The Empire of Lia

This time of year the sweltering, humid nights come early to this Florida beachside community; Lia often comes by on these steamy nights. My house is a white Craftsman cottage bounded on two sides in sand grass and brushed by swaying palmettos and bald cypress trees. This is my

la douce France'

. In Balzac's words this patch of sandy earth is my Touraine.

Lia, my lover is tall, lissome as a willow and tonight four-inch stiletto heels are on her red toenailed feet. A derby hat cocked on her head of curly auburn hair, a belted black trench coat tightly cinched about her waist and long, shapely bare legs corded in the manner my fetish finds so appealing. My mind's eye sees it with such clarity. She pulls up out front, parks the yellow Nissan directly in front of the house under the glow of a conveniently situated street light. Stepping from the car, pressing her thumb on a black device attached to a key ring, hearing a subdued musical tone, she sashays to the front door.

Every Sunday afternoon accompanied by a black boom box sitting in a window sill, Lia, bare foot, wearing nothing but a yellow or cerulean blue string bikini, washes and waxes the Nissan, my gold Honda, in back of the house. Today is not Sunday and she is not here to make breakfast, awaken me or do any of these or other things she has done and will do again.

Mushroom shaped lights planted along the sidewalk light Lia's way and a yellow bug killing light fitted in a socket next to the screen door casts illumination over the porch.

Built by a ruddy faced Dutchman who kept his biceps toned building dikes in Holland, this house I rent is solid as a fortress, has withstood its share of hurricanes. It has a Florida room of course, big windows to get fresh air circulating, ceiling fans in all the rooms, heating grates in the floors.

A barber lived here long ago. In one corner of the house, the portion closet to the street is a room, its windows covered by Venetian blinds, a barber chair mounted in the floor, numerous mirrors, a leather sofa and several deep chairs for patrons. When it is quiet, you can hear the sound of buzzing clippers, the talk of good ole boys telling stories of fishing and hunting, talking about some colored boy who was lynched in the swamp.

I have fucked Lia in the barber chair; she has also given me head while I sat there and we have done it on the sofa so many times I have lost count.

In one sunny bedroom flooded with natural light during the day, I keep a studio; an easel sits at the ready with paints and brushes nearby. A Dell computer on the desk is for disseminating my blog. In a blue binder propped next to the monitor, printed on the finest paper are my more memorable sermons. Pictures of my wife and children are in the back of one drawer in the desk. I still find them too painful to look at. My dominant nature does not make me evil or bad but I cannot help but rebuke myself for the tragedy I inflicted on my family. In the wreckage of my life, I have rebuilt myself, chosen to cater to my desire and needs.

Out back is a white paint shedding building big enough for my car and the accoutrement of my dominant lifestyle. An ancient swing set abandoned for several generations rusts in the weeds. Behind the shed are thick brambles, wiry bushes and a thick stand of trees. It looks like the wicked forest feared by small, imaginative children.

Inside the house, early, well before dawn, the Venetian blinds closed and the drapes drawn, the interior of the house is pitch dark, smells of the close by sea and the nasty odor of a nearby paper mill.

Not to worry, she knows the way. She better or there will be hell to pay.

Lia boldly opens the beveled glass front door, enters the house. Comes in like gangbusters or John Wayne strutting into a saloon armed with a double barreled shotgun. Loud enough to wake the dead buried two blocks away.

I have no doubt she has followed my instructions to the letter, is dressed in the fashion I have dictated. For sure the stilettos cracking down on the hardwood floor bear witness to her being in the right foot gear. The aroma of perfume mingling with lavender bath salts per my instructions make its way toward me. The scent pleases me.

I live to hear the click of those heels on my polished tongue and groove hardwood floors, their delightful echo reverberating through the house. How often I have watched her naked, down on her hands and knees polishing these selfsame floors? A task she has never successfully completed. I always lift her up, carry her back to the bedroom and fuck her, make her get down on her reddened knees and suck my cock, make sure she gets the full treatment as my slut.

