Message-ID: <7044eli$9803191159@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: corvidae1@aol.com (Corvidae1)
Subject: (ASS/M) RP Nothing Like The Sun: Six (F/m)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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: <1998031804290501.XAA22246@ladder03.news.aol.com>
If you’re underage and/or sexual material is illegal where you live, or you
find stories involving sex and/or dominance and submission offensive, please
stop reading (though one wonders what you’re doing here in the first place!)
* * * *
Nothing Like The Sun
By L.Corvidae
Chapter Six: Catherine
Monday Morning
Catherine woke feeling tired and a little sad. The sun hadn't risen yet,
and in the dark, still gloom of the early morning the house felt even emptier
than usual.
Knowing full well how early she had to be up for work, she'd sent michael
home the night before. It hadn't helped much; she kept going over the tapes
repeatedly, rewinding her favorite bits over and over.
She'd studied the way he reacted to her ravishing his ass; watched with
laborious breath as a slow, dewy look filled his eyes. Then she'd see herself
quickening her own pace, driving for her own orgasm and Catherine would turn
away angrily. She'd only ever brought a man to "orgasm" without his penis once
before, and she'd stumbled into it by accident. michael impressed her as being
sensitive enough for her to repeat the experience, and she was pissed that her
own greediness had ruined her first, best chance.
When next she looked at the clock, it was one in the morning and she only
had four hours left for sleep, maybe five if she rushed herself later.
She'd thought -hoped, really - that her experiences with michael would
change the patterns of her dreaming, but the old dream returned.
She knew she was dreaming as it happened. She knew it was The Dream; but She
couldn't escape the emotions it stirred up because she also knew all too well
that it was a memory, too.
She was in a bed, not Her bed, but a nearly perfect replica; in the house
she'd made her slaves rent when the stable too big and too unwieldy for her own
home. Melrose East, She had taken to calling it.
kelli was at her feet, licking and sucking her toes; and Catherine was
trying to push back the overwhelming guilt she was feeling at just that moment
and say what needed to be said. All She could think of were clichés: no more
room at the inn, last hired - first fired.
It didn't help that She'd brought the girl in against her better judgment;
that she knew she was already spreading herself too thin. If it had been anyone
but Caresse who had asked, She would have said "no," but Caresse - Goddess
Caresse, formerly of Paris, France (though once when they were drunk, had
admitted she was born in Lyon and had only been to Paris "once or twice") - was
Catherine's best friend in the scene.
The more Catherine got to know kelli, the more uncomfortable she grew with
the whole situation. For one thing, Catherine could never really enjoy herself
with female submissives. She had two other women in Her stable, but they were
both quite strong willed and self assured. Laura the Amazon was a switch and
Gina, who Catherine had picked up club-hopping one night, was in it mainly for
the camp and drama. Catherine let the Cuban girl's irreverent attitude slide
because she was simply the hottest dance partner the mistress had ever known.
kelli, on the other hand, was weak and full of self-loathing. She had a lot
of serious rape fantasies, and once told Catherine, proudly, about the time her
boyfriend hand made her bend down in the middle of the park and eat a pile of
dog shit in front of a dozen spectators. What made it worse was that the girl
couldn't understand the revulsion and pity she elicited from Catherine when she
told those kind of stories.
Gina had told Catherine a little later on that kelli had confessed to her
that the boyfriend had actually tried to break up with her the night before,
and that kelli'd locked herself in the bathroom and threatened suicide until he
gave in. It was his idea that the girl go into "that S&M shit" and Catherine
guessed he had suggested it in large part to get away.
kelli was everything Catherine hated about subs and Dommes, and she wanted
her gone.
She'd been bracing herself for kelli to throw a similar tantrum after
Catherine dismissed her, when the door to her room flew open violently and Gina
came running in, wild eyed and screaming.
A world away from that time and place, Catherine shook her head sadly and
crawled out of bed.
She padded into the bathroom on bare feet and stopped to look at herself in
the mirror. The ghost looked exhausted, but happy.
