for me, slave,” she said and continued to laugh as I eagerly swallowed.

The Golden Nectar of my Goddess, a vile mixture of her piss, spit and other pussy drippings seemed to rush through me and instantly drug me, making me dizzy, giving my cock more rigidity and deepening my slave mind. It was --the bitter medicine my mother forced me to swallow as a child because it was good for me; --the first taste of cum swallowed as a teenager; --the first taste of alcohol; --the taste of holy communion, --the first taste of a person’s tongue, --or the first taste of asshole—all rolled into one!

All I could think: she was dominating me in front of the flea market but no one else knew; only she and I, and I had no reason not to expect more extreme depravity. Sitting there tasting her pissed-soaked panties was the beginning of a fantasy I had shared with her dozens of times, so truly every drop I swallowed was Golden Nectar to a slave like me.

“This is so much fun, he, he! Swallow again! [More laughter] Stand up—oh, yeah, your little dickie is still as hard as ever—that’s good, slave.

“Some facts for you: you once told me Mary Lou looked like your mother right before she died; kneeling naked and submissive in front of Mary Lou with that thought in mind may be a real turn-on for you. How can we ignore the mother-factor in your illness--you also said once you’d like to suck Mary Lou’s great ass, so walk over to Mary Lou’s. When she’s not with a customer, walk up to her, wave hi and point to your mouth. She knows everything about you, everything. She has a message for you and a directive that you’ll follow as if it came from me. Understand, slave?”

I nodded yes. God, we weren’t alone in this, I thought. I could feel my humiliation covering me like an invisible blanket and like a man tied to rail track with a runaway locomotive bearing down --I was helpless. The head between my legs, bulging and throbbing, overruled any flickering doubts my other head had.

Mary Lou began laughing when I pointed to my stuffed mouth; she turned and continued to laugh her great ass off for at least a full minute. She turned back finally, and walked up to me and grabbed my cock through my pants, “Yes, you are small just as Debbie said,” she released my cock and leaned next to me and whispered in my ear: “I know you’re a faggot and a masochistic slave with a mouthful of panties soaked in piss. To me you were always an arrogant s-o-b and what you’re experiencing --you begged Debbie to do for months, so I immediately and eagerly agreed to assist her in dominating you. I never liked you at all, so I will be extremely cruel to you, slave, just like your mother probably was; just think of me as the Mommy from hell-- and I will enjoy every second of what Debbie and I have planned for you next weekend,” she leaned away and looked straight at me. “So, swallow some piss for me, slave.”