My pride in this wanton, multi-talented vixen is as boundless as her desire to be a purring, insatiable submissive.

She dances, plays the guitar, the harmonica and is one of the hottest stand-up comics in Florida. I have seen her waste a heckler with the scythe of her razor wit while the hearty guffaws of her tuned in, with it audiences routinely lift the roof off local comedy clubs.

Crossing the floor, headed to the master bedroom, she cannot see me stroking my cock, a look of insane lust pasted on my face or hear

Someone to Watch Over Me softly

playing on the Boze stereo.

Under the trench coat is a garment defying easy categorization. I bought it in an emporium housed in a pink house in Sarasota. Soon as we came home, she removed it from its tiny cellophane package, stood naked in the bathroom, figured out how to properly wear it. That same day I purchased for her come fuck me pumps with Lucite heels. Designed by a genius skilled in building lascivious shoes, they show Lia's feet in the best possible light. With these heels in place, we fucked. With one heel, I stroked Lia's clit, she screamed, pleaded with me to stop, fuck her with my cock not just with a miserable shoe.

I did.

For a dominant male, a submissive female, anticipation and greed are critical. In anticipation is ecstasy, the appeasement of hunger brings joy. Greed, a slavish devotion to one's desires is essential if one wishes to fully experience the pleasure found by doms and their subs. Anything less is an abomination.

It is fucking large enough to fill a drive-in theater screen, an epic production worthy of a C.B. DeMille, a D.W. Griffin. Our copulating is spurred on by heat, lust and excess far beyond the expression of simple lovemaking. We are a pair of ravenous animals coupling, finding and sustaining each other's thrills through afternoons, evenings, the too short nights.

Lia, queen of the jazzercise generation, her body kept buff and toned, performed ballet as a child. Now, she dances aerobics and moves about this house, any venue, with the grace of a panther.

From the pedicure of her toes to the top of the cocked derby hat, she smokes with the most incredibly delicious heat. What a wench she is.

Wrapped around her left ankle is a gold bracelet holding a gold heart. Etched in the soft metal are the words owned and operated by STEVEN now and forever. A clit ring is in place and only she and I share in this knowledge.

Lia, a banshee in my bed for too long without a man's cock, now makes up for lost time.

Her sole purpose is to rock my world, to satisfy my desires, to be at my beck and call day and night.

With no complaint, Lia willingly obliges my commands. Under no duress, she entered into this compact without hesitation. Her compliancy is wholehearted, without reservation. In this relationship we exhibit the highest form of mutual trust. Our fidelity, the bond we share is more stable then any marriage consecrated by God and endorsed by man.

Her scarcity of cock these past few years makes her desperate for my dick, willing to comply with my basest desire. My part of the bargain is to not humiliate her beyond her wishes, inflict injuries to her psyche beyond her endurance or torture her body past the point of no return.

She will soon be in the bedroom untying the trench coat, her eyes glazing over with lust. Before stepping close to the bed, I will turn on the night stand lamp.

She does and I do.

What is under the trench coat, you ask? One thing for sure: goose bumps, lots of goose bumps. I imagine her twat awash in wetness, clear nectar bubbling up from her depths, dripping down her thighs. She is no doubt playing with her pussy approaching the inner sanctum of my boudoir.

This is what she wears under the coat. A length of black cord approximately half in inch in diameter, line weaving about her hips, dipping in front of her shaved pubis, crisscrossing near her belly button. It tightens crossing her plain of belly, rises upward, bumps across her erect nipples, offers no covering whatsoever to her breasts, then falls down her smooth back and forms an x configuration. It girds her buttocks and now has completed its circumnavigation of her lithe body. Without any doubt, it is the perfect garb for my submissive one and makes her instantly ready for my access to this orifice, that orifice, a combination. I am able to caress her flesh at any point on her body. The straining cord is easy to move aside and allow my fingers to roll about. She is nude and not at the same time. An illusion is created. It is similar to the charge one gets seeing a sexy woman in just enough to seize the imagination.

