Goldilocks and the three dominatrices

Once upon a time there were three dominatrices who lived together in a large BDSM facility in the woods.  There was a Daddy Dominatrix: a butch lesbian with cropped hair and copious tattoos who loved wearing biker gear.  There was a Mummy Dominatrix: a large lady with a deceptively sweet smile, a firm attitude and a strong right arm.  And there was Baby Dominatrix: a blonde blue-eyed innocent with an angelic smile and very expensive tastes – along with a wide repertoire to ensure that men paid for them.

Not everyone's idea of what a BDSM facility should look like, I suppose, but stereotypes are there to be challenged.

One day the dominatrices were preparing for the sessions each had booked for the day.  Daddy Dominatrix was going to burn the BDSM symbol into one of her client’s buttocks – she had just started the furnace to get the brand to the necessary red heat, but it would take an half hour to warm up.  Mummy Dominatrix had a mouth-soaping session planned but she needed the bar of astringent ivory soap to melt in a bowl of warm water into a gooey mass, and that would take half an hour too. Baby Dominatrix had nothing to prepare, but she never started a session on time, believing her pay-pigs deserved to wait before being allowed into her presence, so she had half an hour – if not longer – as well.  

 So Daddy Dominatrix attached some heavy clamps to the testicles of her client and left him chained to her branding table, Mummy Dominatrix secured her client tightly away with strict instructions not to release his enema into his big squashy nappy before she returned, Baby Dominatrix strode past her kneeling client without a look or a word and the three dominatrices went out for a walk.

While they were out walking, who should happen upon their house but Goldilocks.  Now Goldilocks was a sissy: all golden curls, frills and lacy underwear and he came mincing along the path, where he had been out picking flowers.  Seeing the door ajar, he pushed at it and entered.

The first thing he saw was a row of boots and shoes.  Goldilocks looked at the first set of boots.  They were Daddy Dominatrix’s heavy ‘Dr. Martens’ boots, hobnailed and made for stomping and kicking - of which over time, they had done so much they were rather scuffed.  Goldilocks took a quick lick but the leather felt rough on his tongue so he moved along.  The next pair of shoes were Mummy Dominatrix’s sensible court shoes that she wore for governess scenes.  A one inch heel gave just enough of a clickity-clack when Mummy Dominatrix walked in them for her clients to thrill to the approaching no-nonsense discipline.  These were much more to Goldilocks’s taste, so he started licking avidly, before he noticed the footwear next to them.  It was a pair of little pink leather boots, high-heeled with glistening eyelets, red leather laces and little hearts picked out in sparking crystal on the uppers.  Goldilocks took one of them in his hands and sniffed rapturously.  The delicate smell of female sweat wafted from the interior and Goldilocks hurriedly bent down to plant a flurry of kisses and licks across the second boot, while lifting his skirt so that his insistently erect penis could come into contact with the soft pink leather of the first.  In less than a minute one of the boots was covered with spittle, while on the other a thick splattering of semen showed where Goldilocks had reached his temporary heaven.

You want a picture of the boots?  Sure.  Enjoy.  Oh, sorry - were you hoping for one of the other pairs?

Feeling exhausted after coming so hard, Goldilocks went upstairs looking for a bed in which to lie down.  The first bedroom he visited was Daddy Dominatrix’s (although Baby Dominatrix often joined her there): decked out in black, with occult symbols and heavy metal album covers tacked to the wall, it terrified Goldilocks even before he saw the shackles attached to each heavily carved post of the bed, so he slammed the door and moved on.  The second bedroom he visited belonged to Mummy Dominatrix, although she herself did not actually sleep there.  In this bedroom, pink was the dominant theme, with fluffy rabbits decorating the walls and a large teddy bear in the corner.  Only a rack on the wall on which tawses, paddle and canes hung, beneath a sign reading “Mummy knows best”, detracted from the soft cuddly atmosphere.  The ‘bed’ was a giant cot, with rubber sheets and bars that not only formed the sides bout could also fold over to make a fully enclosed space. Goldilocks loved it and was just about to climb into the cot and snuggle down when he heard a groan.  Looking around, he saw the teddy bear shaking slightly and making incoherent pleading sounds.  Not stopping to investigate (which was just as well because inside the bear the enema was about to be released after all, despite Mummy Dominatrix's strict instructions,) he fled this strange room as well.   

