The Executioner's Girl

Chapter 3

***

I wonder if Harvey has ever had me reveal the secret of my piggy-bank puss. That’s what it reminds me of, especially now I keep it completely shaved: a neat, black slot within the smooth pinky-white glazed porcelain, so narrow an aperture it was barely able to take the width of the larger coins, so that I was scared of doing damage as I pushed the silver through the back and into the belly of the sweetly smiling little pig. Mine is one of the wettest p*****s I have come across, and surely the tightest. I have spent many hours gazing at it as I play, examining the entrance itself as I picture two or three of my slave girls and try to bring an accurate image of their honey-pots to mind for comparison with my own. I am sure it is half their size at best. Where I have managed only two fingers in mine I have pushed three and four, sometimes even a whole hand inside my slave’s wombs. I have stuffed them with bead-strings and their own lingerie, f****d them with cucumbers and thick, venous dildos, yet I will accept only the slenderest of toys and maybe the odd hairbrush handle inside me. You might say that practice makes perfect but I’m just not sure that I am built to stretch like other girls.

It might occur to you that my demand for control stems from some white fear of having a man take me as he pleases, of ripping me apart. You might think that the way I will control and humiliate men, the thrill I get from having them cower in servitude at my feet, and my stubborn refusal to ever take their silly pricks inside me are all just manifestations of my self-loathing due to panic at my own inadequacies. But I simply cannot envisage the prick that I would ever let inside me. Even average ones seem way too big and anything smaller must belong to some short, fat toad of a man that I could not possibly consider giving my precious self to. And so I don’t. I take my pleasure from making men suffer and from the joy of my girl’s tongues and, most often, from my own fingers.

I am an insatiable wanker. I love my private time as much or more than my time with my slaves. On my own I get to think about and do the things I cannot do in front of others. I have the filthiest thoughts and let myself go. Nothing is too rude for my imagination. When I come I wet myself, and I always have. I only need my fingers to make it happen. Long before “squirting” became the fad I had to confine my lonesome naughtiness to the bathroom because of the mess I might make. Now I know I am not alone in having this delectable gift but, although my embarrassment has gone and I will share my silky juice with my girls, I would still never give it to a man. Try not to think that along with my tiny puss, another reason that I have never let a man f**k me is down to this unavoidable ejaculation when I come, because this simply is not the case.

My girl slaves seem to love my spurting come. I guess it is such a demonstrative show of how much they have pleased me. They revel in its taste and rudeness, that slight sweetness that had one girl (whose name I forget) calling me her ‘Nectar Queen’, and confessing that her idea of heaven would be to eat me. I am well used to being thought of as edible. I have a memory of my stiffly proper piano tutor gazing wistfully upon me as I finished a Chopin nocturne one quiet spring morning with the light flooding into her studio. My playing had obviously moved her.

“You are delicious,” she announced, quite out of the blue, “utterly scrumptious.”

She must have wanted to f**k me, despite my tender age. I remember fantasising that night about her at the keys playing Chopin–not a nocturne this time but his iconic funeral march–and of me climbing on top of the piano and pushing my bare bum out and squashing her prim face between my lush cheeks. As she played I frigged myself and she licked my arse as instructed. At my own petite mort she guzzled down my squirt without missing a note and then, still playing, she proceeded to sink her teeth into my cunt and consume it like a soft fruit, bite after bite.

Isn’t it odd that when we truly delight in someone we feel an urge to devour them? I know Harvey wants to eat me. As he brings me out of my latest hypnotism-induced sleep I see his gruesomely plump bottom lip drooping and covered in clear saliva, his face flushed and his wonky eyes bright with hunger for me. I wonder if he has been trying to flush the sprite from within me at all, rather than just staring silently down at me, wishing he could gobble me up. Last time I was here he gave me some s**t about my claim under my trance to being a young girl, possibly an orphan, growing up in some kind of debtor’s prison. This time, so he now tells me, I claimed to be a James Frobisher, a man of some social standing who had connections on the fringes of the court of King George III. Speaking as this man, I gave hints that I was actually a cad who used devious means to further his status, although, rather conveniently, I refused to divulge any specifics.

This bears no relation to any dreams I have had and I rather think this might be Harvey’s imagination at work, not mine. Except that this time he has recorded it all and I know I can go home, curl up on the sofa and listen to myself. I can at last get to hear the person, the thing within me speaking these alien thoughts. I know it could still be a trick, that he could have programmed the thoughts within me before having me repeat them back for his Dictaphone, but the fat little f**k has me compelled. For all the contempt he induces, for all the shivers he gives me, even as I’m stepping on shaky legs from his room, I cannot wait to go back to him again.

