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Walking quickly back to the car to retrieve the keys to the boathouse, you curse your inability to be perfect. Not out loud, of course, or even under your breath, but you are being too hard on yourself and you know it. Still, you cannot seem to stop. Grasping the keys with an angry fist you head back to the boathouse and enter, the slight delay costing you nothing more than two minutes in time, but your impatience charging you interest which will be applied later. The boat seems in order and you offer thanks to the caretaker who has now been resting in the ground for six months. These estate sales forced by Probate Court are never a pleasant thing and it is always nice when someone does their job properly. If only the owners had shown as much foresight and left a will. If only they had planned for their passing as they had when they hired that old man to look after this place during their time of life. There must be at least three hundred acres of the six hundred forty here that could be subdivided and host a good sized collection of townhouses. The lake frontage alone was probably worth a fortune. Now that the courts have finally decided that the one daughter does indeed have title to everything, she’ll lose the apartment in town. Needless. Everyone should have a will. If her parents had had a will then that apartment would not have had to be sold to cover the cost of Probate Court. Lawyers. They always win no matter how you slice it. You wish you had become one instead of a property manager.

Untying the boat and pushing it out into the foggy lake, you start the small outboard motor and head slowly across towards where you know the little wooden dock should be. You have seen pictures of it but with this mist you have doubts that you will be able to recognize it when you see it. Seeing it will not be easy, will it? Every once in a while you can spy a bit of treed shoreline in the distance and it does seem to be growing closer. Sort of. Damn, this wet air is cold!

Why hadn’t the daughter been willing to come out here and do this? It was her property now, for crying out loud. Finally you see the dock and slow to a crawl to let the boat rub up against it like a dog begging to be scratched. Jumping out, you tie it off and carefully ascend the slippery wooden steps to the long walkway which leads towards the house. House? “Mansion” would more accurately describe it. These people certainly had money. You try two keys in the front door before finding the right one and step cautiously inside. “Hello”, you shout to the vastness, even though you know it is empty. A small songbird flits from the chandelier in the foyer and disappears down the hallway. Someone must have left a window open. Your task is simple. Find the “old oak desk” upstairs and remove from it a green ledger which you will return to the daughter in person as soon as you copy out the figures you need to conclude your part in this business. Somehow you cannot let the matter of the bird go, and so investigate the hallway until the creature reveals itself again, this time flying into the kitchen and promptly disappearing out the open window you suspected. Closing it and heading back to the foyer, you climb the half circle marble stairway and then walk back into the East Wing of the house towards the “Upper Den” where the desk is promised to be.

As you enter the den another songbird flees before you and you close yet another window. Curious, though, how you feel it was the same bird. There in the corner is the oak desk and in it the green ledger, just as described. Sitting in the short backed chair at the desk you copy the necessary figures into your PDA and then slip the ledger into your briefcase. As you stand to leave you are a little shocked to see yet one more songbird fly away out of the room and down the hall the way you came. “Is every window in this stupid place open?” you mutter to no one in particular as you reach the stairs and descend. Thinking it likely that the bird headed for the kitchen in order to find the window that was once open when you arrived, you stop dead in your tracks when you see that that which you had closed not five minutes before is now wide open again. “Hello!”, you shout loudly, feeling that you are not alone. In fact, you have the unmistakable feeling that you are being watched. “Hello!”, you holler again, but the only sound which returns is that of the bird chirping outside on a limb of the lilacs just starting to bloom. There scent is heady and enticing. Closing the window again you head briskly for the door, experiencing now a strong desire to get away from this place. You have not gone so far as to believe it is haunted, but you could swear you are not alone.

As you follow the little stone path back to the dock the mist parts for a moment to reveal two women standing next to the place where you had tied the boat. This surprises you to the point of both panic and irritation, and you teeter for a moment between whether to chastise them for not announcing themselves when you shouted “hello” or saying nothing more than a polite “good morning” and being on your way. The mist folds back in around them and then wafts away again. Now you are closer, perhaps only one hundred yards away, and what you observe causes you to stop dead in your tracks. The woman on the right is naked except for a high feathered headdress and your boat is gone!

Panicking and trying to fight back the urge to run, you begin to notice the other woman. She looks for all the world like the daughter who has inherited this property, except for her hair. It is blonde and long now whereas before in the office back in town you had seen a picture of her sporting short black curls. As your mind initiates small musings about women’s hair color, wigs, and dyes, you suddenly realize that they are both now staring directly at you. “Hello”, you call out for the umpteenth time today, but more timidly. “I, uh, have the ledger you wanted.” No answer and they both just continue to stare. The naked woman on the right with the impossible feathered headdress makes not the slightest effort to cover herself and you find it curious that you are not embarrassed to see her standing so unabashedly. Perhaps it is because she is unperturbed by her nakedness that you are unperturbed. It is so odd though, like a troubling dream. Her white skin blends in with the fog so perfectly no wonder you did not see her at first. Why isn’t she cold? And where is the boat? How are you going to get back across the lake?

The blonde woman on the left is clothed in a dark violet ball gown of some kind with diaphanous upper sleeves. She raises her right index finger without lifting her arm and beckons you to come to her. In an instant, without any realization whatsoever why you are doing so, your legs start walking again, and very purposefully at that. It is as if your body is no longer under your control as you seem to lunge forward towards these two silent women as would water from a waterfall plunge helplessly into a pool below. You try to stop yourself. You try to turn and run away, but you can no more change direction than you can sprout wings. She is drawing you to her and you are powerless to stop! Within ten feet you suddenly halt, commanded again by the slightest movement from her slender finger, and for an instant you are thankful, but then you notice the desire raging in you. You want so much to continue moving closer to her! Why had you not noticed this when you were walking? It feels as if the desire had been there all along, been there for ages, in fact. You do not just desire her physically, you love her with all your heart. You need her. You are desperate to be as close as you can. And as she raises one perfect eyebrow and launches a coy smile, your head races to catch up with your heart and you almost laugh when you sense yourself falling to the ground, overcome and overloaded at last by the spell that has been cast over you. The final thing you see as your eyes grow heavy and close is the naked woman opening her mouth, and the last thing you hear is the sound of a songbird’s call escaping from those perfect lips.

Darkness ………….

