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They had driven all day and part of the night, having spent too much time at the party. Intending to reach their next gig by noon tomorrow was now a foolishly unrealistic goal, so a gas station phone had been used to make a foolishly unrealistic excuse to the club owner. Was it accepted? They would find out in the afternoon. Their schedule was not as full as they would have liked it to be, hypnosis stage shows these days being a dime a dozen, but they still offered something others did not, ….. a chance to think they were making love with one of the performers. This tactic got them work in places where they would otherwise have been unwelcome and made them unwelcome in places they would otherwise have gotten work. It was a trade off and anyone’s guess as to whether it was a wise one.

The road was nearly invisible now through the howling tempest of rain and wind and the lights from oncoming transports was a heart stopping agony of blindness and fear. Several times the old Cadillac had nearly found the ditch. Too tired to drive any longer they turned off the highway onto a frontage road at the next town and began searching for a motel. This would mean yet another phone call to the club owner, but hey, he was probably so ticked off with them by now that they had lost the gig anyway.

With no motels displaying “Vacancy” signs anywhere to be seen, they pulled into a gas station and inquired as to where they might find a place to stay. A gap toothed teenage boy with multi-colored stegosaurus hair shuffled in from the pumps and spoke with a drawl so disingenuous that it was laughable. He was putting on an act and he was terrible at it. “Yawl kin try the Cherry Top down the ole’ highwayyy, ……… but it’s plum weeeee-ai-yurd!” He rolled and fluttered his eyes when he said this, dislodging little clumps of cheap mascara onto his sweaty face.

They paid for the gas and took notes for how to find the “Ole’ Highwayyy”, dashed out into the rain, and were gone. Exhaustion had set in hours ago and although the car was now freshly fueled they were both running on fumes. Windshield wipers frantically bashing against sheets of water, defroster trying to breath fire against foggy glass, the Caddy pushed away into the night, weaving it’s way like a blind man through back streets and tangled turns. At last an old road with cracked pavement snaked off towards utter blackness, it’s signpost long ago fallen to ruin and now resting peacefully among soggy weeds.

“How far did that punker say it was?” she asked as he peered forward into the tumultuous gloom.

“He said fifteen miles.” The words fell out of his tensed mouth like flakes of ash dropping from a cloud of volcanic doom. Trying to see the road and stay on it was the most miserable of tasks. How wonderful it would be to rest in a bed! “Damn, this road is a mess!” Pothole after pothole was irritating both of them, and it was wearing away their usual good nature. Mile after mile they pushed on, the Cadillac taking the beating like a trooper. At times it would bottom out, sending a brief flash of orange sparks scurrying forth like soldiers being sent out of the trenches into withering machine gun fire of relentless rain. The promised motel could not come too soon.

After what seemed like hours, (but was probably less than one), a bright red neon sign announced the presence of The Cherry Top Motel. The rain seemed to lessen as they exited the car and walked hastily into the office lounge area. It was dingy and sparsely lit. An old red vinyl clad sofa tried to hide shamefully against one wall, it’s covering having seen far better days. Above it hung a fluorescent on black painting of a cowboy riding a giant wild boar. The logo “Cherry Top” was finally understood by the ridiculous vision of his bright red hair. Clearly meant to portray a rodeo clown, this piece of art, (if one dared call it that), was beyond cheesy. It was downright vulgar in it’s ugliness. The young woman drew a disdainful breath in while stifling a laugh. Behind the desk sat an old native woman with hair in pastel blue curlers. She eyed the young couple as if she were a cougar eyeing a pair of unsuspecting lambs.

“You want a room?” she queried with absolute seriousness, the obvious stupidity of her words irritating the man to the very brink of explosion.

“No!”, he spurted sarcastically. “We just want to use the pool!”

“Ain’t got no stinkin’ pool, sonny. But for you I’ll make a special deal and let you roll around naked on the wet grass!” And with this she let forth a raucous gaffaw that sounded for all the world like a cross between a donkey braying and a bear scratching it’s claws on a blackboard. This did not impress the weary and dripping couple in the least, but the young woman withheld her wrath long enough to sign them in and obtain a key. She would join her husband in a tirade once they had gained access to a room with a shower and a bed. What a day it had been!

Fears that the room would be as tacky as the rest of the establishment proved unfounded and instead the pleasant surprise of newly renovated and spotlessly clean quarters greeted their tired eyes. Flinging suitcases upon the bed they hurriedly unpacked and headed for the shower. Ten minutes later they were ready for bed and soon fell fast asleep, the renewed lashing of rain and wind outside a thousand miles away. Dreamless depths engulfed them as their worn bodies slowed to the crawl of bottomless delta sleep. And as they slept, many miles down the road behind them, a great gust of wind ripped a tall aspen tree from it’s roots and sent it across the wires that supplied power to the motel. Blackness came which could take days for power crews to repair.

Morning arrived clear and cold. Although the storm had blown out in the night the lack of electric heat had made the room so cold that breath could be seen if one expelled sharply. The young couple longed to be on their way, grateful at least for a night’s solid rest. However, upon undertaking the process of checking out they had learned that the road was severed in both directions by a washed out bridge ahead and downed power lines behind. An irate inquiry revealed that no other roads connected this forlorn location to the rest of the world. They would just have to wait it out for a few days. There was some good news, and that was that a generator would soon be up and running, providing enough electricity for light. Heat would be another matter and everyone would have to make do with other means. A fireplace had been lit in the lounge and to this the old native woman, the young couple, and the only other guests, two middle aged salesman, made their way. The warmth felt good and as bodies thawed so too did conversation.

At first the salesmen lamented about the state of the roads in these parts which was followed closely by a long story from the native woman about the old days before the interstate had been built and this road had been the main course of travel. The couple were bored to tears and offered little more than the odd head shake of agreement or hum of consent. Then in a moment of boyish mischievousness, he turned to his wife and whispered, “Let’s have some fun with these yokels and hypnotize their brains out! Let’s really mess with that old woman!” Her quick and evil grin let him know that his idea had been accepted with enthusiasm, and they set about bantering with the others in the room, using purposely lowered volume of voice and strangely confusing patterns of language. The young woman walked back and forth in front of the salesmen as she spoke, making sure that their eyes never left her long legs covered in black fish net stockings, flashing like deadly serpents about to strike their naughty minds. The young man stood directly in front of the old woman and mirrored every move she made, whether it was as slight as a brush of the hair or as pronounced as a stretch of both arms. Within less than ten minutes the two salesmen were out like two low wattage light bulbs and the old native woman was nodding like a willow frond in a gentle breeze. Now the fun could begin.

First his wife gave suggestions of extreme arousal to the two salesmen which she then anchored to the unlikely trigger of seeing the old native woman stand and walk. Next the young man tried to give suggestions to the old woman that she would fall in love with the first two men who showed sexual interest in her, but a curious thing happened. With every word he spoke, the old woman began to raise her head higher and higher, until at last she was facing him directly with eyes wide open. Very wide open. He tried to stop speaking at this point but found he could not. He was prattling on uncontrollably as his wife asked what was wrong. In an instant the old woman waved her hand high in the air and shouted a single word in a tongue long forgotten in that area, and as if hit by a bolt of lightening, the young woman fell silent as stone and just as immobile. Her husband fell silent as well and stood in front of the old woman with his eyes shut tight. Try as he might, he could not open them.

The old native rose and walked close to the young woman, stretched slightly so as to be closer to her ear, and whispered for a long time words both secret and powerful. Now she strode to the husband and whispered into his ear the same ancient phrases. Both husband and wife stood like statues unable to move, and both were quite, quite unaware of what was about to happen. Faint sparks of electricity began to dance at their fingertips as the old woman resumed her perch upon the worn vinyl sofa. The two salesmen now appeared to awake, yet with the most odd and disturbing expressions of deranged glee on their faces. They looked at the young couple without appearing to see them.

Suddenly the old woman clapped her hands and the show began. The young man walked quickly out of the lounge as the others all followed, the old woman cackling to herself with crazed abandon. Straight like a beeline to the newly renovated room the young man went, and once inside he lay belly up across the bed. Now his wife mounted his face and began rocking back and forth across him as if riding a horse in a rodeo while he clutched at her with his hands and probed at her underwear with an insatiable tongue driven mad with the most profound lust. The two salesmen clapped their hands in mock jubilation and began to dance a macabre jig, their eyes still lunacy wide as if possessed. The young couple moaned and writhed as the last shred of their consciousness understood the cruel joke the old woman was playing on them. She had done this many times before, of course, and for nearly seventy years since the time her grandmother had taught her the magic of her people so primeval and so strong. It had been her grandmother, last official medicine woman of the tribe, who had, as legend told it, ensorcelled a young cowboy who had made fun of her in front of her friends. He had then mysteriously dyed his hair bright red and ridden a very large pig about town while proclaiming his undying love for the old woman.