Her eyes were sunken and looked bruised. She'd catch shit for that at work.
Not that She usually minded the ragging, She even encouraged it most times.
She was completely open about her lifestyle at the office and it delighted her
that her male coworkers were either so stupid or so ignorant that they believed
she was joking. It was amazing to her that these men could swallow the letters
printed in Penthouse as fact, yet laugh off her detailed descriptions of
real-life encounters.
She relieved herself; the act of defecation reminding her of the way
michael's tongue had felt inside her. She'd been surprised overall how
professional a job he'd done with the whole massage. Most subs tried to make it
an erotic act: planting little kisses, groping her breasts. And while michael
had poked her once or twice through the panties, she'd dealt with enough subs
"accidentally" rubbing their cocks against her to know that in michael's case
it had been genuine clumsiness.
She finished her business, flushed, brushed her teeth, gargled mouthwash,
spat and smiled to the disheveled haridelle in the mirror. Just another
glamorous day in the life of a Domme.
michael had no idea how close to her heart he'd hit with his analogy about
dogs. In Catherine's estimation, all men were dogs; only some were more German
Shepherd and others more Irish Setter. michael was definitely more Working
Group than Toy, but then again, she grinned, slipping into the shower, they
were all toys to Her.
She felt better after her shower, she always did. She wrapped one towel
around her body, a second around her hair, and went back into the bedroom.
Bast, the cat, had jumped up on the bed and was licking herself. She'd already
made a good sized stain on Catherine's satin bedcover.
"Damn it, Bas, get off!"
The cat continued to lap at itself, oblivious. Catherine undid the towel
across her torso and teased it into a rat's tail. She snapped it, with
precision accuracy, directly above the indolent creature. Bast stopped, glared
at her, and hissed.
"I SAID GET OFF!" She barked. The cat began licking itself again.
Catherine sighed. "Bitch," she muttered.
She went over to her vanity. She loved cats, but at least men were
trainable.
By the time she was done drying her hair, the first rays of the sun were
peeking through her blinds. She went to the dresser and picked up the pair of
cotton underwear that had been neatly folded on top. They were michael's, and
they were probably the cleanest pair of men's underwear she had ever seen. If
it weren't for the faded tags, she'd have sworn they were new. Given the
disorderly condition of his apartment, she hadn't expected it of him.
Unfortunately for michael, the pair of panties she'd swapped them for hadn't
been nearly so clean. That reminded her, and she hastily pulled on the jockeys,
tying a knot in the side so they'd stay up, and hurried over to her upstairs
library, where she kept the computer.
It was getting close to the time he'd be waking up and checking his
messages. She could check when each message was read, and quickly learned his
patterns. She'd sometimes wait a few minutes until she was sure he'd come and
gone and then send him a very important, highly detailed notice. michael had
gotten to the point where'd he check his mail three of four times before going
to work. She hoped he'd check today; she was pretty sure he would.
As she typed her instructions, she began to wish she had a camera in the mud
room as well. She wanted so much to have seen his reaction when he retrieved
his clothes and found his underwear missing, replaced by panties she'd recently
used to wipe herself, front and back.
The whole body of her E-mail read: Wear them to work today. Wear them all
day.
She pictured him sitting in the locker room of his gym after work, stripped
down in front of all those men, wearing messy panties. She began to get hot.
Biting the inside of her cheek, Catherine turned off the computer and rushed
through the rest of getting dressed. She tugged the waist of the underwear high
up her midriff, above the waist of her pants so she could cover the knot in the
side with her blouse. She was running way behind at this point, and flew
downstairs to make herself a quick breakfast of eggoes and orange juice for
her, and a tin of overpriced cat food for Bast.
Not for the first time did she reflect on how nice it would be to have a
slave to help her through all the mundane little tasks of the day. But that
would mean letting them in parts of her house that she still wasn't comfortable
with anyone going. Not since Alex.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek hard. It was bad enough that he had
to haunt her dreams every night; she got furious when he wasted her waking
moments, too. Especially now that she was trying to seriously start her life
again. She'd studied enough psychology to know that extreme hatred almost
always stemmed from another, equally extreme emotion, often love. Catherine
hated Alex with every fiber of her being.