The sound of tiny lake waves lapping against the side of your boat raises you slowly from sleep. At first you cannot move and so just lay there on the cold aluminum, but gradually your limbs become your own again and you manage to sit upright. You are surrounded by mist, thicker than ever, and there is no way to tell where in the lake you are. You are quite alone, ….. you are dripping wet from the fog, …… and you are quite and utterly naked. The green ledger and your briefcase are next to you along with a silver foil envelope. On the envelope, embossed in purple flowing letters, is your first name. Are you still asleep? Are you still under her spell? You reach for the envelope and almost cry out when your fingers meet it. Where you had expected cold there is heat. It is very warm to the touch, almost hot.

Tearing open the shiny paper you withdraw a folded blue foil card. The front is blank, as is the back, but opening it reveals a brief message written in bright red shiny ink. You tremble when you read the words. “You are on my land. You are in my lake. You are my property, and you are my slave! I will bring you to shore when I have need of you. Do not try to swim.” Remembering the outboard motor, you instinctively reach for the pull cord in order to wind it to life and race free from this nightmare, but where once stood a fifteen horsepower Evinrude there is now a large pumpkin lashed to the transom with some baking twine. Is this a joke? What is happening? You panic once more and unwittingly call out for help again and again, your voice muffled by the heavy damp air too dense to see through, too dead to pierce with sound. It is almost as if you are mute and you question if you really shouted at all or are perhaps stark raving mad. There are no oars and you know the lake is too large to paddle across with your hands, … and you have no idea what direction to move in anyway, absolutely no idea where you are. Or why you are here. Or what they were, those two women on the dock.

Can you swim to shore? Any shore? The warning on the card reverberates in your mind like stinging hail stones bouncing off tin, and you sink back down into the bottom of the boat and curl yourself up into a ball for warmth. The water laps against the boat and the sound almost sickens you by it’s constant reminder of your predicament. Look at that card. Just look at the absurdity of it, of this whole thing! Cast adrift by those two witches for just trying to do your work! You could die out here of hypothermia in this blasted fog! And the words on the card seem to beckon you to touch them with your cold, aching fingers. Ah, the warmth. The card is so warm. Why is it warm? You don’t care as you draw it next to your chest and huddle around it, thankful for any source of heat you can get. If only this damn fog would lift and the sun would shine. You could feel some real warmth then and see where you are. The dullness of the hours passes into a horrible blur as you drift in and out of fitful sleep. Your stomach gnaws at you with hunger. You try slaking your thirst with lake water but it is so icy you soon abandon your need to drink in favor of your need to stay warm. Only the little silver card with the shiny red ink keeps you from freezing, and only just. Darkness finally comes, long and slow, and with it deeper sleep and a kind of relinquishment of fear. As longing for freedom blessedly falls from you like blossoms from a tree, you sink deep, deep into the sleep of the possessed. You fall, down, down, down into a warm abyss of welcome heat, and you simply no longer care if these are merely the dying sensations of your body as it succumbs to the relentless cold that fleeting logic dictates surrounds you, so far above in the real world. So far above and so trapped in the little aluminum boat.

The voice of a small songbird calls out through the mist, and the boat, as if by magic, begins to slowly move. Sleep has overcome you completely now and you have no awareness of what is happening. Within a few minutes, (or was it a few hours?), the boat bumps up against the dock. It is not tied by any mortal hand, but still it stays there as if by secret order. Tender fingers of ancient flesh descend to lift you from cold metal and draw you away across the dewey grass, around the side of the great house and out back to a fairy tale cottage, something which loving parents might build for a deserving young daughter, only the detail looks so real and intricate that surely this must be something else. Something else? But what? The blonde woman in the purple gown and the naked woman with the high headdress carry you inside and lay you upon a soft feather bed. Through the depths of your sleep you notice the sweet smell of plums. Gentle fingers arrange your naked body and probe softly to determine the best manner in which to awaken you, the most efficient method in which to transition you from bottomless slumber to the highest peaks of mad arousal, the loftiest heights of desperate love. You will be here for a while, so don’t try to fight it. If and when they let you go it will only be to move temporarily back inside your former world of business and mundane activities. Sooner of later she will beckon for you to return and you will have no choice, obeying as if you are bewitched. And you are. Bewitched and possessed. And then they and all their friends will have their way with you again and again and again.

