Awe of Predators

Fiona

The mansion is the maw. What does that make this private salon? The beating heart of darkness? A fractal of exploitation, power, and Lene's predatory prowess?

Life feeds on life, and to my eyes, every inch of polished marble and refined mahogany is a monument to the prodigious amount of life Lene must have fed on, over the years.

She's used to feasting, this one. And right now, I'm just her latest snack, stepping through the thick wooden doors like they're a pair of jaws, waiting to swallow me.

But maybe that's just my fear talking...

My eyes strain to adjust to the dim lighting. The air is heavy with the scent of sandalwood and leather.

"Come in, pet. No need to hover at the threshold."

Lene's voice is silk and steel. I swallow hard and step inside. The overseer, tucked away unseen in a corner for the past few minutes, steps right behind me to close the doors. This is a tight household, precise, like clockwork.

And like a clock striking the hour, the wooden doors boom shut behind me.

I haven't been told otherwise, and so, as per the overseer's instructions, I drop to my hands and knees. Crawling is protocol, in the presence of this predator. I can only hope she'll decide not to squash me too hard.

The mistress of the house reclines on a chaise lounge, every inch the regal queen surveying her domain. When I first saw her, I remember thinking she looked unassuming -- the same way that Mistress looks unassuming, a well-camouflaged predator. Somewhat short, dull blond hair, not too thin and not too shapely.

Unremarkable, in many respects, save for those two cold blue eyes that glimmer like chipped ice.

Maybe it's just the reality of my current situation, or the lighting, or whatever... but Lene looks very different to me, now. Larger than life. Worthy of worship.

She must have returned home not too long ago, probably anticipating the moment when she got to try me out, to break in the new toy. She's in a shirt and trousers, a grey overcoat folded on a chair nearby and not yet tucked away by some discreet servant.

The black leather of her flat-heeled, equestrian boots gleams dully in the low light. She's lightly slapping a leather crop against the palm of her open hand.

My stomach clenches.

The crop beats against Lene's hands like a metronome. Tap, tap, tap.

Her eyes, on the other hand, study me unflinchingly.

It occurs to me, almost idly, that I've spent a lot of time in the presence of power and oppression, more so than I would ever have imagined before Ragnaring. I'm literally a slave these days, after all.

Tap, tap, tap.

But I'm only now starting to get a sense -- as Mistress moves out into the world -- of what it's like to be in the presence of true power. Of true danger.

Somehow, the idea that I could potentially rank among people like Mistress or Lene seems harder and harder to hold on to... even if I don't want to let it go.

Tap, tap, tap.

"Now then," Lene says, and the sudden sound almost startles me. "Your triggers."

We begin with formalities, then. When you ask someone to take care of your dog, you hand them leash and collar as well. Slaves and hypnotic triggers are pretty much the same.

I lick my lips. "Mistress," I say, and it feels so wrong to use that honorific for her, and not for my real owner -- "Ragnaring installed a pretty standard suite of triggers inside me when I was, huh... handed over to E-E-Elizabeth."

I gulp down, trying to stay my nerves. A small wave of the crop is all the encouragement I need to keep talking.

"I cannot achieve orgasm without permission. I can cum instantly upon command, and my Mistress controls the intensity of my pleasure. Five levels. The lowest is a mild climax, the highest is... mind-shattering."

Lene's eyes gleam. "And the triggers your Mistress Elizabeth has installed?"

There's an odd sort of eagernes in her eyes, considering the mundanity of what we're discussing. I remind myself that this is yet another thing that sets the likes of me apart from the likes of her. Predators are never safe. Predators are always alert. On the lookout for competition, or someone trying to turn them into prey.

She probably suspects there may be hidden commands in my mind, perhaps some bulwark against her power, some failsafe to keep me the loyal property of Mistress. She's going to be disappointed, though.

Mistress is fearsome and skilled, but she's only recently started to dabble with the hypnotic art. The custom triggers she did implant in me are rudimentary, meant more for testing than anything else.