She gulped down the last of her juice, gave Bast's back a friendly scratch,
and sprinted for the door.
In spite of all her dallying and daydreaming, she still got to the clinic
before 7:30. There were already a few mini vans in the visitor's parking.
Catherine parked hers behind the clinic next to the other employees, entered
through the back door, and put on her white coat.
Mistress Catherine became Dr. Catherine, DVM.
It was going to be a long, boring, shitty day. Monday mornings were the
second busiest day of the week. Saturdays were the heaviest, when people
finally decided to make time for the animals they'd brought into their homes.
Catherine and her three partners in the practice had a standing rule: If you
wanted Saturday off, you had to go Monday morning alone, barring emergencies.
As much as she dreaded carrying the load alone until noon, she knew from long
experience not to even kid about wanting an emergency. The Fates had a way of
making you pay for such idle thoughts.
What made the day even shittier, however, was the fact that she had no plans
to see michael that evening. That had been all her decision, and she was
regretting it. But she'd had a few other promising relationships go sour by
spending too much time together initially; learning too much too quickly and
then growing bored before there was any chance to grow. Besides, she reasoned,
if a Top couldn't control Herself, She had no call to control anybody else.
Catherine bade a brief good morning to Mandy and Amy, the two assistants
working the early shift. The young women said hi back and when she'd left the
room, gave each other a knowing look about the dark circles under her eyes.
Unlike Catherine's fellow veterinarians, the women in the office knew the
score. She'd even invited Mandy, who was into piercings and "occasionally
getting tied up," to the munch/birthday party Catherine's fellow Dommes had
thrown her two years back; but that was as far as it went. Catherine didn't
believe in shitting where she ate.
The doors were unlocked at precisely seven-thirty. Catherine always made
sure that the doors opened exactly on time when she was in the building.
It was Spring, and that meant a lot of paw-biting and butt-dragging as
allergies began to kick in for the four-legged set. There were ear infections
and fleas and a few old-timers who were feeling the first pangs of arthritis.
There was a woman, reeking of cigarettes, who couldn't fathom why her cockatiel
was so prone to respiratory infections.
Catherine tried to be as tactful and professional as she could, but the lady
refused to believe that she was the cause of all her pet's problems. The woman
left the office muttering irritably about how it was all a scam by the vets to
keep her coming back for more expensive medication. Catherine gave the bird
four months to live.
Actually, Catherine had found that most owners of exotic pets were far more
conscientious about their animal's well-being than the average Joe who owned a
dog. You had to be, really. Exotics were exotic for a reason: they evolved in
very specialized climates and natural conditions and it was folly to think you
could just plunk them down in an alien environment and expect them to thrive.
It would be like taking a kid off a farm in Iowa and dropping him down in the
heart of Manhattan. Good owners did everything in their power to adapt their
environments to suit their pet's needs. Bad owners expected the animal to adapt
to them. Most died of stress, instead.
At 9:15, just when things should have been dying down, a woman came
barreling in with a broken and bloody Black Lab in her arms. Mandy was on the
phone in a flash to get someone else in to cover while Amy ran interference
with the owner, trying to calm her down and get the full story.
Catherine didn't need the story. Dog vs. car, it was simple as that. She
scooped the silent, trembling form into her arms - seventy pounds of dead
weight - and carried it to one of the exam rooms, setting it gently down on the
stainless steel table. Her white coat was smeared with blood already. She could
tell just by looking at the animal what was coming next. She fought the urge to
go to the sink and throw up. She gently stroked the fur on its head, spoke
soothing words into its vacant, unseeing eyes.
When Mandy ducked her head in the door, Catherine ordered her to stay with
the dog while she went and had The Talk with the owner.
Catherine hated The Talk. She hated a world where such a thing was even
necessary. Amy glanced up and saw the look in her eyes and backed away quietly.
