A First Meeting

Last year I ran a Giveaway, for which the winner of the Kink Craft cuff set and personalised erotica was Mistress Heather
Her request was specific ‘a first meeting between her and myself, and, after a very long gap, it is finally finished and has her approval for you guys to read it, too.

As I stepped off the carriage onto the platform, my heel caught in the pattern that peppered the tile intermittently, guiding blind commuters to the spaces where the doors would slide open. I skidded forward on my heels – higher, pointier than I was used to – and in the crush of bodies, fell awkwardly onto my knees.  Humiliation as fuel for the early morning workers of London, the crowd stopped for what felt like a full minute, silence followed by stifled laughter. Or not so stifled. Then they moved on.
As the crowd eventually thinned and I looked about me, I found myself looking up into her face. “Good morning.” She said evenly, without emotion. She didn’t hold out a hand to help me up, just watched as I scrambled to my feet and brushed the platform dirt off my skirt.
“Good morning, Mistress.” I replied.
“Clumsy.” She observed, turning on her heels – higher, pointier than any I had ever seen, and she moved on them as though she was barefoot. “Follow.”
She walked quickly, cutting through the thrust of human traffic imperiously with me scuttling behind her like a naughty child.
Outside the station, she hailed a cab.
“The Dorchester.” She instructed the driver, and made herself comfortable. I clutched my bag to my chest and began to worry if I was dressed appropriately for the swankiest hotel in the country.
“Your skirt is very short. Your blouse very low cut.” She said, directing her words out of the window, rather than to me. “And you cannot walk on those heels at all, can you?”
“No, but I was directed to.”
“You were. You can follow a simple instruction. Alert the press.”
I glanced down at her own skirt, clinging to her thighs, tapering at the knee, just above her shiny black boots.
“I’m taking you for afternoon tea, and we’ll see if you can act like a lady once I’m finished with you. If not, I’m sure I’ll find a use for you.”
She turned her head briefly to look down at my legs, then returned her gaze to the grey pavements of the city, only saying.
“I do hope that’s not a ladder beginning in your stockings.”
We carried on the rest of the journey in silence.