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

The day passed in laughter for the old native woman, in bedazzled idiocy for the two salesmen, and in terrible unsatisfiable desire for the young hypnotist couple. How they ached to release! How they would have given anything, absolutely anything, to orgasm and fall into sleep. But that was not their fate, and all day and for part of the night they thrashed and groaned, gyrated and whimpered, till at last the old woman let them slip into dreams. Dreams of what they had just experienced, yet with an even stronger haunting presence of the medicine woman’s mind overpowering their own. In the morning the power was back on and the bridge ahead repaired so that the young couple could continue on their way, but not before apologizing through horrified eyes full of tears to the grinning old proprietress of The Cherry Top Motel.

~~~~~~~

Lost Motel 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 ;)

You’ve been dreaming and planning your winter vacation for months, haven’t you? Soft imaginings of warm sun on your skin to drive away the damp and cold that seems to permeate your body at this time of year. It will be so nice to leave all that behind and just sink into the pristine white sand of that little tropical island only a few days distant in time, thousands of miles distant as the crow flies. Altogether, so near you can taste it. Warmth! How you crave warmth.

The days pass and the island grows nearer.

You pack your bags and arrange for the mail to be held. You adjust the timers on your indoor lights and notify the neighbors to take the papers from your porch. A friend drives you to the airport. You yak about school days and how you used to steal apples from the tree next door. The plane is on time. You board, find your seat, and settle in for fourteen hours of bad coffee and worse food. You sleep a lot.

Morning comes bright and clear as the plane begins to descend, the stewardess nudging you gently awake and offering you yet more lousy coffee which you politely refuse. Can’t wait to taste a fresh coconut lhassi served with bits of tangy orange and sweet melon. Tires screech as they bite the tarmac and the thrust reversers kick in, throwing you against the seatbelt. The ramp is wheeled up to the door. You wait your turn and then grab your luggage and exit into …………..

Ahhhhh ! That delicious air! So tantalizing and warm, so friendly and inviting to the skin, so lazy and rich and thick through the mind. Relaxation is not just a way of life in this place, it is quite simply what happens to everyone who arrives here whether they like it or not.

A little moto-rickshaw delivers you to your hotel on the beach on the far side of the island. An almost sacred space of alabaster sand and swaying palms, tender evening breezes and radiant stars, whispering ocean waves lullabying you to sleep, there to dream of peace at last, peace at last.

You unpack, shower, and put on a white muslin shirt and sarong. Stepping out onto the verandah you just drink in the scene of paradise and let go of what last remnants of tension had clouded your thoughts. No place for business here. No climate for worry.

Down to the shore and the half hour walk towards the village, there to arrange for delivered meals, washing, and a daily Thai Massage. The locals are only too eager to please in this manner, offering their humble services from the heart, so glad are they to see outsiders smile and appreciate their garden of eden. Well, the money helps, too.

Just as the village comes into view you see a rather striking woman walking towards you, a small cloth bag with handles over her shoulder. She is dressed all in black. Satin slacks that shimmer in the tropical light like obsidian and a blouse of inky silk which fails to hide her ample breasts as they whisk the low cut opening sending an instant impression of her smooth skin reverberating through your mind. Her feet are bare but her toenails are bright crimson, as are the nails of her graceful fingers. Her hair, yards of it, jet black mane of night, drifts and flows behind her as she glides over the stark contrast of the snow-like sand. For and instant you think of saying hello, but are suddenly hesitant, and then it is too late as she is past and behind you now. She did not even look at you yet your heart is racing. You think you caught a brief scent of her perfume, …. or was that hyacinth blooming nearby?

You discuss the terms of your housekeeping with the little man behind the bar, your meals with the waitress, and your massages with the old woman who always sits at the back. The young girl she will send to massage your weary body is simply the best there is, so skilled has she become under the tutelage of the old woman. You marvel at how they treat you as a family acquaintance although you have only been here twice before. These people are friendly the way all people should be friendly, never judging harshly by one’s appearance and never prying beneath the surface to see what unpleasant secrets one wishes to keep hidden. You have a few drinks at the bar and chat with the English journalist who was here the last time you visited. You discuss the weather back home but avoid any topics more serious. Such things do not belong here. It is almost an unwritten rule.

As you leave the little bamboo and thatch building and walk down the steps back onto the beach you see something glimmering in the sand. You stoop to pick it up and for some reason are a bit surprised to find that it is a lady’s watch of elegant design and expensive brand. Why should it be such a surprise? People drop things everywhere but for some reason this seems out of the ordinary, though not nearly as out of the ordinary as what you do next. Almost as if you were acting in a dream of which you had little control, you put the watch into your shirt pocket instead of taking it to the bartender and turning it in. This is not like you and as soon as you begin to question your action all memory of it mysteriously begins to slip away like footprints in the sand being slowly erased by the incoming tide, bit by bit, grain by grain. You begin to walk back towards your bungalow.

Half way between the bar and the bungalow is a large white boulder worn smooth by eons of surf and sand. It is too large to climb atop and you often sit, leaning against it, just enjoying its presence. It seems ancient and unexplainable in an oddly comforting manner, this lone monolith from some forgotten age. The drinks from the bar are buzzing softly in your veins and your head is slightly woozy. You are not drunk yet you have a “glow”. The sound of the waves, so rhythmic and ceaseless, seems almost to speak to you, urging you to sleep, and you begin to drift down, down, into the hazy delicious energy of this island paradise.

“Do you intend to return my watch or do you intend to keep it?” The voice is soft, barely a whisper, but it startles you awake and surely would the roar of a lion and you bolt suddenly upright and stare in shock at the beautiful woman standing over you. It’s her, and the lady dressed all in black. Her eyes seem to burn into your soul and you feel an absolutely helpless urge to answer truthfully to what she asks, although the words do not come easily and you stutter.

“I, ……. have no excuse, ma’am. I, …….. don’t know why, …… I just, ……. put it in my pocket. Yes. I was, …….. going to keep it. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I, …………” You fall silent, sitting stupidly like a naughty child about to be spanked. All the blood in your body seems to have rushed to your face and you can feel a hot blush and cold sweat betraying your nervousness.

“A thief! I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on you! The locals here have very strict ways of dealing with people like you. Do you know that?” Her countenance is stern as cold steel and the blue of her eyes seems frightening in a way you cannot understand let alone describe. Will she turn you in to the constable? Will you face a trial and a fine? Perhaps worse! Will you be banned from ever returning to this Eden?

Her eyes penetrate deeper into your mind. Her lips so beautiful yet so terrifying by the power that lies behind them they seem to rip and tear at your heart as she rebukes you. “Well, what you have done is very serious. That watch is very important to me and I am not about to let the locals show you any mercy. I will deal with this myself.”

She seems to swell up larger than life and become almost lighter than air, ready to float. Her hair, once hanging like a silken mantle around her neck and shoulders and cascading down her back, now begins to waft up slightly as if it might be drawn by static electricity from above. The very atmosphere around her seems to be charged with an unseen power, both terrible and mesmerizing. She speaks again.

“RISE!”

It is a command and you discover to your amazement that you have obeyed without thinking. There you stand like a puppet on a string awaiting guiding tugs.

“FOLLOW ME!”

And like a wisp of smoke being drawn by a vacuum, you follow, sucked along helplessly behind this chilling vixen, this sorceress of the night who walks by day. Straight past your bungalow and into the jungle at the end of the beach. Turning to the right she leads you up a narrow path into the hills. As the two of you walk thusly, she leading you like an obedient pet on a leash, the birds in the immediate vicinity grow silent as you pass, somehow sensing the power that this woman wields and not daring to challenge it with song. And so you travel on in a bubble of silence, up, up into the hills until eventually the ocean behind you is only a line of blue in the distance.

It is mid afternoon and the air away from the sea has grown hot and oppressive. You have never strayed far from the water when you have been here. No tourist does. Aside from the one road which cuts across the interior between the and airport and the village, the jungle here is undeveloped in any way. Even the natives seem to shun it, preferring to fish for a living or serve visitors. It is much drier than the coast here and the lack of moisture makes you feel uncomfortable, as if you were in danger of desecrating. On she walks and on you follow, your willpower nothing more than a memory now and any thoughts of returning to your bungalow as far away as might be dreams of distant youth. She has you and you know it.

Eventually you come to the top of the highest hill, and from there you can see down towards the other side of the island. Far to the right you can make out the glint of glass that you know to be the airport and the small city nearby.

“Put your hand in your pocket, thief. Take out my watch and hand it to me. Kneel as you do this.” Her voice is less stern than it was on the beach but she still commands with an absolute authority and you still obey with absolute compliance. It is as if her words directly control your body, bypassing your mind altogether. You watch yourself as if from outside your body. The sensation is both traumatic yet strangely distant and you notice the compulsion within you growing to simply stop caring. It is almost as if you are tired and want to fall fast asleep. Kneeling, you pluck the watch from your shirt pocket and hold it up to her with head bowed as would an errant knight offer to return a sword to the Queen who bestowed it before the knight went astray.

She lifts the watch from your hand and slips it over hers. Raising her wrist in front of her she turns it to inspect the timepiece, rotating her forearm slowly this way and then back as she begins to murmur softly. What words she utters are either too week of volume or unfamiliar of tongue for you to comprehend, yet you do not care. You listen as you might to far off music, too remote to identify, yet just barely loud enough to enjoy in a lazy, dreamy sort of way.

The air seems to become hotter and drier and almost shimmer and quake as can a desert mirage. No breeze stirs the leaves of any tree and no sound other than her muffled whispering exists. Time seems to slow down to a crawl, and then like a heavy freight train rolling gradually to a dead stop, it seems to cease altogether. Reality appears to quiver and vibrate and you watched dumbfounded, with mouth open, as the clothes upon her change before your very eyes.

Where once had ridden satin pants and silk blouse now hangs a gown as dark as midnight and shiny as glass. A long slit runs from just below the waste all the way to the ground where the fabric bunches and trails slightly behind as would a wedding dress. Multiple layers of lavender chiffon hide behind this jet barrier, filtering the heat that emanates from her exquisite body before it mingles with the heat of the air. Her legs are clad in dark lavender stockings that shine and wink as if wet. High spiked red heels contain her lovely feet which stand upon the stone of the earth proclaiming, “This is mine”. In her left hand she holds a folded oriental fan of red silk, embroidered with gold, and bordered with green. In her right hand she holds a silver dagger, its handle an orb of ivory. A curious headdress of dark beads adorns her forehead and from its center descend several strands across each eye and down her chiseled cheeks, then wrapping around behind her neck, there to vanish in that impossible mane of her magnificent tresses.

That hair! So lavish and thick, yet so wispy and ethereal as it begins to rise, floating higher and higher around her as if she were underwater and slowly descending. She is proud and strong and fearsome and you have the unmistakable feeling that you have gotten in way over your head in every possible respect that you can imagine and in many that you cannot. She looks straight at you and into you, her will, her scrutiny, unstoppable and totally without mercy.

“COME!” The command is brief, final, and terrible and you fear for your very life. At the same time you find it extraordinary that you wish with every fiber of your being to obey her. You cannot resist and this frightens you. You do not want to resist and this enthralls you. She begins to walk again, this time very, very slowly, a Queen conducting a ceremony of high court, a warrior goddess leading a stately dance of victory.

You had not seen it before, a path of ancient fitted stone perhaps thousands of years old. Bits of grass and weeds now grow between the cracks. Into the thickest of the jungle it winds in slow sweeping turns as the foliage seems to close in around you, almost choking in its teeming complexity. Soon you come to a tiny open space before a great stone wall against which the jungle appears to have beaten itself like waves beat upon a cliff, unsuccessfully and with only the slightest tale told of the struggle. Branches of trees and vines attempt to gain a foothold on this barrier yet cannot cross. In the middle of the wall is a rectangular opening barred by an iron gate of intricate filigree. She stops and turns to look at you here, the fan in her left hand and the dagger in her right, as if she was contemplating which to employ in your demise. You would tremble if you could yet you are so paralyzed by this mighty sorceress that you can only stare like the statue you are. Again she gazes straight into your soul and slowly speaks.

“You have stolen from Me and now I claim YOU as My property. This is My law and so shall it be.”

Your conscious awareness seems to be fading as if you are slipping ever deeper into an impossible dream, yet this is no dream, it is as real as real can be. Staring past her for a second you notice a strange land beyond the iron gate. The trees in the foreground are not those of the jungle at all but rather of a temperate hardwood forest. In the background rises an enormous volcano, its slopes streaked with snow. The sky above is not a sky of a tropical clime but that belonging to an alpine land. How can this be? How can such a place exist in the middle of a small tropical island?

“It exists”, she says, “because the island that you stand upon the edge of is but a mirage fabricated by Me in order to hide My realm. What lies beyond this gate is the reality and it is into that reality that I will take you, to serve Me without resistance until I deem that you have earned your freedom, should you ever be so lucky.”

At once you’re thunderstruck to realize that She can hear your every thought. As the shock from this realization subsides you are overwhelmed with a sense of confusion regarding what She has just told you. The island nothing more than a façade? How was it that you came here twice before on vacation? Did not the plane that you arrived on land at a real airport and did you not talk and interact with real villagers?

She does not speak as you think these thoughts but you can see from the look in Her eyes that She understands. The tiniest wry smile graces Her ruby lips. You want so much to cry out with questions but cannot. Your throat feels dry and your mouth is numb. She has completely disabled you with Her magic and your vulnerability is total.

The gate behind Her begins slowly to swing open and She turns to pass through. Without uttering a word, without making a single gesture, She draws you to follow Her and you obey as would a puff of mist obey the wind. The air of reality is cool upon your face and refreshing beyond anything you could conceive of. You feel the heat from Her body in front of you, and as an irresistible desire within you builds you begin to wonder just what type of service this supremely formidable enchantress has in mind for you.

“Welcome to My home, little slave. Can you hear the gate behind you closing?”

~~~~~~~

Drawn Inside 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 ;)

Detective Sergeant Silvia Cain looked through the one way view pane into the holding room. Seated at a metal table was a middle aged man wearing one of the orange jumpsuits usually used for prisoners being transferred to the county lockup. His salt and pepper hair was well groomed and in spite of the baggy nature of the suit she could tell that he was in good physical condition. In fact he had a sort of vulnerable but handsome character about himself that she had always seen as appealing in men.

The door opened and her partner Lieutenant Jennings came in holing a file jacket looked at her in a bewildered way, shrugging his shoulders.

“He’s squeaky clean, not even a parking ticket but we did get a name, next of kin, and home address and place of employment,” he volunteered holding the file out.

“Military prints?” She said as she open the thin file.

“Missing person,” Jennings offered as he took hold of the knob to exit the room. “He’s all yours unless you want me to transfer him off our hands.” He paused halfway out the door without turning.

“I’ll see what his story is first. We should make sure he wasn’t abducted before we send him off or let him go. After all Mr. Clean”, She replied “asleep in a park in red silk panties says there has to be a story.” “And,” she said to herself, “its bound to be a hoot.”

Closing the file she turned exited the room and walked to the next door in the corridor. As she entered the holding room she took out her pocket recorder switched it on and set it down on the table taking a seat opposite the man. His eyes were half closed as if he were listening to music on headphones. He seemed very calm and collected.

“Mr. Christopher Altrude, I’m Sergeant Cain.” she made it a statement of fact, “Did you know you have been reported as missing?”

His blinked open as she said his name and his body stiffened as he began to take furtive glances around the room. “I’m sorry did you say missing?” he looked at the detective in a way that made here think of lost puppies. “I was on vacation for a week that’s all”

“Mr Altrude, according to your brother in Washington you haven’t answered your phone or returned his calls for two months.” As she spoke she observed his reaction. His face first a mask of indignation slowly changed to wondrous denial.” She saw him compose himself .

“May I trouble you for today’s date? Isn’t this the 5th? ” He looked at her somewhat hopefully.

“That’s right July 5th. “She replied in an even tone and waited. She saw his eyes widen drastically.

His attention turned inward momentarily and the she heard him nearly whisper “ not a dream. She was real…..” He stopped and looked at the Sergeant. “Am I under arrest, Have I done something illegal? She could see his embarrassment at asking the question.

“No Mr. Altrude. Not that we are aware of. You were found sleeping in a park this morning wearing only these, She took a paper bag from her jacket pocket and set it on the table.

He looked at the bag with all the enthusiasm of a man presented with a bag of his sins. “Are they silk?” he asked waiting for a reply.

She nodded.

“Red”

She nodded again. As she watched his face fell, his eyes closed momentarily and his hands seemed to brace against the table as if to keep from falling forward.

“I would like to go home if I may please Ma’m. I feel I have taken up too much of you time with all this.

“Mr Altrude?” Cain persisted, “What day did you think this was? I really must know. Can you account for your whereabouts for the past two months? People have been concerned and the state in which we found you suggests that you have not been entirely yourself.

He has started to rise from his chair but slowly sat down. His eyes fixed on hers “ I think I may have been staying with someone for two months.” He noted her reaction and continued. “I met this woman in the mall during my vacation. I helped here shop and then we had dinner and then something happened, and believe it or not I lost track of time until you said my name.”

She eyed him steadily. “Are you saying you were abducted, on a long date, or was this some type of drinking binge? She watched him struggling internally with the question.

I was at the Mall, met a lady, I helped her shop, we had dinner……”he trailed off, It seems like a dream but I remember what happened.

Silvia, checked the tape in the recorder and poured two glasses of water. She nodded for him to continue.

“I was in the bookshop. I think it was the romance section. She walked behind me and the Asked me to help her reach a book on the tope shelf. I remember when she looked at me I felt somehow desirable. I tried to make small talk and asked her about the book. It was “Delta of Venus”, she read some to me. I remember her voice; the way she talked drew me in. She suggested we go sit at a table and we did.

For some reason I found myself asking if she would like me to help her shop. It’s odd because normally I am not a shopper but, I followed her from store to store, She bought scented oils, lingerie’, we went to a pet store, other items I cant remember. We were there until late. Several times I followed her out into the garage to her car to put her purchases in.

Each time we went out she would ask me to sit in the car for a while. I remember sitting next to her in the seat and each time I was more eager to go to any store she suggested. The day sort of faded away. Then we went to dinner.

I can’t remember the name of the place. It was small and dimly lit. There was a smell in the air like incense or musk. There were candles on the tables. I remember listening to her as she told me thing about her and about me. I remember looking at the candle on the table and a sense of purpose seemed to fill me. She was so right about everything she said. Sometime after that things get sort of fuzzy but I have a strong recollection of deciding to do something, of making some kind of commitment. I remember she sent me to the bathroom to put on something she had purchased for me. After that I was here.

Silvia stopped the tape ejected the cassette and replaced it quickly. “Do you remember this woman’s name? The name of the restaurant? The menu?”

“Like I said it’s fuzzy like I can’t seem to get it in focus, Chris replied uncomfortably. “It’s like I’m seeing it all through gauze. Her name was….. all I can remember is calling her Lady something.”

“Wait here.” Silvia said rising. “Can I get you anything? “ She saw his eyes drop as he declined with a shake of his head. She returned to the room after a moment with a small box and a lighter. Closing the door she opened the box revealing several small black birthday candles. “My 40th Birthday was last week” she offered. Placing one on the table she lit it and turned off the overhead light.