Still. The mistress of the house asks, and I shall answer.

I swallow hard, fighting not to fidget under Lene's piercing, blue gaze. "Snap your fingers four times, mistress, and I'll become drowsy and suggestible, malleable to programming. 'Freeze' renders me motionless until given another command. And 'doggie'..."

"Go on," Lene purrs.

"That one deprives me of my ability to speak," I say, blushing red with mortified, and aroused, embarrassment. "Or... stand upright."

"That is delightful," Lene says, gesturing lazily to the floor before her chair. There it is. I'm being summoned to do my duty. To serve.

I crawl forwards like a dog, head bowed in submission, heart in my throat. The future yawns before me, shrouded in shadow, as Lene's boots appear before my downcast eyes. They're so shiny I could probably see my reflection in there.

I don't want to.

I stepped into Ragnaring full of ambition, hope, righteous anger at the injustice of the world. Now, if I stare into Lene's boots, the image that will greet me is that of a broken girl, more dog than human. It's a true image, and a terrible one.

The beautiful and terrible truth of the world, alright.

A beauty best avoided for the time being. I close my eyes and press my lips to the boots' glossy surface, placing tiny, demure, somewhat chaste kisses. More an act of homage than a sexual one. It's a small, wordless tribute to Mistress, even if she isn't here to watch me do this.

I know she'd appreciate the restraint. A secret declaration that I still belong to her, with Margaret, and not at the feet of this stranger.

Unfortunately, I fear Lene notices my restraint. Lene taps my cheek with the tip of her boot, a subtle command. I raise my head, meeting her gaze with pet-like docility.

She leans down and grasps my chin, turning my face this way and that. "The first trigger you've mentioned," she hisses, "that's for the most superficial level of susceptibility, I assume. How does Elizabeth take you deeper? How does she make you spiral down, so she can plant deep triggers inside of you?"

I stare up at Lene, so impossibly large and terrifying when seen from down here, my lips opening and closing in confusion. "Mistress, I... I'm not sure... I don't think there's any?"

"That's impossible," she snaps back, making me flinch. "You will tell me everything Elizabeth has programmed into your pretty little head- Every trigger, every command. I want to know exactly how much control she has over you... and how much I can take away."

"Mistress, I can't remember any other trig-"

The crop slashes across my breasts in a flash of fire and pain. I cry out, stunned by the force of the blow.

Lene tuts in mock concern. "Come now, pet. Did you think I would not test you?"

Tears spring to my eyes, humiliation and fear and helplessnes washing over me like a tidal wave. It's just a small bite of the leather crop, it's nothing I haven't experienced before...

But it isn't Mistress, wielding it. I've truly fallen so low in life that a person I've only met face to face once before today can do... this... to me.

Rationally, I know I'm a slave. But rarely before have I felt it in my bones like this.

Lene brings the crop down in a sharp crack against my inner thigh. I cry out, eyes flying open.

"I will not ask again," she warns softly.

"I swear, Mistress," I say in a broken, pleading whisper. The sound of prey, pathetically begging a predator for mercy. "I don't know of any other triggers..."

"There must be more," she says. "Elizabeth is too clever for that."

Lene traces lazy circles around my breasts with the crop, teasingly brushing against my nipples as they harden with both fear and arousal. She guides it across my body, eliciting shivers and gasps from me.

I shudder the most, when it nestles between my thighs.

"Perhaps..." Lene says, with an elegant arch of eyebrows, "triggers she's kept from you?"

The crop bites into my thighs, again and again. I endure the pain like Mistress taught me to, letting the submission and enthrallment engulf me. I know it can feel good. With Mistress, and with Margaret, I've come to truly savour the delight of being a woman's pet... even if I dislike what it says about me.

But this isn't Mistress. This isn't Margaret. And yet, a dog is a dog, no matter the master... or so I'm learning.

