Damn Corsets

Damn corsets. I struggle to get the last four eyehooks closed and I am running late. This is the worst part of being a Domme, trying to get into this stuff quickly. This is what subs are for, I think to myself, before a loud knock at the door startles me out of my concentrated squeezing attempt to muzzle the girls in a beautiful dark green velvet creation.

“Mistress, are you ready?”

“Obviously Ronnie, I am not. Five fucking minutes please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It occurs to me that it would have been easier had I let him in to finish my hooks with assistance, but he already has a job as a chaperone. Plus, the idea that I can’t get the damn thing closed on my own pisses me off. This is why I am not a sub; too independent.

FINALLY. One last check in the mirror. I opted for curls tonight…the dark red curls play well off the dark green…shoes, now the shoes…crap. This is the hardest choice, and with a new client I don’t have a clue what his preference would be. But that is the best part of being a Domme; I don’t really have to give a fuck what he wants. I select a beautiful pair of 4 inch stilettos that are black patent with tiny straps across my toes and around my ankle and little else. The perfect shoe to both trample and be worshipped in.

I giggle a bit as I throw open the door; obviously I startled Ronnie when it banged against the wall. That’s Karma bitch.

“Mistress…you look…”

“Save it honey, you aren’t paid to complement me. Do you have everything?”

“Yes, ma’am. I started the car so it’s already warm for you.”

“Good boy, lets go.”

Ronnie places a cloak across my shoulders and opens the front door. Men should always be this attentive…it’s funny how much time they spend wondering why they don’t get laid more. Open a fucking door once and a while. Ronnie has already run ahead to open the back door of the waiting Towncar.

I slide in across the black leather; I need to fuck someone back here so I have something to think about every time I ride off to another mindless session with some fat, over 50, disgusting and hairy old man that takes no pride in himself, but who wants me to enjoy being paid while he worships my feet. Today, I don’t feel like a foot princess…today I hate men. Another good day to be a Domme. I hope Ronnie remembered my riding crop.

I spend the rest of the ride in silence, save for the music Ronnie is playing. He has a specific list of what I want to hear prior to a session, and always does a great job of making sure that I am in the right mindset before I enter the room. It just seems harder lately. I settle back into the seat and look at the sunset across the city skyline. I forgot how beautiful the city is at this time of night…just before the angels sleep and the devils hit the street. I guess it’s an appropriate time for me as I am generally a bit of both…

The lights and skyscrapers get closer and I close my eyes and relax into the music…my biggest vice next to shoes. I have a song for everything, and imagine I can feel it in every part of my body as it pulses, hear the story and imagine it as my own, even if for just a moment. Maybe I should cancel…I don’t know this guy and he doesn’t have my number. Sitting in a bathtub full of bubbles and drinking a glass of champagne sounds so much better than an hour with yet another insipid, little man…

I open my eyes when I feel the car beginning to slow and look out the window to orient myself. How did we end up in the middle of the city? I had been too busy losing myself in the music with my eyes closed to notice we hadn’t gone towards hotel row at the airport.

“Ronnie?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Where are we meeting this client?” I ask. He turns off the road and I now realize where we are…

“The Four Seasons, ma’am.”

Wow, the fucking Four Seasons. Already I am intrigued as to why this fat bastard didn’t pay for the airport Hilton. But the fucking Four Seasons?

“What’s his name Ronnie?”

“He didn’t give me one ma’am. He is paying twice your hourly rate for that to not be disclosed.”

Please let it be George Fucking Clooney. If there is any wish in the world that I am granted, just once, let it be that George has commandeered my time. I realize now that I am wet. This is upsetting for two reasons…firstly, I won’t be having sex with this person, and secondly, chances are good he won’t look like George F. Clooney.

We roll to a stop at the front and Ronnie exits to hand over the keys to the valet. A handsome young boy opens my door.

“Good evening ma’am, welcome to the Four Seasons.”

He takes my hand to help me from the car. I look him up and down. He has beautiful skin and piercing green eyes…yummy. I must remember to speak to him on my way back down.

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you ma’am.” He winks. Anything?

Ronnie, as if sensing trouble at the well, like Lassie, is in between our sight line almost immediately.

“This way ma’am.” He gestures toward the lobby and I feel momentarily like a chastised child.

“So where now?”

“Elevators, ninth floor, room 918.”

Impressive…he’s picked a Deluxe Premium. For a minute my mind drifts off to my night there with a golf-pro on those huge balconies.

“You okay ma’am?”

Introducing Ronnie the party crasher. It takes me a moment to focus.

“Yes. Remind me again. What were his requests?”

“None given. He is paying for an hour at double the usual fee. No names, no demands other than that.”

I am trying to quell the interest. This is different from most but I don’t want to get my hopes up. I have been so bored lately, I hate to hope for, dare I think it, FUN.

Ding.