Try looking at this candle and listen to my voice. As she spoke she strained to recall her college psychology class and the elements of hypnosis they had studied. Attempting to control her inflections and cadence she began to develop a sort of rhythmic flow, repeating possible trigger words and watching the reaction on Chris’s face. Slowly she began to pick out those that seemed to work and soon he was in a very relaxed and open state.

“Chris you are in a deep state of relaxation but you can answer me. If this is true say yes.

Sleepily Chris released a “Yes” as he continued to stare at the near burned down candle.

She asked him to close his eyes and began to ask him questions. From these she learned about that day at the mall.

At the table in the mall woman “Lady V” had lightly tested him for suggestibility and found him very open. During the trips to the car she had taken him progressively deeper and found him to be both a willing and naturally submissive subject. By the end of the day she had implanted triggers for sending him into a deep trance state and in parallel had progressively made him more and more internally aware of his submissive nature. She had reinforced this by tying a feeling of intense pleasure to each willingly submissive act of obedience. By the time they had finished dinner he was mentally prepared to become hers. The only thing remaining was to provide him a visible symbol of his service. She had already selected one that would act as a reminder of his submission and as a trigger for her control. When he had returned to the table wearing it he was hers for as long as she wished.

Silvia eyed the bag on the table and then her eyes traveled across and studied the man opposite her.

She turned off the recorder. Standing she walked behind Chris and leaned down. “Do you miss her?” She whispered.

“Oh yes!” was the easy reply.

“She has gone and you are free. Free from all control. Free to find another if you wish. volunteered Silvia. When I wake you, you will be free.

“Yes. Another. Free. came the reply.

“You will awake on the count of three Chris. One slowly waking remembering all of your experiences with Lady V, Two, eyes slowly opening feeling refreshed free and happy. Three wide awake.” His eyes opened and she touched his face. “Are you OK?”.

He looked around and she could see he was processing where he was and what had happened. Finally he stood up and faced her. “I’d like to go home if I may Ma’m.” His eyes met hers for a moment and then he cast them down waiting.

She looked at his and a quiet decision filled her for a moment. “I’ll see if I can find some sweats for you to borrow and arrange a transport for you. It’s shift change so it may take a bit of time. Wait here.”

“Yes Ma’m”, He acquiesced and sat back down.

She returned in a few minutes with some grey sweat pants and a T-shirt. The shirt was tight and reviled a pleasantly solid body as he emerged from the men’s room. She motioned with her head and he followed her out of the station.

Silvia proffered. “I couldn’t get a black and white for you but your going my way. I thought I’d take you myself. She said indicating a car parked down the block from the station. “May I call you Chris?”

“I would like that.“ came the reply as he followed her to a sporty red two door. He waited until she was in and then sat down in the passenger seat. As they drove along he was initially quiet and then after some time he asked. “Will you need to file a report? I don’t wish to press any charges. You know in some way I feel I was given a gift. I feel like I know who I am.”

It was her turn to be silent. After a mile she reached down and took something out of her leather briefcase behind the passenger seat. She placed it in his lap and let her hand rest on his thigh. He picked up the two small tape cassettes with one hand and one by one dropped them out the side window into the traffic. “Will you have trouble over this?

“A lot of people take business trips and forget to tell there family. No law was broken if you aren’t interested in pressing charges. Besides, “she paused and touched his cheek, “Crissy’s my sissy”. His eyes closed and she saw him shudder and squirm in the seat. She began to talk in a sort of cadence as they drove along. She removed the red silk panties from the bag in her pocket and laid them in his lap. He exhaled softly and seemed to swoon when they touched his hand.

When they arrived at her place she would let him decide if he wanted to wear them. Yes that would be the right thing. She looked at him again. Masculine but with an air of tenderness. As they drove along she began to repeat his trigger every quarter mile.

He was hers before they parked in the driveway.

~~~~~~~

Lost and Found 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 ;)

“You’re distracted tonight, Kent.”

“I’m sorry Lady, I’ll do better. May I stay? Please?”

“Why don’t you let me know what’s wrong,” she crossed her legs slowly and fixed him with mischievous hazel eyes, “and then we’ll see if you can please me. Don’t you want to please your Lady?” He moaned as she delicately stroked his jaw-line with a fingertip. His kneeling position and lack of clothing made his desire to serve and please his Lady very obvious, and she giggled.

“It’s my radio station. I’m small and local, but we have a loyal following in the community, particularly in the college and club demographic.” She watched him slip into business mind with delight. Her Knights were highly intelligent powerful men, whose service was a choice and gift. She was considering this, for she liked country-western, not his station’s repertoire, when her attention was suddenly caught.

“So your late night, morning DJ has gone to marry, and you have no one to take the shift?” She wanted to make sure she understood as a wonderfully fun idea occurred.

“Yes M’Lady,” he responded sadly, “and I stutter on radio. I can program, advertise – you know my gifts for you, but I’m covering for the two weeks until her honeymoon is over, and I’m losing business at a -” He broke off as she raised her hand to politely interrupt.

“Did you pay for their honeymoon?”

“Yes Lady. You’ve taught me the joys of giving.”

“Such a Good Boy,” she purred, “should be rewarded.”

His eyes nearly crossed at her words, and suddenly his problems were forgotten as she leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “I’ll take the night shift if you give me the musical information.”

“M’Lady!” A start of protest. “I don’t want you to have to listen to music I know you dislike!”

Her slow lazy smile silenced him even before the red fingernail touched his lips. “My Knights deserve rewards for their service. You try so hard to please me; it makes me SO happy.” Her purring contralto soon took him to places in which business difficulties had no business…

The conversations at the Club were drowning out the music, although the beat pulsed in hormone-laden bodies. It was Friday night, the college mating rituals were in full swing, and the Club was about to switch to a DJ who would provide his own turn-tables.

The music stopped suddenly, and voices faded in uncomfortable response. The music began to fade back in as red-lacquered, manicured nails slowly twisted a knob with skills gained in other venues of life. The music was background, unnoticed, when the honey-southern Voice began purring, winding into their ears and minds.

“Hello Boys and Girls. This is your Lady of the Night, rewarding all the Right.” Something about tone made the men stand straight with spinal chills, while the women turned with parted lips of wonder.

“You’ve been patient and now it’s time for pleasure. You like pleasure, don’t you? I know I do…” The throaty laugh raised goose bumps of erotic tension when suddenly the volume jumped into a frenzied beat. Winding through the intro riff was the Voice, “Shall we get low?”

Shorty began singing about boots with fur as she cut the microphone. Turning for feedback, she saw the look on Kent’s face and couldn’t help but giggle. “Oh my Good Boy delights his Lady with this gift! I do think I’ll have fun,” she purred. He sank to his knees, overpowered by his feelings of gratitude that he could serve her pleasure, his love for his Lady wounding his heart like the sweet nightingale’s song rising in spring, and she cradled his head to her breasts, stroking his hair, while he wept in joy for her pleasure.

“For those listening on their radios, someone on the Red Ostrich staff just called to say the RUDEST words to your Lady of the Night, just because she played that Rascal Flatts slow song. That song was my gift to those Good Girls who wanted to have their Knights holding them tenderly in strong arms, hold them protectively, bodies pressing together, swaying as one, heartbeats whispering back and forth of love and the Lady’s pleasure.

“As a reminder, the Lady does NOT tolerate such disrespect. Why don’t you try the Platinum? They’ve been very Good Boys over there – tonight they all are wearing something in the Lady’s favorite color, red, to please her. You’ll get $5 off your cover charge if you’re wearing red.” A wicked chuckle followed. “And if it’s red bra or underwear, you’ll get in free. My, doesn’t that just sound naughty? The Lady of the Night is wearing something red cupping something very close to my heart… and now Nine Inch Nails wants to be naughty too, like an animal…. Dance now, Dance for the Lady’s pleasure, my Boys and Girls…”

Twenty minutes later, The Red Ostrich was nearly empty, the station phone-lines were blinking as the owner waited to beg forgiveness for the suddenly unemployed night-shift manager, and the Platinum was a sea of red and flesh.

“It’s the Lady’s last night tonight, and she is making this one special. With your help, we’ve painted the party bodies of the town red. So to all my Good Boys and Good Girls, play safely, sanely, and consensually, always pleasing the Lady of the Night, so she will know you’ll be alright. And pleasing the Lady always feels soooo good…

“First up, Van Halen; Lady used to call this type of music Cock-Rock in the big-haired days. Following that is Joe Redifer’s techno cover of Hill Zone 24 taken from Sonic the Hedgehog. What will I do next? Your Lady is never boring and NOT tame…

“Y’all begged SO prettily, but no, I do have to play music tonight, not just talk to my lovelies. But this station has posted a recording of the Lady telling girls how to be Ladies, and boys how to be Good Boys who can be worthy of being called one of the Lady’s Knights…”

~~~~~~~

The Lady of the Night 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

As dusk approached and the warmth of the summer sun faded, the cool of the evening air began to take over. The sky was still clear and it promised to be a chilly evening. The last of the tourists scattered before the oncoming darkness like mice running from a slinking black cat and the vendors in their little booths and stalls brought down their shutters and did what vendors do at the end of the day to prepare for tomorrow. Two policemen walked casually yet alertly down the boardwalk, half making their presence known to any kids with graffiti on their minds and half just enjoying one of the more pleasant beats. The pigeons, full of crumbs and bits of french fries, took to wing and roosted on nearby ledges on the overlooking buildings not far away.

Of all the little businesses that had sprung up along the old boardwalk, the fortune teller’s spot was by far the oldest. The boards had been replaced on the walk many times and always had to jog around the funny little booth that stuck out just a little into an otherwise straight path of planks. Some said an old gypsy woman had inherited it from her grandmother and came at night to take the coins from the automated fortune-telling machine. Nowadays most people preferred a real fortuneteller or one of the fancy electronic versions on a plasma screen with surround sound. This thing was a holdover from another time. One simply put a quarter in a slot and stood there waiting. After a bit of clanking and clunking and whirring the face of the mechanical gypsy woman would begin to move in a jerky, almost laughable fashion. A scratchy voice would speak the person’s fortune, which in most cases would draw far more laughter than pensive silence. Of course, there were always a few who tried to believe, if even a little bit, and hoped that no one would watch them as they paid what rapt attention they dared to this mechanical oracle.

The first faint few stars of the evening were visible now and the light they shone drove before it a chill. Anyone who was going to be outside tonight would do well to bundle up. The man who now walked along the boards with shuffling gait was obviously quite drunk. His pants were two sizes too big and stinking from more than lack of soap and water. His long wool coat might serve him adequately tonight against the cold but it could do nothing to warm the emptiness of his heart. Five days of stubble on his cheeks and chin, and hair that looked like something better suited to a scarecrow, framed two eyes of faded blue, faded like the dreams he tried to forget, blue like the peace here longed for yet doubted he would ever find again. Clutching the paper bag which surrounded his bottle of cheap wine, already half consumed, he stumbled in slow motion as might a ghost who was forever searching for the land of the living. The two policemen knew him well and would make no hassle for him on this or any evening, for although he looked for all the world like trouble wrapped in rags, he still maintained a grace about him that set him apart from most others who lived the life he did.

An empty bottle here, a can there, perhaps a quarter or a dime, and when he was really lucky some paper money. A half eaten hot dog sitting on top in a trash can would be his evening snack. A pile of newspapers in back of the magazine stand would be his bed, from which he would be gone before sunrise and the return of the other people, the tribe to which he had ceased to belong. He had once found a wallet with over two hundred dollars in it, but rather than keep the money, he had earned the title “Crazy Gabe” for turning it into the police. He was all for taking advantage of opportunity when it presented itself, but he would be damned if he would take advantage of someone’s bad luck like that. His honesty had earned him the benevolence of both the authorities and shop owners alike. Some food concessions would even leave little treats for him if they thought he might get it before the rats did. Rats! How he hated the rats! He could not begin to count the number of bites he had been inflicted with while he slept.

Now he approached the old fortunetellers booth, the familiar halfway point on his journey towards the magazine stand. Not many bottles or cans tonight and not one coin. There would be no breakfast in the little cafe tomorrow and no hot pretzel from a rolling vendor at the other end of the boardwalk. Not the first time. Not the last time. “Tomorrow would be a better day.” He had to believe that if he wanted to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He would often stop at the fortuneteller booth and lean against it to rest for a few moments before continuing on, and this evening was no exception. Bones aching from years of sleeping on concrete and exacerbated by a bad diet, he let what weight he could fall against the front of the booth. The last glow of the sun dipped below the horizon which made the ocean feel all the colder. There was no warmth to the sound of the waves in such a darkness, no comfort from a sea of sad whispers.

He rested thus for perhaps fifteen minutes and then pushed himself gently away from the wall and was about to resume his March when he saw it, a quarter sitting on the little ledge right in front of the fortune-telling machine. So, it would not be a completely fruitless evening after all. However, this evening would prove to be fruitful in a way he could not yet imagine, and a vague sort of dreamy feeling crept up through him as if from the boards themselves. In a daze he pinched the quarter between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and guided it reverently towards the slot in the front of the machine. Why was he doing this? It was twenty five cents! It was money! Money was not to be wasted on such trivial things. But yet, he felt that tonight this quarter in this place at this time had a meaning and a destiny and that it was supposed to go into that little slot. Of course he had sometimes imagined what fortunes the machine would spell out to people and what might it spell out to him if he ever had an extra quarter to spare?

Still half in disbelief he let the quarter slip from his fingers and pass down into the bowels of the mechanical fortuneteller. It made tinny rattling noises as it progressed deeper and deeper and soon the machine began to whir and creak and even to move. With one unbidden tear cresting his right eye and cascading in slow motion down his weather beaten cheek, he waited and listened as might Ulysses have waited for the Oracle at Delphi to guide him upon his journey. Crystal stars singing of distant heaven shed faint yet brilliant light upon this man, this aged child with no home and no hearth in front of which to warm his bones. And then came the words. Each syllable would have sounded to an observer like sand falling across an aluminum pie plate, but to this person who stood in awe it sounded like the most perfect angel, and this angel spoke his name. “Gabriel, here my words in your mind, deep within, deep within. Feel my thoughts drift into your thoughts, merging and melting, growing and swelling. Know that what your mind now feels it feels at my behest, for my mind is within you now and will guide you. You do want this, don’t you?”

