In a small town on the edge of the mountains, there lived a
dominatrix called Mistress Amanda. She was the town’s only dominatrix, because it was
a small place and most of the men there were perfectly normal: enjoying vanilla
sex and never dreaming of trying a BDSM fantasy. But there were enough naughty boys needing
strict lessons, sissies needing to dress up and scrub floors and also foot or boot
fetishists wanting nothing other than to sit before her kissing and licking for
hour upon hour, for Mistress Amanda to make a good living.
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OK, this isn't actually Mistress Amanda. This is Lady Sophia Black. But she looks remarkably like Mistress Amanda, don't you think? |
When the town prospered, so did Mistress Amanda. Some years
she was so busy she could hardly keep track of which sub was which and once began
what was intended to be a realistic schoolboy scene, wearing leather corset,
fishnet stockings and a spiked collar. The
‘boy’ explained that this wasn’t what he wanted so Mistress Amanda, with two
other sessions already booked in for that same day, airily told him to fuck off
and he departed with a flick of her bullwhip.
She even had a small financial domination side-line, which in those days
before telephones and the Internet mostly involved being sent money accompanied
by long gushing letters and responding curtly and dismissively with demands for
more cash. And in the leaner years, Mistress
Amanda would make some economies but she would get by.
But one year the town went into an economic depression that
it couldn’t seem to shake. People laid
off from the nearby farms started drifting into town looking for work but there
was no work to be had. Inns competed
desperately for the dwindling custom, with offers of cheap beer, and the local
stonemasons offered half-price carvings to anyone who could provide the stone
themselves and every week, it seemed, more and more shops were shuttered. Times
were hard.
They were hardest of all for the poor dominatrix. When money was scarce even the most devoted
sub usually had higher priorities than getting his bottom spanked – and Mistress
Amanda quickly discovered that few of her subs were indeed as devoted as they
had always claimed. The pay-piggies
stopped responding to demands for cash, the boots went unlicked, the toilet
unscrubbed and the cage unoccupied and Mistress Amanda began to wonder whether
she should seek other work. She would
sit in her dungeon during the dull long evenings trying to think of other
professions that might value her specialised skills.
She still had a few clients who paid her the occasional
visit. One of the most frequent was Pansy
Pink-knickers, an elderly sissy with a small retirement fund which enabled him
to visit once a month, put on a maid’s uniform and perform a few random acts of
spectacularly ineffective housework before being placed across her knee and
given a moderate spanking. The spanking
was part of the roleplay, but it never lacked justice for Pansy Pink-knickers was
perhaps the most incompetent sissy maid who ever pranced around in
stockings. He could be relied upon
without fail to use drain-cleaner on the delicate laundry, attack the muddy
tiles with a clothes brush or simply accidentally kick over, then hoover up, Mistress
Amanda’s earring collection. Remarkably, Mistress Amanda found she herself had to do
more household chores in the weeks when Pansy Pink-knickers had ‘cleaned’ than in
those when he was absent, as it took her at least an hour to restore the place
to its pre-‘cleaning’ condition. But he was a regular client and always paid
his tribute without quibbling, so she tolerated him (and he, for his part,
worshipped the ground she walked on, even if his attempts to clean that ground
were usually disastrous).
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Ah yes - that's Pansy. In a position where he can do relatively little damage, thank goodness. |
She also had the occasional passing trade – businessmen and
bureaucrats from more prosperous (or rather less impoverished) parts of the
realm, who took the opportunity to liven up their evening in the otherwise dull
town by being tied up, buggered or peed upon before graciously being permitted
to masturbate and leave the poor dominatrix to her gloomy thoughts.
One day, Mistress Amanda was preparing for just such a
one-off client, who had booked a schoolboy detention. The days of not caring whether her clients
were getting what they wanted were a distant memory, so Mistress Amanda had
carefully prepared. She was wearing a
blouse, long governess skirt and a black corset and looked the very image
of a stern scholastic disciplinarian.
The room was set up for the detention session: a blackboard in the
corner, a school desk with little chair awaiting the unfortunate miscreant and
exercise books and pencils for the written punishments that had been requested
by the client, before the inevitable caning.
