The Mistress and Her Justice

Copyright 2008 - All rights reserved.

This material maybe not be reprinted or posted on any other internet site

without the expressed written consent of the author.

*

Judge Reynolds looked down from his seat on the high rostrum and sighed almost inaudibly as the defense lawyer droned on about how his drug dealing client's rights were violated and therefore should be set free. The arguments were old, well worn and thoroughly discredited but he went on nonetheless, fulfilling his "duty" to his client to defend her "zealously." John Maynard Reynolds, or more formally, "Mr. Justice Reynolds" since his elevation to the Court of Appeals the previous year, was still called "Judge Reynolds" by most who knew him, the title a holdover from his sixteen years as a trial judge. He was better known as "Maximum John" to the criminal defense bar, a nickname acquired over his years on the trial bench by almost always awarding the maximum sentence allowed by law to the miscreant unlucky enough to stand before him. A prosecuting attorney for twelve years before his appointment to a judgeship, he had little patience for cute defense arguments about the legalities of a search or an arrest. If he did the crime, he'll do the time . . . all of it; every last day he can award.

Judge Reynolds suppressed a yawn, glanced down at his watch and drifted off a bit as he often did when the oral arguments were tedious. Three forty - Jesus this numb nut is going to use every minute of his allotted time on this useless argument, he thought to himself. Well, as soon as it's four o'clock, this guy gets the hook and we adjourn for the weekend. I'll hit the driving range for an hour, grab some dinner and then climb on the computer - today is the day I do it.

Mercifully, four o'clock finally arrived and just as he had promised himself, he cut the defense lawyer off in mid-sentence and adjourned. John shook hands with the other four Justices on the court, exchanged a few pleasantries and was off quickly to his chamber to change and head out. In ten minutes he was in his silver Mercedes heading for the driving range at his club, thinking about the evening to come. He had laid awake most of the previous night thinking about it and decided that he was going to finally take the plunge - he was going to take the first step in contacting that incredibly exciting lady.

The driving range was a waste of time. He was so excited and anxious about his decision that he shanked half of his shots and sliced the other half. After one bucket he'd had enough and drove home. In less than ten minutes he was there. Fortunately traffic was light this far out of the city because he daydreamed the whole way, rehearsing over and over in his mind what he would say in his first note. He tossed his keys into the dish on the foyer table, slid a frozen dinner in the microwave and headed for his plush, book lined office. He turned on his computer and monitor and sat back in his thick, comfortable, black leather chair. He checked his e-mail and read the few messages waiting there from his colleagues. He heard the beeper from his microwave signaling dinner was ready (such as it was), rose and returned to the kitchen.

He wolfed down the frozen lasagna in record time, almost without noticing it as he watched the news and daydreamed more about this evening. What if she doesn't answer me? What if she finds out who I am? What if somebody else finds out about my little "hobby." This is crazy - I'll be crucified if anybody finds out. The papers would have a field day. But, I can't take it any more. The urge is so strong, it's like a tidal wave sweeping everything else away. I have to do it - whatever the danger . . . the hell with the danger.

Shortly after eight o'clock he went into his bedroom, stripped off his clothes and put on his silk robe and soft leather slippers. He went back to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of chilled Chardonnay and padded back to his office with it, returning to his leather chair. He set the glass down on the coaster beside his monitor and logged into one of his "blue" Internet accounts - one of the accounts he acquired with an alias and which he used to surf the net for his favorite topic, Bondage and Domination. He particularly liked Female Domination and, although he liked pictures, he was turned on most by good, hot, short stories.

For five years, he had been spending more and more of his evenings just like this. Oh, he dated occasionally but the dates became less and less frequent as he spent more and more time in front of the computer. At the age of fifty two, slightly under five foot seven, with a thick paunch that hung over his belt, thin, flabby arms, sunken chest, rounded shoulders and pronounced double chin, he knew he wasn't attractive to women, until, that is, they learned about his money, and then most became very interested. It hardly seemed worth the trouble though. Straight sex just didn't compare to his fantasy world of haughty, cruel dominas, leather, ropes and domination.

