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Subject: Story:  A Pregnant Domina Part 1/2 (Femdom, Fm, CD, Romance)
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It happened *AGAIN*.  Hope this works . . .

The Pregnant Domina
by Tigger
revised copyright 1997

Part 1

I watched as she struggled to lift herself out of bed.  I moved
to help her and was rewarded by an angry glare, which I ignored. 
She didn't stop me as I supported her back and took the off
center weight of her body in my arms.  Once she was sitting
upright, she slid her feet to the floor on the edge of the bed. 
She rested a moment gathering herself for her next effort.  I sat
beside her, still supporting her.  When she moved to stand, I
slyly added my strength to help her move her bulk upright.  A
near snarl, once she was upright, told me that I had not been as
subtle as I thought.  She knew I had helped, and she hated
needing that help.

Mistress Kyra Byers, the woman I love, was almost eight months
pregnant, and damned ready for it to be over.  The fact that she
had to face six more weeks of impending motherhood, combined with
the fact that the doctor thought she was not yet as large as she
would be were responsible for a lot of her temper.  The fact that
I was there to witness her incapacity, and worse, that I was
giving her help that she needed, made it even worse for her. 
Frankly, since that first day when I had moved in (well, in all
honesty, barged in) with her, she had done her level best to make
my life hell, to make me leave, I think.  I smiled grimly.  Not
in this lifetime, lady, I am where I have to be.

She shuffled off to the bathroom, her huge tummy forcing her to
counterbalance with a back arch that compounded her discomfort.
Resignedly, I waited for what I knew would come next.

"... Mark."  Her voice from behind the door was resigned, even a
little defeated.  It was killing me.  I walked to the bathroom
door and knocked softly.  "Come in, Mark, I know you are waiting. 
I can't get up."  

I entered the bathroom, to find her struggling futilely on the
low toilet seat, almost in tears.  She was furious with herself
for what she perceived as weakness.  Not offering comfort that I
knew would be rejected, I put my arm back around her and helped
her to her feet, letting go once she had regained her balance.  I
would probably pay for this later.

Once that particular humiliation was complete, she abruptly
dismissed me from her room and set about getting ready to go to
work.  Mistress is an executive administrator for one of the
large multinationals that had their home base in the city.  She
was training her replacement and would start maternity leave in
about four weeks when that was complete.  After the baby was
born, she had to decide if she was going to accept a promotion
that she had been offered, or whether she was going to take a
less demanding job that would give her time for her unexpected
family.  That choice did not make her very happy either.

She came down to the dining room where I served her breakfast. 
Milk (which she loves), iron fortified hot cereal (which she
loathes), a bagel with light cream cheese (which she tolerates),
and a chilled orange juice, but no coffee (which she craves).  I
sat there, drinking my own juice watching her eat, trying not to
cringe under her steely glares.

She finished the last bite of the cereal, and washed it down with
her entire glass of juice.  She patted her mouth with her napkin
and then got up to gather her bag and briefcase.  "Mark, I will
be a little late tonight.  I will want to test you after dinner,
so be prepared."

No surprise, there.  "But Mistress, we have class tonight after
dinner."  She hated Lamaze class most of all, and for the life of
me, I didn't know why, but she did this to me every Wednesday.

Her face clouded, and she collected herself.  "Very Well, then we
will delay the test until we get home." She gave me a smirk
reminiscent of her old, mischievously evil self.  "You will be
dressed for it, won't you, Mark."

I grinned back at her.  "As you say, Mistress."  She spun as
quickly as her tummy would permit and left for work.  Her parting
shot was her little reminder that "Markie" would be attending
Mistress.  Markie was my feminized alter ego.  Prior to her
pregnancy, Mistress had been trying to get me 'out' as Markie and
I had fought her every step, even to the point of using my
'safeword'.  When Mistress had fiercely fought starting the
Lamaze training (that her doctor insisted was mandatory for such
a petite woman), I had bargained Markie's debut among the masses
against her getting the training she needed.  Mistress wanted
Markie out in the world more than she wanted to avoid Lamaze, so
now Markie is Mistress's very terrified birth coach.  

So terrified in fact, that I don't even think about passing
anymore - I just do.  What surprised me was that none of the
women gave me a second look.  I guess a woman in the final stages
of pregnancy isn't going to look very long at anything resembling
a 'slender' female.  