At last Lene eases off the onslaught, resting the crop against my sex. She exhales slowly, composed and calm, though her eyes remain hard as flint.

"Perhaps we'll discover them together, then," she says. "And you will learn to obey me, one way or another. We have only just begun, pet. I will break you open, strip you bare, and when I am through, you will no longer be the same again."

I stare up at her, this powerful woman, a careerist and a domme through and through. Hers is a promise, and a threat. Something tells me she's not the type to make idlle threats, nor empty promises.

She runs a hand down my face almost tenderly, and I shiver -- the light touch after the bite of the crop sends me in unexpected sensory overload. Lene only smiles.

"Attend to my boots again. For real, this time," Lene commands.

I comply without hesitation, pressing my lips softly against the supple leather with all the non-verbal devotion I can muster. I wonder if that means she's broken me. I wonder if that means Mistress -- my true owner -- will be unhappy with me.

But she's the one who loaned me out, right? She didn't really want to, of course. But if Mistress couldn't stop this from happening, what am I, a lowly slavegirl, a dog, supposed to do about it?

I do what dogs do, I suppose. I lap eagerly at Lene's boots with my tongue, each trail leaving the leather shinier and glossier with my saliva, and with my submission. My nostrils are filled with the scent of polish, and the texture of the leather feels rough and smooth at once under my tongue.

That's a familiar experience. I used to enjoy having my own boots licked, back when Margaret was mine to do with as I saw fit...

But I've spent much more time grovelling and lapping at boots myself than I have enjoying the treatment.

It's getting harder and harder to conceive of a world where things could be otherwise.

I lose myself in the act, focusing only on polishing the boots to perfection, trying to ignore the dull ache in my knees from kneeling on the hard floor for so long.

I know I must look utterly pathetic, on my hands and knees worshipping the boots of Mistress' rival. At least, Mistress outsmarted me, beat me at a game I was playing too. At least, Margaret and I have shared together every up and down of this journey, one way or the other.

But my only connection to Lene is that she's someone standing in the way of Mistress. Like I really am nothing more than an object involved in some dispute. A piece of clay, with no agency, always meant for a life of servitude, destined to grovel at the feet of my superiors.

My tongue works over every inch, paying special attention to the tip. I imagine how powerful and domineering Lene would look, towering over me and grinding the sole of the boot into my cheek.

A soft moan escapes my lips before I can stop it.

I feel a flush of embarrassment, but I don't dare pause in my worship. I glance up timidly to see if Lene noticed. Her face betrays no reaction, but I see a hint of amusement in her cold eyes. I quickly lower my gaze again, redoubling my efforts.

"That's it my pet, make them shine," she purrs. She sounds so self-assured. Telling a slavegirl to lick her boots clean comes so easy to her, as easy as breathing. She behaves as if it's her divine right, and the worst part is that it works, it makes her convincing.

I feel so small beneath her, so insignificant. Nothing but a dog, unworthy of even looking up at her tamer from the floor.

Lene places her other boot under my nose. "Don't neglect this one," she says sternly. I whimper and begin lavishing it with attention too.

Mistress did train me well for this, whether she intended to or not. I am hers, even as I debase myself for another.

"Good girl," Lene purrs as I lick, and I feel my cheeks flush with validation and humiliation -- a heady cocktail that goes right to a slave's head. I should know.

"Now take them off."

I allow myself one tiny gulp of nervousness, before complying.

My hands tremble as I reach for the top of her left boot, slowly unzipping it. I slide the boot off, revealing her stocking-clad foot, and place it gently on the floor beside me. I do the same for the right boot, and then -- anticipating her wishes -- I resume my act of reverence.

I lean in swiftly, my lips giving way to her toes with a gentle, sensual sigh. Lene makes a pleased sound as I apply the gentlest suction, the most delicate flicks of my tongue.

I lavish each toe with attention, bathing her foot in the warm seal of my mouth and the tender attention of my tongue. I make sure to swirl my tongue over and under her toes, now applying more suction, now less.