The cane! Mistress Amanda suddenly realised with a shock that she had
not brought one out, so she went off to her toy cupboard in the next room. She
opened the cupboard and mechanically reached out for one of the canes she knew
would be lying on the third shelf – and found none. She looked up and down the shelves in
confusion. The cupboard was filled with
tawses, paddles, whips and all manner of other leather implements but
everything was in the wrong place and she searched ever more frantically for
the canes, without success. A faint
memory returned to her of ordering Pansy Pink-knickers to tidy the cupboard on
his last visit. Of course, he was
supposed to do a bad job – that was why he went across her knee – but he’d
truly scaled the heights of incompetence this time. Where the hell had the little bastard hidden
her canes? A tawse would not do – this
client had been quite specific.
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No, that's not a cane. She hasn't got one at this point in the story. Anyway, that's not Mistress Amanda, remember? It's Lady Sophia Black. I did tell you that. |
She became aware of a knocking at the door. She closed her eyes, collecting herself, then
strode over and flung open the door.
“You’re late!” she snapped, and the eager-looking
businessman scurried in. He fumblingly
handed her an envelope, which she took with haughty disdain, resisting her
frantic temptation to feel and count the so-desperately needed cash within.
“I hope you have your uniform with you, boy!” she said and
the man lifted the bag he was carrying with a sheepish grin.
“Well, get changed then!” she commanded. “Don’t you dare keep me waiting – you’re in
quite enough trouble already, young man!”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry Miss” her client stuttered, excitedly,
removing his clothes. “Please – please don’t cane me!”
“Well…” replied Mistress Amanda, feeling an unaccustomed
sense of helplessness. “That’s for me to
decide, isn’t it? We’ll just have to
see. But you are on very thin
ice!”
And with that threat hanging in the air, and with Mistress Amanda
wondering how on earth she could deliver upon it, the session started.
Any hopes she might have had that the cane was just an
optional extra were swiftly dashed. She
rapped his knuckles with a ruler, strapped his palms with a tawse and bent him
over more than once for a dose of her heavy paddle. But at the end of each such assault, the
‘boy’ made a remark along the lines of “Oh, thank you Miss. I hope you won’t cane me too. Really – it’s too much, I couldn’t bear
it!” Clearly, there was no escape – he
expected the cane. But there was no cane
to be found.
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The boy. Do we know his name? Do we care? |
During a slow moment in the session, while the boy scribbled
lines in his exercise book (“Boys who are repeatedly insolent get the cane
across their backsides – good and hard.”, Mistress Amanda left him alone,
walked through her kitchen and opened the back door, hoping the cool evening
air might inspire a revelation as to where that wretched sissy might have
decided the canes should be kept. No
such inspiration came, but just as she was preparing to head back inside, her
mind racing with a script explaining that she had decided a caning would be too
lenient and she had something much worse
in store (with no great hope of getting away with it) – she glanced down. There, on the mat outside her back door, lay
a cane.
It was not one of her canes.
Nor just any cane. Truth be told, her dungeon equipment was becoming a
little shabby and this cane was not one of the tired, chipped specimens that
she had expected to find in the toy cupboard. This cane shone with the rich, deep
brown that betokens quality wood, worksmanship and care. She bent to pick it up and noticed its weight, which somehow accompanied
a remarkable flexibility when she bent it between her strong hands (she did not
bend it far – to find such a cane at just the right moment then break it would
be a tragedy; incompetence worthy of Pansy Pink-knickers himself). It was quite a heavy cane
but thoroughly swishy. She wondered
briefly where it had come from, but then heard a sneeze from the
schoolroom. Clutching the cane, she
marched back through the kitchen, flung open the door to the schoolroom and
strode imperiously to the front.
She tapped the end of the cane against a word she had
previously written on the blackboard.
“Can you read, boy?” she demanded. “Or is even that simple
task beyond you?”
“It, it says s- s- silence, Miss” stammered the boy.
“And what do you think that means?” she inquired,
sardonically.
“Erm.. no noise, Miss.”
“No noise.” she repeated, thoughtfully. She tapped the end of the cane gently against
the blackboard again. “No noise at
all. No talking, no singing, no
coughing… no sneezing.”
She took two paces forward, towering over the desk and
flexed her newfound cane between her hands.