Gabriel shook his head vigorously in the affirmative. Was he dreaming? Did he care? No, certainly not. He had learned long ago to take whatever solace he could, be it real or imaginary. If this was a dream or a hallucination from the wine he would welcome it with open arms. He was beginning to feel lightheaded and dizzy although curiously not at all drunk. He was also beginning to feel pleasantly warm as if he had just consumed a large cup of hot coffee with a bit of brandy in it. No, it was better than that. It was warm like sunshine which was inside instead of outside.

The old fortune-telling machine moved only slightly, the mouth twitching, the head turning a few degrees from side to side, as that voice of an angel came calling again, deep, deep into his hungry soul. “Gabriel, you should not sleep behind the magazine stand tonight. Sleep here behind me, behind this booth. There is a thick warm blanket there for you and even a soft pillow upon which to lay your head. Sleep here, and in the morning, if you wish, you can begin to move in a new direction. This I promise to you. You do believe me, don’t you?”

Again, Gabriel shook his head vigorously that he did. Again he felt that surge of warmth welling up from within him. It felt wonderful. It felt joyful. At the same time he was feeling oh so sleepy. Sleepy, heavy, and even dizzier. The fortune-telling machine had stopped moving and no more words came. Had he imagined all of this? Had he imagined the quarter, too? Well, let’s see. Walking around back of the little booth, paint fading and peeling from too much salt air and too much time, he stared in happy disbelief at a thick blue blanket folded neatly. Next to it was a large feather pillow covered in a blue satin pillowcase which would not have looked out of place upon the bed of royalty. Not daring to question this dream lest he wake back to the cold, the hunger, and that awful gnawing hopelessness, he stooped as gently as he could to unfold the blanket. Spreading it carefully upon the boards, he maneuvered his body delicately into the position of sleep and pulled the blanket up around him. He laid his head upon the pillow, so smooth and so soft, smelling faintly of lavender. This blanket was paradise! The cold did not even begin to penetrate and he soon felt again that magical warmth within him, and this time around him as well, for the blanket seemed to be almost alive with it. Sleep came quickly and not one rat came within twenty five yards.

Dreams of a happy youth on a farm nestled between comforting hills. Echoes of the past he had never hoped to see again. Reverberations of love and joy danced through his thoughts, sometimes bringing a tear and sometimes bringing a smile. Gentle breezes and gentle words, sounds of swallows singing and water gurgling in a small brook. He was happy as he slept. For the first time since he didn’t know when, he was happy.

Morning came, cold and fresh, and with a dampness of dew upon everything. Well, almost everything. The blanket and pillow remained completely dry. As Gabriel opened his eyes into the approaching dawn he could scarcely believe that it was real, but now he knew that it was and not simply a dream. He no longer felt dizzy or sleepy or in any way confused, and that feeling of warmth which had been such a joy the evening before was still faintly present inside him now. No hangover, no pain in his stomach, no ache in his knees and shoulders. He almost felt young again. Rising slowly and taking the time to fold the blanket carefully, just as he had found it, and placing it next to the pillow, he wanted to say thank you, yet he was unsure of whom to direct his gratitude. Walking slowly around to the front of the booth he looked in amazement at the old fortune-telling machine. A little cardboard sign on a string hung over the face.

“OUT OF ORDER.”

Gabriel did not limp now and his stride was a bit longer and springier. Reaching the south end of the boardwalk, he greeted the man delivering papers to the magazine stand with a smile. The smile was returned and he felt elated to have participated in this brief and pleasant exchange. He wanted more of the same. Turning off the boardwalk and up the little concrete steps to the street, he crossed the busy morning traffic and headed straight for the cafe. The windows were steamy from hot beverages and early conversations as he opened the door and headed to the little table by the entrance to the kitchen that no one else ever wanted to sit at because of the constant bustle there. “The usual?”, asked the waitress. Gabriel nodded, though this time with a twinkle in his eye. She looked back at him with a twinkle of her own and smiled, so broad and bright, and it just gladdened his heart to see someone else feel so happy. The cup of coffee appeared before him and he sipped, relishing both the taste and the heat. About half way through the waitress came and topped it up. Again he drank and again she stopped by to top it up. Eventually finishing, he reached into his pocket to find some coins with which to pay, but of course there were no coins. With a sense of shame rising within his throat he turned to look at the approaching waitress with the sadness of someone who has just been told the worst imaginable news. Without missing a beat, the waitress realized what had just happened and cheerfully said, “It’s on the house this morning, Gabriel. I’ve got to give my best customer a gift once in a while, don’t I?” Rising from his chair he began to offer a hug in sincere thanks, but then realized that he must stink something awful. Again, without a second of hesitation, the waitress opened her arms and accepted his gesture of gratitude, returning it with one of her own. It felt so good to have this human contact, this brief caress of living kindness.

Walking now along a side street towards the old pawnshop where he knew he would be able to rest during the morning before the shop opened after noon, he could scarcely believe his good luck. First the blanket and that wonderful pillow. Then two whole cups of coffee, and when realized that he had no money, he had received a warm hug instead of harsh words. The owner of the pawn shop opened the door as he always did, and allowed Gabriel to come in and sit in the rocking chair near the back. After he had had a bit of rest he would fetch the broom and dutifully sweep the entire shop from back to front, and easy payment for nearly six hours of a safe place in which to rest. At noon he would thank the owner and amble downtown to the soup kitchen where he would get a sandwich and something warm to drink. If the weather was nice, he would sit on a park bench and look at the pigeons. If the weather was foul, he would spend as much time as he could in the library before being asked to leave, and the rest of the afternoon behind the loading dock of a department store where there was a heat vent issuing from the wall. His supper, were he lucky enough to have it, would come from the van operated by a church which delivered styrofoam cups of chile and coffee to the homeless, until, as it so often happened, they ran out. He would then go to the back entrance of the arena, if there was a game there, and try to sneak in the door when the game ended and the fans were leaving. Making a beeline for underneath the bleachers, he would quickly gather up dropped coins, hats, pens, etc. This booty would buy him a bottle of wine with which to get through the night.

Today as he walked towards the soup kitchen he had the strangest feeling that he should be doing something else. He was hungry and he knew he needed to eat. Still, he could not shake this sensation that he should walk in a different direction. Almost as if his feet were making the decisions he turned and walked with dazed determination back towards the boardwalk. He never went there during the daytime. Although the police would tolerate him in the evening he was simply not welcome when the tourists were around. Who on earth would want to smell someone who never bathed? Crossing the busy street by the shore once again, he descended the concrete steps and moved on to the boards. Immediately a policeman on a bicycle approached. Fearing the worst, Gabriel prepared himself for his inevitable expulsion and perhaps even a harsh warning not to come back, even at night. He did not recognize this policeman, who was young and powerfully built, yet the policeman seemed to recognize him. “Good afternoon, Gabriel. Unusual to see you down here at this time of day.” That was it. Nothing more was said. Gabriel couldn’t believe it, and not wanting to stir the pot, he walked hesitantly onwards as the young policeman went about his business, riding off across the wooden walkway. Passing the magazine stand the owner nodded and smiled and Gabriel smiled back. Again it felt so good to exchange smiles with someone. Up ahead, through the throng of tourists in their colorful clothing, he could see the old fortuneteller’s booth. Two workmen in blue overalls appeared to be servicing the machine.

As he drew abreast he could see that the machine still had a little “Out of Order” sign hanging from it. The workmen appeared to be detaching the machine from the booth, probably to refurbish it, and then reinstall it later in the week. He was curious to know if the blanket and pillow that had lent him such wonderful comfort and relief last night were still there, so trying to look as if he was not really interested in anything in particular, he walked around back. The workmen took no notice. No blanket and no pillow. Had it been a dream? No. It had been real. And as Gabriel walked resolutely away towards what was usually the beginning of his sojourn along the planks, he told himself over and over again that last night had been real and his fortune really was going to change.

At the far end of the boardwalk, the part he called the beginning, (although as far as that went, either end was the beginning as much as it was the end), there was a drinking fountain. While the newer stainless steel spigot was shiny the old copper pedestal was green as forests and bespectacled with bits of chewing gum. Gabriel leaned to drink and noticed for the first time that this water tasted sweet, almost with a hint of orange. Why would he never have noticed that before? A young woman on roller skates wheeled to a stop next to him and waited for him to finish. He cut short his quench and stepped politely aside, nodding an invitation to her to drink. Immediately the young woman smiled, and despite the streaks of green in her hair and the ring in her nose, he thought she looked beautiful. He could not help but smile back, and in doing so felt the connection of warmth, a brief, wordless encounter perhaps, but full of life nonetheless. He would take this. It was a gift. She soon rolled away down the wooden planks and he resumed drinking. Again he noticed how sweet the water tasted. Definitely a hint of oranges.

Now he walked up onto the busy street and followed it east towards the arena. There was no game tonight but sometimes he would find something useful in the trash cans behind. Besides, it was a good place to panhandle, as it lay in a direct line between the theaters and an area with many parking garages. An old friend of his approached and Gabriel gave the customary nod of recognition and the faked high five. “Hey, Gabe! What happened to you, man? You get laid or something? You look good, man!”

Gabriel muttered some half-baked explanation involving two cups of free coffee end a good nights sleep. It seems to be accepted and he moved on. For some reason he felt that it would not be right to divulge what he felt was a secret about the blanket and pillow and the fortune-telling machine speaking directly to his mind. It wasn’t that he thought the validity of this statement would be doubted. Such fanciful tales were common among his brethren. It was more that he felt that experience was precious and meant only for him. To share it verbally would somehow be to disrespect it.

Behind the arena the usual row of trash cans was missing and in its place one lone wooden crate, the lid pried loose and resting diagonally on top. This was odd. He approached somewhat cautiously and looked inside, and in less time than it took for his heart to pump once, he was struck with shock as if by lightning. There inside the crate was the blue blanket and blue satin pillow, and on it a tiny red envelope, the kind one might receive an invitation to a party in. Gabriel stared in amazement. No amount of telling himself that last night was real could have prepared him for this. If he had found the blanket and pillow behind the fortuneteller that would have been one thing, but here it was in a wooden crate, the lid conveniently open, all in a completely different location. Strangest of all, or so it seemed, was that this location was one which he frequented almost every evening. He could feel the blood racing in his veins but did not attribute the rising feeling of warmth within him to that. That wonderful, delicious feeling of warmth and comfort that swelled within him how seemed so definitely to come from that blanket and pillow.

The little red envelope beckoned. With shaking hand and quivering mind he reached slowly, almost reverently, towards the envelope. It seemed warm to the touch. The flap was not glued but just tucked inside, and now he untucked it and pulled out a small red card. Unfolding it slowly, as if it were a holy book, he read the words written in gold ink. They seemed to speak to him with the voice of the fortune teller, beautiful and soft and almost singing. Happy smooth silk flowing from the voice of an opera angel. “Gabriel, this blanket and this pillow are for you. Pick them up, hold them tightly to you, close your eyes, and just walk. Don’t worry, I promise that you will not bump into anything. You do believe me, don’t you? Yes, I can feel that you do. You can feel it as well.”

As if in a dream, almost as if he was watching himself from outside his body, he tenderly bent and removed the blanket and pillow from the wooden crate, being careful to replace the lid exactly as he had found it, diagonally ajar. The feeling of warmth within him was growing as he clutched the soft material to his chest, lifted his head slightly towards the sky, and let his eyes fall closed. Not understanding why or how, his feet began to move. One foot in front of the other as if sleepwalking, not that he ever had done that, and trusting completely in the promise of that golden voice. Step after step until the steps became a cadence of happy determination. He didn’t even think of what might happen if the promise was not true and he would bump into a wall or step in front of a moving truck. With each step the warmth inside him grew and right alongside that warmth, the confidence that he would be all right. Gabriel was slightly aware of the sound his feet were making upon the pavement. It was cobblestone here which sounded different from concrete or asphalt. Then, step after step, the sound gradually began to change.

He must have walked thusly for an hour and no one had stopped him, this scruffy street person clutching pale blue bedding and walking as if possessed, with eyes closed and head held high. The sound of his footsteps had changed slowly, but had the sound changed quickly he might have opened his eyes and seen what wondrous journey he was actually making. As it was, he did not open his eyes at all until he heard her voice again. “Gabriel, stop. You are here. You can open your eyes now. Open your eyes, ……. wide awake.”

When he heard this, his feet made two more steps as he came to a halt, and each of those steps sounded for all the world as if he was walking upon grass. Opening his eyes and staring immediately at his feet, he was absolutely dumbfounded. There, beneath his soiled and tattered shoes, was velvety green new grass, so soft to walk upon, so delicious to smell. Raising his head as might a deer pause from it’s browsing, he looked before him, then side to side, and lastly behind. The city? Where was the city? The city was gone!

Gabriel was standing in the center of a large green field, surrounded by a glade of stately oak trees, their shade deep and inviting and full of the sounds of life. Birds called joyously to each other and the noises of gurgling water hinted of a brook not far away. “Gabriel, walk into the forest now. You may keep your eyes open, and if you look carefully, you will see me.”

The thrill! The excitement, ……. of finally seeing the angel who had guided him here, ……. was almost too much to bear. He did not want to run but he walked very quickly, not knowing which direction of forest to approach, he felt that it did not matter, and simply walked forward in the direction he was facing. Something told him to go slightly to the right, and he did, and soon he was beneath the trees, those wonderful oaks. A blue jay announced his presence and all the other birds seemed to agree, acknowledging with much fanfare that Gabriel had arrived. Not one hundred yards into the forest he came to the brook. It was only a few feet wide but vigorous with clear rushing water. For some reason he felt he should drink. He was not unusually thirsty, but he just felt within him that this was what he should do. Carefully setting down the blanket and pillow and the little red envelope, which he had kept, he moved his grizzled face towards the stream. The birds seem to sing more loudly, and more loudly still. Just as his lips touched the cool water he saw her! A face within the stream staring straight up at him!