Judge Reynolds had even been married once, but he just got bored with her. She blew through four hundred thousand of his eight million inherited trust fund in about six months on her fancy clothes, jewelry and cars before he'd had enough and threw her out. She didn't want to play any kind of sexual games and was a lousy lay to boot. She looked great but once you got inside the wrapping, there was nothing there. He slapped her a few times before physically tossing her out but she deserved it. Fortunately, none of the slaps made a mark on her. Her abuse charge was ignored by police who very much wanted to keep "Maximum John" on the job and happy with them. The pre-nup held up and she got nothing, nadda, not a cent.

The Judge slid back in his chair, his silk robe cool on his back and sipped his wine. With a few key strokes he transported himself to her site, "The Kat's Kradle," home of Mistress Katrina, the most exciting woman he had ever seen. He had found her site six months ago almost by accident, following a series of links in his usual search for femdom erotica. Her home page caught his attention immediately. It was a large picture of herself in full, menacing, black leather regalia. She had a large mane of tightly curled red hair and emerald green eyes that shone with a glow all their own..

They were cold eyes, cruel and penetrating. To the right of her picture was a column of text in which she described herself as a "lifestyle dominatrix" who was into sensual, sexually oriented bondage and domination. Mistress Katrina was not a pro. She neither requested nor accepted money, which allowed her to choose her partners purely for her own pleasure and also allowed her to openly state the sexual nature of the relationship without fear of running afoul of any prostitution laws. At five foot ten in her stockinged feet and a taut one hundred and forty pounds, she appeared powerful enough to hold her own with any man. John felt a little light headed from the wine and the effect of her powerful cyber presence.

He wasn't quite sure how he got started with BDSM and femdom stuff, but it touched a powerful chord within him. He had spent his entire adult life projecting an image of power, confidence and control over all around him. In court, he was the face of the establishment, the face of stern judicial retribution to all who strayed from the straight and narrow. In private, he yearned to completely let go, to release control of everything to an all powerful other person. Both this burning need to submit and his suppressed sexual urges somehow merged to form a mind highly receptive to female domination, at least the fantasy about female domination. He didn't know about the reality of it having never been actually dominated.

For many years he had fought off the urge to give reality to his fantasies by seeking out a professional dom and having a session. The thought of being caught, ridiculed and ruined suppressed the urge. Instead, he took regular trips to San Francisco to load up on femdom porn for safe, private sessions with himself. This continued until the Internet made such trips unnecessary. It was now all available free, from the privacy, safety and security of his own home.

He thought he had resolved this inner tension between his urge to live out the fantasy and his fear of being caught until he came across Mistress Katrina's website. In addition to her powerful, compelling looks, she was also a superb writer of femdom stories. She had more than fifty stories listed on the site and he had read every one of them over the last six months, some of them several times over.

Each one was a gem. Although they covered a wide spectrum of bondage and domination relationships and activities, each had at its core a culminating sexual scene between Mistress Katrina and her sub in which the Mistress bound and exposed her sub and then took her sexual pleasure with him after some very creative sexual teasing and torture. As she often said in her stories and in her commentary, her favorite thing was to bind a man into a helpless, sexually exposed position, force him to do extended pussy worship, tightly tie and tug on his genitals and then fuck him with one of her many strap-ons.

As it happened, those activities that Mistress Katrina so loved and did with such creative variety in her stories were at the very core of John's fantasies. In his masturbatory fantasies he always imagined himself helplessly tied down, perhaps tied over a bench or chair, forced to lick pussy by a powerful, demanding bitch, had his dick and balls tightly bound with cord and then was fucked in the ass by the domme (or in some variations, a female friend) with a strap-on.

He had never been ass-fucked before but for some reason, just the thought of it set him aroused him like nothing else. He had tried it with his own finger and a small dildo but somehow, since he was doing it himself instead of it being forcibly done to him by somebody else, it just wasn't the same.