The windows of the little cottage are all open so that the songbirds may come and go as they please.

~~~~~~~

The Beckoning is a post from: Femdom Fantasies. Authors retain copyright. If you enjoyed this story or have something to add, please leave a comment. Remember, feedback typically encourages writers to write more ;)

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It had been nearly 35 years since I had been in Corsica, and though elsewhere on this rugged little island much had changed, in this area on the West side of the Cape time seemed to have stood still. Dry stone houses, some in good repair and inhabited by people, some minus roofs and windows and home to various small birds and rodents, all gave a pleasantly eerie and sleepy feeling to the little hamlets that nestled here and there amongst the steep mountain sides, like ancient gnarled hands trying patiently to cling to a forgotten age. Narrow winding roads switched back and forth between terraces of meager gardens and chestnut trees while goats fed obsessively on anything not protected by desperate fences. Now and then a rooster would tell all the world how very important something was, but who was listening? Old women dressed head to toe in thick black wool toted impossible bundles of firewood down narrow dirt paths, their wide feet plopping along like old cats meandering home to rest. Men in baggy pants and small caps stood in the doorways of dingy cafes, clutching glasses of wine and puffing distant stares with their Gitanes and Gauloise.

I enjoyed walking these tiny roads now as much as I had in my youth. Back then I had been in love with a French woman of dizzying beauty fifteen years my senior. Fifteen years that could have been a thousand for the distance between us in knowledge of life and how to live it. I had been so tragically naive and she so elegant and wise. My heart could still recall the pain of unfulfilled yearning as I now placed one foot in front of the other and ascended yet another steep bend to look out at last upon a little valley, greener than the rest for some reason, almost an oasis in this otherwise dry and rocky landscape. At the far end was a tiny village of perhaps no more than a dozen houses. The road ended there, I knew, and tonight I planned to lay my head to rest at the humble bed-and-breakfast I had booked over three months ago. A week here in peace and solitude would do me a world of good. I would dine on fresh fish and lamb, I would drink the local wine, and I would go for long walks on the mountain paths which laced upwards and over the crest of this peninsula, there to dwindle Eastwards down the more gentle and less windswept slopes that fell once again into the soft Mediterranean blue.

As I ambled more slowly now on level ground, letting my heart and lungs adjust to an easier pace, I passed by one of the many springs that dot this part of the world. Ages ago someone had driven a metal pipe deep into the hillside to channel what nature had brought to the surface for us to drink, and then someone else had constructed a high stone vault around the end of the pipe and added the face of a mermaid, from whose mouth the cool water now flowed. Wives would wash their laundry in the stone basins here and the men would quench long thirsts on their way home from town. Birds would perch above in thickets of bramble and wait their turn while young boys would splash delighted screaming girls who would then race home to tell their knowing mothers. Future husbands, those, unless the girls should be so lucky to attract the eye of a more prominent man from the city. Bastia, city of pirates, across the ridge and many kilometers to the South. The men there were rascals all, their furtive minds set on larceny of the heart in order that they might know the pleasure of the loins.

I stopped to drink. The water was icy cold and my common sense warned me to temper my slake before I felt pain, yet so delicious was this nectar after the long trek up here that I ignored the first warning and gulped greedily, soon regretting my weakness and trying to laugh as I stood upright and massaged my temples. As the temporary headache subsided I was about to bend to drink again, this time more patiently, when I noticed the painting on the back of the stone vault. Was this here when I had first visited this place decades ago? I did not remember. The image appeared almost as if a sepia photograph had been somehow developed onto the yellow plaster. It was a woman’s face, beautiful, dark and mysterious with great sad eyes. Or were they laughing? It was hard to tell. The full light of day did not reach back into this recess of some fifteen feet, and so I had to strain to see more clearly, allowing my eyes to acclimatize to the dimness. Then I got the idea to take the flashlight out of my pack.

As soon as the white LEDs shone forth onto the painting it vanished!

I was shaken. Was the painting real?

I immediately switched off the flashlight and waited. With a strange mixture of disbelief and hope I stared agape as the painting gradually began to reveal itself once again, almost as if it was coming out from within the rock. Her face was so lovely, her mouth seemingly on the brink of smiling, teasing me. Her left hand was encased in what looked like tattered black gossamer which mingled with coy grace into her raven tresses, a dark copse of hidden secrets far too rich to understand. Dizziness began to engulf my mental focus and vision as I continued to gaze. The sound of birds chirping madly behind me seemed far more distant than the few feet I reasoned it to be. I was slipping out of consciousness into dream, yet I was standing upright, both feet firmly on the stone floor below. The sound of the water gurgling from the little spring wavered on and off, warbled and trilled, and then became so loud that it hurt my ears. I tried to reach to cover them but could not move my arms. The gentle light from outside mirrored and danced off the surface of the water in the stone basin in front of the spring, and I thought I could hear within the quivering light the sound of laughing voices. Or was it one voice? Her voice?

“So, my little wanderer, you have come back to me at last. I told you that you would, but I also told you to forget that I told you and to remember to forget that you had ever seen me. But now you are here again and I want you to come inside with me again, just as you did years ago.” Her voice was like bubbles of mischievous jokes tickling my mind. I had the uncontrollable urge to laugh and was surprised that I could hear myself chuckling while still remaining paralyzed.

“Come inside the wall, my little wanderer. Come to me. Come to me!” And I could not resist. I was at once helpless and afraid, enraptured and thrilled. I wanted to walk into to wall, to join her, but I also wanted to turn and run. As if completely unaffected by this contradiction, my legs moved me forward in a rather jerky and unnatural gait, much as one would expect someone to walk if they were pretending to be a robot. I felt my temperature rising and noticed beads of sweat beginning to drip down my face. I could even smell my own body odor as I plodded forward, a madly perspiring zombie about to merge headlong with ancient stone.

“You tried to do this before, didn’t you? You tried to run, but you could not. Do you remember now?” And she laughed like shimmering happy thunder in my head, a singular shattering aria of terrible sweetness and frightening lust. Yes, lust. Lust so strong it was almost unfeasible to behold. I knew I was being drawn into her carnal embrace once more as I watched the last thoughts of escape slip away, only to be replaced by ridiculous raging desire as it filled my entire body and soul. I no longer wanted to run away. I wanted to plunge forward into her realm, into her lightning embrace, to be struck mute by her words, blind by her eyes. No longer caring about anything at all except to go to her, I stumbled into the shallow stone basin and took no notice whatsoever of the chill water that danced and bubbled around my shins. It was effervescing and glowing with a light of it’s own, a deep turquoise blue, and the sound of singing angels roiled within it as if such mellifluous turmoil was her blood, gushing forth from the tiny spring as might passion gush forth from a long denied heart on the very threshold of final romance.

I reached the end of the basin and moved into the rock. It was cool and inviting, a welcome relief from the heat in my veins. I could feel her taking hold of my hands, pulling me inwards, deep, deep inside the stone where she lived. She had looked almost shy when I first saw her face a few minutes ago, ……. a few decades ago, ……. but now she was smiling with unabashed craving, her lips shivering with anticipation, her eyes flashing with wild ravenous hunger. In an instant I was within her full grasp and felt myself grasping back, clawing and digging with my fingers to feel her torrid flesh, aching with all my might to be swallowed whole by her insatiable mind. I was hers now. I knew it and cared not about anything else.

*********************

Outside and old man stopped to quench his thirst and noticed the backpack leaning against the side of the stone basin. Had she caught another one? Deciding against drinking too much from the ageless spring, the old man shuffled back along the road towards the little village at the end of the valley. His wife would have his supper for him and afterwards they would roast a few chestnuts for dessert. As he walked slowly in the afternoon heat he thought back to the time he had imagined he had seen a face, the face of a beautiful woman, in the stone wall at the back of the arched vault where the spring was hidden from the light of the sun and the moon. The legend that men in these parts told was that the vault had been built to protect the spring from the sun, because it’s light would sap the magic that it’s waters contained. The legend that the women told was that the vault had been built to keep the moonlight from mingling with the waters as they first shot forth from the rock, lest that water become a potion of love and lust so powerful that none could withstand it’s flavor and remain in the world of daylight. The water was the blood of an ancient sprite, said the women, and that sprite never forgot the essence of a man’s hopeless infatuation once she had tasted it.

“La Violacciocca”, they called her. “The Wallflower”.

THE END

~~~~~~~

Wallflower is a post from: Femdom Fantasies. Authors retain copyright. If you enjoyed this story or have something to add, please leave a comment. Remember, feedback typically encourages writers to write more ;)

by Arafin © 2008

Catalina had long known about her grandmother’s mansion in Tuscany. Although she had never visited it she knew from the photographs sent to her by the caretaker what a beautiful structure it was, and the reputation of the area was widely known. Many people would have given their eye teeth to live there. With the full onset of winter now bearing down upon the ranch there was little to do outside and she noticed that Rowdy was becoming restless. Perhaps now was the right time for that little vacation she had been planning?