This is Trevor. He's a forty-eight year-old procurement manager for a large engineering firm, from Swansea.  He's not actually named in the story but he's an interesting guy: enjoys snowboarding, collects original turn of the century newspaper prints and volunteers as a local fireman. But today he's just this.  And a bit stinky.

The third room, though, took his breath away.  In a room fit for a princess, decked out in the finest silks, the large circular bed in the centre could have accommodated seven people (and occasionally did, but not to sleep – only one person ever slept there, as she preferred her sexual partners to distribute themselves on the floor around the bed when they had served their purpose).  A rack of shoes contained what must have been a hundred pairs: Manolos, Jimmy Choos, Blahniks, Louboutins... many of them seemingly never worn.  Then Goldilocks pulled at a handle on the wall and swooned as a clothes rack glided silently out, offering to Goldilocks’s delighted eyes more dresses than he could count, all from the world’s top designers.  A second rack contained nothing but fur coats of the richest sable and mink – and there were three more handles betokening couturial delights to come.

Can a girl have too many shoes?  Baby Dominatrix might graciously permit you to help her find out, if you ask very respectfully and demonstrate your worth to her.

Goldilocks was tempted to play dress-up but decided he’d enjoy it more after a nap, so he stroked a hand across the flawless satin of the bed and prepared to rest.  However, he felt the first stirrings of another erection and decided he’d sleep even better after another good hard wank. He remembered seeing a laundry basked at the head of the stairs and – being a nasty, perverted little creature – went to see what he could find.

The first pair of underwear he drew out belonged to Daddy Dominatrix.  Undecorated – except for the stains from a particularly heavy period – they had little to attract Goldilocks so he threw them straight to the ground.  The second was a pair of Mummy Dominatrix’s bloomers, which were rather more to Goldilocks’s taste, but alarmingly large and anyway by now he was getting the idea, so he dropped those too and rummaged around in the hope that the lucky dip would once again come up trumps on the third attempt.  And it did.  The delicate silk panties that Goldilocks found himself holding in a shaking hand were finer than he had ever seen.  His own tastes tending towards the lacy, he generally bought tacky over-the-top sissy stuff from a catalogue aimed at perverts like himself.  But these were the real deal. As lacy as anything Goldilocks owned yet also impossibly tasteful, the panties represented a new peak in Goldilocks’s sexual experience. They belonged, of course, to Baby Dominatrix, who had tossed them into the basket after an auction among an increasing frantic group of bidders had failed to produce enough revenue for her to feel that the winning bidder deserved actually to receive the panties, although of course he was still permitted the honour of paying for the privilege of being denied them.

I've heard from quite a few readers that you would really, really like to see a picture of the laundry basket full of the ladies' used underwear.  So here it is. Enjoy... perverts.

Goldilocks took barely an instant to crack one out into Baby Dominatrix’s used panties, then sighed happily and let them too drop to the floor. Then he headed, exhausted but content, back to the bedroom.  He drew the curtains so it would be dark (thus raising and instantly dashing the hopes of the line of kneeling men below, each clutching his envelope stuffed with cash and gazing hopefully up at the window), lay down and stretched out luxuriously on the satin sheets, then almost immediately fell into a blissful slumber.