The hotel was just as palatial as I had feared. A doorman in a long grey coat and a cap nodded to us deferentially as we entered the building. An elderly be-suited gentleman at a podium looked up when we approached the drawing room.
“Ladies.”
“Heather.” She said, simply. And he nodded.
“Of course, we’re expecting you. Clotilde- “He motioned to a young girl in shades of black and white. “Will show you to your table. And I hope you don’t mind, but you’ll find a chilled bottle of the Dom Perignon 2002 waiting for you. A gift from Mr Petit.”
The faintest smile crossed her lips.
“Thank you.”
He bowed his head and Clotilde lead us through the plush, flower-filled room to a central table, surrounded by chattering women wolfing down their afternoon teas. An almost baying audience for whatever she would inflict on me. My heart began to thud. True to his word, ‘Mr Petit’ had left a large bottle of vintage champagne waiting for us, and a card.
When we were both seated, she reached for the note and read it, smiling again.
“One of the lesser managers here. He’s into CBT and tiny cock humiliation. I only idly mentioned I was coming here and- “She motioned to the bottle, evidence of her power and skill of manipulation.
Clotilde returned to take the orders for drinks, everything else having been taken care of.
“ Lapsang Souchong and a glass of milk, Semi-skimmed, tepid, for the girl. Thank you.”
Clotilde nodded and left to attend to our requirements.
After examining the cutlery for scuffs and soap spots, Heather rested her hands on the table and looked at me.
“What are your words?
“Yes, Mistress. No, Mistress. I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”
“Good girl. Once again, simple instruction didn’t fox you. Now, your clothes.”
For the first time since our meeting an hour ago, she let her gaze wander over my outfit as I tried to sit up straight with my knees pressed together.
“Undo the top button on your blouse.”
She instructed, as Clotilde returned with an ornate china teapot and a child’s beaker of milk. The waitress politely turned her eyes away from my exposed flesh, informing Heather that the first course of finger sandwiches and savoury pastries would be out shortly.
“Now another button. I want to see if you can follow other simple instructions.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
When the flash of lace on my bra was visible, she held up her hand. It had been a very specific instruction; white lace, new, a size too small so my flesh spilled obscenely out of it.
“Perfect. I’m even a little impressed you have followed this instruction to the letter.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
She nodded, and sipped her tea.
“Drink your milk.”
I took a sip. Though I had made a quiet face of disgust – away from her view, of course – when she had told Clotilde to bring me my milk at room temperature, the unusual warmth began to soothe me a little.
When I put the glass down, she raised her hand.
“Stand up.”
I stood with my hands crossed in front of me.
“Come here.”
I walked calmly over to her and stood at her side.
Without so much as a glance about her, she reached under my skirt, up my thigh until her rouge noir nails grazed the chubby flesh of my pubic mound.
“Disgraceful.” I could hear the smile in her voice, feel her pleasure as she carefully extended her index finger and dug the nail sharply into the fat, twisting it, gauging my reaction. I inhaled sharply and coughed. My eyes threatened to water, but I swallowed and kept my gaze on the painted archway before me, wondering what our genteel audience were possibly thinking.
“You were positively panting to act like a little slut today, weren’t you? I bet when I told you to take your knickers off on the train down you had to be stopped from debasing yourself in that stinking toilet cubicle.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress.”
“Yes you are.”
A second finger passed between my outer lips, but I knew this was only to see what her touch had done to me. Any pleasure of mine was inconsequential, only hers in torturing and playing with me held any importance. The only importance.
“You are very wet, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“You like it when I hurt you, don’t you?”
She jabbed her finger harder when I took a second too long to answer.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Fetch me your knickers.”
When I leant over my bag to retrieve them, she called out. “Bend at the waist, not at the knee.” Knowing that the split in my skirt would reveal the lower curve of my backside to every pair of eyes behind me.
I returned to her side and held them out. She fingered them briefly for a moment or two, examining the damp white lace.
“Now, then. Shall we stuff your stupid mouth, or your slutty wet cunt? Of course, a cunt like yours should be plugged to stop you letting it do your thinking for you; but if I stuff your mouth then you can’t embarrass me by saying something foolish. And I do so hate to be embarrassed by unthinking, selfish submissives. Come here and open your mouth.”
I obeyed, and knelt beside her. With the hand she had used to torture me, she smoothed the hair over my forehead, and began to push the fabric between my lips, filling the space up until my eyes bulged. The tiniest sliver of white was visible. She nodded.
“Sit down, I can see the waiter with our sandwiches.”
I sat and watched as a young man in his twenties appeared with a tiered cake stand and set it on the table.
“Cream cheese and cucumber, ham and tomato and plain cheese sandwiches. Creamed mushroom pastries, and beef wellington amuse bouche. Would Madam like me to pour her champagne?”
“Please. And a small glass for the girl, she can’t handle her alcohol at all.”
The waiter nodded and poured out a half measure into my glass before bowing and leaving, though not without a glance at my chest which he thought was surreptitious, but very much was not.
Heather wiped her mouth and selected two sandwiches for herself, before picking up a third and placing it on my plate. Plain cheese. I looked down at it, my mouth awash with the rough texture of lace and the faint taste of my own arousal. I knew she was watching me. Waiting to see what I would do.
I folded my hands in my lap and looked across at her.
“Oh dear. Your mouth is full and you can’t enjoy your sandwich.”
She punctuated this with a bite of her own, a large one, which she chewed slowly, purposefully. Swallowing, she took a second bite and the rest of the morsel disappeared down her throat.
“What a pity. What a shame. Your mouth is all full up. And you can only sit dumbly and watch me eat my delicious lunch.”
And that is exactly what she did. She ate sandwiches, and delicate pastry tarts, all the while looking at me, laughing when my salivating mouth betrayed me and a stream of drool coursed from the corner of my mouth, down my neck.
When the waiter came to take the savouries away, he noted my single, now slightly dried and curling sandwich on the plate before me.”
“Such a fussy eater.” Heather said simply, shaking her head in embarrassment at my refusal of their delicious food.
“Perhaps she’ll perk up when the sweet arrives. Chubby little girls often do.”
The waiter, trained as they all were to cater to the fancies and cruelties of the moneyed, nodded politely, and removed the demolished plates of savouries. Before he had quite left, she instructed “Undo another of your buttons.”
This time she took out her phone and snapped a photo of me, all bulging cheeks and breasts, gazing blankly into the camera.
“I would like another with you looking more pained, more desperate. Try again.”
She held her phone up again, and I allowed my resolve to fall away, my tears to flow and my eyes to plead. Satisfied, she tucked the phone away.
“I think you may have suffered enough, or at least I’ve grown bored of your muffled voice, when all I should hear is your plaintive “Yes, Mistress. No, Mistress.”
She leant over and placed my champagne glass before me. The old-fashioned kind, wide brimmed and shallow, rather than a tall, skinny flute.
“Open your mouth.”
She whipped her phone out again for a third photo.
“Now spit.”
The wad of sodden fabric fell into the glass with a surprisingly delicate splash, coinciding with the second tower of treats being set upon the table.
I blushed, but Mistress was having none of my embarrassment.
“Now, you didn’t touch your sandwiches so have you really earned your pudding? I’m not sure you have. And these cakes look so delicious. Look at those huge, fluffy scones with their dish of clotted cream. I know how much you enjoy cream and jam. The sensuality of the texture.”
The waiter departed again as she motioned to the sweet little pots on the middle tier.
“Why don’t you engage with the texture a little more? Why don’t you press your fingers into them?”
I faltered.
“It wasn’t a request, was it?”
“No, Mistress.”
“So why didn’t you do it immediately?”
“I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress.”
“You are.”
I slid my fingers into the seasonal jam – raspberry and rose – and clotted cream dishes and drew them out slowly, both thickly coated, one pink and glistening, one creamy white, like a slightly aged snowdrift.
“That’s right, you want to make sure your digits are entirely covered. And now you’re going to do some finger-painting. A simple word, because of your stupidity. Slut. All in caps. Now.”
I carefully spelled out the word across my exposed chest, the colours mixing a little as I finished the T and looked up into her face for approval. She was holding up her phone again.
“Now lick your fingers clean. Oh dear, now you’ve made even more mess on your stupid, pudgy face.” She tutted and put the phone away again. I watched her reach for a scone, spread it liberally with cream, then jam and place it, open-faced, on my plate.
“Eat your scone.”
She watched me take a mouthful, then returned her attention to her phone. I knew what she was doing; it was part of the agreement. There were select people those images would be sent to. Other Domintrices to show off her possession; other subs to make them feel guilty about their reluctance to debase themselves for her, my own phone, and that of my partner, sitting at the match, eagerly awaiting the picture documentation of the afternoon.
The scone was heavenly, and quickly finished. Heather, meanwhile, topped up her own glass of champagne, then poured a measure more over my knickers, displayed in mine. She took a decadent chocolate torte from the plate and, cutting it in two, leant over to feed me my own half. The filling was dense and velvety, and seemed to be even more decadent coupled with the sensation of Heather’s hand trailing down my neck, caressing the skin just above the creamy mess on my décolletage.
“Wasn’t that nice?”
“Yes, Mistress.” I replied, thinking of the damp markings I was leaving on my heavily upholstered chair, and smiling briefly.
“Good. Which macaron would you like?”
“The pink one, please?”
“Yes, you may take that one.”
Light as a feather, it almost crumbled in my hand, and melted away on my tongue like candyfloss.
It was now later enough in the day, that the afternoon tea crowd had dispersed quite a lot.
“I think there is still a little time left before I have to take you back to the station. And we can’t have you going out in public with your cunt on display, open for anyone to touch it, particularly you. Take your panties and come here.”
She knew that I knew what was coming left, and stood with my legs further apart then was natural. She took them from my hand, not bothering to wring them out, and once again her hand trailed up my thigh, a trickle of expensive champagne travelling down my calf as she began to push the sodden fabric inside me. Inch by inch, cold and wet, I inhaled sharply as she began to fill me.
“Now, hold up your skirt so we can send a nice photo to your beloved so he knows what to expect, and that you won’t get into any trouble on your way home.”
It must have been the flash that finally alerted someone to what we had been doing; the elderly gentleman from the podium walked quickly over to us as my skirt fell back to my knees and Heather swiftly removed her hand.
“Ladies….” He began, but she held up that self-same hand, shining in the artificial light with vintage champagne and girl-cum.
“Thank you, we were just leaving. But what a repast you provided for us. How delicious and satisfying, wasn’t it?”
I looked from her face, to his furrowed brow.
“Yes, Mistress.”
Agog, he made to speak again, but we had already gathered our things and were heading for the exit.
“I trust the car is waiting for us?” She called back over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply.
Of course it was.