It was easy enough to convince Rowdy that northern Italy was where he wanted to be right now. A few long-standing triggers here and there, a few new suggestions about how much fun it would be, and that smile of hers, against which he was totally defenseless. The time that elapsed between his initial objections and his enthusiastic agreement could have been no more than three minutes. Clothes were chosen and bags were packed. Care for her horses was arranged and flights booked. As they bounced down the icy dirt road towards town she turned to look at him and smiled to herself as she noticed his obvious eagerness to continue pleasing her. They ditched the old Jeep in town behind the gas station and caught the bus into the local airport and an hour and a half later they were in the city.

They spent that night in a hotel by the airport and she worked her magic on him and she always had, a gentle smirk here, a stroke of her finger against his cheek, the soft whispers which rendered him totally helpless, and then the earth shaking sex. Rowdy was a goner and he knew it, but he just didn’t care. Why would he? This was paradise most men would die for. Tangled together like two vines they drifted asleep and woke to a crisp, clear morning with not a cloud in the sky.

He bathed her with loving tenderness as he did every morning, patting her silky skin dry with a soft, warm towel and then rubbing in just the right amount of that French moisturizer she swore by. Although his hands were rough from a lifetime of working outside the gentleness of his touch was beyond measure. He treated her with his hands as if he was praying to a deity. To him she was a goddess, his reason to live, his reason to serve. As they dressed she coyly inquired if he still wanted to go. She was teasing, of course, and knew what his answer would be, but she loved to do this, to test the bonds which she had tied so expertly around his mind. Rowdy vigorously answered in the affirmative that he not only wanted to go to Tuscany but had wanted to go there all his life. Catalina almost laughed. Before yesterday afternoon he had never even heard of Tuscany.

They chatted on the flight about little things of no importance and played games by watching the other people on the plane and betting on their actions. There was a young couple across the aisle from them, perhaps newlyweds, perhaps just very intimate friends. Their affection for each other was obvious. Every once in awhile the young girl would offer a knowing nod to Catalina and Catalina would return the gesture with a nod of her own or smile. The unspoken language between two beautiful women who knew how to get what they wanted from their men and leave the men with the complete faith that that’s what they wanted, too. As the plane finally touched down in Turin, Rowdy was staring out the window at the unfamiliar landscape like a little boy agape with awe on his first trip away from home.

Leonardo, the old caretaker, had dutifully driven all the way in to meet them. He spoke not one word of English and Rowdy spoke not one word of Italian so Catalina translated the greetings between them. Of course, she spoke fluent Italian and could affect the local dialect as if she had lived here all her life. Back on the ranch she had looked as if she had been born a cowgirl on the range, but here she looked as if she had been ever the sophisticated lady of means. The drive from the airport to her grandmother’s mansion was a happy mixture of local gossip offered from Leonardo, affectionate thanks from Catalina, and laid-back country humor from Rowdy, which Leonardo seemed to understand perfectly. They had both grown up working the land and so had that common ground between them.

The mansion was just as she had seen it in the pictures. It was an absolutely gorgeous seventeenth century estate house with long stables in the back and several cottages for various servants here and there. An oval pond stood directly in front of the house upon which a small flock of black ducks paddled and quacked and nibbled at water bugs. Long vines swirled around the pillars in the front of the house, now bereft of their leaves, yet showing a lovely reddish-brown color which seemed to go perfectly against the light orange stone. High arched windows with too many panes to count and the grandest front door for miles around, carved by hand from ancient oak, fitted with massive bronze hinges, and decorated with copper inlay which had long ago turned a delicious shade of green. Leonardo bid them enter and held the door open for them, actually bowing as they passed. Rowdy found this amusing. No one had ever bowed to him before. For Catalina, to be the recipient of such respect was common.

Although the air outside was chill and crisp for this locale it seemed balmy when coming from the high plains next to the Rocky Mountains in the dead of winter. Leonardo introduced them to Sylvia the young maid. Sylvia spoke a little English and proudly explained that she had set a fire in the living room. Back on the ranch this weather would not have been cold enough for a fire but here it was not at all unusual. The house had long ago been modernized and had radiant heating in the floors, but the black walnut logs crackling amidst yellow fingers of flame was a welcome sight. Sylvia offered to prepare some supper immediately though Catalina quickly explained in Italian that she and Rowdy wished to have some time to relax alone, and with the little grin she added at the end the young maid easily understood what had been meant by “relax”. Leonardo had not been so quick on the uptake and it required a tug on the elbow from Sylvia to shepherd him from the room.

They both stood in front of the fire for a moment and admired this beautiful setting. Catalina was used to such elegance but to Rowdy it was grander than anything he had ever seen and it made him a bit uncomfortable. Turning to look at the picture of her grandmother over the fireplace, Catalina slowly began to undress. Although he had seen her do this more times than he could count, to witness her disrobing with others so nearby, as well as in a strange location, had his mind boiling in seconds. She noticed this, in fact she expected and wanted it. It was part of the game. When nothing was left but her lace panties and thigh high velvet boots she carelessly shuffled the discarded clothes across the slippery floor with her foot, turned directly to face the fire, and then threw a challenging glance back across her right shoulder at the bedazzled cowboy. He knew that look and in an instant began shucking off his clothes as if they were painful to wear.

“Do you see this picture? This was my grandmother. Her name was Catalina, too, and as you can see she used to play music. It was said that her voice was that of a nightingale and could bewitch any man in seconds. I only met her once when I was very young when she visited my mother in New York. We spent an entire afternoon chatting and she taught me many things. Would you like to see some of the things she taught me?”

And with that Catalina smiled at Rowdy with that little mischievous look of hers that let him know he was about to embark on yet another deep and wonderful journey into the mysterious pleasures of her exquisite imagination. As the heat of the fire lapped against their bronze skin she slowly, ever so slowly, drew the back of her right index finger laterally across his chest, the nail leaving a faint red line like that one might make on the map of an expedition one intended to take. Rowdy’s mind raced a little harder, a little faster, and then her whisper met his ears. That one word, a mere hush of breath, almost a kiss, ………. and he was gone.