"Is he going to be okay?" the woman asked, her voice barely more controlled
than her earlier frantic wailing.
"Ma'am, I can't lie to you. Your dog is seriously injured."
"Oh God!"
"He'll need surgery."
"Surgery?"
"There's no chance he'll even survive," her voice caught in her throat. Her
eyes began to water up. "And if he did.. he might never be the same... but he
might," she added forcefully. But it was too late, she could see the wheels
already turning.
"How much would this cost?" the woman's voice was soft and she sounded lost.
Catherine's hands were balled into fists. Her nails were sinking deep into
her palms. She told the woman.
"Oh, Christ!"
"I know it seems like a lot," Catherine's voice was plaintive, begging
almost. But in her heart she knew. Some dogs recovered. Some ended up as frisky
as ever and full of life. These were her Angels. She had pictures of each one
on her office wall and she sent them Christmas cards every year: addressed to
the dogs themselves, not the owners. She loved her Angels, each and every one.
But the dog in the other room was bleeding out of his ears. The dog in the
other room wasn't making any sounds. And his owner was looking at car payments
or the mortgage, or little Bobby's orthodontia. No Angels for Catherine today.
"What... what else can you do?"
The tears began to run down her cheeks. "We can make it painless."
The woman looked into her eyes, found more understanding than she had
possibly expected to. She nodded.
Catherine reached out and gently stroked the woman's shoulder, gave it a
gentle squeeze. They were both covered in blood so stains didn't seem to
matter. She got up and went into the back.
Mandy saw the expression on Catherine's face. She nodded grimly while
Catherine got the shot. Catherine always wanted so desperately to be the one to
cradle the animal's head. To stroke its fur and speak calming, reassuring words
until the end. But state law required that only a doctor was allowed to even
hold the shot, so Catherine was always the executioner. The dog was already
deep into shock and died without even a whimper.
Catherine stood there for a long while afterward, running her hands along
the animal's flanks, telling him what a good boy he'd been. What a brave boy
he'd been. She couldn't stop crying.
Eventually Mandy had to come in and take her out of the room, to her office.
She sat Catherine down, ran her hands through Catherine's hair and told her
over and over that it would be all right.
When Mandy finally left her, Catherine sunk her head down onto the desk. She
wanted Alex. She wanted Alex to hold her and kiss her and make love to her. But
Alex wasn't an option anymore. She had no options anymore. michael might never
be an option. She had only herself. She felt cold.
"Wow, that bad, huh?"
She looked up to see Pete in the doorway. Catherine had three partners in
the clinic, all male. Two she knew from Vet School. Peter she knew from
kindergarten. He was short and stocky and had a voice at twenty-nine that
sounded like he'd been drinking Wild Turkey since before he left the womb.
"Christ almighty you look like shit," he said.
"Fuck you!"
He smiled. "Look, Katie," he was the only person besides her father she'd
ever let call her Katie, "I'm here now and I can get Ron in here by noon..."
"Damn it, Pete, no!"
"Will you stop being such a hard ass all the time? And don't give me that 'a
deal's a deal' crap, either. Take the rest of the day off. Please? Doctor's
orders!"
"You're a veterinarian, Pete."
"And you think you're the world's largest cat."
"Actually, most big cats outweigh me by..."
"Will you shut up and get the fuck out of here!"
He smiled as he said it. She managed a small one in reply.
* * * *
She went to Barnes & Noble because they had in abundance the two things that
calmed her most: coffee and books. She did a quick reconnaissance of the store,
gathered up an armful of promising candidates, got a big steaming mug of Irish
Cream, and curled up in one of the big, comfy chairs by the door.
Reading was her one great passion in life; books were her addiction. In her
library at home she'd stuffed the shelves of her bookcases two deep. There were
enormous piles of books on the floor, like snowdrifts; great towering stacks of
them that reached the ceiling. It had gotten so bad that she'd been
contemplating moving the computer downstairs to the living room just to make
more room.