***

Friday night is 80’s night at SaMmy’s, and I love it. Obviously it is a decade before my time but clearly a proportion of the clientele remember it all too clearly. The synthesised electro-pop might be light and tinny on the radio but it beefs up when played through the loudspeakers and it sure gets everyone moving. The fancy dress is optional but plenty participate. There is plenty of rubber, plastic and leather as always but it’s in day-glow colours or metallic’s, and the dimensions are large, with sharp angles in contrast to the body-hugging tightness that we see on other nights. It is a great chance for power-dressing, so you can see some fantastically outrageous outfits. This time I wore very high heels, a big-shouldered leather jacket and PVC cat suit combination of my own design, all in electric blue and with a matching smooth and slim eight-inch plastic dildo built into the crotch. I drew appreciative glances from all, especially from my peers who sized me up from their set positions around the club to see what they were up against that night. SaMmy’s reminds me of a galaxy in miniature. We Masters and Mistresses are the brightest stars or planets, dotted around the space, standing above our group of satellite followers, trying to attract new bodies from the milky way mass on the dance floor or at the darkened tables, the ones as yet undecided or uncertain about giving in, the ones just here for a good time and breathing the sexually charged atmosphere. It never fails to excite me.

However, the best thing about Friday nights is that Ariadne is always there. We had already exchanged glances five or six times in the first hour. It is becoming a ritual now. We take up our familiar positions at either end of the chrome-railed balcony overlooking the main dance floor, me sipping champagne, her with her slopping martini glass. A little group of fawning slaves forms around us. There are ones who have had the privilege of our attention in the past and ones who would do anything for it tonight or any night. We preside over our little courts, giving the odd demonstration of our power, sneaking glances over to compare notes, sending each other our most lusty, smouldering I must have you looks but then never actually doing anything about it. It can exhaust me sometimes, but I live for it.

I always feel that Ariadne and I are like two Goddesses above all others. She was certainly the closest thing to heaven that I had ever seen, with her red or blue or shocking pink hair and those beautiful, beguiling eyes. We are magnets, drawn together out of mutual appreciation and understanding of our needs. But two Dommes do not make a right; their nature insists that the other yield. The smouldering looks and verbal sparring is fun foreplay but the reality is that a shared refusal to give an inch always becomes a barrier. If we had ever found ourselves alone then lust might take over. We might have a furious f**k-fight all around the room, crashing from wall to furniture, from bed to floor, wrestling to take control, dealing out slaps and pinches and bites until we screamed with our shared, burning climax. But it has never come to that. Whenever we got too close the magnetic polarity would flip and repel us back to our individual corners of the club, our eventual coupling remaining essential, yet the instigation of it seemingly impossible. She is the worst offender. If ever she senses me getting a little too near she turns away from me and back to one of her ever-present slaves, dealing out a random punishment as if to dismiss me, but actually displaying the burst of passion I have aroused in her.

From what I witnessed (and from what my spies tell me) it seemed that she loves c***s, especially big ones–hard ones that ached for her so much that they would willingly be placed inside another man’s mouth or anus and brought to a finish while she tortured the aching balls hanging below. I wondered with simmering jealousy if, when she was alone and away from my prying eyes, she demanded those big c***s inside her, her joy coming in the completely opposite way to mine, giving her a satisfaction that I could never emulate. When alone I often picture her with all her holes being stuffed full of prick-meat while I watched from the other side of the room, playing with myself until I saturated my panties. Afterwards, I always felt a wrenching pang of emptiness. I need her. It is impossible to imagine either of us yielding to the other’s command, but I need her, badly.

Tonight there was a little group of familiar faces around me, plus a couple of new ones, which is always thrilling. One was a black girl in a studded black leather jacket and a leopard-skinned leotard beneath. She had a plump, spankable arse and looked attractive enough (the copious glittery make-up of 80’s nights blissfully masks so many imperfections). There was also a tall, wiry Midge Ure lookalike sporting a gelled quiff and sharp sideburns to go with his pencil tache. He wore a silver suit with shoulder pads almost as big as my own. His pants were baggy and allowed his obviously big c**k to unashamedly bulge the crotch. I thought I recognised him as one of Ariadne’s entourage and he was just a little too sure of himself for your average slave, so I suspected him of being on an errand from his Mistress to find out more about my Scold Room. Perhaps he just found her physicality too hard to take and wanted to experience some of my mental torture instead. Either way he was prime for my games and I hadn’t made any man suffer my shears in months, so I knew at once that he was coming home with me.