Just outside the door Leonardo and Sylvia bent to share glimpses through the keyhole and strained to listen. Things were beginning to get interesting and both the old caretaker and the young maid began to recall the local tales of the sorceress who had built this place and the spells she had woven.

~~~~~~~

The Hearth of Sorcery is a post from: Femdom Fantasies. Authors retain copyright. If you enjoyed this story or have something to add, please leave a comment. Remember, feedback typically encourages writers to write more ;)

(Sequel to The Mark of Excellence)

Catalina had told Rowdy not to go to town unless he came back with some fresh strawberries for her. He knew two things regarding this matter. One, that they needed feed for the horses, and two, there would be about as many fresh strawberries in that little dirtwater town in January as there would be pink elephants. What to do? Finally deciding that Catalina’s horses were not worth the punishment of returning to the ranch without the prescribed fruit, he brushed the dusting of snow off the seat of the old jeep, cranked it till the dying battery almost rested in peace, and rumbled off down the icy road, slipping and sliding like a drunken cowboy on a bar crawl, (something he had no small experience with, by the way).

Arriving in front of the farm supply store and soon thereafter filling the order for oats and pellet feed, he thought it couldn’t hurt to ask the old shopkeeper if he knew where one might find some fresh strawberries on a day like this. Rowdy tried to make it sound like a joke just in case the shopkeeper decided to laugh, ….. which he did, …… a lot. Piling the sacks of feed into the back of the jeep, he headed for the little convenience store on the other side of town, it being the only place within 50 miles that sold fresh flowers. The strawberries had been an impossible task, he knew, but at least he could prove that his heart was in the right place and hope for the best. Catalina was not one to take failure lightly, and he knew his fate might well include a lack of her passionate embraces for a week or more, depending on her mood, but flowers might lessen the harshness of her judgement, or so he prayed.

The old Hopi woman who ran the convenience store wasted no time telling poor Rowdy that there would not be any flowers until her next delivery on Wednesday. This news, coupled with the sad but immutable fact that today was Thursday, sank his heart like a stone tossed callously into the deepest well. Asking why the long face, the old woman learned of the young man’s predicament, and offered the explanation of her lack of floral wares as compensation. A lady dressed all in black had purchased every last one of her flowers only this morning, driving out of town on the old back road to the abandoned gold mine. No one ever went that way, especially in winter. Rowdy in his amazement asked what sort of vehicle this mystery woman had driven that she would brave such a treacherous route.

“One of those new fangled things the army uses, only shiny, you know, like on TV in the news. Chains on all four wheels, too.”

“Oh, you mean a Hummer”, said Rowdy.

“Yeah”, croaked the leathery skinned woman. “A humdinger.”

Rowdy smiled kindly and headed for the door.

“Hey, wait a minute”, she cried. “You wanted flowers for you wife, right?”

“Girlfriend”, said Rowdy, pausing only for a split second to avoid using the term “Mistress” in public. What a mistake THAT would have been!

“Oh my”, she said. “Well you needn’t disappoint. I got something from my niece this morning, but I’m allergic to ‘em, so maybe you’d like ‘em to give to your lady friend.” She bent down to pull something out from underneath the counter where he believed she kept the bottle of Jack Daniels she was rumored to nurse throughout the day. Rising back up again she soon appeared to Rowdy like a heaven sent angel tasked to save him from certain doom, for in her gnarled old hands was a flat of perfect, bright red, fresh strawberries!

“Mammmmm , you saved my bacon like you’ll never know!” But somehow the naughty smile on the old woman’s face made him think she did indeed know. Forcing her to take twenty dollars for what she wanted to give for free, Rowdy placed the crimson fruit tenderly on the seat next to him and drove with as much alacrity as he dared back to the ranch, taking both care to not damage his precious cargo and at the same time make haste.

Catalina was waiting for him outside on the porch, a thick Indian blanket across her shoulders as a shield against the growing cold. There was not a cloud in the sky and the temperature would dip well below freezing tonight. It was a good thing he had gotten the feed, fuel to keep Catalina’s beloved horses warm for many days until the predicted thaw next week. Telling Rowdy to feed and water the animals and then come in and shower, she did not appear to notice the contents of the front seat, and quickly turned to disappear behind the thick wooden door, weathered by too much sun and a surfeit of wind.

As Rowdy finished his chores, he took the fouled straw out of the barn in a wheelbarrow to dump in the pile out back, but then thought to drop this load around the little new apple tree some two hundred yards beyond. Catalina had planted it there just that spring, a sort of offering to remember her Italian aunt by, and the mixture of hay and dung would protect the roots as well as nourish. Slipping along the narrow path to the young tree, his eyes fell towards the old road that snaked down from the mountain where the old gold mine had once made a mysterious man rich. This rough road, no more than a track really, was the other end of that which terminated in the town where he had just been. There at the edge of the far field, against a crumbling stone wall, Rowdy could barely make out the silhouette in the evening light of what looked like a Hummer.

Entering the house he was immediately told to strip and bath, don some jeans and nothing else, and meet his Mistress in front of the fireplace. Emerging from the bathroom Rowdy stared in amazement as he watched Catalina gently sucking on a ripe strawberry. In his haste to comply with her orders he had forgotten what was on the front seat of the rusting jeep. She had found them. Or had she somehow known all along?

“Lay down next to me, pet”, she purred, taking a fresh berry between her equally luscious red lips.

Those trigger words dropped the young man like a shot from a buffalo rifle, and he crumpled into a hypnotized heap beside her, staring dazedly at her startling beauty.

“Let me feed you some of these magic strawberries”, she cooed. “They’ll make you feel more aroused than you ever thought possible.”

With the last bit of his consciousness fading like the setting sun outside, Rowdy stared past Catalina for a brief second into the bedroom. The old four poster bed was covered from end to end with fresh flowers, and he had the slightest inkling of understanding as the first strawberry touched his lips, …. and then he sank, ….. sank into a bliss of erotic trance wider than all the oceans of the Earth, and so much deeper by far.

