Guest blog: The Mistress’ Mistress

Image by the brilliant Elita Darling

Good sex writing should – in my opinion – make you do something. Breathe a little faster, maybe. Reach into your pants, sometimes. Get in touch with someone you’ve been lusting after for ages… Well, this week’s guest blog made me squirm and wriggle and blush a bit while I was reading, then crave a little of this kind of scene myself. So please give a blushing, warm welcome to today’s guest blogger – international Mistress and courtesan Valerie August – with a story about how sometimes even a professional Mistress might need a little nurturing and discipline to guide her…

The Mistress’ Mistress

The dungeon looked like a bomb had hit it. As I picked up clothes pegs that had been flogged across the space in every direction, I surveyed the chaos. A damp pair of cotton panties that had spend 40 minutes gagging his mouth lay on the pillow, spat out (with permission) moments after orgasm. Seven bundles of jute rope lay unravelled and trailing around the floor of the steel four poster bed, along with a few dozen impact toys tried and discarded as I had put him through his paces. I sat down on the bed to clean all the glass attachments of the violet wand with alcohol and return them to their foam casing inside the manufacturer’s box. I like these moments after an intense session, whilst my client was showering. I like to think of myself as an athlete stretching and cooling down after an intense burst of energy. My own self-administered aftercare. I sipped water and stared off into space.

“Mistress?” He stood in the doorway – his suit back on, but the tie hanging loose round his neck. He looked a lot more confident than he did two hours before, towelling off his hair with casual ease, a beatific aura of satisfaction about him. He almost looked taller – but then he had spent most of our time together on his knees.

“I had such an incredible time today,” he said, swapping the towel for his jacket that rested across the back of the dungeon throne. I pretended to admonish him for untidiness – “Does that towel belong there, you messy boy?” – but he knew I was joking. He made an offer to help clean up the dungeon but I told him to feel free to head off and enjoy his walk back to the office. I wouldn’t spoil his afterglow by making him coil up ropes, and I’m not the kind of Domina who is above cleaning up her own mess. He turned to leave after passing me an envelope and sweetly kissing me on the hand and cheek, as if I were a princess.

He headed up the spiral stairs to street level. When the door clicked shut, I sat down again for a minute, a little fatigued. The session had run slightly over, but there was time to take a moment, as this commercial dungeon always stipulated Dommes leave an hour between each session. As I looked across the room, my gaze rested on something out of place. On a shelf in the glass-front french armoire were a pair of cufflinks, an oyster card and some sunglasses. Sighing, I was standing up to fetch them, when the door clicked open again at the top of the spiral stairs. Oh good, he’s remembered!

“Well well! Forgetful little pet!” I called out, laughing.

But when I span around, the client’s personal effects in my hands, I saw that the person descending the stairs wasn’t him, but a woman. The first thing to enter my vision was a pair of boots, followed by tight leather trousers. I couldn’t make out her face in the low light, but the tumbling red hair and tight white shirt and blazer were instantly unfamiliar to me. She reached the bottom step and peered into the dungeon, lifting her sunglasses above her immaculate eyebrows.

“Well well well, indeed” she said softly. “Someone is very untidy, I see.” She had the kind of voice that felt audible with little effort on her part. “Who’s the pet you were talking to just now? Or were you perhaps… talking to yourself.” The last sentence sounded more like a statement than a question. I felt my face burn and my heart start racing.

It sounds silly, but I often go to pieces around other Dommes. No matter how many men spend a hour at my feet, or scream for mercy at the flick of a switch, I can never keep it together around powerful women. Snapping the arms of her sunglasses down, she moved off the last step and into the dungeon, slowly walking towards me. What I had assumed was the elevation of the lowest step was in fact the woman’s amazonian height, made more impressive by stiletto boots. I felt an urge to run but realised I was frozen to the spot.

She walked straight to the armoire and opened the glass door, placing her sunglasses and watch inside. She turned to me and held my gaze as she pulled four rings from her fingers, dropping them onto a crystal plate one by one. I realised no one had spoken for about 30 seconds.