Her eyes were an impossible lavender color, the pupils almost indistinguishable from the irises, but as Gabriel stared he could see that the pupils were slightly deeper in tone. No one had eyes like that, no human. High angular cheekbones on a long olive shaped face and wide gently smiling lips of deepest red. She was beautiful beyond belief, and it took his breath away, so that he actually sucked in a bit of the water from the stream into his lungs, which caused him to sputter and cough. Suddenly, the entire stream seemed to erupt with laughter, quivering and rippling like liquid sunlight there beneath the trees. Gabriel stared in amazement as the face took shape once more amongst the ripples. “Gabriel, dear Gabriel, we have found each other and now your mission begins.”

Mission? Mission? What was this about a mission? (These were his thoughts, but not spoken aloud.)

“I will teach you and you will learn. I will guide you and you will find. I will heal you and you will grow strong and happy beyond your wildest imaginings. The mission, for now, is to allow me these things.” Her words so soft, almost a whisper within his mind, but still that underlying sense of playful laughter, and the stream quivered slightly as she spoke. “The world you live in has grown apart from my world, and this cannot be. Although you and I will only play a small part in the reunion, it is an important part nonetheless. We will, ……… patch things up a bit, so to speak, and nature will do the rest, ………. in time.”

And so it began, Gabriel’s new education. He would sit by the stream and she would teach him. All he had to do was relax and listen. Her words would appear in his mind even as he slept, wrapped so snugly in that soft blanket and with his head upon that smooth pillow, there beneath the sentinel oaks. When he was hungry, fruit would appear within the stream. He merely had to pluck it from the water as it floated by. When he was thirsty, he only needed to bend his face to drink, and thus, with every drop and every bite, his body became renewed. Soon there were no longer any aches or pains in his knees or shoulders, his skin was clear, his lungs fresh and healthy. The mental fuzziness of life on the street was left far behind and a sense of confident clarity grew within him, and always, always, accompanied by that wonderful feeling of warmth. He was happy, just as he had been happy as a child on the farm so long ago. The only difference was that now he was a full-grown man. So how could a man experience the joy of a child? You would have to walk beneath those trees and drink from that stream to understand. You would have to hear that voice for yourself.

A year rolled by, perhaps two. It didn’t matter.

One day she beckoned him to follow and of course he did. He had never even been the least bit curious as to where the stream had arisen, or where it flowed to, but now that he had been told to follow her, he did become curious, and that curiosity built to a slow excitement. Deeper and deeper into the forest, and he half expected this stream to merge with others and form a mighty river, but that did not happen. He may have walked for days or he may have walked for hours. It didn’t matter. When he was hungry, there was fruit in the stream, and when he was thirsty, the most delicious water in the world, tasting ever so sweetly of oranges, was only a few feet away. Always her voice was present. It never left him. It was in the stream. It WAS the stream, and the stream flowed through his mind, into and out of it, as it flowed into and out of that beautiful forest. Eventually, the trees grew further and further apart, and more and more sunlight passed the luxurious canopy of branches and made it to the soft green ground. It seemed like mid afternoon when Gabriel finally reached the edge.

In the distance lay a sight he had hoped he would never see again. It was the city. “Don’t be afraid Gabriel, my love. I am with you now and will never leave, and you will always be protected. What might harm others can no longer harm you. What might frighten others should no longer frighten you. Trust me. You do trust me, don’t you? Yes, I can feel that you do.”

The raggedy clothes which he had worn when he first came into this forest were somehow now clean and new. The pants which had been two sizes too big now seemed to fit as if tailored. His shoes were no longer tattered and falling apart, but new, and creaking the way only new leather can creak. How this was possible was totally unimportant. Gabriel had learned to expect miracles and he wasn’t about to stop now. Faith in that beautiful voice, that glorious stream, had led him this far and he vowed never to go astray.

The further away from the forest he walked, the more the land around him changed. The soft green grass gave way first to drier grass and then to even sparser grass interspersed with weeds. The dry grass and weeds gave way to sandy building lots be-speckled with broken glass and styrofoam coffee cups. Before he knew it he was in the middle of the city again. He turned once to look around but the forest was no longer visible. It didn’t matter, because he knew in his heart it was always there.

Walking along the busy street by the shore, he noticed immediately that the boardwalk was having all the planks replaced again. For a moment he thought of walking along those boards for old times sake, but when he saw that the fortunetellers booth was gone, replaced by a bank of vending machines, his heart sank a little, and all thoughts out walking there vanished as would fog vanish in the morning sun. He moved now into an area of the city which he had not visited for nearly twenty years. Office towers of glass and concrete, high end department stores with giant display windows, boasting the latest fashion and folly. Banks and businesses and little sandwich shops which provided quick meals to a hurried people. On he walked, the warmth and the voice inside him. Soon he was out of the business district and among apartment buildings where dwelt those who had plenty of everything, although most always seemed to want more. Elegant women walked tiny dogs on long leashes and gentlemen with briefcases full of secrets stepped off the street and into the darkened chambers which were their homes. It was too quiet here. There was just not enough sound of life.

“Turn right here, my love”, came the beautiful voice inside Gabriel’s head. And he turned and walked slowly up the marble steps to the grandest house on the grandest street in all the city. The door was open slightly, requiring only a soft push, and he walked in as if he had lived there all his life, with only the slightest suspicion that someone might see him and realize he did not belong. No such thing happened, of course, and he climbed the three flights of stairs unchallenged, feeling absolutely no need to take a little elevator. “Turn right again.” And he did, and before him was a large paneled door of ancient looking mahogany, carved and polished and daring to claim elegance beyond that of all the other doors in the building. Again, this door was slightly open, only needing a soft nudge to gain entry. The foyer was tiled in large checker board marble of black and white. Gabriel removed his shoes here and placed them upon a little rack. Walking slowly down the hallway, he came to a great living room, a fire roaring in the huge stone fireplace. No smoke seemed to issue from the burning logs, yet this was not a fireplace of hollow metal logs punctured with gas jets, but a real fireplace burning real logs of real wood. It popped and crackled invitingly as the voice inside Gabriel’s mind guided him ever so gently to sit upon the plush leather sofa, and then to lay out upon it, and then to sleep. Somehow the blue blanket covered him and the satin pillow cradled his head, yet he would not remember placing them there.

As Gabriel slept, he dreamt the same dream that he and dreamt so many nights ago upon the boardwalk, behind the fortunetellers booth. He dreamt of his childhood on that long-ago farm, of singing birds and the gurgling brook and the warmth of love. “Gabriel, listen to me now. Hear my words within your mind, feel my stream within your thoughts, know what I say to be true.” And with that began the teaching again, only this time the teaching was different. Whereas before he had been taught the lessons of healing and strength and cleanliness, he was now taught the craft of obedience. He had never felt even remotely disobedient towards her, but now he began to understand the difference between ordinary obedience and that which he was now feeling. When she guided him to obey, he longed to obey. That longing within him, that yearning, was not simply to carry out the act of obedience itself, it was an almost unquenchable desire to please her. He felt driven to please her, almost compelled, yet not compelled. He could sense there was choice and that choice was what made his obedience so precious to her. He imagined that she had the power to force him to do anything she wished, yet forcing had never been, and would never be, her way. Hers was the style of gentlest persuasion and softest enticement, singing whispers to the heart, sunbeams of delight motivating via the pure joy that they pledged. Gabriel slept and she taught. Perhaps a day passed, perhaps a week, perhaps several months. It didn’t matter.

“Awake, my love. Eyes open, ……. wide awake.”

And Gabriel woke. He woke as he had never woken before, with a bright new awareness of everything within his view or knowledge, and with a confident sense of understanding that he was safe with her voice inside him. And just as he accepted this, that this was going to be the way of things, a constantly invisible voice to guide him, so warm and inviting, so full of promise and so pure of hope, yet forever without physical form, he heard the footsteps. As far as corporeal beings were concerned, he had really assumed that he was alone here. Her voice, her presence, was now walking down the hallway, and he knew it, as surely as he knew his own name.

“Are you awake?” Her voice no different when spoken from this most beautiful woman standing in front of him than it had been when spoken inside his mind. There she stood, long slender legs tiptoeing in shiny black heels, hidden above the knee by a hobble skirt of dark wool, above which rode a matching jacket over a cream colored silk blouse. Long and graceful arms wielding delicate yet strong hands, pointed nails of dark red. That neck! It was as if she had somehow talked a swan out of it! Her face, the face he had seen so many times in that gurgling forest stream, those enormous eyes of lavender within lavender, those smiling lips of rich red enticement. “Am I what you imagined?” she asked, her voice seeming to hold back a laugh and barely succeeding.

“I, uh, I guess. Uh, sure, I mean………” He wasn’t doing very well, so he shut his mouth and bowed his head slightly, acknowledging her strength and beauty with that one simple motion.

Now the laughter broke forth from deep within her and filled the room as a brightly as had the sunlight filled the corridors beneath the oaks. It rippled and bounced from the ceiling and walls as surely as had the tiny waves of that magic brook. Gabriel was at once stunned, humbled, and elated. She was real! He could never have prayed for a better miracle than this. To have her voice both inside his mind, and her form before him, was more than he could actually fathom, and he grew faint. She saw this and moved to steady him, and has her hands touched his shoulders, he felt a rush of ecstasy surge through him that was unequal to anything he had ever dreamed of in all his years. She laughed again, but this time more gently. A sexy little chuckle.

“You have learned well, my love, but there is still much to be taught and still much to do. I can see that you are eager to learn and I can see that you are eager to obey. Your obedience pleases me and my pleasure warms you, doesn’t it? Yes, I can feel that it does.” She paused, as if to gather more importance into the words which came next. “Gabriel, I hope you understand, I hope you fully realize, that I am as happy to be with you as you are to be with me. What takes place between us, and inside us, is more equal than most people could ever fathom. This symbiosis is what has made possible your transformation and it is what will make possible a success of our work together. Now listen, my love, as I will teach you once again.”

And teach him she did. Whereas before her instruction had been purely within his mind, it was now joined by instruction of the body. She would teach Gabriel the arts of deft movement so that a passersby might never see him. The invisibility of peace within. He learned from her the skills of defense against any weapon without the use of a weapon. He became a master of walking softly, he became profoundly adept at speaking in such a way that his listeners would agree without realizing that there was agreement. She also taught him the glory of love making in a way that few people ever encounter, that of serving with all his heart, obeying with all his soul, all to bring her joy, and her realization of that joy would shine into him like the warmest sunshine and become his joy. He was beginning to understand that warmth he had felt well up within him that night so long ago as he stood before the fortune-telling machine. What he had experienced again the next day as the waitress gave him a hug instead of a bill. That had been but a hint of the warmth he felt glowing within him now. True joy from lovemaking could only be realized this fully if it was one and the same with kindness. Kindness could take an infinite number of forms, he saw, and loving his Mistress with a totally obedient heart and mind was but one of those forms. The relationship between the different forms of kindness was both mysterious and wonderful, both enlightening and thrilling at the same time.

Gabriel did not exactly remember going outside the apartment at all during this time and he did not have any understanding of how long that time was. Yet, at times he did venture out, sometimes with her, and sometimes alone, sent upon an errand to fetch something here or there. He was both living as if in a dream of the greatest joy imaginable, and yet fully awake and aware of everything that took place around him. All of his senses seemed heightened, not just the five physical senses, but the senses of perception and intuition as well. He became an expert in pleasing his Mistress, which gave them both immense joy. The tiniest of tasks, such as washing two wine glasses and putting them away, could deliver to him a pleasure so deep and so sublime that he would sometimes feel almost upon the edge of madness, so great was the euphoria. When she saw this, she rejoiced and exalted because it thrilled her and delighted her that he performed every little act out of greatest love. She glowed brilliantly when she was pleased, and it seemed as if the light from her would shine onto him and into him, making him a blooming flower, ever hungry for more of this intoxicating brilliance.

And then began the “errands”, although in his mind he equated them with the “missions” she had originally spoken of. He was seldom aware of what was happening when he went upon these errands, yet she always explained it to him afterwards if he asked. Sometimes he asked and sometimes he did not. It didn’t really matter, as long as he was pleasing her. And, there was a greater purpose that he sensed behind all of this, but for now that purpose was known by her and not by him. That was fine. He trusted her and he trusted her completely. If and when she wanted him to know, she would tell him. If an errand caused him a little embarrassment, it might cause her to laugh kindly at the predicament she had steered him into, but that just brought him more joy, which he in turn offered to her. Sometimes, when an errand really felt a lot more like a mission than an errand, he would encounter various dangers, yet always felt protected. She had promised that she would protect him and he could feel it within his heart, that wonderful, comforting aura of safety, that absolute certainty that everything would be all right because he had such unshakable faith in his Mistress. And then the errands became more and more dangerous.

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His chronic addiction to alcohol long past, his lungs clear and free of any congestion, his muscles once again toned and supple, Gabriel looked for all the world as if he had shed twenty years. She had dressed him in fine clothes custom tailored to accentuate a form that was already attractive to the women on the street who saw him. He was never dressed so as to make too strong a statement in any direction, neither too fancy nor too plain. She preferred to see him in darker colors, navy, gray, and black, but with shirts of off-white linen or silk. The jackets she picked out for him were always of the finest materials, yet never overstated, as were the suits and tuxes he would wear when so directed.

They were seldom seen in public together, and when they were, they behaved much as would any normal couple. No one could tell, even upon the closest scrutinization, that she was his Mistress and he her willing servant. In the apartment it was all quite different, of course, as she led him in and out of every situation, be it tiny or large, with the steadiness of direction that only a true Domme could command. Gabriel was more than willing to accept this. He craved it and longed for it with his every breath. Always aware that the choice was his, his commitment only grew stronger as the months passed, and she only grew more appreciative of his efforts. To say that they were in love would have been an understatement. They were, “absorbed”, into one another with absolute totality. Every day brought new joys to be discovered and shared, and every evening brought new ecstasies to be realized and glorified.

