It had been two full weeks since that memorable night, when Kat turned Tiger Domme and subbed her husband, Mark. Initially, she could scarcely believe how that evening unfolded. How deeply she'd embraced the role of dominant Mistress, how she'd unleashed this fetishistic debauchery. Barely restrained. But the more she reflected on it, the more comfortable she felt. She began to experience an onset of pride, of entitlement, of renewed lust.
The old good girl / bad girl, superego / id internal debate welled up inside. But, funny thing. It dissipated quickly. She tossed aside those good girl / superego selves. She embraced the bad girl / id within. She felt invigorated. She felt an unrestrained promiscuity. Emotions she'd never quite experienced before, at least to this degree. She liked it. A lot. So much so that she revisited the old links Mark had shared with her months ago, during their couple's counseling...the videos of female domination over hapless males...the commands they issued...the obedience they demanded...the humiliation they dished out. How strange, she thought, how what had seemed so bizarre and kinky back then now held such allure for her. It was as though the spotlights were turned on suddenly in a dark theater. She watched internet videos and learned. She probed further and read stories, both fictional and real, about the femdom world.
"So, these are the sensations that intoxicate people who play top in the Dom/sub game," she thought to herself. Rather than shun those simmering passions, she opened up to them, allowed them to flow, and then caressed them in her mind. She wrapped herself in their lascivious potency, as though she were snuggling into a warm, cashmere throw. She embraced them and plotted the next steps in her exploration. She began to yearn for the adventure. She could think of very little that would be off limits.
As her transformation evolved, Mark had followed her detailed instructions of that momentous night. Right off the bat he created a Sunday evening list of the upcoming week's chores. She saw it when she peeked in her nightstand drawer. It was tucked under her riding crop. Just as she'd instructed. His docile dutifulness pleased her.
Rather than read it, she waited until they were both settled in, sitting on the sofa, catching an evening news show, sipping a glass of wine on Sunday nightfall before the upcoming workweek.
"Slave boy," she interjected into the rhythm of the evening, "Bring me your chore list."
She was pleased how immediately he jumped on the task. He disappeared into their bedroom. When he returned he was naked, on all fours, riding crop secured like a horse's bit in his mouth, his chore list held between his fingers. He shuffled toward her and settled in at her feet. She felt powerful. In charge. Warm. Strong.
"Good boy," she commended him as she took the paper from his grip, feeling very much like she was addressing an underling.
It was a fine list, especially for his first one. It included house cleaning chores that they'd previously collaborated on (vacuuming, dusting, bathroom clean-up). There was a shopping list. He'd be preparing two meals during the week, some leftovers and a take-out on the other evenings. Kitchen / dishes were on the agenda for each evening. Making the beds daily.
"You forgot wife worship," she remarked, taking the riding crop from his clenched teeth. "But since that's totally up to me, maybe it's not necessary to include. Other than that, it's a good list. Well done, slave boy." She paused and looked at the TV. "You can sit on your haunches while I finish this show. You may sip your wine. In fact, here's a toast - to us - a Mistress and her slave boy." She raised her glass and he raised his. They sipped and stared into each other's eyes.
And there they were, she lounging comfortably on their couch, he in front of her, naked, leaning back on his heels, all eyes on the tube, imbibing in a fruity Pinot Noir. Near the end of the broadcast, when Kat had apparently had enough, she quaffed what was left in her glass and then mimed that he should do the same. She then handed him her glass and he placed them both on the coffee table.
She playfully slapped him a bit with her riding crop. Though she still felt somewhat unskilled with its use, she was warming up to its manipulation. It made her feel powerful to pat various parts of his body. His cheeks, his shoulders, his chest and, deliciously, his genitals.
"Spread your legs, so I can spank your balls. And thank me for the attention, slave boy. Ask me to keep using the riding crop on you." He complied readily.
"Thank you for slapping me with your riding crop. Please give me more."
"Please give me more, MISTRESS," she corrected him. "I think I'll like the sound of that."
"Please give me more, Mistress," he answered.
And she did, becoming a bit more forceful with each whack. She didn't intend to leave a welt or anything. But maybe a slightly red mark in strategic locations. Funny thing was, as she kept it up and he kept asking for more, it turned her on. She felt her temperature rise. She watched his cock grow. Her anticipation brought some sweat to her upper lip. And her pussy grew moist.
"Lick me, slave boy. Worship my pussy. Like you did the other night. Use the alphabet. Spell out "I adore You, Mistress," with your tongue. And then say it out loud. Keep doing it until I tell you to stop."
He braced himself with a handful of sofa on each side of her body, bent down and proceeded obediently. He sought to please his wife, his Mistress. He fluttered his tongue and expressed his adoration, with his tongue, lips and voice. He spelled out "I adore You, Mistress" and then spoke those words out loud. And repeated the tribute. Her secretion of juices built up. She leaned back, shut her eyes and enjoyed the attention.
"Show me your cock," she interrupted. He sat back and grabbed his erect penis with both hands. "Fuck me, slave boy," she ordered. She parked the small of her back on the edge of the couch for easy access. And with great willingness he scooted forward and inserted his cock, deliberately at first but then with a hard thrust, into her waiting pussy. They fucked. They moaned. And sweated. Her thoughts drifted to Tom, the delivery boy. The boy who was a manly man. Mark was no Tom, the overconfident, youthful bull with the magnificent penis, but he was adequate for the task. They both groaned. And, though it wasn't simultaneous, they eventually convulsed in their own orgasms.
Thus was set a precedent for Sunday evenings, a ritual that included a presentation of and review of chores, some banter, some worship and, sometimes, some good old-fashioned fucking. That was the ritual Kat created.
She called off the dinner invitation to Becky, the office floozy. She figured she'd resurrect that idea, all in good time. Meanwhile, times were good. Mark set about his chores, different ones each night. The place looked great - vacuumed, dusted. Clean bathrooms. Fresh linens upon her request. Nice dinners. She felt pampered. Deservedly so. Mistresses are entitled.
She was no tyrant. She expressed her appreciation of Mark's servitude and his obsequious behavior. She rewarded him both verbally and with physical attention. Yet, she maintained a distinct formal distance when she chose, especially on Sunday evenings when she regularly made him present his weekly chore list.
On the fourth Sunday following that momentous night of debauchery (when she'd so uncharacteristically binged on sex and unbridled domination), she reviewed Mark's chore list and studied him, naked, on all fours, riding crop held between his teeth. She grabbed the riding crop and set aside the task list.
"Have you had any contact with Becky, slave boy?" she asked him.
"Only at the office," he answered quickly.
"Is she still interested in you?"
"Yeah. She still stops by my desk and makes suggestive talk. She definitely wants to see me again...outside of work. She's told me so."
"You know what? I've been thinking. Next weekend, either Friday or Saturday, whatever works on my end, I think I'm going to invite Tom over. To see me. Alone. And I'm giving you permission to set up a date with the harlot. I don't care where. I don't care what you do. I'll leave it up to your imagination. But you'll be out of the house. And I'll expect a full report afterwards. And don't you dare let on that I know anything about your little affair. I want her to think she's getting away with something. Do you understand?"
Mark seemed flustered and surprised. But he knew how to respond.
"Yes, Mistress."