“I had hoped, perhaps it would not be necessary to
resort to this, boy” she remarked. “I
was beginning to think perhaps you would manage to behave well enough to
leave here with your bottom no more than slightly warmed. However, I see now that I was wrong – grievously wrong - it seems I gave you altogether too much credit. I have been lenient, but leniency has
obviously failed, so it is time for sterner measures. Much sterner measures. So stand up – with your hands on your head!”
“Oh, please Miss, don’t” murmured the boy, rapturously, as
he struggled to his feet.
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Here we go. |
Soon his rather ample bottom was stretching the grey flannel
material of his shorts as he bent across the desk. Having prepared him with a stern lecture, Mistress
Amanda drew her arm back in a well-practised manoeuvre and let fly with a neat flick of the cane. She had found it was best to
start fairly mildly, with moderate taps across the shorts, when first using a
cane on a new client, to gauge their tolerance. Few wanted or could truly
‘take’ a proper beating and she was aware that this lovely new cane, whatever
its provenance, was a fearsome implement.
The rattan impacted the clothed buttocks with the usual
slightly disappointing ‘click’ rather than the terrifying ‘thwack’ of CP fantasy. But on this occasion, that sound – and the
accompanying sharp intake of breath from her client – was quickly followed by a
ringing sound, as of metal striking on stone and she saw a gleaming flash out
of the corner of her eye.
She looked down, and there on the floor, just next to the
boy’s grey-socked right foot, was a shiny copper coin. She bent down to pick it
up, wondering why on earth this client would carry small change in his fantasy
schoolboy costume. She vaguely toyed
with working it into the scene but could not see any obvious angle and anyway
the session had reached the point at which actions were required, rather than
words. According to the client’s script, after this caning she would
imperiously command him to kneel down and masturbate, to humiliate him and
bring home the severity of his crime (which had, in theory, itself been
masturbation - but she had long ago ceased to find this contradiction
amusing). Once he came, of course, she
would break character, offer him wet-wipes or a shower and make rather stilted
conversation while he put his normal clothes back on.
So she placed the coin on a shelf, to give back to him after
the session (although times were hard, they were not so hard as to tempt her to
steal a copper coin and she was fundamentally an honest lady), then placed
another stroke across her quivering target, precisely half an inch higher than
before (she prided herself on her caning skills).
Again, not only was there the click of impact and a gasp of
pain, but a jingle and this time she actually saw a coin fall and roll under
the desk.
She struck again.
“Three, thank you Miss” gasped the boy, but she was paying no attention
to him, instead watching dumbfounded as
another copper coin appeared.
She tapped the cane gently, experimentally, across the
buttocks a few times. Nothing happened,
and the boy’s breathing calmed slightly.
She drew back and swished hard – not by any means full
force, but considerably harder than before.
“Ouch! Oh Miss, ow,
four thank you Miss!”
But his stern schoolteacher was not listening and had eyes
for nothing but the small coin she had picked up and now held between her
shapely index finger and thumb. This one
was silver.
Again, the cane descended in a sweeping CRACK across the
buttocks. Again, the boy shouted out in
pain and fear.
And another silver coin.
“Oh… oh… it’s too hard Miss, please Miss.” He gasped. “It really hurts!”
“And it’s going to hurt a lot more” she replied
sternly. “Last of the six - always the
hardest. Brace yourself, boy – this is going to be a stinger!”
Excitedly she drew the cane back, then swept it forward with
all her might. This time the cane connected with the THWACK! of fantasy and the
boy leapt up, bellowing.
“Oh CHRIST – oh fuck, that really hurts. Red – red, Mistress,
oh fucking hell…”
She ignored him once again, gazing down in satisfaction and
wonder at the small coin by her high-heeled black shoe. Her theory had been correct: the lustre was
unmistakable. Gold.
“Please Miss” the boy pleaded, half in and half out of
character. “I’m sorry, that was just too much, I – “
“No more than you deserve” she replied, severely. “However, I believe that should now
constitute a sufficiently… effective lesson.”
The boy calmed down, rubbing his backside ruefully.
“But I am still not satisfied that you are truly repentant”
she continued. “Masturbation – a filthy
habit and a deliberate breach of school rules!
That’s why you were beaten, boy, and you deserved every stroke! But I think I need to bring home to you how
ridiculous, how humiliating and shameful such an act can appear. You’re going to masturbate for me – right
now, here, with me watching. In your
shorts, like the filthy little schoolboy you are.”