~~~~~~~

Whimsy is a post from: Femdom Fantasies. Authors retain copyright. If you enjoyed this story or have something to add, please leave a comment. Remember, feedback typically encourages writers to write more ;)

As Catalina’s rusty red Jeep bounced like a drunken gazelle along the winding desert road it left behind for all to see a giant worm of slow dust, drifting lazily towards the high snow mountains to the North. It would be dissipated and invisible by the time it got there, nothing more than a wistful memory of speeding tires and rattling metal which carried the lone rider as if she were a lioness in pursuit of a jack rabbit. Her faded jeans caressed her perfect legs, relaxing just enough at the bend of the knees to allow teasing hints of tanned skin to peek through between Venetian blinds of old cotton. She wore an off white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled half way up the forearms. Crowning her long black mane rode a cowboy hat of reddish brown leather, banded by Navajo beads, and bearing an eagle feather like a flag held proudly by the leader of some grand parade,….soldiers marching home after a terrible victory long forgotten. The sun shone peacefully now over this scene, reflecting off her impossibly blue eyes, glistening like jewels from the pearls of sweat that speckled her angled cheeks. Catalina was coming home and someone was waiting.

Rounding the final corner into view of her desert ranch, this lady of the land smiled wryly as she picked up the form of her one and only hired hand, and aside from the horses, chickens, one very torpid bloodhound, and two young cats, the only other living thing in her domain. It had not always been thus. Once, long ago in a city best now unremembered, she had held court like royalty, seeing to the wants and needs of her subjects, directing them to tend to HER wants and needs. Worker bees administering to their queen. She had gone by the name of Lady Catalina in those days and the suggestion that she would one day dress like a cowgirl would have drawn guffaws from those in attendance. From them, but not from her. They had never known of her early past, the tender years on her father’s Virginia horse farm, helping to raise world class race stallions. Three Kentucky Derby winners had come into the world by her young hands, grown into muscled thoroughbreds, and called her Mistress. She had cared for their rippling forms and high strung minds as she now cared for Rowdy.

Rowdy, (yes, much like the Clint Eastwood character from the TV series Rawhide), had been a drifter in her city, crashing from a night of bad wine and stale pizza in the doorway to her apartment. She had come out in the morning to gather some groceries for breakfast and found him sleeping like a spent and beaten prizefighter, wrapped in newspaper, old cowboy boots peering out from underneath. Perhaps it was because she had grown tired of her retinue of pretty slaves in the chambers above, always trying so hard to please her, yet always failing to really spark her deepest fires. Perhaps it was because it looked like rain. Perhaps it was seeing his cowboy boots, an echoing reminder of happier times for her,…..and possibly for him. She had taken him in, bathed and clothed him, trained and educated him, all very much to the dismay of her city pawns, who one by one grew increasingly discontent and peeled away from the hive like pitiful drones looking sweeter honey. Some might find such, she had mused, but most would more likely have found a harsher mistress and realized only dark hours of misfortune at cruel hands. They should have stayed put, for no one else would have ever been so forgiving of their shortcomings.

Rowdy was different. Although a drifter in every sense, he was a natural gentleman. Polite not just to her, but to all, kind not just to his queen, but to anyone who needed it. At first he had seemed lazy to her and she had to constantly administer punishments usually reserved for men of lesser character, and this actually caused her second thoughts upon more than one occasion, yet something in her told her to stick with him, and in six short months, (for him), and six long months, (for her), Rowdy was not only the apple of her captivating eye, but the talk of the town, at least that part of the town which lived the lifestyle of sexual exploration that Catalina prowled through like a cat. After a year there was but one remnant of the drifter in him, a laid back way of walking when he was not in a hurry upon some errand for her, always when he was unaware of her watchful gaze. She let him keep this trait of slow ambulation because it pleased her. He reminded her of a stallion she had once raised who would walk thusly when it was hot and there was no need to hurry. That stallion had won more blue ribbons than any normal race horse had a right to, and she sensed Rowdy had the same potential.

They would both be there still if it hadn’t been for Rockwell, the impertinent spoiled brat son of a powerful international banker with diplomatic immunity and a brain the size of a walnut. Rowdy had accompanied Catalina to the opera one evening. Handel’s Ariodante. Can cowgirls and cowboy enjoy opera? The tears of passion that rolled down their cheeks that evening spoke to the affirmative. As the red velvet closed for the final time, the cast having taken three curtain calls, Catalina spied Rockwell in the hallway. She had known him years earlier when he had pitifully begged to be her slave, not with the sincerity of a true submissive, but with all the gall and bad manners of a smart-alecky school boy. She had refused him time and again until he left town, not due to her rejection, but by orders from his father called away on business. Catalina did not want to meet Rockwell again. He was disgusting to her and she knew that if he saw her there would be trouble. Rowdy sensed none of this as he dutifully escorted his Mistress by the elbow towards the stairs. She had tried to get him to change direction and go out the back way, but to no avail. Rockwell had seen her and approached like a hyena, laughing hysterically and smelling of too much cognac.

Harsh and cruel teasing issued from his pursed lips as if he were playing a trumpet of insults. Rowdy immediately bristled and would have thrown Rockwell from the nearest balcony if Catalina had not restrained him. Making fleet work with her legs and guiding her pet, she managed to extricate herself from the unpleasant situation, only to be cornered by the cad again on the street. Rowdy wanted to crack his skull so badly he could taste it, but she knew better than to allow such a thing. If it had been anyone else, perhaps, but Rockwell was one of those people who could not be touched by the law, and a long list of saddened souls who had tried left warning to others who would follow. Again she slipped away, Rowdy fuming, but in tow. And again, the Fates conspired to bring ruin to her happiness, as Rockwell pursued them to a jam of people waiting to cross the street. If only the light had changed but a few seconds earlier, so much would have been different, allowing escape from the morass of suffering that was to follow.

Rockwell began to hound her in earnest now, choosing the unkindest of insulting lies, hurling them like rotten fruit. If he had been someone of even modest intelligence, she could have hypnotically dropped him on the spot, so powerful were her fascination techniques, but this lout simply did not posses the capacity to be hypnotized. She had tried years ago, just to make him go away. Finally the spoiled brat said something which overpowered her hold on Rowdy, and the fury of a bear was unleashed upon the dismal fool. Three well timed punches designed to break first the yammering jaw, then the collar bone, then some ribs. Rockwell was out before he hit the ground, silent at last, save for the heaving of his vomit as he tried to regain consciousness a few minutes later. Catalina and Rowdy were gone by then, but not forgotten.