One late afternoon, when a particularly unpleasant storm had blown in from the sea, she spoke to Gabriel in a manner more serious than her usual warm and welcoming demeanor. “My love, tonight I shall send you on a mission quite unlike any other to date. It will be more dangerous than all the others put together, but of course, you will be under my constant protection as long as you hold my presence in your heart. You will have a little conscious awareness of what is happening, but that is only to further your protection and to enhance the chances of our success. After dinner I will speak to the innermost depths of your mind just as I always have, but this time my words will guide you to a sanctuary few in this city have ever tread within. Are you ready to do this for me my love?”

Gabriel merely smiled and nodded slightly, all that was now required to signify “yes”. He knew that she would never place him in a danger that he could not get out of, and he trusted her with all his heart and soul. If it was her wish to hypnotize him and put him to these tasks, no matter what they were, that was fine with him. It was more than fine. It was his joy to agree. Washing a dish or sweeping the floor was a joy also, but not like this. The missions always brought a type of elation which he could only describe with the word “epic”, for they somehow reminded him of the deeds done by the great heroes of mythology. Gabriel was not being big headed about this in any way, for he always attributed the challenge, the success, and the overall effect these missions had on him, to his Mistress. She was the real hero, not he.

That evening he prepared dinner as he always did, with the greatest of attention to detail, as if royalty would be scrutinizing his every move. She was so very much like royalty, although of a kind far more ancient than anything the world was aware of today. He set the table meticulously, and when the time came placed the food on the proper plates, which were surrounded by the proper utensils. Into the wine glasses he poured from a bottle she had chosen, a strange looking wine almost more orange than red. The aroma was unlike anything he had ever encountered, and it made him dizzy, even from a distance. The liquid seemed too thin in the glass to be of this world, almost as if it wished to defy gravity and float away, up into the heavens where surely it must have originated. Finishing the last of the preparations, he informed his Mistress that their repast was arranged. She must have been waiting in the room next door because she entered immediately. She often watched him covertly, something which always seemed to surprise him as if it was the first time, and always seemed to arouse in him an incredible feeling of being both cared for and preyed upon. Preyed upon? Yes, preyed upon as if about to be devoured, and devoured in the most enjoyable of ways. Sometimes she could be such an imp.

Usually she wore a formal gown to dinner, and often satin gloves to match, but this evening she wore attire which raised more than his eyebrows. His mistress was clad from neck to foot in a deliciously tight fitting black cat suit, crafted from some sort of slightly shimmering fabric, the name of which he could not even begin to guess. This was not clothing for the bedroom, however, but designed for athletic activity and possibly suggesting clandestine behavior. As he pulled out her chair for her, she threw him a mischievous wink and that little smile that melted his heart in an instant. “Do you like this?”, she queried playfully. Gabriel nodded several times more than was necessary, and this brought another smile which aroused him even further. He walked to his chair and sat, all the while focusing upon her beauty, which he could not tear his eyes away from. “You must eat, my love, and it looks fabulous. Try the wine. I’m sure you’ll like it.” And as Gabriel raised his glass, dipping it in her direction in playful and loving salutation, that aroma of the strange orange wine struck his nostrils. Bringing the glass pensively to his lips, he sipped. His Mistress never took her gaze from his eyes.

Had they eaten? He couldn’t seem to remember. The only taste he could recall was that of the wine. More than taste, actually, for it seemed to tingle in his mouth and throat, not as would a carbonated beverage, but as would a passionate kiss. He was experiencing brief moments of awareness in which he could determine that he was still sitting at the table and staring intently into those lavender eyes across from him, those eyes which stared back with love and understanding deeper than anything that seemed humanly possible. To say that Gabriel was transfixed would have fallen far short. The bottle of wine emptied, and somehow most of it by way of Gabriel’s glass, he did not feel even slightly inebriated. What he did feel was intensely aroused and dreamy. He had felt this way with her many times before, but this evening seem so different, more immediate somehow, as if the addition of that strange wine had somehow upped the ante of everything. He almost thought he could hear faint music, although no music was playing. He almost thought he could feel a warm breeze, although it was cold outside and all the windows were closed. She was doing more than just hypnotizing him this time. She was transforming him.

She spoke, deeply, intensely, and with a passion both serious and playful. Each word entered his mind as would a drop of honey fall into an upturned bowl, and slowly filling the bowl, each successive drop would send slow-motion ripples throughout the rest of the honey. Brimming and drifting over the edge in languid ecstasy, becoming warmer and less viscous with every drop, with every word, Gabriel’s mind was slowly but surely undergoing a beautiful metamorphosis. He felt a strength building within his veins like a never-ending crescendo which would increase indefinitely, a miracle of power, a dream come true of magic potential. Although his focus was now almost entirely within his subconscious, he was still able to recognize with his conscious mind who he was and where. What was she planning for him that such a transformation was in order? And as his mind posed this question to no one in particular, so faded that question. The trance deepened, and he soon lost all sense of comparison between the waking world and this magnificent dream. Aside from the feeling of growing power within him, the only other thing which he was aware of was the constant sensation of deepest love he had for his Mistress and she for him. The warmth he had grown so familiar with over the last few years was now more understandable than ever, though he had long ago realized that part of it would always remain mystery, and happily so. Mystery made it all so much more enjoyable.

Had she given him instruction? He could not remember. She finished speaking and walked boldly up to him, took him in a warm yet vigorous embrace, and kissed him on the lips with all the passion of a young bride welcoming home her soldier husband from across the sea, so glad that he was alive. The warmth within him surged and mingled with the tingling feeling of power in his veins, causing him to believe for a moment that he could fly. Then, without so much as a second to pause, she turned and walked gracefully as a cat down the hallway and out the door. Somehow he knew that his course would be apparent to him and he did not struggle to recall what she had said. He stood for a few minutes and continued to relish that marvelous feeling of well-being that can only be felt by someone who is truly loved and in love. And then, as if his feet knew more than he, a short walk down the hallway and out the door came automatically, almost as if sleepwalking. She was nowhere in sight, of course, having moved off in a direction of her own. He trusted her completely to know what she was doing as well as what he was about to do, although he could not remember for all the tea in China what that was. He walked to the little elevator which he seldom took, pressed the call button, and when it arrived he stepped inside and proceeded to the ground floor.

The street was a mixture of blowing rain and scattering pedestrians, a mad little dance of panic and narrowly avoided slapstick as various parties vied for the attention of cabs while trying to avoid slipping on the wet pavement. He turned to the east and walked through the rain as if it was sunshine on a cloudless day. He did not feel the cold in the least and for some reason his clothes did not seem to be getting wet. The warmth within him was somehow pushing the rain away, creating a bubble of summer around him as he strode. Moving out of the posh residential district and into the business section of the city, now deserted at this time of night except for the occasional cleaning crew and security guard, Gabriel placed one foot in front of the other as effortlessly as a puff of dandelion down floats upon the wind. He glided more than walked, and as he moved no one seemed to notice, not policemen, not street cleaner, not prostitute. As he approached a tall glass tower a man stood hunkered against the wall and under the small awning of a doorway. “Gabe? is that you?” And for a moment Gabriel was jerked from his reverie like a fish from a happy pond, as he recognized the man who had recognized him. It was the owner of the old pawnshop where he had once sought refuge in the mornings for the price of a little sweeping. The man looked, in an instant of inspection, as if he had lost everything, for he was now dressed in the same sort of rags that Gabriel himself had once worn when he had lived on the streets. The feeling of warmth within him surged anew and he reached into his back pocket, withdrawing his wallet, from which he extracted all the cash he had, some five thousand dollars. We deep friendship in his eyes, he looked straight into the eyes of this man who had once helped him, stepped forward to embrace him with a hug of one brother to another, and during this brief moment of distraction slipped the money into the man’s coat pocket. “Sorry”, said Gabriel. “You must be thinking of someone else.” And with a smile he walked away, leaving his old friend slightly confused but very much richer.

The front doors of the office tower had been chained and padlocked from within. Somehow Gabriel knew this would be the case, and he walked past these doors without hesitation and around to the side. There was a door for delivery which had two key holes, one in an entrance knob and the other in a deadbolt above. From his shirt pocket he withdrew a long piece of stiff wire, springy yet pliable, and with a small hook at one end. This he inserted first into the keyhole of the deadbolt, and with a slight twist and jerk he could feel the lock mechanism release. Quickly doing the same to the simpler keyed knob, he opened the door and deftly walked to the small control panel on the opposite wall. Again he placed the hook of the small wire into the lock on this control panel and raised the plexiglass lid. His fingers moved as if in a dream, entering the code which would silence the burglar alarm. He was in.

A cleaning lady was busy with her work by the main elevators in the front, so he walked to the stairs which lay in the other direction and began to ascend. The strong sinews of his legs carried him effortlessly higher and higher into the most lofty reaches of the tower, a castle of financial secrets and inexplicable records which none but the rich and powerful were concerned with. Emerging on the top floor, Gabriel walked deliberately and knowingly towards the twin oak doors of the conference room. Again using the little lock pick, he passed through and again silenced the alarm from the control panel in the secret closet within. Nothing seemed like a mystery, while, at the same time, it was obvious to him that he had never been here before. Familiarity and unfamiliarity coexisting side by side in his feelings. It didn’t matter. She had told him what he needed to know and that information was as firmly implanted into his mind as was the foundation of this building implanted into the bedrock of the Earth. Gliding to the back of the room, he immediately found the hidden panel, and with a series of well-placed taps in a specific order and with a specific pressure, he unlocked the entrance to the room in which lay more wealth than all the banks in the city combined. Rows of computer screens that never slept flickered in the dimmed light. An automated voice called out from nowhere in particular and asked for the password, to which Gabriel responded with calm accuracy, at which point the voice proclaimed him welcome.

Sitting at a terminal at the far end of the room, Gabriel entered several passwords which gave him access to the first level of security. Without quite knowing why, he raised his head slightly and gazed out the window into the high darkness above the city streets. There in front of him, not two hundred yards away, was another office tower, and from a darkened window at the same level as his, came the flash of a tiny lavender light. A signal. She was there.

Now his fingers moved more quickly, and he felt a sense of urgency growing within him. Not nervousness, not panic, and certainly not paranoia, for in him rested that wonderful warmth and security which she had given. However, it was very apparent that there was no time to lose, and his fingers flew across the keyboard as he passed level after level of security until at last he had obtained that which he sought. Removing a small thumb drive from his jacket pocket, he placed it into the port in front of him and downloaded the codes in a matter of seconds. He then withdrew that thumb drive and replaced it with another, this one containing a tiny program which would erase all traces of his activity from even the cleverest of prying eyes. The film that she had told him to glue to his fingertips would leave prints which belonged to the highest executive in this corporation, making it appear as if he had done what Gabriel had just done, should anyone ever get that far in an investigation. Standing and walking to another terminal, Gabriel again played magic upon the keys and passed deep into a security system designed to monitor all activity in the building via closed-circuit cameras. Opening the bay do a disk drive, he inserted a DVD which he had carried with him. This would upload footage of empty hallways and the room he was in now, and via the means of more clever code, it would replace the footage which had just been recorded. Removing the disk and again inserting yet another thumb drive, all traces of this activity were magically made to disappear. He knew that the camera which had been focused on this terminal would swing back in less than a minute. That was as much time as he had to get out.

Walking back the way he had come and out into the conference room, being careful to close the door behind him after resetting the alarm, he went to a door on the right side of the room and again easily picked the locks. Now he ascended a short flight of stairs and soon found himself upon the flat roof, being buffeted by a cold wind and rain that happily had no effect on him whatsoever. He looked towards the building where his Mistress was, she too, was now on the roof. Again that little flash of lavender light which he answered with a flash of his own from the little LED flashlight she had given him. Taking cover behind an air vent, he watched through the darkness as she aimed a long spear gun and sent a slender yet very strong line across to his roof. Racing to catch the spear and line before it could fall off the roof, he quickly secured it to the air vent with the special radio controlled locking loop she had given him. At the other end she pulled it tight with a small electric winch till it was as taught as the string of a violin. He could hear her voice in his mind, “Trust in me, my love, and let yourself walk with confidence. Just step onto the line and come to me.” And with that Gabriel stepped off the roof and onto the tight line and began to walk, without the slightest hesitation or fear, not needing to balance himself with his hands, not needing to contemplate the height at which his feet soared.

In two minutes he was across, and his Mistress sent a brief radio signal to the locking loop around the air vent back on the roof he had come from. In an instant the line came loose and she hit the button on the winch to rapidly recoil the entire affair. So quickly did the line spin onto the little drum that there was never any danger of it touching the side of either building and thus raising an alarm. Detaching the winch from its anchor on the tiny cupola and quickly stowing the gear into two small backpacks, one for each of them, they opened the door on the cupola and descended. They could take the elevator here as this building was much less secure, and were soon at ground level where they walked to the back entrance, out the door which she had previously unlocked, and onto the rainy street. She put her arm mischievously around his waist as they strode and he reciprocated tenderly by placing his arm around her shoulders. To any who saw, two lovers on their way home from the theatre, so wrapped up in each other that they took no notice of the driving rain. The storm was increasing in its ferocity, yet to them no rain or cold could have any effect. The warmth within them was fairly raging now, and they were eager to get back to the apartment to celebrate with a feast of love making. She sensed his thoughts and spoke softly to him, audible words this time and not telepathically.

“It’s just a bit of a detour, Gabriel, so wouldn’t you like to go back by way of the old boardwalk down on the beach?” Teasing, prolonging, ….. sweet torture. The suggestion of her detour brought both anguish and elation.

He nodded, as he always did to her, a tiny movement conveying deep devotion. They soon reached to spot where once had stood the old fortune-telling machine.

“So you were impressed with my little mechanical helper, were you?” Her voice like silvery moonlight now, soft and cool and oh so strong. “I will bring it back here again someday when the time is right, and when someone else who is ready needs a safe place to sleep and a life to change.”

