Femdom Fantasies

by Arafin copyright © 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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