The elevators slide open and we have arrived. I realize as we approach the door I am praying. Yes, really, praying. Over and over. Please let this be George Clooney, please let this be George Clooney, please let this be George Clooney…

Ronnie knocks softly on the door. When it opens there is this brief moment where I think I am lightheaded. I can’t decide if it’s the anticipation of who is behind the door or if my corset is too tight. I convince myself it is the latter.

“Hello, welcome.”

I am stunned, I can’t speak. Back to the reality, I start looking up and down the halls for the police officers that will surely accuse me of prostitution for indulging a foot fetish male for money. My gaze turns back to the young man standing in the doorway. Neither Ronnie nor I have managed a single word since the door opened, and it’s now become awkward.

“Please, come in.” He gestures, and I follow Ronnie’s lead, looking in every corner of the room for someone that’s going to jump out with a camera or cuffs at any moment. He closes the door quietly behind us.

Ronnie places the case on the desk and commences with the details. Here is the agreement, please read, initial in the three highlighted locations and sign at the bottom.

He is explaining that I have the right to end a session at any time if I feel uncomfortable, and that he will remain just outside the door in the hall. I am hearing them discuss this, money changing hands, the timer being set for an hour and fifteen minutes as he explains there are fifteen minutes for getting to know each other and questions and then the session begins. If you talk too much, that is on your time, not mine and once your hour starts, the timer will not be reset.

I hear them continuing to talk, but the voices become faint as I lose myself in the beautiful ambiance of the room around me. It is as stunning as most all of the Four Seasons rooms are any where in the world. On the bed there is a tray with a solitary orchid in a vase, and what appears to be strawberry ice cream in a silver cup, whip cream in another and what I assume to be honey in a small glass pitcher. This is a switch from the worshipers that pack their own can of Reddi-wip and chocolate syrup…

Focus. I look over to where they are standing. Ronnie is checking his ID and writing down the number. It has to be fake, no way this kid is 21. I forgot to pray for a George my age. I will say, however, that he is pretty close to George 20 years ago. A giggle escapes my mouth at the thought. I am embarrassed because they both heard it and turn to look at me.

“Are we almost done, Ronnie?” I muster in my most serious Domme voice.

“Yes ma’am. I am setting the timer now.” He sets it down and heads to the door. I walk over to pick up my crop and hit the top of the timer to start it as he closes the door behind him.

“Greetings Little One. Tell me what you want tonight…”

He is staring at me. Suddenly I feel very old as I look at his beautiful skin and blue eyes. It feels like he is looking through me, this makes me uncomfortable. I am very conscience of the wrinkles around my eyes now…I feel my face flush.

“You are so beautiful.”

Wow, he’s good.

“Thank you Little One. Now tell me what you want tonight, or do I need to discipline you for not answering my question…”

Before I finish, he is on the floor, on his knees. He has placed one hand on the top of each foot and has bent to place his forehead on the back of his hands. I feel his slow breathing hot against my skin. It sends goose bumps shooting up my spine.

“Mistress, I only wish to worship you tonight.”

“You may Little One. Please tell me what you would like to do…”

“Permission to rise, Mistress.”

“You have permission, rise Little One.”

He comes upright but still on his knees, I take his chin in my gloved hand and I see a tear begin to leak from one of his brilliant eyes…

“Mistress, I wish only to please you tonight. I require no punishment in order to do so. If it pleases you, would you like to sit here?”

He gestures to the overstuffed arm chair in front of the window. This is different.

“Yes, Little One, it would please me to sit.” I return the crop to the desk top. Obviously, I won’t be needing it tonight. He rises to guide me into the chair, taking the time to help adjust the layers of my skirt, putting a pillow behind me as I lean back and settle into the chair.

“Are you comfortable Mistress? Can I get you anything else?”

“I am fine Little One. Your attention to detail pleases me.”

He has already dropped to his knees with the tray of treats and set it on the floor next to him. I realize that he and I are here, in this situation, in virtual silence as he begins to stroke the tops of my feet with his hands. I am interested to see what he will do because thus far, the approach is not like any I have seen.

“May I remove your shoes, Mistress?”

“Yes, Little One, you may.”

He is slow and methodical. He strokes the back of my leg from behind my knee, down my calf to my ankle, deliberately, and in no hurry. He then pulls down the back of my shoe until it is dangling from my foot. He cups my heel and lingers for a moment, watching the response of my skin to his touch. His hands are warm and I feel aroused in a way I have never felt before. With one hand, he slips underneath my arch to lift my foot toward him, while simultaneously using the other hand to gently remove the shoe and expose my perfect French pedicure.

“Mistress, you have exquisite toes, the most perfect I have seen.”

“Thank you Little One…” Speaking reminds me that my mouth is dry. This kid is turning me on.

He gently sets my foot down onto a towel he placed at the base of the chair, and repeats this same process, exactly and in its entirety, on the other foot. I feel myself breathing deeper, slower, becoming completely intoxicated in his dedication to the moment.