And they walked along the planks, smirking like schoolchildren who had just played a joke on the stuffy headmaster and for which they knew they could never be caught. They would relax in the rain and the wind from the sea and then gradually make their way back to her apartment. The tiny thumb drive containing the codes would be used to redistribute the wealth obtained by callousness and evil to those who could benefit from it the most. Orphanages, hospitals, the protection of wildlife, and the cleaning of rivers and streams. The poor and hungry in many a city would be fed and clothed and housed as a result of what they had done tonight.

Gabriel and his Mistress would engage in that ever delightful dance of loving Dominance and devoted submission, and they would rest as only those can rest with a clear conscience and a glad heart. Joys of the past never leave. They are always there. The trick is to always revere them, and thus they remain.

And the man who had owned the pawn shop would find a way to buy back his business and he would thrive. And sitting in the window for all to see who cared to look, would be an old fortune-telling machine, which no one would ever purchase. But that is as she wanted it, a price upon it which none could afford, at least not with money. Gabriel’s Mistress would tell the shop owner to accept nothing less than a perfect smile in exchange for that old machine. The man would eventually have his turn to drink from the waters of healing beneath the oaks and eat the fruit that magically floated by. For now he would sleep at night wrapped in a very soft blanket of thick blue wool and rest his head upon a pale blue satin pillow. Gifts from his old friend, Gabriel, who would keep an eye on him as he made his way up out of the gutter and back into that which we call “society”, yet is but one branch of the larger tribe which includes us all.

Gabriel dared to venture to his Mistress a question which had never seemed important nor disrespectful, yet somehow had never had behind it enough curiosity necessary to push the question out into words. “Dear Mistress, are you a gypsy?”

Oh, that wonderful eruption of laughter, so glad and joyous and full of delightful warmth! It melted his heart and dizzied him, it inspired and awed him, and it always ignited that unmistakable feeling of deepest love.

“A gypsy?”, she laughed. “Is that what you think I am?” And Gabriel somehow knew that she was so much more. And above the roiling clouds, the stars shined just a little brighter, and twinkled a bit more playfully.

THE END

~~~~~~~

Telling Fortunes 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 ;)

“Hold this,” she told me, handing me the matted but unframed photograph. “Over there.”

“It’ll look better framed.”

“I know, but I just want to see how it looks on the wall, make sure the colors are okay.”

“In the hallway?” I offered a puzzled look.

“I thought we had our roles worked out by now,” she told me with a sly grin. “You pick the artwork, I pick everything else. Now hold it there.”

Obediently, I held the photograph against the wall, using both hands.

“Higher… A little more…. Darn! Now I can’t see the photo. Can you just kind of press it against the wall from the top?”

“Like this?” I asked her, holding the photograph into place at the top only, pressing the artwork against the wall with my fingers.

“Perfect. Hmm.” She pursed her lips for a moment. “Now the other one.” She held the other one against the wall for a second, then turned around and moved it to the other hallway wall, directly opposite the first one. After a moment of moving it around, she told me, “Now, hold this one too.”

“I can’t reach.”

“Don’t be a baby. Stretch a little.”

I sighed, then reached across the wall with my other hand and was able to hold both photographs into place, barely.

While my arms are stretched out, holding both photographs in place, she looked from one to the other. “I think I like these. You pick nice photos.”

“Thank you. Can you take one before I drop them?”

“You wouldn’t drop them.” She gave me a sly look, then stepped up to me. “You’re stuck there until I take one from you, aren’t you?”

I looked down at her with a worried expression, but didn’t say anything.

She stepped closer then leaned into me, kissed me warmly.

“Hmm….” I said, slowly opening my eyes to look at her.

“Don’t drop the pictures,” she told me.

“Better take one,” I suggested.

“If you drop me,” she warned me, “I’ll stop kissing you.”

“What?!”

She silenced my protests with another kiss.

“Love….” I moaned.

In reply, she licked my lips, smiling as I moaned again.

Then she stepped away and looked at me before beginning to unbutton my shirt. I ached to wrap my arms around her, and she knew this.

“Don’t drop one,” she reminded me again, before my nipple felt her teeth.

Then her hands moved to my belt and she looked at my slyly.

“Love…” I moaned yet again as she loosened my belt.

“I mean it!” she said. “Drop one and I stop.”

I begged her with my eyes, I begged her with my lips, and a low moan escaped from my throat as she lowered my jeans to my ankles.

It doesn’t take ropes to bind me to her will, it only takes a look, a touch, a kiss. And a warning.
“Drop one and I’ll stop.”

~~~~~~~

Decorative 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 ;)

Stephen looked up from the wreckage of the machine and smiled, his blue eyes startlingly bright in his soot-stained face. He lifted a greasy rag and wiped himself, doing little more than arrange the soot and oil into a more even coverage of his face.

“Well that’s torn it,” he said and sat down, pondering where to start anew. It would be a useful little gadget, he thought, if he ever managed to prevent the steam regulator from seizing up. Just such a mechanical failure had caused the boiler to become dangerously over pressured and burst a valve. This had set in motion a rapid cascade of events that had led to the concussive and ultimately messy destruction of some three week’s worth of tinkering. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the quarter-hour and Stephen sighed, realising that his lunch break would be over in fifteen minutes. With a resigned expression, he turned and peered at his grimy features in the mirror above the workroom sink. This would need a decent wash, he thought, and not just a quick wipe up. Thus he made his way out of the workroom and upstairs to his small apartment and it’s tiny bathroom. At least he had one of the few properties in town that had heated water, indeed one of the few properties that had a bathroom, complete with one of Mr Crapper’s patented water closets.

Even so, it was a hurry for Stephen to return back downstairs and to rush along the corridor to his little shop in time to open up for the afternoon. He switched around the notice in the door window so that it proclaimed open with one hand and unbolted the door with the other. That having been said, there was little enough need for haste, for customers were few and far between that afternoon. Perhaps it was the cloudy grey autumn sky, gravid with the possibility of rain, perhaps it was the nature of his shop- for even with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s recent publicised flirtations with the idea of fairies- this was still the nineteenth century. People knew far better than to be taken in with such unscientific things as described in the antiquarian books sold
there.

So it was that Stephen made himself busy, cataloguing a collection of old books that had been shipped to him from a supplier in Damascus. There were some remarkable volumes there, from a serviceable copy of Occam’s Summa Logicae to an ancient volume, seemingly handwritten on vellum bound in soft pig’s leather. In short, Stephen lost himself in his task and it was only the need to light the gas lamps that made him aware how much time had passed. He hurriedly adjusted the lamps’ mantles and went to close the shop, reflecting that business had been somewhat disappointing that day. It didn’t take him too long to tidy the pile of books and, on a whim, took the ancient scroll decorated book with him upstairs to his rooms.

Leaving the book on his sofa, Stephen forgot all about it while he made himself a hearty supper of some cold beef, boiled potatoes and some steamed cabbage. So it was quite late, almost eight in the evening, when he returned to his sitting room. As he trimmed the wick of the oil lamp by the sofa, he caught sight of the book and smiled. Picking it up, he kicked off his shoes and sank to the cushions. He held the book up to the light for a moment before beginning reading.

The text was in ancient Greek and it took a while for the classroom drills of his schooldays to bear their fruit and allow him to read fluently. The text was a myth, it seemed though one he had not heard before. The characteristics of the story were familiar enough, the usual mix of fornication and retribution. Indeed, the usual suspect, Zeus, was in on the action from the beginning. He had, as was his wont, allowed his eye to go a roving. Not surprisingly, his eye lingered long on the shapely forms of many of the young women of ancient Greece. In this particular myth, the object of Zeus’ amorous attentions was a young acolyte in the temple of Aphrodite.

Could this fair maiden withstand Zeus’ godly charms? Of course not. Indeed, the Lord of Olympus hadn’t even needed to frame the question, “Why not? Aren’t you supposed to serve the goddess of love?” For young Hermione- such was her name- went eagerly unto Zeus’ embraces as soon as he began caressing her cheek. It was probably something to do with the supernatural potency of the deity’s charisma that made the maiden only too willing to cavort around the temple with him.

Indeed, potency must have had a lot to do with it, for barely nine months later Hermione was delivered of a baby girl. While the priestesses of the temple were more than happy with the child’s arrival, naming her Philandra, the infant demi-god’s birth was not greeted with rejoicing on Mount Olympus. Zeus wanted to play down the whole thing, after all, weren’t most of the inhabitants of Olympus his children anyway? Hera was, however, unmoved by this argument and
insisted that she was not going to let the issue of yet another of her husband’s dalliances take a place in the pantheon of Olympus.

Yet young Philandra grew with a more than human vigour and even as a child seemed indefinably “larger than life”. So it was that when she reached her twentieth year, the signs of her divine nature became undeniable. Not only did temple attendance treble when she was serving there, due to hordes of love struck young men hoping to catch her eye, but Philandra glowed. Indeed she took the idea of a radiant beauty and made it fact. The room really did lighten up around her. There was no doubt about it, she was a goddess in the exact and literal sense.

Thus it was that Hera took it upon herself to ensure that the girl never made it to Olympus. Descending from on high on the very night of Philandra’s twentieth birthday she appeared to Philandra and cursed her. She took the young girl and cursed her. She took away Philandra’s physical form to ensure that she existed as spirit only, unable to take flesh anymore, unless a complex summoning was read out at midnight on the night of the full moon.

At this, Stephen laughed and stopped reading, for this was obviously not a lost myth, but instead a clever forgery: a literary device, a joke. Still, he had read almost all of it and only the words of the summoning – and a short paragraph of how the curse might be finally lifted – remained. He smiled, it was almost midnight now, and wasn’t it the full moon tonight? An idle, almost mischievous, thought curled around his mind. It was so intriguing that he couldn’t quite bring himself to dismiss it. What harm could it do, to read the incantation? After all, it would only go to disprove the whole thing, wouldn’t it?

Even as the thought skittered idly across his consciousness, the chiming of his clock made Stephen’s mind up. He snatched up the book once more and stood. Perching his spectacles on the end of his nose, he began not so much as to read but to declaim the words of the incantation. Once, twice, thrice, he read it, finishing theatrically on the very stroke of midnight.

The fact that nothing happened was as much an anticlimax as a vindication, and Stephen sat down on the sofa, hard. He dropped the book onto the table, where it rested open with that final paragraph unread, and he sighed. Oh what fancies assault the senses in the midst of night when one is alone? He smiled at the thought and reached for the decanter to pour himself a snifter of brandy.

It was then that Stephen heard a soft chiming, like bells in the distance. It was not church bells, or the bell to the door of his shop; it was more like the sound of tiny bells as worn around a dancing girl’s ankles.

He shook his head and cursed his imagination for playing tricks on him, but then the pages of the open book on the table fluttered and he felt a soft breeze. The scent of sandalwood filled the air and he blinked. When he opened his eyes again, after the blink, Stephen realised that the air was still once more and he sank back into the sofa.

At that moment, a motion caught his attention and he looked up. Standing before him was a naked woman. Long golden hair cascaded down the narrow of her back and framed a flawless face. Full, sensuous lips curled into a half-hearted smile and then Stephen noticed those eyes. They were a clear celestial blue, circled with a tiny band of dark blue. They regarded him with a searing intensity and shone with intelligence. Her body was unlike any mortal woman’s, for it was a canvas of perfections and curves, inviting yet haunting at the same time, too perfect to be true. There was a soft glow about her creamy skin that
surely marked her as a gift from the gods themselves. When she spoke, her voice was like molten velvet, with a strange accent that reverberated like a soothing caress. Stepping forward she moved with raw predatory grace as she closed upon the sofa.

“My new Master, I presume?” She asked huskily, sliding towards him fluidly.

“By Jove,” Stephen exclaimed, too bemused to consider the irony of the expression. “I say, it worked!”

“Oh yes it did, my Master,” she sighed in a voice that ran through his blood like wildfire. Before Stephen could utter another word, she was upon him, her hands sliding smoothly across his chest and up, to cup his cheeks and lift his face so he was staring right into her hypnotically compelling blue eyes. He sighed as her face lowered towards his, caressing his lips with her honeyed breath before captivating his senses with an inhumanly passionate kiss.

Stephen melted into the sofa, unresisting even as she melted against him, her magnificent body pressed against his trembling one. Her fingers snaked up into his hair and he found himself engulfed in the heat of her passion and intoxicated by the scent of sandalwood that seemed to rise off her very skin. He moaned into her mouth and undulated beneath her, eager to get as much of himself as close as he could to her as possible and then she pulled away.

Stephen whimpered with a small agony of loss and then the world began to swim into focus again as she stepped back. With her further away, Stephen found that his arousal was dropping to merely human levels, He was still very much aware of her tantalising nakedness, but a touch of reality was gradually making him consider what a surreal situation this was.

“Are you really Philandra?” Stephen asked lamely. Even with the greater part of the magnitude of her allure diminished by distance, he was in no condition to think of anything better to say.

“I am,” she replied, treating him to a smile that radiated so much raw sexual power that it was if she were back in his arms driving thought far, far away indeed, from his mind. “Am I all that you hoped for? It has been so long since I walked this Earth.”

“Yes!” Stephen all but shouted, longing breaking through the reserve that society had so carefully indoctrinated into him. Philandra only smiled some more, the sheer wattage of her charisma making his senses somersault, so that he hardly noticed her slip nearer, to sit beside him and whisper alluringly in his ear, her finger tracing up his chest.

“I can give you everything and more,” she said, the whisper’s susurrations thrilling him almost intolerably, “Pleasure you have never known and never will again know. I am yours, yours alone, no other will see or hear me. I give myself to you that I might enjoy this human form for a brief month. I can remain
until you send me away or until the curse draws me back again, when the moon once more hangs full in the sky.”

She looked at him, her azure gaze both challenging and filled with some other, contradictory emotion. It took Stephen a while to realise what it was and even then he lacked a name for it. It was not pleading, for such a regal bearing could never plead, he thought, but Philandra’s expression definitely held an air of expectancy. She wanted or needed something from him.