The managers at Barnes & Noble didn't mind if she spent an afternoon
reading in their store because they knew she'd buy twice as many books when she
was done as she'd finished there. She read everything: pet care books-
naturally - books on biology and astronomy, psychology, sex, Eastern philosophy
and witchcraft. She devoured mysteries by the ton, particularly Lilian Jackson
Braun, and loved fantasy and horror. Anne Rice, of course, spoke to something
deep in her soul, but she especially enjoyed the twisted, repressed,
dehumanized sexuality of H. P. Lovecraft. She could blow a month's pay in one
weekend, all on books.
By contrast, Catherine spent virtually nothing on her D&S lifestyle; with
the notable and rankling exception of the downstairs tub. The vast majority of
her whips and cuffs and vibrators had come as "tribute" from subs who, not
coincidentally, had always fantasized about being tied up with "X" or whipped
with "Y" or fucked with "Z." Most of her "Domme outfits" had been gifts from
her fellow Dommes at the birthday party she'd taken Mandy to. Caresse had
explained that "We're tired of always seeing you looking like Death, chéri."
Catherine hadn't caught the reference and had been highly offended. She began
to sulk when Mandy explained that 'Death' was a character in a comic book who
usually dressed the same way Catherine did; or at least the same way Catherine
was dressed that night. The others had assured Mandy, who had only ever seen
her boss dressed for work, that Catherine's outfit that evening was sadly
typical.
michael was into comic books, she mused. Perhaps she'd ask him about
'Death' sometime.
The tub, she had spent money on. It had been her intention to remodel the
whole dungeon, putting in a tub AND a kitchenette in the mud room, so slaves
could prepare her meals; but at the time she'd had a slave who was heavy into
golden showers, so she'd gone with the tub first. Three months later, after
shelling out half-again the estimate, the contractors still hadn't finished
installing it, and her dungeon was torn to pieces. She had to fire them and
bring in new contractors, who virtually had to start over from scratch.
Meanwhile, the slave who had prompted all this had moved on to more golden
pastures.
She'd gotten her revenge, though. She'd invited him over to "inaugurate"
the new tub, had tied him up, stuck a snorkel in his mouth and then filled the
tub with a weeks' worth of urine she'd saved in used water cooler drums. She'd
meant to leave him like that all weekend, but she relented after the first two
hours when the smell began to drift upstairs. When she went down to release
him, however, she saw his incredibly swollen hard-on, and left him there for
the full two days, anyway. The stink by the second day was unbearable. She put
down a carpet of paper towels between the tub and the back door, untied him,
and ordered him to dress and leave without the chance to dry off first.
In retrospect, it had probably been the biggest erotic thrill of his life,
and she'd been stuck airing out her house for a week afterwards.
Big revenge, she thought glumly.
She wondered if michael had a thing for watersports and if she was really
interested in training him. Still, it never hurt to have a well-rounded slave,
and it would be so delicious to see the look of shock and betrayal in his eyes.
The glorious thing about michael, she'd decided, was that he was still in
that twilight world between reading about things and experiencing them. He knew
what was coming, but could still be as shocked by the acts as he was by his own
enjoyment of them.
She began to get a yummy sensation in her belly as she daydreamed about
pissing on michael; the lovely whimpering he'd make as he tried to comprehend
why his beautiful Mistress degraded him so.
She was getting really hot and bothered when she caught something at the
periphery of her vision that made her heart skip a beat. She turned suddenly,
but the man was already through the doors. She twisted herself around 180
degrees in the chair, staring intently through the plate glass window, but she
couldn't see him.
michael, she thought with a shudder, michael was here!
In the parking lot a car was pulling out of its space. She watched miserably
as it turned the other way and headed away from the store. She was mad at
herself for making him park so far away Friday night, for not getting to see
his car; but the maddening thing was that he had told her what kind of car he
drove and she couldn't now remember it at all.
Not that it would have mattered much: she knew nothing about cars, she
barely knew the male and model of her own. They all looked alike to her. Still,
she ran over his story over and over, hoping for some clue. He'd had it for a
year, a year before the company that made it hired his firm. That was important
to the story because he'd already dreamed up the commercial for his own
amusement that would end up causing such a big stir at his company. She never
watched TV, at least other people's TV, but apparently the commercial relied
humor to make the car's main weakness seem like its best selling point.