The men, on the other hand, are another story all together.  I am
constantly under very close scrutiny at the class, by every male
there.  Only my whole hearted concentration on Mistress keeps me
from running screaming into the night.  While at class, I keep my
words pitched very low as I quietly coach Mistress, so my voice
doesn't give me away.  I don't think that I look unfeminine in
the sweater and jeans Mistress lets me wear (only because the
Nurse Midwife said "no skirts".  Mistress's first outfit of a
short skirt and heels was specifically pointed out as
inappropriate by the nurse.). 

But for all that, I can't shake the awareness of all those males
staring at me, evaluating me, and I can't decide whether it is
because they see me as the only non-pregnant female in the room,
or because my cover is blown.  Mistress, naturally, given her
normal disposition and her current mood, is no help at all.  She
just gives me a smirk, or an evil grin, and pats me on the ass,
or pinches my cheeks, then tells me to ignore them.  Yeah, right,
uh huh, sure, Mistress.

I first met Mistress a couple of years ago, when I worked for the
same company as she did (where she still does work).  She is
really a tiny thing, only five feet one inch tall, and not quite
a hundred pounds.  Her hair is black and she has always kept in a
short, saucy cut that hugs the elegant shape of her head. She
says that she wears it that way because it is easy to maintain. 
I think it is sexy as all hell.   Her eyes are startling green
against her almond complexion.  She is not classically beautiful,
but she is striking, and on the rare occasions when that
wonderful smile emerges, the world stops around her just to look
at her.

I wanted to date her back then, but she did not date co workers.  
We did become friends, and I learned to like her as well as want
her.  Later, when I left the firm to start my own business, I
asked her out again.  That time she accepted.  We dated for
several months and I began to get very serious about her.  To my
intense delight and encouragement, we were very affectionate
together.  We would pet and kiss passionately, but she always
stopped before we made love, much to my frustration.   That I had
been carrying an engagement ring in my pocket for weeks, just
waiting for the slightest indication she was ready for us to go
further, only made each smiling, good night kiss at her door
harder to take.

I am ashamed, now, to admit that I started keeping an eye on her. 
It wasn't stalking, not in the current sense, but I was following
her, and watching her home.  I started to see a pattern of men
visiting her at odd hours on weekends and on nights that we did
not have a date.  They'd come in, stay for an hour or two, then
leave alone.  Jealousy billowed up inside me, as I reached an
obvious conclusion.

This went on for over a week, dating one night, watching her
house the next as she would open her door to a man, who would
then leave a couple of hours later.  

Then, I exploded.

I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that as
one of her visitors was leaving, I barged into her house, ranting
and raving - the proto-typical outraged male.  One reason I won't
bore you with such details is that I don't remember much of it.  
I pray each night that I did not threaten or try to harm Kyra,
but I do know that she felt threatened.  She retaliated
physically.  Not expecting it from her, I did not guard against
it.  She dropped me with one, well placed kick to the groin, and
the world went dark.

When I awoke, my groin was on fire, but I could not move to
relieve or attempt to ease the pain.  My hands were restrained
behind me and beneath me as I lay upon my back against a hard
surface.  I could not move my feet, either.  A weight settled on
my chest and made breathing difficult.  I opened my eyes.  The
weight was Kyra, but it was a Kyra I had never seen before.  When
I had forced my way in she had been swathed in a thick, velvety,
floor length robe.  Now, black lingerie, made of what I now know
to be leather, enhanced and presented, rather than hid her
charms.  Something that looked like my grandfather's razor
strops, but with a wooden handle was in her hand.  It was then
that I realized that she was nude below the waist.  The stiff
strap poked under my chin to lift my eyes to hers before I could
get more than a fleeting look.

"I am disappointed, Mark, disappointed and hurt.  I thought you
were different, that we might be building something together, and
you come roaring in here like some possessive, arrogant Lord of
the Manor."

"You're disappointed?  You're hurt?"  Every word was punctuated
in pain.  "I've been faithful to you, I wanted to marry you. 
Every night you aren't with me you entertain men here."

