One Chance To Impress Her

From the diary of Jason Sanders

The laptop screen is lit, enveloping my office with a white, ominous light. Even though I am aware it is impossible, it is as almost it is looking straight at me, tracking my every movement, waiting for that decisive moment when my restless fingers finally make a move.

Deep down inside, I know what it wants. A tale, a story, a string of seemingly random words intertwined in strings of fantasy. Something sweet, tantalizing, erotic, a piece of my soul, bare-naked, exposed, thrown helplessly at the feet of mystery, hoping that, beyond the virtual frontier, entertainment is achieved, and pleasure unleashed in an ecstatic moan.

It is a nice thought, no doubt about it, but one perhaps impossible to fully grasp. Though fantasies are easy to come by, words are not. Words are always a dreamy riddle, uncanny phantoms between what can be hoped for and what is truly achievable. They can mean the world, or absolutely nothing at all. They can be the cure for the aches of the mind, or the ground zero of festering decay. Words are dangerous when they are out in the open and, if I share mine, who knows what will happen when they finally reach you?

My fingers twitch by the keyboard, and I find myself shivering at the countless possibilities that could lie in waiting. I reach for an opening, an elusive first sentence, yet the effort is short-lived for the weight of reality wraps around my neck, and drags me back to her presence, demanding that my submission to her be total. Brushing fantastic thoughts aside, I return to work and carry out her orders, reading report after report while trying to suppress a yawn. There is no danger in these new words, just borderline monotony, seemingly content in its own self-replication.

The minutes drag by, the hours are nothing but stark reminders of my imprisonment. Dulled, half-broken, I simply nod forward, almost on the verge of sleep.

And then, I hear it. A clicking sound, a vibrant beat echoing all around. Its precise origin is unknown, though not entirely unfamiliar. It is the mesmerizing melody of a pair of heels, razor-sharp stilettos on black patent PVC thigh boots. It moves through the floor and bounces off the walls, causing ripples of excitement to fire up my lonely imagination. As the feverish desire builds in, my eyes rove across the room, peering through the shadows. There is nothing to be seen anywhere, nothing to be heard except the controlling rhythm of your footwear, already making a claim on me.

What happens afterwards is fast, somewhat furious, a syncopation of irresistible elements. I do not know what comes first: the satin blindfold that renders my world completely black, the cuffs that bind my hands to the back of the rotating chair, or the feathery touch of a riding crop upon my chin. The wheels on the chair squeak ever so slightly as I am pushed away from my desk. A gentle purr on my ears makes my body throb.

"Hmmm, what do we have here? A sad, little plaything, eager to be controlled? I am not easily impressed, but I am so terribly bored right now. Do you think you can earn my favor and worship me in the way I deserve to be worshipped?"

In good honesty, I do not know. I am both ablaze and afraid, wanting to scream but deprived of voice. I can still hear your boots keeping the beat steady, each repetition taking root within my dribbling mind. As long as I hear them, I am completely powerless before you, and have no choice but to bow down before your might.

"I can try..." I mutter, for it is the most accurate response I can give. I feel your flowery breath slip away.

"Trying is for losers," you sternly declare. "However, I will be generous enough to give you one chance for success."

You come back to me, remove the cuffs and the blindfold almost at the same time, and direct my attention towards your eyes, powerful, glistening orbs beautifully framed by a black mask and a cascade of silky hair. The sight alone suffices to take my breath away and the last shreds of my free will with it.

"Look deeply and commit them to memory. If I allow you to see them again tonight, you will know you have pleased me. Understood?"

"Y-yes," I stammer, mouth completely dry, a turbulent riot growing below my waist. I immediately avert my gaze.

"That is 'Yes, Mistress Veronica', slave," you correct me, brandishing the crop very close to my genitals. I feel the imaginary sting binding me even more to your will.

"Yes, Mistress Veronica," I drone, no longer a man, but simply an animated object for your amusement.

"Good," you respond, a mischievous smile upon your lips. You kick the chair away and I fall to my knees, half-parted lips almost meeting the floor with a kiss. "Start at my feet where slaves belong and lick my boots clean."