She sighed angrily. She hadn't been paying attention. He'd seemed very proud
of his little triumph, so she'd let him go on at length.
The car turned out of the parking lot and disappeared. She turned herself
back around and dropped back into the seat.
"Fuck!"
People looked at her, startled. She suddenly realized that she'd said it
aloud and, cheeks burning; she tried to fold herself up and stuff herself deep
down behind the cushions of her chair.
Catherine considered it for a little while. Had he been following her? No,
she decided, michael wasn't the type. She looked at her watch. 12:48. He could
have been out on lunch. It must have been a coincidence.
But... what if he had seen her? What must he be thinking? The warm glow
began to fill her again. What if he imagined she was stalking him? She smiled,
intrigued. She'd saved every communication between them, and she was certain
that somewhere he'd told her the name of the gym he used. The idea had...
possibilities. True, staying apart for 24 hours had been her idea, but hadn't
someone told her "No 'deal's a deal' crap?" Doctor's orders, she thought,
breaking into a wicked little smile.
Catherine wanted to be certain, so she got up and left her books in her
chair, so nobody'd take it, and strolled over to the registers. She smiled at
the cashier, Monica. Catherine knew everyone who worked there, so she had no
trouble approaching her. Monica was one of those bubbly, eternally optimistic
types who most people found annoying. Catherine, who split her time between
sick animals, gothic Dommes and masochists, enjoyed talking to her.
"Morning, Monica."
"Good morning Doct... oh Jesus!"
Catherine followed the line of the frightened girl's gaze and saw for the
first time that the dog's blood had seeped through her coat at one point and
left a large, red blossom over her left breast. The blouse had been silk, new
and expensive. Now it was ruined.
"Been a bad day," Catherine said slowly. Monica nodded silently.
Catherine tried to calm her down with a reassuring smile.
"Listen, Monica, did you get a good look at the man you just rang up?"
Monica shrugged. "Not really."
Catherine tisked irritably. "Not at all?"
"Not really. He seemed pretty average, I guess. Nondescript."
That sounded like michael.
"How did he pay?"
"Cash, sorry."
Behind her, someone "humphed" at Catherine. She looked over her shoulder to
see an elderly, overweight woman waiting behind her.
"Thanks, Monica," she said moving away from the counter.
"No problem, sorry. I hope you have a better day!"
Catherine smiled weakly. "Me too."
She got back to her chair when it occurred to her to ask what it was he had
bought, but there was a line forming, as the woman who had been in such a hurry
now fished around in her purse for her checks.
Average. It could be michael's middle name. Not that he wasn't attractive in
a plain, uninspired Midwest kind of way. He'd make a great spy, she reflected,
taking a sip of her coffee, he'd fade away in a crowd with no trouble at all.
It bothered her that that bothered her so much. The problem was that
Catherine was used to the James Bond type of spy: dashing, charismatic and
beautiful. Even kelli, who'd been such damaged goods, had been a lovely thing
to look at; and Alex had been, was still, the most beautiful being Christine
had ever seen in her entire life.
Beautiful bodies, she thought glumly, ugly souls.
She wondered if it worked in reverse, but then again, she'd never found
Hitler an attractive man. She wondered if michael had a beautiful soul. She
wanted him to. In a part of her psyche she refused to acknowledge, she needed
him to.
Regardless, she intended to find out, and soon; before she let herself get
too attached. She intended to drive him hard and fast, to test him beyond all
possible doubt.
And if he stumbled? Faltered, shied away or "threw a shoe," as it were? Then
she'd cut him loose, hard.
If he got hurt, if he was damaged... she couldn't concern herself. She'd
told him, she was out to get what she wanted.
Mistress always got what She wanted.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Reposting and archiving is permitted, so long as you cite authorship and don’t
charge anything for the privilege.
Comments and constructive criticism are welcome.
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |