Description: A career woman is seduced by the BDSM lifestyle
Category: BDSM
Tags: bondage, spanking, BDSM, submission, lesbian, mistress, whipping, d/s, pain, female dominant
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are over 18 when involved in sexual situations.
WARNING: This is a BDSM story that contains scenes depicting pain.
This is the Prologue and Chapter One of the story. If there's reader interest I'll continue the tale.
*
Prologue
It's black.
I'm running for a precipice I can't see.
I know I'm almost there. I want desperately to once again feel the sensation of falling - - tumbling head over heels into an abyss of my own making - - an abyss of unbridled lust and depravity.
Mistress unfurls another lash from her magical whip. I can hear the rush of air as the tendrils of the whip accelerate towards the sound barrier, the end of each tendril to meet the soft unmarked flesh of the back of my thighs. I can feel I'm closer. The white hot sparks of pain from my thighs advance me ever so closer to that edge. The sparks dissipate into glowing embers that pulse with heat. I put my complete faith in Mistress to lead me to the edge of that precipice. I let it happen with no expectation of what is to come. I wait for minutes, accepting the pain as a necessary evil in my advance to the edge and not as an end unto itself.
Mistress takes her delicate hand and slowly caresses my skin, appreciating the artistry of her whip on a canvas of white welted skin. I can sense that her mind is now focused on the selection of her next instrument of pain. I can hear her pacing about the room and my flesh now starts to tremble with anticipation.
Mistress flexes a rattan rod close to my ear. She wants me to hear the whoosh of the rod as it travels back and forth like a metronome counting the beats to my release. There is a slight pause and then I feel the sting of the cane, the whipping action from the tip of the rattan rod ever so precisely inflicting pain on my inner thigh, the most sensitive of my areas. I flinch on the bench and use every ounce of my energy to suppress the scream that comes bubbling up from my lungs. Mistress knows that the sting of her stroke will linger for minutes.
Another pause. My mind is now cluttered with crosstalk between my pain receptors and my pleasure center. Mistress knows that I am ready. I hear the buzz of the vibrator and the overwhelming desire from my overheated cunt masks all of my other sensations.
She again strokes the back of my thighs as if calling for an encore to her performance art while holding the vibrator, whose incessant buzz holds the key to my release. My thighs are quivering and I feel the sensation of the moisture leaking from my cunt onto my thighs and the bench below. Mistress vigorously rubs the head of the vibrator against my clit. I hear permission being given. I'm falling - - falling into the lightless expanse where my mind and body leave this world for another.
Chapter One
My name? My name is of no consequence. I answer to whatever my Mistress chooses to call me. I answer to them all - - my slut, my whore, my pet - - they are my names.
In a former life I was Justine. I was an accountant. I worked for a "Big Four" firm and I travelled the world on behalf of a multinational client as an audit partner. I was married, with two grown children, enjoying the prime of my adult life at the pinnacle of the accounting profession. I lived in a large house in suburban New Jersey and spent the weekends on the New Jersey shore. I gave it all up for this. And I would gladly do it again.
Why?
Because Justine was not my true self. I spent my life painting a canvas by the numbers. The husband, the children, the career. It was all marking time until I found her. My Mistress. My world.
It started a year ago. I was in our Paris office, handling the review of an audit of one of the client's French subsidiaries. It was the end of a two week engagement there and our audit team had a hiatus for two days before we were scheduled to be back stateside. I'd been through this drill a hundred times. The young pups would go out and find adventure, free from the shackles of their lives back home. They would undoubtedly explore the hot bars and night clubs their Parisian brethren would share. My typical practice was to go back to my hotel room, have room service deliver dinner, take a long hot bath, and then go to bed. At 43, I was too old to run with the big dogs.
This particular hot August night I felt different. As I was nursing my post-work drink with my team at the hotel bar I started to feel the tug of my oncoming middle age crisis. Had I really lived the life I wanted to? Was it too late to find out? I was in Paris, the city of eternal and never ending pleasures. Art, food, wine, and sex; it was all there to be found and savored. As happy hour wound down the usual ask was made of me to accompany the pups on a night on the town. To their great surprise I accepted. We agreed to meet in a half an hour in the lobby and begin our night time tour of the city.
