The Spur Ch. 13

Literotic asexstories – The Spur Ch. 13 by Spartamac,Spartamac
The heart of feminine potency and feminine dominance is simple, but far from easy or formulaic. It’s confidence.

Midori

JILL

My brain hydroplaned. After several seconds of uncontrolled brain-slide, Jamila came to my rescue.

“Okay, sweetie, I know that’s a lot to take on board all at once. Don’t even try for now; just let your mind boggle for a bit. I’ll paint you a little word-picture, and you see if you find it convincing, okay?”

Mouth still agape, I nodded stupidly. A small piece of my brain hoped I wasn’t drooling.

“You know I’m a professional dominatrix, right?” she asked.

“Yes, but…I thought…” Brilliant, Jill.

“Okay, Steve is in my apartment, naked, hands tied to a ceiling beam, feet tied together. He is skinnier, and his sun-bleached hair falls to his shoulders. God, he was beautiful with the marks of the whip on him! I had blindfolded him, so he couldn’t see me digging into his right lower back with the blunt end of a chopstick. When I found what I was looking for, he yelled, ‘MOTHER FUCK-BUCKETS, WHAT IS THAT?’

“That’s your sciatic nerve, sweetie,” I said. And he tried. He really did try to be respectful.

“I know that, My Lady,” he said through clenched teeth, ‘but what the FUCK are you POKING it with?’

I could feel my eyes get huge before we both burst into laughter.

“Can you picture it?” she asked.

“Hell, yes!”, I answered, still helpless with laughter. “I mean, my ‘check brain’ light is still on from trying to imagine him as anybody’s sub, but at the same time, I can totally see him being yours.”

“So now you understand why you’re here?”

“Maybe,” I hedged. “Is he, like, your slave-for-life or something?” She looked thoughtful for a moment.

“If you asked him,” she said carefully, “he might say he was my slave for life. But I removed his collar and released him from my service 20 years ago, and I only consider him a dear old friend now.”

Again with the huge numbers making me feel coltish and wobbly.

“Did you say twenty years?” I asked, pretty indelicately. She was gracious about it, though.

“Honey,” she said with a smile, “I’m continually flattered by the way you keep forgetting how much older Steve and I are than you. In fact, I’m a year older than he is.”

Keeping my blurty impulses in check for once, I asked, “So you had him address you as ‘My Lady’, too?”

“Oh, that was his idea, actually. He thought ‘Mistress’ sounded like someone rich guys cheated on their wives with. I agreed, and I’ve used ‘My Lady’ ever since.”

“Is he a switch?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “Most doms–most of the good ones–go through a period of submission with someone. And then they take what they’ve learned about what it’s like to be a sub and use it to make them better doms. And though I’ve never heard of Steve being anyone else’s sub, he does have a capacity for total devotion, for really abandoning himself to someone, so maybe he is. I don’t know.”

I sat silently a while, summoning up my nerve, then asked softly, “So where do I come in?”

“Oh, come on,” she said impatiently. “You didn’t seriously think yours was the only elevated pulse the night we met, did you?”

With too many warning lights lit up to investigate at that moment, I closed my gaping mouth and, after a deep breath, answered evenly, “It would never have occurred to me in a million years that someone as elegant and sophisticated and stunning as you would have found me attractive.”

“What, you don’t find what’s-his-name attractive?”

“Well, of course I do, but, I dunno; first, he and I had just spent a week in each other’s company, and second…” (I was in the trackless wilds, and had to pick my way carefully along,) “I’m used to men thinking I’m cute, but it just never occurred to me that a woman, whose beauty and grace were the focus of every eye in the room–would notice me in that way.” Jamila smiled inscrutably.

“Well, get used to it, sweetie; there were women wielding chopsticks on Friday who would have eaten you up with a spoon.” Cruelly, she actually laughed out loud at my blushing; a deep, rich laugh that sounded surprised to find something fresh to savor after a long dry spell.

