Warning: contains depiction of mutually consenting adult BDSM
Stephen was middle-aged, heavily built though in no way athletic, and his unkempt hair was starting to thin. He had always been a good businessman, and had excelled in his field. His competent steadiness had brought rewards, and he could now live reasonably comfortably.
He awoke, alone, as he had done for a thousand mornings since his wife had left him for someone 'more dynamic'. He didn't miss her. A dynamic lover himself, he was not, although this did not stop him fantasising for most of his waking hours. But his make-believe private thoughts did not involve making love to women, whether or not they exuded any degree of sexual allure. This was not due to any particular alignment of his sexuality, but resulted from his compulsion to be used, humiliated, punished, and generally dominated by a confident well-practised lady.
However, he knew he was unlikely to meet anyone in his everyday life who would go near to indulging him with his particular cravings. He didn't possess the necessary social skills to develop any such relationship anyway. So he had, the previous day, finally succumbed to seeking 'professional help'. In the cold light of morning, he reviewed the events of that day.
"My word," she had said, "we haven't been disciplined recently, have we, Steffi?" She was alluding to his blemish-free backside, adding "...not by me, anyway."
The residual throb now reminded him of the breathtaking effect of his inaugural bare-bottom caning. He recalled how it seemed to disable his balance control system. His knees had given way. Everything had given way. Only the restraining leather straps had prevented him collapsing in an ungainly heap on her floor.
He had wanted instinctively to clutch his backside cheeks, but the wrist cuffs prohibited any such attempt at pain limitation. Momentarily he had wanted out. To quit. To abandon the session. Apologise for wasting Mistress's time. But by making coherent speech impossible, the tight belt around his mouth had frustrated that idea too. "No clenching, Steffikins - that's naughty," she had said. He had read somewhere that clenching buttocks constituted resistance to Mistress's will, and extra punishment might well be awarded. He therefore tried not to clench, but found it too difficult. Total submission was the only option that remained.
He had certainly found her attractive, but by no means a stereotypical dominatrix. Her features were soft. Her voice cheerful. Her demeanour was as one nannying a young child - authoritative yet playful. "Now please don't be a naughty sausage Steffipops... otherwise we might not get to play with our little... toys..."
No outlandish costume either. A sleeveless fitted polyester print shirt-dress, buttoned to the neck, strappy open-toe medium-heel sandals. Was all. A man could take her home to meet his mother.
But in contrast to his own cruelly demeaning outfit with straggly chest hairs protruding from an ill-fitting brassiere, itself hardly designed for supporting flabby man-boobs, *Her* appearance was perfection in femininity. Every stitch, hem, gather, every close-fitting square inch of material harmoniously caressed her petite form as she moved. And whatever perfume it was she was wearing simply further fuelled his desire.
Paying per session to submit to the disciplinary regime of a Mistress as a prelude to sexual fulfilment would relieve him of any obligation to converse with, court, please, satisfy, or be faithful to that person. Cash would take care of it. He had not accounted for complete infatuation with the consultant.