I went up to my room and immediately questioned my decision. I was the partner on the engagement. I was to set the example for my team. I shouldn't be rabble rousing with them. Instead, I should be responsible and stay in my room. But the tug on my curiosity prevailed and I went through my wardrobe to see if I could at least dress the part of a thrill seeker. On longer trips I did pack my "slut" outfit in the unlikely event that an opportunity would present itself. I'm no saint. I had stepped out on my husband almost ten years ago with a junior partner from another office. It was a one night thing but its memory sustained me when I wondered what it would be like to be with someone else. Always being prepared, I had a pair of 4 inch stiletto heels, a skirt that was about 4 inches shorter than the one I wear to the office, and a sheer silk blouse. I finished this ensemble with a lacy black balconet bra, matching black panties and suspenders and lace top sheer thigh high stockings.
I went down to the lobby to meet up with my team. Needless to say the shock of my agreement to accompany them was reinforced by my outfit. Sasha, one of the junior members of my team, was the first to speak up. She asked "My God Justine, who let out your inner slut?"
"What DO you mean?" I asked back, knowing the response it would elicit. After the laughter died down I said "It's good to keep my team on its toes."
Barron, one of the more senior members of the team, voiced the opinion of the two guys in the group, "Well, at the risk of sexually harassing you, you look amazing."
"Thanks. I don't want to feel more out of place than I already do. I hope I've dressed the part."
Barron looked me up and down, probably a little too long. "Oh, you have. Trust me."
The four of us were off to a club that Sasha heard about. It was a BDSM themed club that everyone wanted to not necessarily participate in but to see. We headed off on the Metro to the Place de Clichy stop and walked about two blocks to an unmarked store front. It was already becoming a challenge having traveled this far in my heels. Apparently every woman in Paris is trained to walk in high heels since the age of two, but that unfortunately didn't include me. The entrance to the club was a small anteroom with some leather handcuffs hanging from hooks on the wall. The host tallied up the charge for our group. Now my welcome presence made more sense. It was cheaper for the guys to get into the club when they were accompanied by women.
We were directed down a long stairway to the club itself. The club appeared to be housed in an old wine cellar. The walls were built out of brick in a large semicircle, with the apex of the semicircle about 16 feet off the floor. The ceiling tapered down on each side until it was flush with the floor. There were rooms off of the main corridor that now housed public areas and also private areas behind closed doors.
The men wandered off, presumably to ogle the women. There were plenty that were attired in black leather and a number that appeared to be trolling for eligible young men to either dominate or be dominated by. I watched with amusement as Sasha sidled up to a woman at a bar with long black hair and struck up a conversation. I didn't know that Sasha was interested in women but of course a good reason why is that I never asked. I was leaning against a tall table with a drink in my hand, surveying the landscape and thinking about when I would gracefully bow out for the comfort and safety of my hotel room. Sasha and the woman turned around to move to a table with drinks in hand. It was at that time I got a good look at the woman. I've never really been interested in woman in a sexual way, but this woman immediately struck a chord deep within me. She was tall, and even taller with her 5 inch heels. She had a short black leather skirt and a form fitting top that accentuated her breasts. The top was cut low in the middle so I was able to see her ample cleavage, even from across the room. Her long black hair was cut in layers across her back. She was holding Sasha's hand as they located a table in the corner. As they were walking the woman purposefully looked in my direction and for a moment we were looking at one another. I immediately redirected my eyes elsewhere, but there was an unmistakable visual connection made and filed away by that woman. It sent chills down my spine.
Sasha and the woman were having quite an animated conversation, and there was no trace of our two male companions. As I reached the bottom of my glass I placed the glass on the table and made my way to Sasha to bid good night. I leaned over to say good night when the woman spoke. "Join us Justine."
Her invitation, spoken with a French accent, felt like a command and not a request. I looked at her and into her dark green eyes and her almost catlike demeanor. Sasha was the lure and I was the real prey.
"Sasha was telling me all about you. I saw you across the room and knew I had to meet you," she said with authority. "You're married with two grown children, right?"
I fumbled like a schoolgirl. This woman and her piercing green eyes had accomplished what a boardroom full of men could not. She made me lose my composure. I didn't even remember what she said to me. "Uh, umm, I'm pleased to meet you."
Sasha giggled. She had never seen me flummoxed before.
"My name is Laurine, and I'm pleased to meet you as well." A smile curled on her face. She held out her hand, presumably to shake my hand. I don't know what possessed me, but I kissed it instead. Her smile got bigger.
"Sasha, why don't you be a dear and me another drink and the same for Justine." Sasha got up and sauntered over to the bar.