Besides craving nearly identical or complimentary sexual activity, one more thing added enormous pressure to the urge to actually contact her and set up a meeting, Mistress Katrina lived nearby in Temecula, a suburb of San Diego where the judge lived and worked. The fact that she was local took the thought of meeting her out of the realm unreachable fantasy and made the possibility a real possibility.

Just the thought of a possible meeting with her set him afire with a sexual craving that quickened his pulse and breathing and caused a thin sheen of perspiration to cover his entire body. Moreover, Mistress Katrina had a link in her home page for sending her e-mail to comment on her stories or anything else for that matter. She promised to answer all "serious" messages. It was all there, laid out in front of him. He had only to act. He had resisted the urge for as long as he could. Tonight was the night.

John started to click onto the "contact me" link when he stopped and decided that he could not write anything half way coherent until he released his sexual tension. He moved the little hand icon to "stories" and selected his favorite, "Bear Market." It never failed to get him off powerfully as the story led him down the path to the culminating scene. It was even more exciting in that the "sub" in the story was an "admirer" of Mistress Katrina's writings and contacted her through e-mail with a message that touched her enough to contact him and eventually set up a meeting. It was his very fantasy.

The climactic scene in "Bear Market" took place in Katrina's private dungeon, a converted bomb shelter built during the harrowing fifties when small children everywhere had the horror of nuclear war driven deeply into their psyche each week by "duck and cover" drills in school, and adults built private bomb shelters to survive the coming nuclear holocaust.

This shelter was very different than the usual backyard underground cubicle in that it had been sponsored and built by three farm families, with room and facilities for twenty-five people. Built of eighteen inch steel reinforced concrete slabs installed thirty feet underground, it was outfitted with everything necessary to sustain life. Katrina was intrigued by the potential of such a place when the realtor showed it to her and she immediately bought the forty acre horse farm.

In a year she had completely refurbished the space for her intended use, converting a shabby, broken down, multi-roomed anachronism into a large, open, wood paneled dungeon with a great variety of devices and toys for her "hobby." Outfitted with sophisticated video and audio equipment and lighting, no expense was spared in building the ultimate in private playrooms. She even built a small guest cottage over the bunker entrance, concealing it below a secret floor panel in a walk-in bedroom closet.

John read the first few paragraphs of the now familiar story, speed reading and then skimming the middle to get to the finale. The final scene has the other protagonist, Harold, a short, portly, middle aged stockbroker, blindfolded and led by Mistress Katrina to a set of wooden stocks. Outwardly appearing like those used by the Puritans to display and publicly humiliate "sinners," these had some special features designed by Katrina for her special purposes. Positioning his feet widely apart and moving them into the open, semi-circular holes, she closed and secured the hinged foot stocks board with its matching semi-circles around his ankles, locking his legs into their widely spread position. Whispering salaciously in his ear to bend over at the waist, Katrina described how she positioned his head in the open stocks by his hair, unlocked his wrists from behind his waist belt, placed his hands in the open stocks and closed the hinged matching board, closing and locking the hasp.

Harold's widely spread legs and bent posture thrust his ass up into the air and opened it for whatever Katrina wanted to do with it. His cock and balls hung down, swaying slightly as he quivered with excitement and fear. Katrina slid over in front of the blindfolded Harold and stepped back to admire her work. Licking her lips slowly, she undid her leather mini-skirt and halter, tossing them behind her, stepped out of her four inch heels, hooked her thumbs into the sides of her black silk panty's waistband and slowly lowered it over her fleshy hips, letting go at mid-thigh and stepping out of it as it hit the ground. The sheer black nylon stockings and black garter belt framed her naturally orange-red, tightly curled pubic hair. Her pussy's outer lips were already engorged, puffy and deep vermillion in color; they were slick and shiny with her juices.