Once he has removed both shoes, he lines them up perfectly and places them to the side of the chair. He then rises on his knees, moving closer to my face. I take a deep breath, and in that moment, I realize he is dressed in a very expensive suit with the shirt unbuttoned, and appropriately, he is barefoot. He smells so good; I want to eat him now. I smile as he moves closer, expecting him to ask to kiss me. Instead, he leans in close to my ear.

“Mistress, may I worship your feet now?”

“Yes, Little One, you may.” I resist the impulse to say please, do it now, please.

I watch young George take the orchid from the tray and drags it slowly along the tops of my feet. He gently lifts each one, tickling the bottom of my heels and into the arch with the stem. The twitch it produces from the pleasure is something I can’t suppress, but I fight the giggle back. A Domme doesn’t giggle unless it’s at someone’s expense.

He returns the orchid to the tray and picks up a silver spoon that he dips into the now melting pint of ice cream. Young George drizzles the cold, sweet liquid diagonally across the tops of my feet and returns the spoon to the tray. He gently reaches to the back of my ankle to lift my foot towards him, and slowly begins to lick each stripe of melted ice cream as it begins to run off of the side of my foot. His tounge is warm, slow and searching. He licks clean every wrinkle, every toe, every drop. I am in awe as I watch him quietly repeat the process with whip cream and then honey.

By the time he gets to the honey, I am beyond worked up. This isn’t good. It’s hard to contain myself and regulate my breathing. Mental note, honey is my favorite. The weight is just right to feel every movement across my skin, and its density requires one to linger in the sensual delight of the sensation…wow.

I hear a moan inadvertently escape my mouth, but it does not faze Young George. He is here to do a job, and he is doing it well. It occurs to me now how beautiful he is. When he is done, he slides the tray back and rises to his knees.

“Mistress, may I clean your feet now?”

“Yes, Little One, you may.” He surprises me as he rises to his feet and leans into me. He scoops me into his arms with a strength I never imagined, and begins to carry me to the bathroom. Just the idea of this almost moves me to orgasm.

As he pushes the door open, the scene he has prepared in the bathroom takes what little breath I have left completely away. I had not noticed the candlelight when I arrived but the tub is drawn, candles are lit all around and he has placed a chair at the edge of the tub. He takes me to the chair, sets me down and works carefully to gather all the layers of my skirt so that they don’t get wet, then he gently places my feet and calves into the water. Before I can focus enough to try to figure out what he is going to do next, he is in the water, fully clothed, on his knees, hands on my knees and head bowed on top of his hands.

“Mistress, may I begin?”

My legs are shaking. This is possibly the most erotic moment I have ever experienced…

“Yes, you may Little One.”

Quietly and carefully he slides his hands from my knees in between my legs and spreads them slightly. Oh my God, I think this kid is going to make me cum without even touching me above the knees. Another moan escapes my lips but he pretends not to notice as he lathers a creamy soap and begins to wash my feet, every toe, every wrinkle and up to my knees. I feel the tremble again as he slides his hand up my leg. I want to speak; I want to beg him to move higher…it’s increasingly difficult to resist that impulse. He repeats the process and washes the soap off and begins to drain the tub. As the level drops, he pulls down a towel and methodically dries each foot and leg as I stare at him. Young George sits there, the tub now empty, in soaking wet clothes. Once he is done, he looks up at me for the first time all night, without question, without intent to submit. He rises to his knees, leans up and into me so close that I can feel his breath on my skin…there goes those goose bumps again.

“May I kiss you?” he whispers softly.

“Yes.” I barely choke out.

He brushes his lips against mine a couple of times slowly, softly, before pressing more firmly and sliding his tongue in my mouth. I have lost most of the ability to resist now, wanting to submit for the first time in my life to someone I don’t even know.

I am so intoxicated by his smell, and by the way he is kissing me, that I don’t notice his hands slip between my knees and finally, finally begin the decadent glide up my thighs. He spreads my legs and slides a finger gently inside me. I moan, this time without trying to choke it back, as he reaches up with his thumb and strokes my clit. I cum hard, all over his hand.

Ding.

The fucking timer as gone off. Oh my God, the fucking timer. As per our agreement, I know I have about ten minutes before Ronnie busts down the door. I take Young George by the face and kiss him hard.

“One minute Little One. One Minute please.”

“I can pay for the rest of the night, just stay.”

I move to the door and open it.

“Mistress, are you ready?”

“Ronnie, I will be staying longer. Please head to the car and go get yourself something to eat. I will call your cell when I am ready for you to return.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I quietly close the door and return to the darkened bathroom where Young George is still on his knees, shivering in the wet clothes, in the tub. I take his face into my hands again and kiss him.

“I am no longer on the clock, no payment is necessary. Please, give me your hand and rise.”

I help him out of the tub, out of the very wet, very expensive suit and into a thick robe.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Mark.”

“Hello Mark. My name is Jamie. Where were we?”

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