"We have been busy, haven't we?"  She scowled down at me.  "Well,
you would have had to learn before I could have accepted you
anyway."  Her words were strange, without meaning to me.  Learn? 
Learn what?  She continued without giving me a chance to speak 
"Since you have screwed up so badly, I will at least give you the
explanation you seem to want more than you wanted me."  It was
then that I first learned of Mistress Kyra, Domina.  Dominant all
her life, Kyra had put herself through school by working in one
of the better schools of dominance in the San Francisco Bay Area,
and now continued as a practicing dominant as a lark, a sideline,
a means of relieving the tension of her high powered position at
work, and because she liked it.  The men were her slaves,
submissives, bottoms - words I had never used in such context
before.  Men who gave her gifts and money for the opportunity to
serve her.  I was dumbfounded.

"We were so close, Mark, but you couldn't wait, couldn't trust
me, couldn't even confide in me."   She stood and released the
shackles that held my feet.  With her weight gone, I could sit up
and saw that the shackles were attached to the legs of the living
room couch.  "Come on, stand up, it is time for you to get out of
here."  I stood, still favoring my testicles.  Surprisingly
strong hands gripped me from behind and shoved me to the door. 
Something grated in the vicinity of what ever held me and I was
pushed out the door.  "The key is in the lock of the cuffs, Mark. 
Those cuffs have enough play in them for you to free yourself. 
Leave, and do not come back. Do not even contact me again.  We
are through."  The door slammed behind me, punctuated by the
audible clicks of two deadbolts shooting home.

As she said, I was able to free myself, but not without major
contortions.  My temper was still running high.  I pulled the
ring out of my pocket, and threw the designer jewel box through
her front window, then stomped off to my car and left.

The next day, a package arrived by special courier.  In it was my
ring and a note.

"I do not accept gifts from boys who have proven themselves to be
unworthy.

Mistress Kyra"

It should have been all over.  She had betrayed me.  Only it
wasn't.  The next three weeks were hell.  She scared me, she
really did.  I knew nothing about such things as she had told me
and when I went to the local adult bookstore to check out the
magazines and such on D/S, I was even more frightened of her.  

But I still wanted her.  And in the end, I knew that I still
loved her.

The turning point came when I realized that some of the ads in
those magazines were from submissives who were appealing for a
dominant.  I already knew her, knew her address.  I still wanted
to be with her.  I hoped she still wanted me with her, but she
was the wronged party.  I had to make restitution.  I had to show
her that I recognized her true worth.

In truth, I did not view myself as a submissive like those men in
the magazine.  But if such a submission to her was the way to get
Kyra back in my life, then that is what I would do.  Life as her
submissive could not be worse than the way I had lived for the
last month without her entirely.

I went to a specialty shop and bought a special, antique style
writing parchment, complete with a satin ribbon to roll it in.  I
wrote a letter on that heavy parchment in my very best
penmanship.  I considered paying a professional calligrapher, but
decided against it.  This was more personal, more me to her, than
that would be.  Besides, I did not think I could face sharing
this with someone else.  In that letter, I acknowledged my guilt
and my lack of trust.  I begged her forgiveness, and I begged the
opportunity to prove my worthiness by serving her in any manner
she deemed appropriate.  I paid the same courier service to
deliver the letter on Wednesday, and then waited by the phone for
the next forty eight hours.  I was almost in despair when the
phone rang at nine PM, Friday night.

Her tone was sharp and clipped in my ear, but she sounded like an
angel from heaven promising me one last chance at salvation.  "I
have received your request and I am inclined to test your
resolve.  If you please me, I may decide to permit you to
continue in my service as one of my slaves.  I will not give you
the chance to hurt me again as you did before.  The test I have
in mind is demanding and will require you to attend me for the
weekend.  You may need to plan on taking time off from work next
week to recover.  Be on my doorstep tomorrow morning at eight
o'clock sharp.  If you are not there, this is the last time I
will ever speak to you."  The phone connection broke and I was
left listening to the buzz of a dial tone, only then realizing
that I had not said a single word.

And then I was really scared to death.  One of the books I had
read told the story of a man who made such a restitution to his
lover and had been laid up for a week.  Could she do that to me? 
Memories of the pain in my balls and that wicked strap told me
that she was fully capable of it.  Would she do it?  I did not
know, but I would have to chance that if it was what it took to
be with her again.