“Well?” she said, raising a brow. “Are you going to tidy up, or aren’t you?” She plucked my client’s personal effects from my clammy fingers and placed them back into the armoire. I started to speak but my throat felt dry. “Yes- I – I’m so sorry, I – I should have – I was just -” Jesus Valerie! I thought. Pull yourself together!

“Let me gather up my stuff and I’ll be out of your hair in just a second,” I said. I turned around and starting picking things up at about 5 times the pace I had been minutes earlier – rope, blindfold, a humbler, some floggers. I clutched them all ungracefully to my chest as I tried to get everything off the floor. I realised with a sense of unease that the woman had taken a seat on the gilded throne in the corner, rather than setting up the session for her own space. I turned around. She was watching me.

“Don’t look at me, concentrate on getting this place tidy for me.” She spoke without coldness, but firm professionalism and perhaps a touch of condescension. Something about her reminded me of the school nurse, although with her pouty red lips and matching spiky nails she looked like anything but.

“Please get a move on though, darling – I like to be fully prepared with time to spare.”

Face freshly hot, I turned around and continued to tidy. I started to disentangle the ropes, fearing that they were going to be stuck to the bed and I’d have to stand here with her watching me expectantly for twenty minutes. I became suddenly aware that my hair was a mess, and that my stockings had a ladder in the back caused by a rogue wartenberg wheel. I was still wearing only the ivory lingerie I had stripped down to, with a mini robe over the top that I’d put on after the session came to an end. So much for the poised and perfect dominatrix, I thought. My shoes were off. In fact, where were my shoes? Where the hell are my shoes? I started to panic.

Abandoning all intentions to pack up in an orderly fashion, I began to shovel everything into my leather holdall unceremoniously. I grabbed my floral dress, mentally kicking myself – argh, so girly! Why didn’t you wear leather today?! – and hurriedly pulled it over my head. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to be finished and escape the piercing gaze of this women who was now tapping on the side of the chair with her nails.

“Darling, once you’ve finished, come here for a moment.”

I felt my core tighten with nerves. What does she want? I thought. I headed over to the corner of the dungeon, straining to affect an air of insouciance. I stood in front of the chair as she sat deep within it, reclined, legs crossed.
“Closer,” she said, and beckoned with one flick of her fingers. I could suddenly smell her perfume and immediately felt a jolt of empathy for all the fearful looks I’d found so endearingly pathetic on the faces of my submissives over the years. I stood next to the arm of the chair. She picked up the hem of my floral dress and gently toyed with it.

“So let me see.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at me. “Poor timekeeping. Lack of attention to your client’s belongings. Messy dungeon. Clothing…” She glanced at the dress “….underwhelming.” She let go of the hem. “Sweetheart, how long have you been doing this?”

I wanted the ground to swallow me up. “Six years, actually,” I said. She made a theatrical wince. “Well my goodness – that’s long enough to know better, surely. I can’t imagine how you’re still able to cut corners like this. Didn’t your own Mistress teach you anything?”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking. “I – er.. I haven’t actually….had…a mistress.” I stood there feeling stupid. “I was trained in a commercial dungeon in Berlin, but I’ve never -” She waved her hand to cut me off.

“Darling, that’s the problem, then. Without a guiding hand in your everyday life….well – even a professional Mistress is capable of being…slovenly.”

She cast her eyes about the room again, and then back to me with a deadly smile. I still couldn’t detect whether it had been sarcasm or sincerity in her voice, but at any rate it was obvious that the squirming silence was amusing to her. She raised her eyebrow again.

“Do you think you might need to be disciplined?” she asked, in a sort of infantilising tone, the way a person might benevolently ask a drunk person if they need a glass of water. A jolt went through me. I couldn’t speak. I looked helplessly around the room. The clock told me there were still 40 minutes until her session would start. “It’s a simple question, sweetheart.”

Oh my god, she’s fucking with me, I thought. She can’t seriously be doing this.

“I…er…I don’t know.” I paused, looking at my feet. Oh, fuck it. “Yes, please. Yes I do.”

She smirked as I met her gaze. “Yes, what?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes, Mistress.”


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