“Oh please, Miss, no” he murmured ecstatically, slipping his
hand into his shorts and after a minute or two of grunting, accompanied by
contemptuous, mocking comments from the schoolmistress, the session was at an
end.
Later, her feet luxuriously soaking in the usual post-heels
bowl of warm water, Mistress Amanda tossed the coins from one hand to the next for the umpteenth time
and thought and thought. The three
copper coins and the two silver were together about equal to her regular
session fee. But the gold was something
else. With copper and silver, she could
live her old lifestyle. But with gold, she’d
be rich. And the only way to get gold,
it seemed, was to flay some poor bastard’s bottom. She had very occasionally encountered clients
who sought out ‘judicial’ beatings but she had not seen one for years. A pity, as they were now – almost literally –
gold dust. And so Mistress Amanda
thought and she thought and she thought – and she came up with a plan.
***
The whole town turned out for the wedding of George Eichert
and Amanda Collins. Few could imagine
what the statuesque beauty saw in the little old man. They would have said ‘money’ – especially as
there were wild and scurrilous rumours about what went on behind the closed
doors of her house - but although George was known to have a small nest-egg,
the town banker rather indiscreetly explained that it enabled at best a comfortable
standard of living.
“I do” whispered George, at the appropriate moment, and
mouthed the word ‘Mistress’.
“I do” smiled Amanda back.
And she said “Pansy Pink-knickers” just loud enough for the shocked
priest to hear.
It had been easy enough to explain to him that, as her longest-standing
client, he was her first choice to take on as her 24/7 lifestyle slave in retirement. He had nearly had a heart attack from shock and delight, and then
had spent half an hour incoherently slobbering at her feet. Signing the contract to give up any safeword rights
had been a little harder, as although Pansy Pink-knickers loved being spanked,
anything firmer made him squeal in pain.
But she’d explained that if they were going to do this properly it was
important that she could occasionally - just occasionally - punish him in ways she knew he would not
enjoy. Real punishments to back up the more
playful sessions across her knee.
She
promised she would do so only in the case of real failings on his part, where punishment
was truly warranted. And so
he had signed.
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Ah, the happy couple. Don't ask what happened to Pansy's outfit. Let's just say that cheap fetish maid costumes don't do well on the 'boil wash' setting that he somehow mangaed to find. |
‘Real failings’ she thought happily to herself, gazing
fondly at her new husband as the hubbub of the wedding feast swirled around
them. She thought back to images of streaks of cleaning fluid distributed across
mirrors, of knickers slowly and incompetently handwashed, of floors scrubbed only
slightly cleaner by a silly old pervert in a pink frilly dress eagerly pushing the brush around in wild circles.
And each one of those images seemed to disappear behind dazzling visions of showers of gold and silver coins, too many to count, so close she could almost touch them. Perhaps he would get slowly better at housework. But she doubted it, at his age. Even with encouragement.
***
Two weeks later, they returned from their honeymoon in a fine
coach, pulled by four white horses driven by two strapping young coachmen.
Amanda was resplendent, in new dress and a rich brocade coat. Her proud
husband seemed more subdued, stepping gingerly down from the coach as if his
years had finally caught up with him, and walking stiffly and slowly towards the front gate.
Amanda drew out a bag that bulged with coins and generously handed out
coppers to each of the coachmen, who later swore that most of the gleaming
metal in the bag had the heft and the glow of silver or even gold.
He must have been richer than we all knew, the old
skinflint, said the townspeople. And they raised their glasses to the happy and rich
couple, while the banker sat quietly in shame.
And right they were to do so. Amanda seemed to have a never-ending supply of
silver and gold. She bought a large
house and employed over 30 servants, she invested in land and brought prosperity
back to the farms, there seemed no limit on her appetite for expensive clothes
and jewellery and although even her abundant shower of gold and silver
could not by itself solve all the region’s problems, it was perhaps just the
boost the region needed and it has been prosperous and bustling to this day.
And so everyone lived happily – albeit in one case very
painfully – ever after.
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Moneybags |
With profound thanks to Lady Sophia Black, both for playing the part of Mistress Amanda in this tale so beautifully and also for providing Servitor with some wonderful sessions. She really was as beautiful and poised as she looks in the photos and as delightfully evil as she seems in her videos - I was very lucky to know her while she was working. But you're not: she's retired now, I believe.