I was on her doorstep as ordered and was led into her house where
she had me strip and then took my clothes away.  In the clear
light of now, what actually happened was comparatively gentle. 
Mistress knew how ill prepared I was for entry into that facet of
her life.  Looking back, I am sure that the real test was the
commitment to show up at all and then to stay until released in
the face of the ominous nature of her "invitation".  I spent the
weekend nude, scurrying about her house doing various menial and
humiliating tasks.  Of course, my performance never met her
exacting standards.  I was spanked repeatedly, but it was always
by hand, hairbrush or by paddle.  (a very gentle paddle I was
later to learn).  My bottom stung, to be sure, but it was not
hurtful, only embarrassing.

At the end of the weekend, she released me and gave me back my
clothes.  She told me that I had earned a place in her stable and
that if I worked very hard and pleased her greatly, I might have
a chance of something more.  I left her that night feeling that I
had done something important, although I could not put into words
what that was.

After that, I became like the men I had watched.  One night a
week and at least one full day every weekend, I would attend
Mistress in her home.  It was a full year of such training before
I had the courage to face myself as a true sexually submissive
male.  I am not submissive at all in other facets of my life.  I
am a demanding, but fair boss, I'm an aggressive player on the
tennis courts and on the links, and I am becoming proficient at
the martial arts.  It is only with Mistress Kyra, that such
feelings, such needs are set free to find expression and
acceptance.

It was during that training that I discovered just how gentle
that first weekend had been.  I met the strap (or perhaps more
correctly, *it* met me), and I did not like it very much - like
not at all.  Sitting was difficult that week.  I experienced
bondage positions that made me painfully aware of new and unique
muscle groups on the days following those sessions.  As ordered,
though, I had worked very hard to prove myself to Mistress, and
slowly, over time, I felt that she was again coming to think of
me as more than a member of her stable. Perhaps not yet as a
future mate I still longed to be, a mate who would be submissive
to her, to be sure, but still someone to be with her, to be there
for her.  I continued to work to that goal.

Our only disagreement was Markie.  After that initial year of
training, my first indication that Mistress was starting to value
me again was that she gave me a safe word.  Up to that point, my
safe word was to ask to leave.  During the second year, Mistress
discovered the female in my soul and worked diligently to bring
her out to play.  My medium height (for a male) and my slender
build, made me ideal (so Mistress delighted in telling me) for
cross dressing.  She trained me in cosmetics, in color
coordination, in mannerisms and in voice inflection.  She drilled
me relentlessly on how to walk, how to sit, how to flirt.  I was
trained to play the vamp and the lady.  She liked the vamp, my
cautious soul lusted after the vamp, but preferred the lady.

The blow up came when she decided to debut Markie, and I balked.
I was dressed to the nines in a very pretty party dress. 
Mistress herself had tastefully applied my cosmetics so I looked
far better than I ever had before.  Secretly, I was thrilled by
how I looked, but once she told me what was planned, I panicked.  
Never mind that she promised that the nightclub would be dark,
that it was out of town, that she would get us a private table or
that we would not socialize among the patrons, I simply could not
face the potential of discovery.  She pressed and I finally,
scared out of my wits that I would be cast off, but in too much
of a dither to do otherwise, code-worded her order.  She looked
at me in blank surprise.  I had taken intense corporal sessions,
strict bondage and other equally demanding tests without that
crutch being used.  She finally sat down and looked at me for the
longest time, studying me.

"Very well, Mark."  That brought me upright.  She never called me
Mark while I was dressed.   "You aren't ready for this.  Please
go change into your clothes.  We are done for today."

I thought I was being sent away for good.  I opened my mouth to
plead, but she kept on speaking.  "Come back tomorrow and we will
continue your training."  Then, she left me and went to her room,
locking the door.   It was not until much later that it occurred
to me that she was giving me space to recover.  The next day, it
was back to our relationship as usual.   And as Markie
progressed, Mistress Kyra's hints about a debut took the
direction of verbal teasing and humiliation.  I noticed that she
always watched my face very carefully at those times.  I suspect
that she would have had me out the door in a second if she saw
the slightest acceptance, but she never pressured me on it again.

Then came the night about 10 months ago, when we were in her play
room and I was bound on my back on a low bench.  It was an
incredibly playful session.  Mistress was in one of her teasing
moods and was thoroughly enjoying the game of driving me insane. 
She kept me on the edge of orgasm until I thought my heart would
burst.  I guess I was not the only one affected by her game
though, because the next thing I knew, she had taken me into her
hot, wet depths.  I thought I was in Paradise.  In all our time
together, the closest I got to making love with Mistress was the
oral worship which she loved and which she demanded I become
superb at.  All of my orgasms had been by hand - mine or hers,
usually mine so she could watch.  