In my bed, I have several pillows pushed under my head. Lying on my side, my hand is flying up and down its length. Covered with quilts and duvets, this bed clothing will soon be on the floor when we get down to the serious business of fornication.

I squeeze my cock. Lia, her pale and slender thighs moving close to each other, crosses the last few feet in her transit. Her cleft is shaved, smells fresh from the bath. I find it difficult to imagine this sexy lass ever being nostalgic, melancholic, unhappy or foolish. She is self-sustaining, independent, knows what she wants. Most importantly, she wants submission, to be under or on or beside a domineering male such as me. The trick is to keep it fresh, keep her coming back for more of the same rollicking good times first experienced in this bed a mere five months ago.

Six months ago I fled from my life, a wife no longer able to abide me, two children ashamed of my parentage; a congregation condemning me to hell fire. Simultaneously, the congregation, the family learned I had lain with the chorister's wife many times, in many ways. This wife tormented me no end. Her body of such perfection I could not resist its bounty. We came together in my office and in a series of tacky motel rooms. It was all so wicked.

My life of rectitude is over. I have fallen from on high and can no longer minister to my flock or allay their suffering.

In the middle of the night, I ripped off my starched white clerical collar, tore it into pieces and left it in on the ambo from which I had preached. Picking up my battered black leather valise, I went out into the drizzling rain, headed east and by and by reached Florida, its white beaches, seasonal threats of hurricanes, old retired folks and the sun I never seemed to see in the Pacific Northwest.

Living under an assumed name now, practicing a new avocation, I am a minor talented, bush league Gauguin. I paint seascapes, sell a few. Using charcoal I sketch images of topless busty women sunning themselves and tawny mothers frolicking in the surf with their kiddies. I have painted Lia in the nude using oils to capture her on canvas. I pay especial attention to her legs; shadow them just so to prove their perfection in tone and texture. With an adeptness seeming to be beyond my talent I am able to capture her smile, the mysteries of her mouth, the sexuality implicit in her form.

Some days, I work in a local car wash amidst a contingent of Cubans, smoke their cigars.

The first time I saw Lia was memorable. She stood confidently behind a slender stalk of silver microphone performing to a packed house at the

Comedy Café

. She spoke softly, telling one colorful story after another, each one bringing laughter from somewhere in the gloomy, smoke filled room. Some of it was political; some was ethnic, focusing on Cubans. Some jokes were clearly sexist. She made a series of off-color jousts at this group or that group and she was funny, witty, quick and quite talented.

Wearing denim jeans, t-shirt, trainers, her auburn hair glowed under the lights and fell down on her shoulders. Not much make-up. Some lipstick and eye shadow, she was lean, healthy looking and pleasingly sexy. I could see a nice flair of hips under her pants, a worthy portion of jugs pushing against the shirt and abs flat as the stage she stood on.

I sat towards the back hiding in the darkness. I was intrigued by her talent controlling this audience of rowdy folk and several customers openly smoking dope. I swear one good looking woman was down under a table sucking her companion. Good entertainment across the board.

Billed as Mistress Lia, I liked the way she moved, her nicely contoured body, her sensuous curve of mouth.

Then a few night later a party at the Coconut Grove where we talked, and did I mention we danced under moonlight listening to Big Band music? I think it was something by Glen Miller or Tommy Dorsey.

From these first beginnings came everything else.

Romping in bed, resting afterwards, we talked, felt each other out. The pattern of our feelings emerged in clear relief and we determined to form a relationship where my dominance and her submission meshed.

In these months together, we have had such fun fulfilling our fantasies.

In several minutes, actually much less time then that, she will be here in this bedroom untying the trench coat. I will admire her long legs, the stiletto heels and the look of lust inflaming her eyes, the costume of cord. She will bend down, push my hand away from my cock and take me in her mouth. Then in the bed under me I will fuck her, she will beg for a deeper penetration and I will comply.

When we finish, she will stand naked in my kitchen and prepare my breakfast, then blow me as I sit at the simple pine table.