Drawn to the shiny reflections like a moth to a flame, my tongue submits.

As I try to dutifully please you with my humble efforts, I cannot help but think there is something quite strange about my current predicament. For all purposes and effects, we should not be in the same room together as I never sent you the words you demanded so... why is this happening?

The way I see it, the answer to this conundrum can only be one of the following; 1) I did send you my plea and, in the exchange that followed, your undeniable dominance caused me to simply forget all about it; 2) I fell asleep due to the tedium, and this is just my brain compensating for the tiredness that prevails in my everyday life. The latter is, I am afraid, the more obvious solution, but there is something incredibly alluring about conceiving the former, about being captured in a loop of paragraphs and played to submission in the spaces between the lines. That spells "erotic seduction" to me, and that is the path I choose to accept.

I am probably on the right track because I hear your voice again in response, almost as if you had read my mind from inside out.

"Less daydreaming and more licking! You only have one chance, remember?"

I do. I remember it all too well. The warning hangs over my head like the angled blade of a guillotine. If it falls, I will be severed, torn to pieces, useless. Not allowing that thought to take form, I inch forward, starting at the tip of the left boot, and gently caressing its surface in a circular motion. My tongue slides, glides, slithers hungrily to the left and right, lost in the otherworldly cadence that still reverberates in my ears. I grow weaker with each passage, weaker and even more avid to let the sensation grow, overwhelm my every sense.

In the recesses of my mind, in that nether region where there are no taboos, no prudish laws to govern my actions, I have often wondered what that delicacy of the Ancient Gods - ambrosia - tasted like, even knowing that consuming it would likely result in death. As it turns out, there are no Gods in the Pantheon, just feminine splendor standing, yet enthroned. Her name is Mistress Veronica and even Hades and Zeus would set aside their immortal differences for a moment at her feet.

Slowly, in order to savor the pleasure as much as possible, I go up your booted leg, taking each speck of dirt as a blissful reminder of my natural position. Even the dirt deserves to be closer to you than I ever will. That will never change. My tongue wraps around your calf, aims for the thigh and I catch a mere glimpse of pale, naked flesh and the clingy, latex dress laced at the front and back. You notice my slight indiscretion and your gloved hand points downward, at the other boot I have yet to surrender to.

"Lick!" you command, each syllable burning like a red-hot iron in my dwindling psyche. I am branded by the ever-growing lust you exude, unable to escape it even if I wanted to.

The other boot is as divine as the first, perfectly shaping your impossible leg. From this angle, it almost stretches to the heavens, like an alabaster tower no man can topple. I lick it time and time again, languid, deliberate slurps, a masturbatory preamble that hardens with each passing second. A contented sigh escapes between my teeth.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself just a little too much..." you admonish me. The reprimand is firm but satisfying for there is a good chance you are satisfied as well, which pleases me to no end. "You may stop for a moment to catch your breath."

I comply, although a bit saddened. I want to keep going, deeper and deeper down. I want to start again, this time beneath the soles. I want to taste the heels, suck them hard. I want to be allowed to gently nibble the inside of the boot, even dare to plant a kiss there. I want it all, but such wants are wrong. Slaves are to want only what Mistress wants, her wishes always come first. I remain transfixed, head down, anxious for your desires to wind me up once more.

"There is something not quite right with this scene," you reveal. "What do you think it is?"

"I do not know, Mistress Veronica," I murmur. The crop hits my back swiftly, yet painlessly. You then manoeuver it across my shirt, pearled in sweat.

"Isn't it obvious, slave? You are still dressed. Being dressed in my presence is a privilege but, right now, it feels like an offence. Are you foolishly trying to test my patience?"

"No, Mistress Veronica," my voice trembles. This time, the chastising hurts, but I acknowledge my flawed behavior. I should have known better right from the start.

"Forgive me, Mistress Veronica. It will not happen again."

"No, it will not," you repeat. The weight of the order is unmistakable. "Undress completely right now! You are not allowed to wear clothes anymore. Clothes are for real men and women, not for horny pets like you. And keep your eyes on the floor the whole time. You will only get to see my boots again when you are naked. Dare to disobey and your chance goes up in flames. Obey me!"