The incredible heat, the velvety steel grip drove me wild.  The
bench creaked in response to my straining. I fought for control,
fought to prolong the joy of being one with Kyra.

She came, and the world went mad.  I was lost and out of control,
spurting jet after jet into her as she literally milked me in her
orgasm.

Mistress passed out and fell against me, my cock still softening
inside of her.  She came to slowly, then sat up and looked at me
quizzically, as if wondering how that had happened.  She got off
me and, after releasing me, sent me home, very confused.

I was not just confused, I was flabbergasted when a call came
later in the week on my answer phone.  "This is Kyra.  You are
released from my service.  Do not contact me or bother me again. 
This is good bye."

I had sat there, staring at the machine, playing and replaying
the message, wondering what I had done.  I went to her house, but
she would not even answer the door.  I went to her office, but
she went to the ladies room and then had security escort me out.  
I was inconsolable.  I did not know what I had done or what I
could do.

I started watching her again, trying to learn anything I could
about what had gone wrong.  The first thing I realized was that
no other men came to see her anymore.  In fact, no one visited
her anymore.  It was very curious.  Then, about a month after my
dismissal, she left home immediately after arriving from work.  I
followed her and saw that she went to a Doctor's office. 
Concerned, I waited for her to come out.

When she did, she was moving like a zombie.  She seemed confused,
in shock.  Whatever was wrong, she was in no condition to drive. 
I met her at her car and took her arm to lead her to my car.  It
is a measure of just how out of it she was that she let me lead
her off so docilely.  I drove her home, and settled her onto her
bed.  I brought her some soup and tea, and watched while she ate
it.  I was leaving the room when she started to cry.  "Kyra, what
is it?'  I dropped the tray and moved to her side.  "What is it? 
You are sick?  What did the doctor say?"  Now, I truly understood
fear.  Everything else was pale in comparison to the soul numbing
terror of losing her.

She looked up at me with tear filled eyes, and started giggling
uncontrollably.  "No, Mark, I am not sick, I am pregnant - and I
don't even know who the father is...."  She broke into sobs
again.  I gave what comfort I could, just holding her.  Finally
she fell into a fitful sleep.  I spent the night sitting next to
her bed, watching over her.

The next day, she tried to throw me out, make me leave.  I may be
submissive, but I am also strong willed about important things -
like Kyra.   She finally accepted me living there to take care of
her in return for my servitude.  In reality, she did everything
she could to run me off.  Everything got more intense, and yes,
more painful, but I stuck it out.  After she figured out she
would have to really injure me to make me leave, she resigned
herself to making me merely miserable and doing her level best to
humiliate me into turning on her and leaving.  That didn't work
either, but I have to give her an A for effort.

One particular stunt sticks in my mind.  I made the typically
male mistake of commiserating with her by saying "I know how you
feel."  Not smart, particularly when dealing with a woman who is
not particularly happy with me and one who has some very unusual
and specialized connections.

Three weeks later I found myself in a rubber body suit that
included breasts, and one thing more.  A fill connection. 
Mistress hooked me up to her garden hose and turned on the water. 
The rubber at my lower abdomen started to fill and in no time, I
was preceded by about 25 pounds of water that pulled me off
balance and put a tremendous strain on my back and shoulders. 
The addition of a maternity dress and Markie looked for all the
world to be about ten months pregnant.

I spent that entire day waddling about the house trying to
accomplish the daily tasks Mistress had assigned me, trying to
stand and sit without killing myself, and continually rubbing at
the small of my back.  The absolute killer was when she insisted
that the kitchen floor be scrubbed and waxed (by hand!.  My back
still quivers in the memory of supporting that off balance weight
on my knees and one hand while trying to handle the scrub brush. 
Before finally emptying the water balloon and releasing me to go
to bed, Kyra had looked me squarely in the eye and said, "NOW,
you know PART of what I feel."   After that, I got to be
"pregnant" at least one day a week after that, although she never
filled the suit quite *that* full again.  I got her point,
though, and made it my point never to be quite so placating
again.
-- 
--------
Spam email has forced me to encrypt my "reply to" header address.
Please remove .REMOVE from the address.  Sorry for the inconvenience.
tigger at alices dot com 

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