She stepped closer to Harold, lifted his head by his thick, bushy black hair and tilted her hips forward, pushing her aroused and aromatic pussy against his lips. "You know what to do Harold," she whispered. Judge Reynold's opened his robe and lightly stroked his engorged member as he read on. In his mind's eye he was in Harold's place with the pussy of that incredibly beautiful Amazon thrust into his face and he helpless to do anything but lick, suck and obey. He imagined himself locked into those stocks, widely spread, open, helpless, at her mercy, her fist gripping his hair and pressing his face against her dripping wet gash.

The Judge slowed his strokes. He didn't want to come yet. The best part was yet to come. He took another sip of wine, letting the cool, golden liquid slide down his throat. He took a tissue from the dispenser on his desk, carefully folded it twice and placed it beside his monitor. He read on as Katrina described how she ground her cunt into Harold's face, capturing his tongue between her fingers and pressing it hard against her swollen clit until she came in wave after wave of wet, orgasmic pleasure.

When the spasms diminished, she looked down at Harold, cheeks and lips shiny from her juices and ordered him to clean her out. He eagerly went to work, probing deeply into her juicy hole and drawing out her pussy juice, licking and slurping it up, cleaning up her outer lips with long swipes of his flattened tongue.

With a final shudder of pleasure, Katrina released Harold's hair, took his blindfold off and stepped back a half step. Harold blinked, at first blinded by the light after being in the dark for so long, then looked up at the tall red headed domme, taking in the full length of her sleek, well proportioned body topped by her long, tightly curled red hair.

He looked down slowly at her proud 38D breasts, flat abdomen, generous hips and especially long, muscular, black sheathed legs; her wet, blood engorged labia was clearly visible through her neatly trimmed pubic hair. Their eyes met and she smiled, knowing she was not through with him yet.

Katrina reached down to a small side table and picked up her harness - a custom made black leather belt with a long leather strap dangling from the center and two shorter, thinner straps dangling near the ends. She cinched the belt on snugly around her waist, adjusting it so the bottom edge rested on her flared hips. She reached down between her legs and brought the long, center strap up between them.

Harold noticed a small, flesh colored, curved dildo protruding from the inside of the belt. She put the tip of the dildo against her wet hole and slowly pushed it in, exhaling with an audible "ahhh" as it seated itself deeply in her slick hole, the curved end pressed tightly against her "g-spot" on the roof of her tunnel. She inserted the metal end of the center strap into its waiting receptacle and received a satisfactory audible "click." She took one of the thinner straps and pulled it over her upper thigh, cinching it tightly to the main belt and then took the other thin strap and did the same around her other thigh.

Katrina was not quite done with the harness. The business end was still to be attached. Sticking out from her crotch was only a small metal post, about the size of a bullet. She bent down to the same side table and picked up an attache case. Opening the lid, she turned it and showed it to Harold who gasped at what he saw. In the case was a dozen dildos of every shape and size, lined up by size, each in its appointed holder.

The smallest dildo was on the left and was about the size and shape of a finger. The largest, on the far right, was an eleven inch long, three inch diameter, black monster. She smiled at Harold as she slowly ran her finger along the latex members from left to right. As she passed the middle dildo, Harold's eyes grew wider and wider. Katrina laughed at the reaction and returned to the left side, selecting the third dildo, a six inch by one and half inch "normal" sized dick, designed to give her sub pleasure, not pain.

She took the selected dildo and slid it over the metal post until she felt a click as it locked into place. The metal post locked into the dildo was also linked to the inner dildo pressed against her g-spot. Pushing and pulling on the ersatz cock moved her inner dildo in and out, up and down, pressing and rubbing her g-spot. She put her hands on her hips and posed imperiously with her jutting cock, looked down at Harold and smiled. The real fun was about to begin.

Katrina stepped up to Harold, pressed her hard, latex member against his cheek and rubbed it against his lips, smiling and laughing as she went. As Harold focused on the flesh colored member, Katrina leaned over the top of the stocks and released a catch on both sides of the stocks where it met and was supported by metal posts. She pushed down on the top of the stocks and it dropped about six inches with a loud "click." Before Harold knew what was going on, she released the catches and pushed down again, dropping it another six inches.

"What the heck . . .," Harold blurted.