In the days that followed there had been a plethora of police and FBI agents at her door, first arresting and then releasing Rowdy, then arresting once more. Questioning and interrogating. Manipulating and framing. She had called in every favor she had from lawyers and a judge she had know ages past, but to no avail. Rockwell had clout far beyond hers and she knew it. Her beautiful cowboy was doomed to the worst prison the country had to offer unless she could think of something. She did, and it didn’t take her long.

Initially Rowdy was to be released on bail before his trial, which was by now incredibly swollen to the charge of attempted murder. If he had wanted Rockwell dead, he would have collapsed his throat with the first punch. No, he had only wanted to silence the lout and defend his lady’s honor. Now Rowdy was to be held without bail due to some trumped up charge of conspiracy, but conspiracy against what or whom, no one would say. Catalina called in her last favor, and with the help of her skill as a hypnotist, it all worked like a charm.

She managed to gain visiting rights. Just one visit, but that was all she would need. By her side was an old math professor she had known from childhood, who now by happy coincidence lived in the same city. She had once cured him of migraine headaches and he never forgot. Now he was willing to go through fire for her, but this day he would only be required to perform a lighter task. Juggling. His hobby was fascinating to children and adults alike, and all she depended on now was that the guards had not heard of him of seen him on TV last Christmas as he entertained children in a cancer ward. They were both searched. Nothing illegal, though in the future items such as rubber balls would most likely be added to the list of things forbidden entry.

Rowdy looked hopeless as he sat at the other end of the table from Catalina and the professor, two armed guards standing close by, making certain no physical contact took place. She made a slight facial sign to her pet as she prepared to cue her assistant. At first Rowdy could not believe that his mistress had some kind of plan, but he knew her too well to argue, and only sought now to follow whatever directions she gave. She spoke of his past, something he had only told to her, of a desert ranch he knew of, owned by an old prospector he had once befriended. A place to go where no one could follow or find. No legal records connected him to that place. No trail existed whatsoever, and this is where they were now headed. She spoke softly so that the watchful guards could not hear. When all was ready, Catalina gave her little signal to the professor.

Like a circus clown at the ready her old friend slowly stood up, took seven rubber balls out of his coat pockets, and began to juggle. The guards looked in amused disbelief, yet did not object. Now Catalina began to speak, loudly enough now so that the guards could hear, but just barely. She had such a sexy voice and they strained to hear her words. All this was as she planned. Not speaking loudly enough so that they could hear without effort caused them to focus more intently. As soon as she saw them straining to hear, she knew she had them. Words so silky and intoxicating drifted from her perfect lips that the dead themselves would have listened that day. She spoke of something seemingly harmless and simple, the rubber balls being so skillfully manipulated by the clever professor. In a matter of minutes the two guards were totally transfixed by the juggling and now she changed her tact so that deeper thoughts were implanted into their unsuspecting minds. She easily convinced them that they had the wrong assignment that day and were in fact supposed to be escorting “Mr. Glimmer” to the new East wing, (the new wing which was only partially completed). It seems that Mr. Glimmer was a government official sent to inspect the new construction on the sly in an attempt to catch unawares any dishonest procedures of security, any lax regulations.

Within ten minutes of starting her plan, Catalina, the professor, the two guards, and Rowdy, (aka Mr. Glimmer), were on their way to the East wing. It is a peculiar thing that if people look and act as if they are doing what they are supposed to be doing, most observers will believe that to be the case. Having two high ranking guards escorting three people as if on a tour was not unusual, and since the professor had long since stopped juggling and Rowdy had long since changed into the set of clothes the professor had worn under his own, no one was the wiser. Thinking all the while that they were performing some important secret assignment which would further their careers, the two guards were actually quite enjoying themselves. If it had not been for the knife edge urgency of the situation, Rowdy would have managed a smile. He didn’t have to. Catalina managed one for him. If this was to go down in grand failure, she thought, at least she would have pulled it off this far, something to be spoken of in tales of “the old days” around the lunch table where guards drank coffee and munched on sandwiches prepared for them by waiting wives.

Eventually they reached the unsecured East wing, bid farewell to the helpful assistance of the two most unlucky prison employees of the year, and walked calmly to the professor’s mini-van. An hour later they were at the airport, not to board a commercial plane, but at Catalina’s private jet. Four hours hence and they were touching down in the warm and welcoming desert. The flight plan filed had been totally bogus, of course, and now they towed the little Lear with an old tractor out into the scrub brush, camouflaging it against prying eyes. Soon they had started Rowdy’s old Jeep, driven into town to purchase new gas and emptying the old. It was a miracle the poor old thing had started on such ancient fuel, but now that the obstacles of the city were past, new luck seemed to well up from the Earth like Spring grass after a gentle rain. The Jeep brimming with supplies, they headed for the old prospector’s cabin, and after cooking him a dinner he would never forget, obtained what they had wanted, permission to live at the old ranch up in the foothills. The old prospector would never talk, and if he did, it was usually of moonlight and faerie dust, all to the chagrin of the locals who thought him mad as a hatter. If they only knew. He was sitting on top of more gold than Fort Knox and he shared generously with his few friends.

By the winter the old ranch was looking almost like new. Catalina and Rowdy had disappeared off the face of the Earth. He had bleached his dark brown hair blonde and she had stopped doing the same to hers, allowing her naturally dark tresses to lengthen with the winter nights. No one in the city had ever seen her as anything but blonde. This was a part of the world that time had forgotten and would remain that way till the sun winked out. There were no minerals here worth mining, save what the old prospector had already gleaned, and the land was too poor to raise stock on. No cities stood near enough for this to become territory for new development, and although pretty, the scenery was surpassed by other places which drew pilgrimming tourists. By next summer all was right with the world of these two lovers, one still very much the regal queen, the other still very much the dutiful knight in service. Catalina had so many plans for Rowdy, so many interesting and delicious things she wanted to try. For now she was content to just tie him to the old wagon wheel when the mood took her. She never had to struggle, as he obediently went to his post in deep hypnotic bliss. He never had to wait long for her attention, her mind deep in sensual ecstasy.