"Yes, Mistress Veronica!" I rush to do your bidding. Each piece of garment feels dirty, a complete waste of fabric, devoid of purpose. I, on the other hand, know exactly what to do because you were benevolent enough to instruct me. I hear you circle me and I close my eyes to resist the temptation of looking your way. When the last piece of clothing is discarded, the cold cuffs return to bind my wrists alongside something else, an object truly befitting of a loyal beast.

The leather collar is wrapped around tight, the leash attached to it rattles once, twice, three times just below the edge of perception. I can sense you admiring my naked form. It is not the most attractive one in the world, but it lies firm in all the right places, and they are all yours to use as you see fit. You guide me to a prone position, dictating that my every move from now on is to rely on my aching chest and my wobbling legs. Then, you take a few steps forward, tugging the leash along the way.

"You may gaze upon my boots again and even feast upon the sight of my glorious ass," you declare. "Consider yourself very lucky. Now, follow me!"

Ensnared beyond any possible resistance, I drag myself behind you.

Like a fish out of water, or a worm caught by the early bird, I struggle to keep up with you as you pull my helpless, naked body across the room. Sometimes, you stop, allowing me to creep just a little bit forward, closer and closer to your shiny footwear, only to resume walking again, at a brisker pace, holding the leash with a steady, unwavering hand that is too strong to be defied. Throughout this exhibition, you laugh and snigger, content with your expanding dominance and my desire to be mercilessly taken over by it.

If, at this precise moment, a stranger was to enter the office and look upon me, debased, a groveling sack of flesh yearning to be at the feet of a superior woman, confusion, and perhaps disgust, would surely assault his or her mind. But what do strangers know? Often, strangers are strangers to everything, including themselves, and know nothing about power exchange and even less about bliss. People with such mental limitations cannot possibly understand that, when one who submits endures suffering, it is because such action pleases the dominant immensely. Suffering is not pain just for pain, but pain bargained for pleasure, exchanged for it, elevated to it. It is, in fact, a truly liberating experience.

I am not going to lie, though. The whole process is hard, the event itself has too many variables going on that can, ultimately, go wrong. The hardest part for me is the friction of my engorged sex upon the floor with each dragging motion towards you, but I persevere, because I know you want me to, and that is enough. I keep inching forward, hands firmly restrained behind my back, feet covered by a flimsy layer of dust and dirt, testicles turned red, or closer to a shade of purple. I follow you as instructed and will only stop when instructed as well.

After a few minutes, and a couple of circuits around my work desk, it seems that moment of respite is finally at hand. You stop, relax the strain on the leash, and my collar loosens up a bit as well even though it is still quite tight.

"I am quite pleased with your surrender," you say, a sentence that is like an angelic melody upon my ears. "My boots do not require any more cleaning now, but you have earned the right to kiss them. Just one kiss on each one though. You have ten seconds to get to me. Hurry up before I change my mind."

"Yes, Mistress Veronica. Thank you, Mistress Veronica," I find myself responding. Imbued with an extra dose of adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream, I slither to collect this unexpected boon. A part of me knows I do not fully deserve it, but that same part is grateful for it. You are too lovely, too generous, and if I keep on striving for the impossible with every fiber of my being, who knows what earthly and unearthly rewards you will end up bestowing upon your lowly servant? I reach your boots just as the last second is ticking down and kiss each one with pious devotion. I notice your downwards motion, feel your hair brush against mine and my arms are once again freed, for you have other plans for them now.

"Slave, walking in these heels is killing my feet so I am going to rest for a bit now. Fetch me an appropriate seat," you order me.

"As you command, Mistress Veronica."

As far as seats are concerned, the office only has my rotating chair and a little coach by the panoramic window, and none of them qualifies as appropriate for someone of your status. That means that there is only one possible course of action to duly please you this time, and I embrace it wholeheartedly.

Still recovering from a bit of soreness on my lower limbs, I gently contort my body in all the right ways to become a stool for you, hoping you will be so kind to allow my back to feel the divinity of your ass on them. Indeed, you are and, once more, I am thankful to be of service.

"Hmm, yes..." you giggle as you claim your fleshy throne. "Furniture is definitely a good use for one such as you. It is a great honor, as I am sure you know. You may thank me again for granting it."

"Thank you, Mistress Veronica. I am not worthy."

"That is absolutely correct. You are not, and you never will be, because you are just a slave, nothing more. If you bring a semblance of entertainment to my life, you are useful. If that semblance goes away, so will you. Expect absolutely nothing in return for your devotion and this night may still become something truly wonderful for you. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mistress Veronica. Whatever you say."

You adjust yourself on top of me, one leg to each side of my body, your crop caressing my ass cheeks. Even my dull mind understands what is to follow.

"I love human furniture, but I love human ponies even more. I do not have a chariot for you to pull, but you are still going to take me on a ride. Giddy up!

The sting is swift, compliance a necessity. Upon being given my new purpose, I become a steed for my Amazonian Mistress, on a quest to fully mold my spirit to your needs.

As I begin to simulate a throttle for your satisfaction, I cannot help but wonder how easily I have been transformed into a beast of burden. It was, in fact, so easy that, once more, I am left to ponder on the possibility of a very vivid dream. In dreams, it is often easy to turn our world upside down, to do things our waking selves would never consider. It would, therefore, make sense that my hard-working persona could, all of a sudden, become nothing more than a subservient puppet to someone I know so little about. Such digressions are not entirely unreasonable, but they also make my head hurt. Thinking makes my head hurt. I must not think. I must simply submit.

And as I do, my mindset adjusts. I imagine I have hooves instead of hands and feet, and that my whole body is covered in a latex suit, a flowing tail protruding from my ass. A black hood covers my features, renders them completely indistinct and your left hand caresses a fluffy mane that sticks out from the back of it while the right one makes the crop go down, alternating between soft and hard strokes, depending on the instruction you wish me to carry out.

"Faster!" you say, and my horse-like body obeys. "Faster for your owner, slave!"

I go as fast as I can, as fast as it is possible, darting for the imaginary finish line at the end of the equally imaginary racing track. In my feverish delusions, I pass by other animal servants and the Mistresses that have broken them. We are the fastest all around, and victory will be ours! No, not ours. Yours, and yours alone.

I am a horse right now, but aware one simple command will turn me into something else. If you so desire it, I will become a dog, barking and begging, licking and digging the floor. I will eat scraps under the table, sleep in a cage and, on very special occasions, find some solace snuggling against your feet. Or, if that is your preference, I can be a nimble cat, always high on the perfume of your dominance. My nails will obviously be trimmed to avoid scratching the furniture, but I will never say no to yours leaving reddish marks all over my skin. I cannot think of other creatures now, but I am sure your zoological expertise will surprise me eventually. If you are having fun, nothing else matters.

After galloping for what seems like an eternity, I feel my breath dying out on me. I am too tired, need a break. Sensing this, you push me just a little bit further, knowing that if I falter, you will have good reason to punish me, to torture me in a devious way I am unable to predict. I use all my stamina to relinquish control even further, until your voice gives out the rest command.

"You may stop," you say, somewhat bored. I blink, and my fantasy transformation is gone. Gone is the suit, the hooves, the hood, but my abject condition remains intact. You rise with a grin, kicking my balls as you do so. My teeth clench, the veins around my wrists become quite pronounced. Another kick follows, as well as a third. You are upset with something, and I cannot shake the feeling that I have not done enough to prevent it from happening.

"You know something, slave?" you ask, rhetorically. "This office of yours is no good, it limits my fun. Being limited is not something I can accept. If we were back at my dungeon, things would be a whole better..."

Is that innuendo some form of invitation? Oh, Goddess, make it so! Though I feel an acute pain spreading through my body right now, I am ready to follow you to the end of the world, even if such a place turns out to be a basement from Hell. The kicking stops as you lean over to cup my hardened balls and cock in your hand.

"Look at this, so engorged for me! Look how anxious and desperate you are for me to continue teasing you, abusing you, making you do everything I want! I am being too soft on you now, too lenient, but in my dungeon, you will experience the true power of Veronica, and you will love it and whimper for more... beg me to take you there!"