Message-ID: <11722eli$9805301637@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/11722.txt> From: november919@hotmail.com Subject: ST: Domination of Trent 1/n M/F Femdom Reznor-Celeb Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.stories.moderated Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <6kogin$2m6$1@nnrp1.dejanews.com> Domination of Trent (1/N) by November Tuesday http://www.geocities.com/ SunsetStrip/Underground/3193/ He comes to me quietly, as he is supposed to. I see him on the cameras, coming down the hall. I brush out my hair and freshen my lipstick, and let him wait for a long moment after he knocks softly on the door. He has a small cut on his cheek, a day or so old. I fight the desire to kiss it, and the almost maternal loving instinct that makes me want to take him straight from the chaos of the tour and comfort him, reduce him, keep him someplace warm and quiet until he is calm and centered. Instead, I stare at him unblinking for long seconds, then tilt my head toward the dentist chair. "Get naked." I disappear behind the door of my inner sanctum and then assemble assorted toys - torture implements, lubricants, vibrators, restraints. As I push the cart out toward the main room, I am struck by the mirrored wall, and my reflection. In the sun sweeping in through the windows, my hair is caught on fire, long and gold and red, soft in contrast to the leather that holds my breasts, which straps and holds and contains me, all tight straps and metal rings warmed by my flesh. I am a study in soft and hardness, my lips look like a painting that is smeared, red and wet below hard blue eyes. "Trent." He looks up obediently. I don't have anything to say to him, though he looks at me as if to say "what." I just want to say his name and have his dark eyes look at me. I wheel the cart closer. He is looking at my tits, my tight waist, the place where my falling hair meets the exposed small of my back. He is exquisite. Tight, pale flesh, lying on the chair. In addition to the cut on his cheek there is a long diagonal laceration on his leg and bruises all over, purple on his pale skin. He is lying with one arm at his side and the other on his stomach. His cock is hardening as he is looking at my crotch. I stop the cart with a bang. "Did I give you permission to look at me?" "No." Eyes cast downward over blushing cheeks like a chastised schoolboy. He couldn't look at the wall opposite either, since it was all mirrored and my reflection there was visible also. He didn't have much to contemplate other than his pink erection, and this seemed to embarass him more. I moved behind him and took one of the blindfolds from the back of the chair. I waited for a second and watched his cock try to soften, then harden again. He couldn't see me smiling. Then I brought the blindfold stealthily over his eyes, and pulled back, hard, pulling his head back hard against the padded chair. He was good this time, giving only a momentary gasp and start. His cock was now soft. I pull his arm straight out and shackle it to the end of a chain. I take up the slack and do the same on both sides so that although he is resting comfortably on the chair his arms are held straight out from him. With leather I strap his pretty torso to the chair. I spread the legs of the chair an old dentist chair that has been modified so that the bottom is two spreadable legs, among other things. I tie each ankle firmly to each leg of the chair. Then, so that he can't thrust up, I tie each of his tight, muscled legs just above the knees with more leather. He is silent and dormant in his chair now. I walk across the room, aware of the punctuated tempo of my heels on the parquet floor. The room is an old ballet studio once owned by the New Orleans Ballet and as I approach the mirror I admire the bounce of my breasts and the tiny conpactness of my waist. Then, I turn to admire my handiwork. I do this with all my clients, appraise them, and take time to reflect on what I shall do to delight them and myself. With Trent in particular, I enjoy this part. He is waiting patiently, silently, on the chair, not moving a muscle. He is my favorite. Sometimes I fear I like Trent too much. I saw him once outside of my "dungeon," at a bar off Bourbon and our eyes met for a long moment of recognition, and although I was overjoyed to see him I kept my gaze steely as I could. For some reason, however, my cheeks began to burn for a reason I couldn't identify. He had caught me outside of my element. When I felt the eye contact was too hard to sustain and that the flush of my cheeks was unbearable, I turned away. That night I thought of him as I lay on the chair, something I had never done before. That night it made me feel closer to him as I came hard and screaming into the dark room. But now I had him pinned to the chair, stretched and ready for my ministrations. Taut, pale body, sprinkled with dark hair, pink nipples. I walk back to the chair. I stopped and stood between his spread legs. It is so quiet that he could hear my breathing. Once again in anticipation of me he hardens. I stand and stare straight down at his erection. His sweet blindfolded face is turned up toward me, blind as if I was some hovering angel delivering the rapture, blinding in my purity. Where to begin.... The whole series is located at November's Erotica http://www.geocities.com/ SunsetStrip/Underground/3193/ -----== Posted via Deja News, The Leader in Internet Discussion ==----- http://www.dejanews.com/ Now offering spam-free web-based newsreading -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | <http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>