The journey back to Euston was silent again, but as I sat with my hand resting on the spare seat between us, she very gently reached over and stroked my fingers.
She stepped out of the cab to straighten me out – button up my shirt, brush stray hairs from my face – and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“We must do this again.” She said, smiling at me – specifically at me – for the first time that day.
“Yes, Mistress.”
I nodded, turning into the crowds. Of course, when I looked back, she had already gone.

GIVEAWAY!!!!!

(Boring background shit)
This Summer, I went to Sexhibition (along with a very patient/loving/kinky friend of mine), and as soon as I bought the tickets, I knew I was going to visit the good people at Kink Craft.
Three months later, sitting at their stand making my own mini flogger, I was not disappointed. I was so not disappointed I immediately bought up the matching handcuffs & nipple clamps (I love a matching set, who doesn’t?).
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It was only at home that evening that I experienced buyer’s remorse. Namely that, cuffs are not actually my bag at all. Even if they are beautiful handcrafted ones.
BUT! My overindulgence can be your gain! I’ve decided to give them away, along with a handwritten story, to a lucky follower! (I know, contain your excitement).

So, rules are:

  • UK residents only (Sorry… But I am poor. Caveat: If you’re coming to Eroticon next year, your entry can be presented to you in March)
  • Follow me on Twitter
  • AND STILL BE FOLLOWING ME ON TWITTER WHEN THE DRAW TAKES PLACE, CHEEKY.
  • Like the pinned post on Twitter (So I can keep track of things #memorylikeasieve) AND:
  • Interact with my work  (Retweets, blog comments etc. NOTE RETWEETING THE PINNED TWEET DOESN’T COUNT X)
  • You must do both to qualify (Hey, there has to be a little something in it for me, too…)
  • Once I reach 500 followers, the winner shall be drawn!
  • Story will be on a subject of your choosing if you wish (As long as it’s consenting adults and no scat/bestiality/incest etc. )Good Luck! And let me know if this makes fuck all sense to anyone.