“Will you be my Master?” Philandra’s voice drew Stephen from his reverie and he looked at her in surprise.

“What?” Stephen asked, shocked. “Now listen here, I don’t hold with that sort of thing you, know.” Indeed, the effect she was having on him was such that Stephen wanted to serve her, rather than the other way around.

“Oh.” The sound of disappointment in her voice almost made the light in the room fail. “Then the curse compels me to depart this mortal realm once more, for you do not desire me.”

“But-”

“You do?” Philandra cut of Stephen’s almost incoherent babble before it really began. “You will let me serve you?”

“I will if you ask it,” he moaned.

“Are you saying you want me to ask you to be my Master?” Philandra’s voice held an amused tone and her delicate eyebrow arched in surprise. “Do you want me to command you to take possession of me that I might stay to gift you, and you alone, with pleasures greater than any mortal man has experienced?” She looked at him with a mischievous curl gracing her lips. “Shall I command you to be my Master?”

“Please” Stephen groaned, hearing only the promise of pleasure that would be exclusively his, knowing only that he would do anything to get what she promised. At that, Philandra’s fingers slid tantalisingly up into his hair in such a way that tingles flowed over his entire skin as every tiny hair stood erect. Her tongue traced the outline of his ear and he barely heard her sultry whisper.

“Good,” she purred and then looked down. “Is this tiny thing your bed? Or do you have somewhere better to take me?”

“Yes, in the other room,” Stephen replied and he felt himself lifted up, as much by Philandra’s personal magnetism as she stood than by anything else.

“Then take me,” she said in tones that could not be refused. “There.” Her hands slid into his shirt and dimly he heard the sound of popping buttons. However, the fire in his blood did not allow him to do anything other than pull her into the bedroom and let her ravage his senses with the pleasures that she so freely offered.

The following noon he woke still in a daze, his skin marked with seemingly thousands of tiny scratches and bites, a deep weariness filling his limbs and the sour taste of dehydration on his tongue. He still couldn’t quite believe what had happened the previous night, still didn’t quite believe that his body could do that in quite that way or that it would feel so good – even the tenth time. He rolled to his side and was unsurprised to find he was alone, after all, he was capable of thought at the moment, wasn’t he? On the pillow, he found a single sheet of parchment, scented with sandalwood and written upon in a deep blue ink with a flowing cursive hand.

Master Stephen,

I leave you for a few hours, that you might rest and then take care of yourself. It has been my sorry experience that if I don’t go for at least some time each day, my time here on this mortal earth is cut very short. Indeed, Alexander of Macedon barely lasted two days, though his physicians hushed it up and explained his untimely death as a fever. I have no wish to cause you harm, for you are the first to summon me in four centuries. Indeed, I would rather you prosper through this and I wish that I were able to stay with you beyond this too brief month we have together.

But that cannot be unless – ah it is forbidden to me to speak of how you might lift this curse from me and must instead devote myself to fulfilling your every desire for the month we shall share together. Until I return tonight, I am sure you will”

Think of me,
Philandra

~~~~~~~

Summoned 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 ;)

She is my Goddess, he thought as he knelt before her, head bowed, arms at his sides. It was as if he could not move, and yet he felt more aroused each moment. He craved to worship her, to massage her delicate feet if she would only let him – anything that would please her, such a deep, intense need to please her. He craved to obey her every wish, her every command. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else, but everything felt so right.

He’d come home, giving her a loving hug, and they shared the moments of their day over dinner. He’d told her that he’d done the errands she’d asked him to handle when he’d left for work that morning, and she had leaned over, gently kissed his cheek and smiled sweetly, whispering “you’re such a good boy”. Instantly a warm rush had passed over him, he felt a sudden compulsion to worship her, and his mind seemed to go blank.

He began to realize that he was kneeling before her almost naked. He felt the silkiness of the stockings on his legs, the bend in his toes from the stilettos, the tug of the garters. “You’re such a good boy”, she purred, her eyes twinkling, “such a good, submissive, boy, dressing up for me like that”. She loved his strength, but she adored how he could reach deep within himself and surrender his delightful inner submissive self to her control. She’d made the lingerie and the heels symbols of his submission, symbols he was ready and willing to offer to her because it pleased her, and pleasing her gave him pleasure, and his pleasure pleased her even more. He could only think of pleasing her. She was his mistress, to be served, to be obeyed, to be pleased. His thoughts sent him down a deepening spiral, more and more and more pleasurable with each thought of pleasing her, of obeying, of surrendering to the power of her beauty, to her femininity, to his Goddess.

She could see how aroused he was, and she flushed slightly as she felt her own arousal growing at the sight. She smiled coyly, sitting back in her comfortable chair, gently caressing herself as she thought about the wonderful evening ahead.

~~~~~~~

Mistress of the Evening 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 ;)

I look at my watch as I hurry to the door to my apartment. Five to eight. Damn. I knew I shouldn’t have stayed for that “quick drink” after work. But what a dreadful week it’s been. Customers canceling orders, deliveries lost, nothing but complaints. On top of that, it’s been months since I last joined the other guys for a Friday evening drink. People at the office were starting to ask questions, they were wondering if I had a secret girlfriend.

If only they knew.

It would have been all right if I’d just had the one drink, but one became two became three and the train was delayed so now… I might be late.

I fumble with the key, dropping it once before finally opening my front door. I step inside my apartment and before the door has even closed I am in the bedroom. I throw my jacket on to the bed followed by my tie then the rest of my clothes. The veneer of the smart, successful young sales executive is quickly stripped away to reveal the desperate, naked male that is the real me. I grab the toy bag from under the bed and rush back into the hallway.

First out of the bag is the alarm clock. I check it’s correctly set and wound up properly – I use an old-fashioned clock in case of a power cut. The alarm is set for nine PM as always. I place it to one side, not too far away. It’ll soon become difficult for me to hear much.

The clock is already showing one minute to eight. I’m going to be late – please don’t let her come tonight. No, no, I didn’t mean that. Please let her come tonight but just not yet, not this early.

Next comes the soft plastic sheath. I slip this over my cock and lace it up firmly. Inside it is lined with many blunt but effective teeth. Any erection will be painful. Some nights I am so excited that I have trouble putting it on. Tonight my only thought is fear and my cock is quite limp.

What am I scared of? Punishment? Pain? No, something far worse.

Abandonment.

—

I first met her about six months ago in a bondage chatroom on the net. We started exchanging messages casually and realised that we had a lot in common. We live in the same city so we met up one evening for a drink at a bar. We seemed to hit it off, so we met up again and then again. After a few weeks of our conversation skirting around the subject she asked if I wanted to play.

I didn’t hesitate: “Yes… Mistress” I replied. The word felt strange in my mouth, I hadn’t called her that before. I hoped that I hadn’t been too forward and offended her.

The smile on her face told me I hadn’t. She nodded. “Good,” she said, “Here’s how it works.”

I haven’t seen her since.

—

I turn the toy bag upside down, letting the rest of the contents fall onto the floor. First I grab the ring of keys and place it carefully on the ground to my left. Then the second keyring which goes just to my right. Both hold the same keys, either set will be enough to release me. Better safe than sorry.

The steel ankle cuffs are cold and heavy as they snap around my bare flesh, the piece of chain between them just a few inches long. With the ankle cuffs in place and safely double locked I kneel in the hallway facing the front door. Next the leather wrist cuffs are locked on – I use lockable leather cuffs because it’s difficult to double lock handcuffs behind your back. It can also be near impossible to get out of handcuffs on your own and most nights I have to free myself.

Now I pick up the thick black leather hood. I had wanted to use a gag, but she wouldn’t let me. She said that gagging yourself when alone is too dangerous, she didn’t want me to choke to death. So we compromised on this hood. It’s so thick and padded that it feels restrictive and makes it difficult for me to hear anything – that’s another reason for an old-fashioned, loud alarm clock. There are no eye holes, just wide nose and mouth holes for breathing.

A final check that everything’s set up properly. One keyring on the floor to the left, the other to the right. The clock is in place, alarm set – and it’s showing five past eight. Five minutes late – I’ve been lucky.

I quickly pull on the hood and lace it up tightly. That done I put my hands behind my back. I loop a short length of chain through the D-ring on one wrist cuff, around the chain of my ankle cuffs then back up through the other wrist D-ring. I thread a padlock through the two ends of the chain and click it shut.

Now I wait.

—

The rules she had told me were simple. Brilliantly simple. First I had to give her my spare apartment keys. I hesitated for a second, but if you’re going to play with someone then trust is essential and I’d known her long enough to trust her.

Then, she told me, every night after that I was to bind myself in the agreed position by no later than eight in the evening. She might or might not come over to play, depending on her mood. She might come over every night – or ignore me for a month. I’d never know and we’d have no other contact. No phone calls, no email, no meeting for a drink. Just me spending every night waiting and hoping.

I agreed, this time without hesitation.

—

How long has it been? About ten minutes I think. My knees and legs are beginning to ache a little, they always do. So I carefully lay myself down onto the floor. The first time I did this I was worried that I might be breaking the rules. However the apartment is quiet and even with the hood in place I can still just about hear the key in the lock when she arrives. So I have time to scrabble back up into position. The rules don’t actually say that I have to be kneeling, however I know she likes it that way and I want to encourage her to come play with me as often as possible.

The beer is beginning to work its way through my system, I couldn’t risk taking the time to do anything about it. I simply couldn’t risk being late. Why not? Because there’s one more thing about our arrangement.

—

She’d had a smile on her face as she said: “There’s one more thing.”

I waited, wondering what torture she had in store. A chastity belt? Piercings? Extreme pain? Whatever it was I was willing to give it a go.

“If I ever come over and you’re not there, or not ready, then I leave immediately, our arrangement is cancelled and you will never hear from me again.”

Was that it? I’d been expecting something much worse. All she was saying was that I had to play by the rules or the game was over. What was the problem with that? I agreed eagerly.

I hadn’t realised quite how clever she was, much power over me that one little rule would give her.

Even if she ignores me for weeks on end I will still be bound and kneeling for an hour every night, waiting and hoping that she will come. I won’t miss a single night – I couldn’t bear to lose her forever.

The worst thing that could happen in my life, the thing that gives me nightmares, is that I am late home and she comes and goes before I arrive. Then I wouldn’t even know that I’d lost her and would spend the rest of my life waiting, bound every night hoping for something that would never happen.

So I am totally in her power, thinking always of her, the rest of my life a poor second. She controls me absolutely without even having to remember that I exist.

—-

What? What was that?

I jerk upright, disoriented for a second as my body automatically pulls against my bonds.

Asleep – I’d fallen asleep. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. What was it that woke me? Was there a sound?

How could I have been so stupid as to fall asleep? I shake my head, trying to remember whether there was any sound. Has the alarm gone off? I can always hear it through the hood, but I’d never been asleep before.

What time is it? Half past eight? Half past nine? Midnight? There’s no way to tell.

How long do I wait here, naked and bound in my own hallway, until I decide that I missed the alarm? And how will I know how long I’ve been here? In the sensory deprivation beneath the hood time is impossible to judge. At what point do I take the risk and release myself – only to face the prospect of seeing her walk through the door at the very moment I remove the hood.

Or do I play safe and stay bound and naked until I hear the morning traffic outside.

As if there is any real choice. The risk of losing her outweighs all other considerations. I groan quietly and prepare for what might be a long night.

—

The first evening after we’d made our agreement I was more excited than I can ever remember. I had all the toys ready, checked and double checked, hours in advance. By ten to eight I was already stripped, bound and waiting, convinced that she’d be coming soon.

When the alarm clock rang at nine I was so disappointed I almost cried. Yet at the same time I found the denial exciting, knowing that I had spent an hour naked and bound in my own hallway for no other reason than that she wanted it. Knowing that she could decide to use me or ignore me on a whim. Feeling the power she now held over me.

She did come the next night, though she left me kneeling there waiting for a long time before she arrived. The moment I’d heard the key in the door my cock had stiffened and I felt the pain as the studs bit in. I’d heard her enter and the door close. She’d said nothing, just walked round me. Was it really her? Of course. Who else had a key to my apartment?

“Yes,” she’d said, as if reading my mind, “It is me. And I’m ready for some fun.”

Fun she had, as did I. Nothing too heavy, just some bondage, teasing and the occasional slap of leather across my ass to remind me who was boss. As if I could forget.

She left my hood on all the time, not deeming me worthy to see her face again.

That became the routine. Every night at eight in the evening I would be ready. Sometimes she came and played with me several nights in a row, sometimes I was left alone for a week or even longer. Those were bad weeks.

—

The alarm! It’s nine o’clock!

Mixed emotions fill my mind. On the one hand I am relieved that I didn’t miss the alarm, that I know the time and can now release myself. On the other hand I am bitterly disappointed that she didn’t come.

I reach down for the keys. Where are they? I feel around with my hands but can’t find the keyring. I must have become disoriented whilst asleep. No problem, that’s why I have a spare set. I feel for the wall, run my fingers along to the corner and down. I always put one set of keys exactly here so that I can find them with the hood on.

Except that they’re not there.

I start to scrabble around more urgently. They must be here. Did I somehow kick them away? They can’t be far.

I hunt for the keys for a few minutes, getting more worried by the second. Then I freeze as I hear a chuckle.

“Looking for these?” she says playfully, and I hear a faint jingling sound by my left ear. “Or these”. She jingles the other keyring by my right ear.

“You were asleep when I arrived,” she says, her voice no longer playful but icy. “I find that rather insulting. You need to be taught some respect.”

I cry out automatically as I feel the sting of leather against my buttocks.

“Aren’t I interesting enough for you?” Another sting, harder this time. “Our little game too boring? Well I can fix that. So far you’ve only felt my nice side. I hope you got a good nap because you won’t be getting much sleep for a while. You’ll be phoning in sick this week.”

I yell out in pain as something strikes my balls.

Beneath the hood there are tears in my eyes, but I’m also smiling.

It’s going to be a great week.

~~~~~~~

What A Week 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 ;)