Two desert blue birds chirped a sweet song of curiosity as they looked down from the old barn roof upon these two creatures of passion. A fresh brand was healing on the man’s right buttocks. It was the essence of the lady’s family crest, a twisting scepter encircled by a ring of leafy thorns. Soft moans of delight lifted into the dusky sky as the female tilted her head back and let out a blood curdling “YeeeeeeeHAAAAAA…….”

~~~~~~~

The Mark of Excellence is a post from: Femdom Fantasies. Authors retain copyright. If you enjoyed this story or have something to add, please leave a comment. Remember, feedback typically encourages writers to write more ;)

“Hello.” my slightly irritated voice silenced the ringing of the phone.

“you don’t sound too thrilled to speak with Me, andy”.

my heart almost stopped. i had dreamed of hearing that sultry, laughter-laced voice speak my name. “Lady Morganna?”

“Yes, andy. It’s time. Obey Me now.” i could feel my body begin to relax and my thoughts ceased to race. It was time now to let Her lead. It didn’t matter where She took me. That was up to Her. All i knew was i wanted to go.

“you’ve been such a good boy. So obedient, your mind surrendering to My will. Allowing Me complete control, just like now. I’m in control of you as you OBEY ME NOW.”

Her sexy voice continued to speak to my mind. It didn’t matter that i was working. All that mattered was Her control. We had exchanged emails for several months and i had given Her all my contact information the day i had agreed to surrender all control to Her if She ever desired it. i never thought She would do it while i was working! It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Her control. Those thoughts kept going through my mind almost as if someone was saying them aloud.

i don’t remember what else She said. i wanted to remember but it was alright that i didn’t.

Somehow i finished the work day and went home to my normally empty-feeling apartment. i hated being single again; it was so lonely. For some reason i didn’t feel alone tonight.

After a hot shower i decided to fix a salad for dinner. Odd, because i didn’t really like salad. “Chop the tomatoes extra thin and no onion”, i told myself even though i like onion in almost everything. After the salad, i pulled out a place mat and a real plate and silverware. No paper and plastic tonight. The last additions were a glass of white wine and a tall, lit candle.

As i glanced over the table i again thought something felt a little strange. i had always been clumsy about the niceties and had not set a table like this once since i had been divorced. Shrugging, i turned to the CD cabinet and pulled out a Beethoven CD. Yes, there it was, Beethoven’s Eroica. That was the music that matched this meal.

As the first strains of music filled the air, the doorbell rang. i crossed the room wondering who could be arriving at such an inopportune time. Naked save for my robe, i definitely wasn’t dressed for company.

i opened the door and stared down into the most beautiful eyes i had ever seen – hazel, one more green and the other more brown. A slow smile spread across Her face and then i heard that familiar sexy laugh. “Are you going to invite Me in, or shall I have you kneel naked for Me right here in the hallway?”

my heart leapt into my throat. Kneel naked for Lady Morganna? Quickly i stepped back and ushered Her into my apartment. As the door swung shut i turned and looked down into Her face again.

“Yes,” She said as if reading my thoughts, “you are much taller than I. We’ll have to do something about that. Remove your robe and kneel for Me, andy. Obey Me now.”

my response was almost robotic. Carefully i removed my robe, folded it, and sat it on the chair near the door and then knelt before Her, my head down, my back straight, and the palms of my hands resting on my thighs.

“That’s a good boy. So well trained. So very obedient. Doesn’t it feel so good to please Me in this way?” Her warm breath brushed my ear as She whispered these words. Immediately my cock was rock hard.

She chuckled almost as if to Herself and turned, leaving me that way. i could hear Her pull out the chair from the dining table and seat Herself so that She had an unobstructed view.

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world that She would sit, have Her dinner, enjoy the candlelight and music, and watch while i remained just as She left me. For some reason, i didn’t want to move. i couldn’t move. What had She done to me?

After She finished Her meal She moved to the living room. Still i could not move. If possible my cock was even harder than before. “It’s time now to please Me, andy. Move here in front of Me and return to the exact same position, except this time, I want your knees spread. I want to take a good look at My new cock. Obey Me now.”

“yes Ma’am, as You wish.” i hurried to acquiesce with no thought of embarrassment or hesitation.

“Yes, that’s right, such a good boy. So obedient and so aroused. Just look how hard My cock is, all for Me. I’m so pleased.” With that, She leaned forward and ran Her red-tipped fingers along my cheek. my body arched in response and a low moan was ripped from my lips. “Yes, that’s right. you remember, the touch of My fingers on your face feels just like it would if My fingertips were touching My nice hard cock.” i almost came right then but i couldn’t.

“What’s the matter, andy? you want so badly to cum, don’t you? But you can’t, can you? No, I know you can’t, because I am controlling your body right now. Totally and completely. It’s Mine for the moment and you are like a puppet on a string, able only to release at My command. No matter how much you want to, no matter how close you feel you are, you cannot release unless I say you may. Isn’t that right?”

“YES!” i agreed knowing She was right but not certain why. She hadn’t hypnotized me tonight and i was vividly aware of everything that was happening. Maybe a trigger or a post hypnotic suggestion?

She reached down and ran those red-tipped nails along the inside of my thigh. Again an involuntary moan. i hadn’t thought Her cock could get any harder. Her cock? Was i really thinking that way? Yes, Her cock. It was Hers now. Even though i felt some inner rebellion at the thought, She was controlling my body. She was making me Hers. i knew that soon all inner conflict would be gone as well.

“Yes, that’s right, I know your mind is still struggling. I’m allowing that. The choice will always be up to you.” She had read my thoughts or, more likely, the conflicting expressions passing over my face.

“you may move your right hand now. Move it over and begin to touch My cock. Slowly tease it, but remember you may not cum. This is for My pleasure.”

She sat back and watched as my right hand moved to touch Her cock. i didn’t think i could do this for long and not cum. “How much can a man be expected to take?” my rebellious side wondered.

“Look up at Me, not at My cock.” i lifted my eyes and saw that She was running Her fingers over Her breasts, caressing Her hard nipples through Her blouse. my body jumped as if electrified.

i admit it. i begged.

“Please Lady Morganna!”

“Please, what, andy?”

“PLEASE LET ME CUM!”

Silence. Then worse than Her silence, a voice dripping with disappointment. i’d failed her. “you were so close. I really thought you would be the one.”

She stood and walked to the door. i could not even move to watch after Her. “Perhaps the next boy will get it right.” With that She left. my body crumpled to the floor and i was in control of it once again.

- – - – - – - – - – - – -

Every time the phone rings i pray it is Her. i know the right answer now. If only She would ask the question one more time.

~~~~~~~

My Training Day is a post from: Femdom Fantasies. Authors retain copyright. If you enjoyed this story or have something to add, please leave a comment. Remember, feedback typically encourages writers to write more ;)