“So,” she went on, “when I met you, I knew exactly what reward I was going to ask in return for my help capturing you. Even as devoted to me as he still is, I wasn’t sure he would give you up to me–but I am so glad he did!”

Taking a long sip of coffee to hide what was fast becoming a perma-blush, and to buy myself some time to process this torrent of facts and feelings, I finally asked, “Why are you trying to hide Laura?” She took so long answering that I finally offered to withdraw the question as none of my business.

“No,” she said, decidedly. “You should know.” She hesitated again.

“I’ve never told this to anyone,” she finally said, “not even Steve.”

“It’s safe with me,” I promised. She nodded her head, took a deep breath, and began.

“I tell people my job at the day-school in the Mid-west was eliminated, but that’s not actually true. What happened was, I got involved with a guy named Doug who did pony-girl training.”

“Does that explain the pony-tail butt plug?” I asked, amused. Jamila flashed a sardonic smile.

“Yes, and you looked scrumptious in it–but sweetie, you wouldn’t last one day of serious pony training. Not at that level.” That shut me up.

“Doug had a stable of half-a-dozen girls whom rich clients sent to him to train. I became his Groomer, looking after the gear, and bathing, grooming and massaging the girls after their training sessions. Basically, I provided the aftercare.

“After I came on board, business picked up; within a few months our stable had increased to ten. I heard that pony-players were calling us ‘The Doug and Pony Show.'”

“Did he train you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she answered. “It’s very specialized work, and learning what the girls were experiencing was indispensable, even if the process was seriously challenging for me.

“Between that gig and my regular job, things were going really well. And then the unthinkable happened–something we should have anticipated and prepared for, but never did.

“We had a strict age limit–no ponies under twenty-one. But some rich, twisted asshole sent us a seventeen-year-old girl for training. And I knew this right away, despite the lies he had written on her forms and the fake ID he had provided for her, because she was one of my students at the day-school.”

“Oh, my God!” I said, horrified.

“Pretty much. Her parents, who had no idea their daughter was involved with this pedophile, were more concerned about keeping the whole thing hushed up than anything else–which still repulses me despite the fact it probably saved my ass–and only threatened to tell the school administrators about the incident if I didn’t resign. And the girl herself knew, too, obviously. So of course, I resigned.

“Doug blamed me for nearly blowing up his business. Even though none of our clients found out, he was seriously spooked. So he became abusive. Called me worthless, complained about ‘carrying’ me, said I was too lazy or picky or stuck-up to look for another job. I foolishly had not kept my income from the day-school to myself, and apparently he liked having the extra money around. Or maybe he was just looking for an excuse. Anyway, when he started hitting me, I left.”

“My God; how did you get involved with someone like that?” I asked.

“Oh, he was totally charming–he had to be to work with his over-privileged clientele. I had no idea what a nasty streak he had. And it got even worse after I was gone, because then some of the clients did leave. Apparently, the girls had appreciated my contribution to their training. So he began calling me at all hours, threatening everything from ‘exposing me’ to beating the shit out of me if I didn’t come back to work for him. Completely unhinged. With no job, or anything else to keep me there, I came back east and put him behind me.”

“But you didn’t change your name legally, so he could still find you, couldn’t he?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think he cares enough to go to all that trouble. And anyway, why would he?” I was shaken; I’d had some bad break-ups, but nothing that made me skip town and change my name.

“Shit, Laura, I’m so sorry!” She shrugged like a French cabaret singer.

“It is what it is. And Jamila, please–OK?”

“Oh, sure; I’m sorry.” She waved it off.

“Let’s change the subject,” she said.

“Sure, absolutely!” I babbled, and without making any attempt at bringing the topic around gracefully, I blurted out what I’d been wanting to ask all weekend.

“How did you and Steve meet?”

“Oof,” she answered, sounding like I had just thrown her a medicine ball. “First things first, sweetie,” she said, handing me some bills. “I buy, you fly. I need a potty break.”

I ordered us each another round at the counter, and she emerged from the ladies’ just as I was settling back in at our table.