Soon enough the three dominatrices returned from their walk, eager to begin their delayed sessions (except for Baby Dominatrix, who had decided she did not feel like working today, so was going to send her clients away with an imperious gesture).  The first thing that caught their eyes was the messed-up row of footwear by the kitchen wall.  “Someone’s been licking my boots” growled Daddy Dominatrix suspiciously.  “Goodness – someone’s been licking my governess shoes!” tsked Mummy Dominatrix and reached instinctively for her hairbrush.  “And somebody’s been licking my eleventh-best pair of pink boots – and they’ve jizzed all over them!” wailed Baby Dominatrix.

The three dominatrices stormed upstairs, barely believing that any of their clients would have dared to commit such a sacrilege but determined nonetheless to find and deal with the culprit.  At the top of the stairs, though, they stopped in their tracks at the sight of three pairs of underwear strewn on the floor.  Daddy Dominatrix frowned. “Someone’s been sniffing my panties” she grumbled, and slapped a fist menacingly into the palm of her hand.  “Oh how dreadful – some naughty little so-and-so has been sniffing my bloomers” Mummy Dominatrix gasped “What a dreadful little boy!” Baby Dominatrix extended an elegant finger to point at a scrunched up pink shape on the floor, in which the folds were gently hardening. “Look!  Someone’s been sniffing mine and decided to jerk off in them too - and he didn’t even pay!” she gasped in horror.

Daddy Dominatrix flung open her bedroom door.  “Well, at least no one’s been sleeping in my bed” she said in relief, winking at Baby Dominatrix who just tossed her head coquettishly.  Mummy Dominatrix opened the nursery door, but quickly slammed it shut again, as a familiar smell wafted out. “No one’s sleeping in the cot either” she reported, “but SOMEONE has made a big mess in his nappy and Mummy is VERY CROSS INDEED!” A moan of fear came from behind the nursery door but the three dominatrices paid no attention, because heavy snoring was coming from Baby Dominatrix’s boudoir.  There, in the middle of the satin bed, despoiling it with his very existence, lay a fat balding man, in a tacky sissy dress.  A golden curly wig had slipped from his head.  “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed” whispered Baby Dominatrix with cold fury. “And when he wakes up, he’ll wish he’d never been born!”

And she was right.

I expect you're wondering how three dominatrices ended up in the rural idyll described here.  After all, professional domination does tend to be an urban pursuit.  In fact, the cottage doesn't belong to them but instead to a rich local landowner, pictured above.  He arranged a session some years back with Mummy Dominatrix and she liked the place so much she decided to stay.  They let him keep his own room, of course - until Baby Dominatrix decided it would be better suited to being a walk-in shoe closet. But he still has use of the garden, as you can see.

The next night

“No – no please it’s much too large” Goldilocks shrieked, tied to Daddy Dominatrix’s bed.  But Daddy Dominatrix just laughed and slowly, remorselessly penetrated Goldilocks’s desperately stretched anus with ever firmer pelvic thrusts of her giant black dildo.

The night after that

“No – no please, it’s much too small” Goldilocks sobbed.  But Mummy Dominatrix just laughed, briskly removed the ice water towel and firmly fastened the narrow steel tube around Goldilocks’s frozen, shrivelled cock.

The night after that.

“Oh yes” laughed Baby Dominatrix.  “That’s just right” and she silently handed Goldilocks the keyboard, so he could authorise her to drain every last penny from his bank accounts.

And the rest of their lives

So the three dominatrices lived happily ever after.  And they never saw Goldilocks again.  In fact, no one ever did.  Clients visiting the BDSM facility occasionally reported a bald, scared-looking house slave scurrying from one menial task to another – but no curly golden-haired moppet.  Mummy Dominatrix even started allowing her little boys to mess their nappies now she had a little helper, and Daddy Dominatrix offered scat play for the same reason.  

And as for Baby Dominatrix? Ah, dear reader, to find out about her life and doings you’ll have to subscribe to her premium service, I am afraid.  And that is a whole other story – and quite an expensive one!

I just thought that after reading so much about him, you'd like to see a picture of Goldilocks.  Here he is.