I can taste the faint salty sweat that has accumulated after a long day in her boots.

Slowly, sensually, I lick up along the length of her foot, my tongue tracing the sole up and down. The texture of the stockings feels heavier, as I diligently wet it with my adoration.

I take her big toe into my mouth, sucking gently as I peer up submissively into Lene's eyes.

I must be doing well, because Lene sighs above me. "Lovely. And to think Elizabeth was reluctant to share such delights from me. Now, show me how eager you are to please your new mistress."

I almost flinch away from her foot at the words. She's not my new mistress. I'm just on loan here, and I surprise myself at how offended I feel at the insinuation that she could just take me away from Mistress, if she wanted to.

Away from Margaret...

No, no, no. I can't think about that now, can't give myself a panic attack now. I need to make Mistress proud, and be impeccable in my comportment. The rest is ultimately up to her.

My lips travel over the arch of Lene's foot, planting soft kisses along the way up. When I reach her ankle, I pause to nuzzle against it, rubbing my cheek slowly over the stockings.

Lene lets out a low hum of satisfaction at my display. "Don't stop there, pet. You know where I want that pretty mouth of yours."

With reddened cheeks, I continue my kisses up along the supple curve of her calf. The stockings are silken smooth under my worshipful lips, and even from my lips alone, I can feell the toned muscles of her legs -- she's stronger than she looks.

That probably goes for her mind just as it does her body, and it's a disquieting thing to consider.

I let my tongue dart out to trace slow circles over Lene's skin. She inhales sharply at the sensation, her grip tightening almost painfully in my hair. I take that as encouragement, lavishing the same attention along her inner thigh now.

I press my lips against the damp silk covering her sex. Lene's hips buck slightly and she tugs at my hair. "Don't tease me, slave. Get to work."

I oblige, hooking my fingers under her panties and slowly sliding them to the sides. She pulls my head between her thighs, and all of a sudden, I feel like I'm stepping into the mansion again, and through the wooden doors to this solar... I feel inexorably pulled deeper and deeper into the maw.

How much deeper will I end up being pulled?

Lene's thighs enclose my head in a tight vice of female flesh, as constricting as it is thrilling -- and I can't deny that it is thrilling. I extend my tongue, gently lapping at her slit. Her taste floods my senses, rich and tangy.

"Mmm yes, just like that," Lene moans. She grinds against my mouth as I continue licking her. Look at me -- once a proud student, now relegated to being little more than masturbatory aid, my face just a convenient tool for Lene to get off on.

I'm a sex toy capable of feeling arousal, nothing more. Her hands keep my head firmly in place as I suck and lap hungrily at her sex. Her thighs contract and relax over and over around my face, but in truth, I know she won't last long.

She's probably been thinking about this all day. She's been horny, anticipating this moment. I'd shake my head, if I could. Mistress has much more self-control, much more composure. She controls her pleasure just as well as she controls Maggie and I.

I find it oddly comforting, to be able to tell that there's something Mistress definitely does better than Lene.

"That's it," Lene hisses through clenched teeth. I feel her thighs begin to tremble and redouble my efforts. And then, with a sharp cry, her orgasm crashes over her. I keep my tongue moving, dutifully drawing out every last pulse of her climax, until the iron grip of her thighs relents, and her legs withdraw from my head.

Lene reclines back, panting, sighing in relief as the pent-up stress and frustration of the workday evaporates. I remain in position, because I have a feeling that this will only be her first of many orgasms, tonight... and that this relatively easy test ride of my obedience is not representative of what awaits me.

This is what it feels like, to dive head-first into the maw. And, to my disquiet, Lene pretty much confirms that when she leans forward again, regarding me with a cold look that bears no trace of satiation, or affection, or even appreciation for me.

No. The only light that shines in those blue eyes is that of her hunger.

"Not a bad start," she says at length. "It seems Elizabeth has trained you well." Her face morphs into a slow, predatory smile. "But we have only just begun."