Sweet Mistress Mischief

This week on Search Engine Stories the prompt is sweet mischief. I immediately thought of writing a story about mischievous fairies but then this story came to me instead.  Unusual subject matter for me, but an occupation I find fascinating……

 

 

Sometimes I wonder what I am doing with my life, teetering on the precipice of propriety in my eight inch stilettoes, rubbing myself down after a day spent in red or black leather or rubber.

My name is Hayley Woods but you, you can call me Sweet Mistress Mischief. They all do. My clients. In case you hadn’t already guessed I am into a bit of discipline for a living. What? Not sure what I mean?

I punish men for a living. Whip them, chain them, humiliate them. Sometimes I pretend they are my babies, or my dogs. Sometimes I make them lick my boots or clean my entire apartment with a toothbrush. But I’m not a fetishist or a feminist with a chip on my shoulder. Oh, you’re getting it now….yes, that’s right, I am a dominatrix.

I fell into it by accident. It’s a strange career path to follow, I do know that. Full of mischief. Full of cheek. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. You have to be careful whom you confide in. Once I had a boyfriend who told all his friends what I did for a living. They made a joke out of everything I said, nudging each other in the ribs until entire nights out became an endless series of one liners. It was exhausting. I could have shown them a thing or two if they had come to my dungeon.

Yes, I work in a dungeon. Well, actually it’s a cellar converted to look like a dungeon. It’s owned by Mistress Maxine. She owns the entire house, a massive mansion on three blocks of land. She inherited it from her father, a wealthy industrialist. She needn’t have worked ever again, just lived on her father’s enormous fortune but she likes whips and leather. She finds them intoxicating. Whips and leather – people have followed other careers for much less.

I met Mistress Maxine one night at a club. She began chatting to me because I am tall. 6 foot 2, an  Amazon in heels. Mistress Maxine thinks a tall dominatrix makes the best kind. There is an air of indomitability about her. Perhaps she is right, but sometimes I find all that bending and whacking from such a height plays havoc with my lower back.

A bad lower back is an occupational hazard in my game. And not for the reasons you might think. There is a lot of heavy lifting – the chains in the dungeon weigh a ton – and if you’ve ever tried to fling a 150KG man across the room because he’s been a naughty boy, you will know what I mean.

The violence is staged to a certain extent. We take dance and movement classes, so the violence is a mere suggestion. A bit like the wrestling on TV. I mean, we have equipment in the dungeon that could kill someone. I once had a guy who nearly asphyxiated from the rubber head gear he was wearing. It’s a bit like smoke and mirrors without the actual smoke and mirrors.

Mistress Maxine insists we all know basic first aid, particularly CPR. Sometimes all that punishment gets too much for a man and he becomes a little light-headed. I have had to revive a few men, instead of rubbing salt in their wounds.

A lot of people think what I do is sick, perverted, that I am encouraging men to give in to their baser instincts. What they don’t seem to understand is that it is fantasy, alchemy, and I am the one spinning straw into gold. For many men the pretending, the role-playing, brings them to an even place in their minds.

There is no sex involved. Ever. I have had people call me a whore, women mostly, who don’t understand my purpose. I am dominating, setting the tone.  I do not capitulate. It would destroy the scene I have set.

It is seduction taken to another level. Hot red trembling breaths. Rumpled silk clinging to oil-soaked limbs.

My clients come to me for one reason alone – relief from their demanding lives. They arrive tense, quivering, furtive as rats. They leave, redeployed, the blood awake in their veins.

I wonder a lot what I will do when I’m a little old lady. Will I still be cracking my whip and calling stockbrokers and barristers slave? Will I wear support hose under my cat suit? Or will I condemn myself for the immoral actions of my youth?

I hope that I will be Sweet Granny Mischief, the oldest dominatrix in the business, prodding my clients with my walking stick, making them sterilise my dentures. For there is something about being mischievous that is difficult to give up.