I, Belladonna, stride confidently into the Dungeon, The Torture Palace, elegant, beautifully manicured hands swinging gently at my sides. I shrug my long dark hair over my shoulder to make it tumble and ripple down my spine. I nod to the pit, smile a greeting to the subs cuffed and chained to the walls there. My eyes narrow to small slits as I notice one male sub, glaring at me. I raise an eyebrow into a fine, high arch, then realize the source of his confusion; my clothes. I look down to admire my turquoise blouse, the lush, softly draping folds of a fine quality fabric, the finger-grazing floaty sleeves. A smile twitching at the corners of my lips as I appreciate my own matching ankle length raw silk skirt.
"Not what you expect of a Dominant, perhaps?"
I smile broadly at you, a long red tipped finger crooked, beckoning to you to come to me. I
lean in, my breath hot on your ear, my nostrils flaring in appreciation as I smell the warmth and the sharp citrus notes of lemon shampoo. I press my nose to your lovely dark locks and drink your scent in hungrily. My voice low, menacing "I don't need a uniform to show the world I am Dominant. I just AM." I slowly appraise your body, starting with your feet, my eyes scanning over the hard, firm muscles in your calves and thighs, a flicker of excitement deep down in my belly, as I realize you bare a striking resemblance to owen.
Sitting back in my chair, icy cold fingers strumming silently on the arm rests. I watch you, my body still, relaxed, my face blank, unreadable. Raising slowly to a stand, with careful tread of bare feet, toes curling to grip the floor as I silently move around your body; inspecting it. An icy cold palm reaches out to smooth your hair down, a slight smile of satisfaction, pleased with your glossy waist length dark locks. So similar to owen's. "You will do, owen." A small hand darts out grabs you by the throat, using my speed and full body weight. Your shock working against you, pushing you down to the bed and pinning you there by the throat. The tip of my nose pressing against yours, my fingertips sinking into the soft, yielding flesh of your throat, dark blue eyes burning anger:
"Always expect the unexpected with me." I pull my arm back to shoulder height, slapping your cheek, leaning into the slap with my full weight and force behind it. Cringing at the sickeningly sweet sound of impact."Do you know what I can do to you? Is this what you expected?"
I encircle your tender, vulnerable throat with both hands, slowly squeezing the breath from your body. My eyes fascinated, watching yours bulge, pretty red stress lines appearing. "I can do whatever I want to you and you will beg me to do it." I release the pressure on your throat, watching you coughing and gasping for air, amusement dancing across my eyes. "You are mine, today, now, you are mine to do what I want with!" The sharp stings of slaps rain down on your face. Each one carefully positioned to land on top of the last. Your cheeks glowing bright red as raised crimson hand shaped welts appear. "Do you even know who you are? What you are?" I grab your long hair, bundle it up and tie it into a tight knot. Holding the base of the ponytail close to your head, I yank you to your feet.
"You want this don't you?"
A small bare foot swings back, kicks you behind your knees so you drop heavily to the floor with a stomach churning thud. The remains of your ponytail still grasped in my hand. "Do you want me to be nice to you owen?" I open my small, icy cold palm, inspecting the thick mess of black hair there, I press my foot on the back of your skull. Twisting the ball of my foot in half-circles like putting out a cigarette so your face crushes painfully into the floor. "I am going to be nice." I coo in a gentle voice. I crouch down, grabbing the ponytail and raise your eyes to mine. Kissing you gently on the tip of the nose, then forcing your lips apart with my fist and shoving the ripped out hair into your mouth. Holding your jaws shut.
"You are mine! I can see it in your eyes, you want me, you want this, you don't want me to stop do you? Get up onto your hands and knees." I hiss, my voice deep, husky. "Belladonna (Atropa Belladonna) is a totally fascinating plant, the legend that witches flew on broomsticks is because they spread belladonna on their broomsticks and used it as a vaginal pessary. Belladonna will make you fly, she will teach you or she will kill you!" I swing my arm back into an arch and slap your buttock hard. Slapping each tight cheek in turn, every time in exactly the same place, where your arse cheeks join the tops of your thighs. Pulling you back up into position by the hair each time your body sags or the adrenaline screams for you to move. Shaking my fingers as they sting from the intensive slaps.
"Kneel! Then don't fucking move."
I reach into my bag, with delicate fingertip touch, carefully unwrap the thick, fleshy, white root, inspecting the fresh, dark green leaves, crushing them and wincing as they exhale an offensive stench. Carefully lining up three smooth shiny black berries the size of wild cherries. Secreting a fourth in my small fist, careful not to squash it. I lower myself to my knees, lean in, tenderly smoothing your hair back into place, I smile warmly at you. A small hand clamps over your mouth, leaning you back into me, supporting your weight on my chest. Placing the Belladonna berry carefully on the floor, where you can see it. Using those two fingers to squeeze your nose tight shut. Cradling you in my arms. Ensuring the hand over your mouth is sealed tight. I watch you gasp for breath, leaning in to whisper;
